Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle, Pauline Jones [top 100 novels of all time .txt] 📗

it’s for you, Stan.” She thrust the telephone at me like I’d committed a crime, then vanished, leaving a shimmering trail of hormones quivering in the air to mark her passage.

My mother stared at the place where Candice had been, then turned to look down her nose at me. “I wish you wouldn’t encourage the children to call you Stan. Isabel is a lovely name.”

No one needed encouragement to call me Stan, but I didn’t waste breath pointing this out. I didn’t have time for one of our automatic arguments. I applied the phone to an ear. “Hello?”

“Isabel?”

Okay, so no one except Muir Kenyon called me Isabel. Muir would be at the top of my mother’s potential husband list, because of his lukewarm interest in me, if he weren’t also the brother of Rosemary’s ex-husband. It was awkward but Muir is so clueless he hasn’t figured that out yet.

“Hello, Muir.” I sounded resigned because I felt resigned. It was all Muir could inspire in a woman, I’m afraid.

“I was wondering if you would care to join me for a cup of hot chocolate this evening? I wrote a new computer program I’d like to show you.”

Somehow Muir has realized I love hot chocolate like hobbits love mushrooms, while totally missing the fact that his computer talk puts me in a coma.

“Gee, I’m sorry. Reverend Hilliard asked me to play the organ for youth choir tonight. Mrs. Macpherson has the flu.”

“Can we meet afterwards? I designed this program myself.”

Wow, tempting, but… “No.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He would, but I didn’t have time to get depressed about it. I had to leave before I compounded my sins by being late. I hung up the telephone and shrugged on my jacket, while examining Rosemary from under my lashes. She seemed to be in as good of a mood as she could be post divorce.

“Could I borrow your Mercedes, Rose? My car was raised in New Orleans and doesn’t know how to produce heat unless it’s already hot out.”

She frowned. Rosemary is a trifle possessive with her things. When we were kids in nursery school she used to spend the whole playtime with her toys stacked in the corner guarding them from forays by other kids. And she knows I sometimes daydream while I drive, leading me to end up somewhere other than where I intended—which doesn’t mean I’ve put a scratch on anything of hers.

I watched her struggle between her protective passion for the car she’d wrested from her ex and the knowledge she needed me to drive carpool in the morning because she had a class in glue gun technique. Indebtedness can be a terrible burden if you have a great car.

“The keys are in my purse. Just be careful,” she muttered.

“I’ll treat it like it was my own.”

Her brows shot up. “Not good enough.”

“None of those accidents were my fault,” I protested. “New Orleans is an automotive Bermuda Triangle!”

“One scratch—”

“Cross my heart and hope to die if I don’t take care of your precious car.” How fate must has chortled with glee as I unknowingly threw down a gauntlet in front of it. I didn’t hear it. I was too busy pulling on my wool fedora and, tugging it down over my ears. My mother tsk-tsked and adjusted the hat to a more suitable angle on my head. When she was satisfied, she gave my cheek a pat that was part fond, part annoyed, and let me escape out the door for my rendezvous with destiny.

As soon as I was out of her sight, I jerked my hat down again. It was cold and I’m a grownup who can do what she likes when her mother isn’t looking.

When the youthful hallelujahs faded into the frigid halls, I followed the hormonal herd to the kitchen for my earthly reward: the promised hot chocolate fix. At first the brew was too hot to drink, so I wrapped my hands around my cup and let the warmth seep into my chilled fingers. I sniffed, inhaling the fragrant steam of nature’s perfect food. After a time, I blew on the surface, took a tentative sip, then closed my eyes and savored the rich bouquet, the hint of hazel nut—

“Stanley!” Jerome Jeffries, oblivious to the finer nuances of hot chocolate consumption on account of his extreme youth, pulled me to one side. “We got us a job!”

I guess this is where I admit I play keyboard and sing in a band. Beneath my insignificant chest, lurks a powerful pair of lungs, the better to fuel a fair voice. Another one of God's little jokes, I've always thought, putting all the power where it couldn't be seen.

Jerome, cuter than Val Kilmer, a mere twenty years old, and the guiding light of the band, recruited me not long after I moved home. It wasn’t hard. I let myself be dazzled by visions of jiving to “Wild Thing” or “I Love Rock’n Roll.” I’d save Woolly Bully for the encore…

I know better now.

Jerome wanted to be a crooner like Harry Connick, Jr. or Frank Sinatra, so we played bubble music. I thought we should call ourselves “Sad,” but Jerome liked “Star Dust” better. So did my mother, who pointed out that I was too old for such nonsense. I told her that actually I was too young.

It was for this reason, I greeted Jerome’s announcement of a new gig with some wariness.

“Please tell me it’s not another anniversary?” Didn’t people know the divorce rate was up?

“This is totally not an anniversary.” His mouth curved into a grin that could have taught Tom Cruise a thing or two. My heart may have pit-a-patted a bit at the sight of it.

“It’s a rally in support of the troops of Desert Storm at Grant Park. You won’t believe this, but we’ve been asked to play back-up for the one and only Lee Greenwood.”

I waited a moment, but he didn’t grin again.

“Lee Greenwood. Wow.” I paused. “Who’s Lee Greenwood?”

Jerome laughed like I’d just