Trouble's Brewing Read Online Free Page B

home. And, the good Lord willing, not to stay.
    I decided to take the rest of the afternoon off. Tim had flown into Denver and rented a car, so I suggested that he follow me home. “Don’t say anything,” I admonished him as I gathered up my keys and purse. “Just follow me home and we’ll … talk there.” I told him I needed to advise the assistant librarian and he should meet me in the employee parking lot. “Go,” I whispered, then made a hasty retreat to the American Lit section, where Ellie Brestin was filing away returned books. I made a quick excuse (Ellie is a dear, but she doesn’t need to know my family business) and then rushed out past the stacks, into the hallway, and out a side door.
    Naturally I called Samuel on my cell phone during the drive. Samuel is the president of the Gold Mine Bank and Loan, and I knew he’d be busy, but I also knew he’d not want to come home to any surprises, such as a married son complete with suitcase but without wife and kids.
    While I waited for his secretary to patch me through, I passed by Lisa Leann’s new bridal shop on Main Street. A wild thought ran through my mind, namely, Oh, dear Lord, what will Lisa Leann have to say about this? It seemed to me that Lisa Leann Lambert had something to say about everything, and most of it was none of her business.
    Samuel answered his extension with a “What’s up, Liz?” and I jumped right in with both feet.
    “I told you, Samuel. I told you something was up.” I pressed my foot harder on the accelerator, then released it as soon as I realized what I was doing.
    “Back up, Lizzie. Are you in the car?”
    “I am. And our son is in a rental car directly behind me.” I glanced in the rearview mirror just to make sure. I don’t really know why I had to make sure. Where did I think Tim would go?
    “Sam?” he asked, meaning Samuel Jr. “Why would Sam be following you?”
    “Not Sam. Tim.”
    “Tim?”
    “And I told you something was up a few weeks ago when he called Michy and said he was building Samantha a bigger house.” “Did he say what he’s doing home?”
    I braked for a red light, then looked back in my rearview mirror again. Tim was behind me, cell phone also pressed to his ear. I could tell by the expression on his face the conversation was serious. Was he talking with Samantha? One of the kids? “No. And I told him to just wait until we get home. But he said Samantha’s name as if it were a curse word. Oh, Samuel!” Tears began to well up in my eyes. “What if they get a divorce?”
    Samuel paused before answering. The light before me turned green, and I pressed the accelerator. “I’m sure it’s just a spat.”
    “A spat? Samuel, for a spat you don’t fly from Louisiana to Colorado. For a spat, you take a walk around the block … or go to the club and play racquetball or something. For a spat you get a cup of coffee at the local diner and mull things over.”
    “All right then, Lizzie. You’re on your way home?”
    I sniffled. “Yes.”
    “I’ll leave in a few minutes to join you. But you listen to me, now. If you fall apart, you won’t get anywhere with him. Just take some time and listen. Or, better yet, try not to get into anything before I get home. Hear?”
    I nodded, silent.
    “Did you hear me, honey?” I knew he threw the “honey” in as a comforter.
    “I hear you. And I’ll see you shortly.”
    Even as I said the words I pulled into our driveway, and Tim’s rental, a silvery gray Altima, bounded in behind me. When I met him at the driver’s door, he was flipping the top of his cell phone down, ending his call. His face seemed flushed, and in spite of the chill in the air, I could see rivulets of sweat escaping from his hairline and trailing down the jut of his jaw.
    He opened his door and looked up at me. A sigh escaped my lips. He no longer looked like a grown man or a husband or a father. He looked like a little boy.
    More specifically, my little boy.
    “Samantha?” I