Sweet Memories Read Online Free Page B

home, son.”
    “I’ll say it is,” put in his mother, then the trio shared an enormous three-way hug. Margaret stepped back, crushing a loaf of bread. “Land! Would you look at what I’ve done with these groceries. Willard, help me pick ’em up.”
    Jeff waylaid them both. “Forget the groceries for now. I’ll come back and get ’em in a minute. Come and meet Brian.” With an arm around each of his parents’ shoulders, Jeff shepherded them into the kitchen where Brian waited with the two girls. “These are the two who had the courage to have a kid like me—my mom and dad. And this is Brian Scanlon.”
    Willard Brubaker pumped Brian’s hand. “Glad to have you with us, Brian.”
    Margaret’s greeting was, “So this is Jeff’s Brian.”
    “I’m afraid so, for all of two weeks. I really appreciate your invitation, Mrs. Brubaker.”
    “There are two things we have to get settled right now,” Margaret stated without prelude, pointing an accusatory finger. “The first is that you don’t call me Mrs. Brubaker, like I’m some commanding officer. Call me Margaret. And the other is ... you don’t smoke pot, do you?”
    Amy rolled her eyeballs in undisguised chagrin, but the rest of them shared a good-natured laugh that managed to break the ice even before Brian answered frankly, “No, ma’am. Not anymore.” There was a moment of surprised silence, then everyone burst into laughter again. And Theresa looked at Brian in a new light.
    To Brian it seemed the Brubaker house was never quiet. Immediately after the introductions, Margaret was flinging orders for “you two boys” to pick up the groceries she’d dropped in the driveway. Supper preparations set up the next clatter as fried potatoes started splattering in a frying pan, and dishes were clinked against silverware at the table. In the living room, Jeff picked up his old guitar, but after a few minutes, shouted, “Amy, will you go shut off your damn stereo! It’s thumping through the wall loud enough to drive a man crazy!” The only quiet one of the group appeared to be Willard, who calmly settled himself into a living-room chair and read the evening newspaper as if the chaos around him didn’t even register. Within ten minutes it was evident to Brian who ruled the Brubaker roost. Margaret issued orders like a drill sergeant whether she wanted to be called Margaret or not. But she controlled her brood with a sharp tongue that wielded as much humor as hauteur.
    “Theresa, now don’t fry those potatoes till they’re tougher than horsehide the way you like ’em. Don’t forget your father’s false teeth. Jeff, would you play something else in there? You know how I’ve always hated that song! What ever happened to the good old standards like ‘Moonlight Bay’? Amy, get two folding chairs out of the front closet and keep your fingers off that coconut frosting till dessert time. Willard, keep that dirty newsprint off the arms of the chair!”
    To Brian’s surprise, Willard Brubaker peered over the top of his glasses, muttered too softly for his wife to hear, “Yes, my little turtledove,” then caught Jeff’s eye, and the two exchanged grins of amused male tolerance. Willard’s gaze caught Brian’s next, and the older man gave a quick wink, then buried himself behind his paper again, resting it on the arms of the chair.
    Supper was plentiful and plain: Polish sausage, fried potatoes, baked beans and toast—Jeff’s favorite meal. Willard sat at the head of the table, Margaret at the foot, the two “girls” on one side and the two “boys” across from them.
    While they ate, Brian observed Margaret’s buxom proportions and realized from whom Theresa had inherited her shape. Throughout the pleasant meal Theresa kept her blue sweater over her shoulders, though there were times when it plainly got in her way. Occasionally, Brian glanced up to find Amy gazing at him with an expression warning of imminent puppy love, though Theresa never