Uncommon Grounds Read Free Page B

while my tiny ranch wasn’t quite the Bernhard house—which was downstream, naturally—it was all mine, from the blue stucco walls in the living room to the lime green toilet in the bathroom.
    As I unlocked the door, I heard Frank thunder across the room to greet me. Or he would have thundered, had there been room enough to pick up speed. As it was, he ran three or four steps’ worth and then plowed blindly into the door, pushing me back into the yard.
    Frank belongs to my son. Frank is a sheepdog. Frank is way too big for the house.
    Forcing my way back in, I tossed my purse on the bench by the door, scratched Frank hello and headed for the laundry room. There I stripped, dumped my stinky clothes in the washer and started it.
    A hot shower was next. It was only when I stood naked and shivering, a stingy stream of lukewarm water trickling down my back, that I remembered I should have turned on the washer after my shower. Not to worry, though, the fill cycle ended before my shower did, sending a last-gasp blast of scalding water through the old pipes just in time to cauterize the goose bumps.
    Pulling on a clean “Uncommon Grounds” T-shirt and blue jeans, I returned to the living room feeling, if not quite human, at least fit company for Frank. But then, Frank ate dirt.
    I started to flop down on the couch but it was piled high with tax papers. After days of self-inflicted misery, I had admitted defeat yesterday. I needed professional help—tax help. April fifteenth was just two weeks away, and my tax forms were still bare.
    Not surprising, I guess. This was the first time I had filed a single return in twenty years. But I’d been sure I could handle it. After all, how hard could it be? Plenty hard, apparently.
    So I’d given up and called Mary, who was not only Brookhills’ head librarian but also part-time tax accountant, and pleaded for help. She had read me the riot act about being so late and told me to get my buns over to the library pronto with my papers.
    I moved the stacks aside carefully now and sank down on the couch. Frank padded over to rub his 110 pounds against my knees like he was a cat. Itch scratched, he simply leaned there until his paws finally slid out from under him and he landed with a satisfied “harrumph” on my feet. I wiggled my bare toes under his fur.
    If I was right, Patricia had been electrocuted by the espresso machine. Problem was, the machine had just been installed—by a professional—last Thursday. All of us, including the L’Cafe sales rep, had watched while the technician installed it, then the rep had demonstrated it for us.
    And if that weren’t proof enough it was working properly, the next day we spent the morning practicing our frothing and tamping, brewing and pouring ad nauseam at Patricia’s insistence. Consistency was paramount, she had declared in her dulcet tones. After four hours of this drill, I was ready to strangle her. Electrocution had never entered my mind, honest.
    Frank abruptly raised his head a half inch off my foot, listening. I listened, too. Sure enough, a car door slammed in the driveway. I struggled to pull my feet out from under Frank who, having done his part, had gone back to sleep.
    By the time I managed to get up, the doorbell was ringing. I moved the curtains and saw Gary standing on the front stoop. Most houses in Brookhills don’t have stoops. They have porches, or decks, or even verandas. Mine’s a stoop.
    I turned the deadbolt and let Gary in. The living room, already overcrowded with tax papers, sheepdog and furniture purchased for a much bigger—less blue—space, suddenly made me claustrophobic.
    “Let’s go into the kitchen,” I suggested. “I’ll make us some coffee.” A day without caffeine, after all, is like a day without...well, caffeine.
    Gary sat down at the kitchen table and pulled a notebook out of his jacket pocket. “Maggy, I’m afraid I have to ask you some questions. Is Caron here?”
    I turned from the