That Certain Summer Read Free

work.
    â€œKaren? Did you hear me?”
    As the shrill question reverberated through the house, she squelched the impulse to flee. She was the responsible daughter, after all. But was it uncharitable to wish her mother’s speech hadn’t returned to normal with quite such alacrity?
    On the threshold of the living room, she paused as her mother flipped through the TV channels. “I heard you, Mom. But it might be nice to wait for Val. I’m sure she’ll be ready for some food after the long drive.”
    â€œThe theater business is unpredictable. She probably got tied up.”
    Her blood pressure edged up another notch. “She teaches high school drama. She’s not on Broadway.”
    â€œShe could have been. I never understood why she didn’t try harder to make a name for herself. Help me into the kitchen.”
    In silence, Karen moved beside her. By the time she managed to hoist her mother out of the easy chair, she was breathing hard.
    â€œYou need to get in shape. A young woman like you shouldn’t be winded from a little exercise.”
    Compressing her lips, Karen counted to three; she didn’t have the luxury of ten this time. “I don’t have a spare minute to go to the gym.” And you’re not exactly a lightweight .
    â€œVal never went to the gym, and she was always thin.”
    Sure. Rub it in.
    â€œMaybe her metabolism is different.” The comment came out sharper than she intended.
    â€œYou don’t have to get huffy about it.”
    Biting back another retort, Karen handed her mother her cane. Too bad she hadn’t insisted Margaret take the walker or wheelchair that had been offered, despite her mother’s protest that she didn’t want to look like an invalid.
    But the assertive gene seemed to have passed her by.
    At least physical therapy should restore full function to her mother’s left arm and leg—and the sooner the better; her shoulder screamed in protest as they inched toward the kitchen, Margaret’s weight dragging her down.
    â€œWhat’s for dinner?” Margaret settled into her chair and readjusted her cutlery, straightening the knife and spoon, putting a more precise crease in the napkin, moving her water glass two inches to the right.
    Her stomach knotted. She couldn’t even set a table to her mother’s satisfaction.
    Let it go, Karen.
    She tried, even managing to infuse her voice with a dash ofanimation. “One of your favorites. Shepherd’s pie. And since there’s nothing to cut, you should be able to manage on your own.”
    â€œYou didn’t use canned carrots, did you?”
    Karen turned her back to retrieve the casserole from the oven. Lord, give me patience and strength. “No. I followed your recipe.”
    She set the casserole on the table. It was a little crisp around the edges, but it had held up well despite the delay. The mashed potato crust was golden and the aroma enticing. “Smells good, doesn’t it?” Karen dished out two generous servings.
    â€œThe test is in the tasting.” Margaret gave the crust a prim, exploratory poke with her fork.
    No thanks for going to the trouble of making the involved dish. No comment about how appetizing it looked. No enthusiasm.
    Typical.
    Shaking her head, Karen covered the rest of the casserole with foil and put it back in the oven. After sliding into her seat at the table, she bowed her head.
    â€œLord, we thank you for this food and for the many gifts you give us. We ask you to keep us in your care and continue to provide for all of our needs, both physical and spiritual. Nourish our souls with your love, as you nourish our bodies with this food. Amen.”
    Margaret scooped up a forkful of potato. “It’s too bad some of your faith didn’t rub off on your daughter.”
    So much for any hope of a pleasant dinner conversation.
    â€œKristen’s just going through the usual teenage