Read Gone With a Handsomer Man for Free Online Page B

am. There is no way to be skinny if you cook like me. Plus, I hate to exercise. Why risk an asthma attack? Me, I use housework to keep from getting too stubby, but mostly I don’t worry and I don’t count calories. My philosophy of dieting can be summed up in five words: when I’m hungry, I eat.
    Down the street, I stopped in a funky consignment shop and bought a red blouse, striped pants, and a purse shaped like a giant lemon, all for less than ten dollars.
    When I got home, I put my car key in my change purse, then I carried the groceries to the kitchen and set them on the counter. The island was black granite, and it caught my reflection as I moved around the large, square room. I opened a white cabinet and twirled the built-in spice rack. I removed an empty peppercorn tin and replaced it with a jar of Hungarian paprika.
    Next, I found tea bags in one drawer, a copper pan in another. I filled the pan with water and set it on a burner. The gas whooshed up, then tamped down into a quivering blue circle, casting light on the brick backsplash.
    While I waited for the water to “smile,” as the French say, I checked out the appliances. The double convection ovens needed cleaning; the warming drawer was filled with fine bread crumbs. I flipped the switch to the garbage disposal. It sputtered and emitted a sharp whine. I shut it off.
    I wasn’t going to get along with this room. Wherever I’d lived, I’d developed a relationship with the kitchen. I’d fallen in love with Bing’s state-of-the-art appliances, and I’d had great rapport with Aunt Bluette’s antique stove and temperamental ice box; but I’d had a tumultuous union with Food Lion’s kitchen. I had battle wounds to prove it. Once, a springform pan had exploded and dumped blistering-hot graham cracker crumbs and cheesecake onto my wrist. I still carried a dark brown, half-moon scar.
    I found a stool in the pantry and pushed it against the counter. As I shoved cornmeal and sugar bags in the tall cabinets, I wondered if my shortness had made Bing take up with a giantess. He was six foot two. Me, I wore high heels that deformed my poor feet, and still people had stared at us, as if trying to figure out how a tall man and a short woman could fit together.
    On my way down the stool, I paused to rearrange the tall spices that wouldn’t fit into the lazy Susan. Too bad Bing hadn’t picked someone his own size. I’d had no clue he was a player. I’d just assumed he had a low sex drive—not terribly low, mind you, just not what you’d expect from a thirty-year-old man. I’d been clueless. I’d baked layer cakes, played with my dog, and weeded the herb garden. Meanwhile, Bing had disrespected me on a daily basis.
    I put away the stool, walked into the garden, and picked lavender, piling it into my shirttail. Then I went back inside and made a vanilla peach pecan coffee cake and drizzled it with royal icing. I sprinkled lavender on top. When Aunt Bluette fixed this cake, she’d added a few pulverized peach seeds—not enough to be poison—because it added a hint of almond.
    Just thinking of her made me feel sad to my bones. I wandered into the pink living room and curled up on the settee. Worry begets worry. Quiet begets quiet. Peace begets peace. Mama used to say I attracted trouble. She blamed it on the year I was born, 1980, when John Lennon got shot. But all of the Templetons were nervous people. Only two aunts were still alive. Goldie was a professional clown and lived somewhere in Tennessee with her psychic daughter, Tallulah Belle. Aunt Pinky lived off the coast of Georgia, tending to wild donkeys, while her son Ira made talking Jesus dolls. I loved my family, even though some of them were flat-out weird, but Aunt Bluette and the farm were my heart.
    When I was little, I’d sit on her lap and grip the steering wheel while she drove through the orchard, checking the trees for blight. She’d shift gears, and the engine would sputter. She was the eldest