The Snow Globe Read Online Free Page A

Kiley was contemplating.
    Or maybe she’s simply glad to see you, Kiley told herself, and hugged her mother. “Sorry I’m late.”
    â€œIt’s okay.” Mom planted a kiss on her cheek. “We’re just glad you’re here.”
    Kiley wished she could say the same thing. Normally, the smell of roasting turkey set her mouth watering with anticipation, and the sight of her family filled her with joy. Today the smells and sights of the holiday were wasted on her.
    She forced a smile and gave her sister-in-law a wave and a hi. Poor Tara. She was trying, like Switzerland, to remain neutral.
    â€œYou’re just in time to help get food on the table,” said Kiley’s aunt, stopping to kiss her before proceeding on to the dining room with the fruit salad.
    Kiley went to where Grandma stood at the stove and kissed her wrinkled cheek. Grandma studied her carefully. “How are you?”
    What a loaded question! “I’m fine,” she told both Grandma and herself. She’d be even finer once this day was over.
    â€œHi, Kiles,” said a deliberately perky voice.
    She turned with a frown to see Gwinnie, wearing a false smile, determined to act as if nothing was wrong.
    A montage of scenes raced through Kiley’s mind: she and Gwinnie wrapping a loop of elastic around chair legs and playing Chinese jump rope; Gwinnie asking Kiley to teach her how to make gum wrapper braids, and then hair braids; the two of them sprawled on the couch watching a late-night horror movie. The memories weren’t enough to heal the hurt. In fact, they only inspired her to contemplate snatching the electric mixer and tangling its beaters in Gwinnie’s hair.
    â€œHi, Gwinnie.” She managed to get the words out, but she just couldn’t add any warmth to them.
    Gwinnie frowned and returned her attention to the whipping cream.
    Kiley sighed inwardly and set her bag of goodies on the table next to where the punch bowl sat waiting. “I guess I’d better make this punch and take it out to the dining room,” she muttered and got to work.
    The kitchen went back to its busy buzz with the women putting finishing touches on the many dishes bound for the tableand talk centered on the tasks at hand—“Do we have another serving spoon somewhere?”…“I think the gravy’s ready.”…“Gwinnie, stop whipping that cream before you turn it to butter.”
    This last comment came from Grandma, who was looking at her granddaughter with irritation.
    Once upon a time—like last year, even—Gwinnie would have offered a beater to Kiley to lick. Today, she simply removed the beaters and laid them in the sink, then retreated to the fridge to put away the whipping cream for later when the pumpkin pie made its appearance.
    Fine. Kiley didn’t want to lick the beater anyway. She took the bowl of baby peas her mother handed her along with the mashed potatoes and went to the dining room.
    â€œWhile you’re at it, tell the men we’re ready to eat,” said Mom.
    It didn’t take more than one announcement to bring the men to the table. “This looks great,” said Kiley’s father, beaming with satisfaction at the feast laid before them, the fine china and crystal, and the cornucopia centerpiece. “You’ve outdone yourself this year, love,” he told Mom as everyone settled in.
    He said the same thing every year. And, as she did every year, Mom rolled her eyes and waved away the compliment. “Hurry up and say grace, John, before the natives get restless.”
    Dad complied, and the second he was finished the guys were all reaching for food. For the next few minutes, everyone concentrated on filling his or her plate and the conversational landscape was sparse.
    Slowly, the time-honored topics surfaced. Which teams were going to the Super Bowl? How Grandpa would have loved to see this growing gang at the table, and,