rips.
Po laughed as Kate blew Gus a kiss, and the two women bid him good-night and walked on down the street.
Gus stood on the step in the moonlight, scratching his chin.
Hmmm
, he thought, turning to inspect his reflection in the glass.
Mayor, eh
?
CHAPTER 3
“Po, I’m addicted.” Kate dropped her backpack on a chair in Po’s kitchen and walked toward the refrigerator. She opened the stainless steel door and peered inside. “All I want to do is take pictures. Heck with grading papers, writing papers, going to school.” She pulled out a bottle of water and looked over her shoulder at her godmother.
Po was sitting at the wide wooden table paying bills, comfortable in a pair of jeans and light blue turtleneck sweater. Spring sunlight poured through the back windows and across the spacious kitchen and family room. It had been warm enough today to open the windows a crack, letting crisp breezes clean out the staid winter air. Po looked over the top of her glasses at Kate. “You’re very good at it, you know. Your mother would be so proud of you, Kate.”
Kate laughed and walked across the kitchen. She pulled out a chair across from Po and sat down, propping her elbows on the thick table. “You say that about everything I do, you sweet thing you.”
“Not about your quilting. You’re not very good at that.” Po patted Kate’s arm.
“But—” Kate lifted one brow and waited. Her enormous brown eyes focused intently on Po, tugging out a compliment.
“But you’re trying,” Po said. “And you’re getting a little better.”
“Now don’t get carried away.” Kate’s throaty laughter warmed the large comfortable kitchen. It had been a second home to her since she was born. And after her mother died, it became even more of a haven, a place to be with her mother’s best friend, a place to be safe, a place to be Kate.
“You know, Po, I think I’ll actually be more successful with this new kind of quilt we’re doing for Picasso.”
“Because it involves food?” Now Po laughed.
“Well, that, too,” Kate admitted. At nearly five foot ten, Kate’s long slender body handled food nicely, distributing it on her lanky frame without ever turning to fat. “I like the appliqué idea, Po. No matter what Maggie says. I think I’ll be better at that than trying to line up points.”
“Some quilters like it, some don’t. We’ll see. It isn’t easy, Kate.”
Kate took an apple from the large wooden bowl on the table. She rubbed it absentmindedly. “Picasso seems thrilled with the whole idea. But did you notice Laurel last night?”
“I did. She seemed worried.”
“Or angry. I caught her looking at all of us once, and there was fire in those gorgeous eyes.”
Po nodded. “I saw something there, too. Perhaps she thinks we’re bad for business, taking up that big round table so frequently.” Po closed her checkbook and set down her pen.
“Po, there’s something about Laurel that throws me off kilter. You know that feeling of déjà vu you sometimes get? I swear I’ve met Laurel St. Pierre before.”
“In Boston, maybe? Picasso said they met on the east coast. New York, I think.”
“No, I asked her. She’s never been to Boston, and she seemed insulted when I said I thought I knew her. She’s strange, Po. I think—”
The rattle of the back door stopped Kate’s words mid sentence.
“Hi, beautiful ladies.” P.J. Flanigan walked through the kitchen door and across the room. He leaned over Po and planted a kiss on her cheek. A hunk of brown hair fell across his forehead. Then he rounded the table and stood behind Kate. Bending at the waist, he whispered into her ear from behind, his nose tickling her cheek. “Where’ve you been all my life?”
“Just here. Waiting. Waiting for Flanigan,” Kate answered, twisting her body to look up into his face.
“Hmm, catchy title. Think I’ll write a play about that. Waiting for Flanigan.” P.J. straightened up and headed for Po’s
Po laughed as Kate blew Gus a kiss, and the two women bid him good-night and walked on down the street.
Gus stood on the step in the moonlight, scratching his chin.
Hmmm
, he thought, turning to inspect his reflection in the glass.
Mayor, eh
?
CHAPTER 3
“Po, I’m addicted.” Kate dropped her backpack on a chair in Po’s kitchen and walked toward the refrigerator. She opened the stainless steel door and peered inside. “All I want to do is take pictures. Heck with grading papers, writing papers, going to school.” She pulled out a bottle of water and looked over her shoulder at her godmother.
Po was sitting at the wide wooden table paying bills, comfortable in a pair of jeans and light blue turtleneck sweater. Spring sunlight poured through the back windows and across the spacious kitchen and family room. It had been warm enough today to open the windows a crack, letting crisp breezes clean out the staid winter air. Po looked over the top of her glasses at Kate. “You’re very good at it, you know. Your mother would be so proud of you, Kate.”
Kate laughed and walked across the kitchen. She pulled out a chair across from Po and sat down, propping her elbows on the thick table. “You say that about everything I do, you sweet thing you.”
“Not about your quilting. You’re not very good at that.” Po patted Kate’s arm.
“But—” Kate lifted one brow and waited. Her enormous brown eyes focused intently on Po, tugging out a compliment.
“But you’re trying,” Po said. “And you’re getting a little better.”
“Now don’t get carried away.” Kate’s throaty laughter warmed the large comfortable kitchen. It had been a second home to her since she was born. And after her mother died, it became even more of a haven, a place to be with her mother’s best friend, a place to be safe, a place to be Kate.
“You know, Po, I think I’ll actually be more successful with this new kind of quilt we’re doing for Picasso.”
“Because it involves food?” Now Po laughed.
“Well, that, too,” Kate admitted. At nearly five foot ten, Kate’s long slender body handled food nicely, distributing it on her lanky frame without ever turning to fat. “I like the appliqué idea, Po. No matter what Maggie says. I think I’ll be better at that than trying to line up points.”
“Some quilters like it, some don’t. We’ll see. It isn’t easy, Kate.”
Kate took an apple from the large wooden bowl on the table. She rubbed it absentmindedly. “Picasso seems thrilled with the whole idea. But did you notice Laurel last night?”
“I did. She seemed worried.”
“Or angry. I caught her looking at all of us once, and there was fire in those gorgeous eyes.”
Po nodded. “I saw something there, too. Perhaps she thinks we’re bad for business, taking up that big round table so frequently.” Po closed her checkbook and set down her pen.
“Po, there’s something about Laurel that throws me off kilter. You know that feeling of déjà vu you sometimes get? I swear I’ve met Laurel St. Pierre before.”
“In Boston, maybe? Picasso said they met on the east coast. New York, I think.”
“No, I asked her. She’s never been to Boston, and she seemed insulted when I said I thought I knew her. She’s strange, Po. I think—”
The rattle of the back door stopped Kate’s words mid sentence.
“Hi, beautiful ladies.” P.J. Flanigan walked through the kitchen door and across the room. He leaned over Po and planted a kiss on her cheek. A hunk of brown hair fell across his forehead. Then he rounded the table and stood behind Kate. Bending at the waist, he whispered into her ear from behind, his nose tickling her cheek. “Where’ve you been all my life?”
“Just here. Waiting. Waiting for Flanigan,” Kate answered, twisting her body to look up into his face.
“Hmm, catchy title. Think I’ll write a play about that. Waiting for Flanigan.” P.J. straightened up and headed for Po’s
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