Wife-In-Law Read Online Free Page A

hairstyle or makeup, but she refused to let me make her over with just as much vehemence as she refused to let me clean her house. Ironically, she kept herself squeaky clean.
    She thrust the box at me. “You want this so bad? Take it. It’s pieces of me.”
    It wasn’t pieces of Mama; it was pieces of soap—five pounds of the dying slivers of a jillion colors and textures—and they hadn’t been there when I moved out to get married two years before. Right after I left, she’d piled the one shower-bath full of junk, so she must have been washing from the sink, which couldn’t account for all that soap. Lord knows where it had come from. I shuddered to think.
    “Good job, Mama. Good job,” I encouraged, still grasping at the illusion that behavior modification might work with total insanity.
    I leaned over and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I can’t stay, or I won’t get home in time to have Greg’s martini ready.” I gripped the box of slivers hard against me, in case she tried to take it back. “I’ll see you Friday.”
    “Go on, then,” she grumbled, waving me away. “Leave me alone here. See if I care.”
    Why that kind of talk still got under my skin, I couldn’t tell you, but it did. Was it too much to hope for at least a little gratitude?
    Mentally ill. She’s sick, not deliberately trying to drive me crazy too. “See you Friday, Mama.”
    Thanks to her delays, I barely had time to get home and set the table, warm up dinner, and have Greg’s martini made before he drove into the garage. Glass in hand, I exhaled a cleansing breath, then put on my best Total Woman smile.
    The door from the garage opened and Greg shot me a smug look. “That’s my girl.” Kissing me on the cheek, he took the martini. After a hefty slug, he headed for the den with his New York Times (expensive, but deductible).
    “Hard day at work?” I asked lightly.
    He paused just inside the den, but didn’t turn around. “Crazy.”
    Normally, I gave him time alone to detox from work, but I’d learned to read the nuances of his posture and inflection, and there was definitely something wrong. So I broke with protocol and followed him into the den, where I found him behind the financial section in his tasteful wingback leather recliner. “Want to talk about it?” I asked.
    “Not till after dinner,” he said through the paper. “I need to unwind first. With another martini.” His eyes never leaving the news, he shifted the paper to his left hand, then slugged what was left of the first drink and extended the glass my way.
    Must have been a very bad day. Whatever that meant. I had no idea what kind of problems he faced at work. Greg never talked about them. He said it just made him feel worse to rehash the negative.
    “Martini, coming up,” I said. After I delivered that, I retreated to the kitchen. Though Greg often said that a man’s home was his castle, a woman’s kitchen is her domain, so I always found confidence there. Keeping an eye on the martini by his chair, I waited till it was almost gone before transferring the corn and beans into serving dishes.
    Greg loved my fried chicken and pole beans and stewed corn, so surely dinner would cheer him up. I poured his sweet tea and my plain, then lit the candles and said, “Supper’s ready.”
    Looking gorgeously rumpled with his collar open and his tie loosened, Greg took his place, rolling up the sleeves of his pinpoint oxford button-down. Finally, he looked at me. “So, what’s the story with the new neighbors?”
    Uh-oh. Not a topic to cheer him up. “Why don’t we eat first?” I deflected.
    A brittle gleam reflected in his dark eyes. “Why? What’s wrong with the neighbors?”
    When my husband looked at me that way, avoidance only made him angry, so there was nothing to do but spit it out. “They’re hippies.”
    He frowned in disbelief. “Hippies can’t afford to live in Sandy Springs. And anyway, why would they want to?”
    “Beats