Read One Last Weekend for Free Online Page B

moment she and Teague had shared, but it was already gone.
    So the three of them walked back to the cottage, one buoyant with faith in a good world, two doing their best to pretend things weren’t falling apart.
    * * *
    Joanna needed to be busy, so she constructed an elaborate omelet from the contents of Teague’s grocery bags. While she cooked, he plugged his cell phone in to charge, in case of another power outage, and carried in more wood from the shed out back. The transistor radio burbled news from the kitchen counter.
    Some of the ferry docks had been damaged in the storm, so only a few routes were still being run, and while the weather was good now, there was another system brewing off the coast, one that might get ugly. She switched off the radio, set the table, poured juice, and waited while Teague washed up at the kitchen sink.
    â€œI guess we couldn’t get back to Seattle today even if we wanted to,” she said lightly, wondering all the time she was speaking why she was practically holding her breath for Teague’s reaction.
    â€œOh?” Teague asked without turning around.
    â€œMaybe not tomorrow, either. According to the news, we’re likely to have another storm.”
    â€œThat’s terrible,” Teague said, but when he faced Joanna at last, he was grinning. “Absolutely the worst thing that could possibly happen.”
    Confused, Joanna blinked, momentarily speechless.
    â€œNo wonder everybody was buying up all the bottled water and propane when Sammy and I were at the market,” Teague said.
    Sammy, lying on a nearby rug, lifted his head at the sound of his name, then rested it on his forelegs again when he realized no stick was going to be thrown.
    â€œYou’re being awfully casual about this,” Joanna said.
    Teague rounded the table, stood behind Joanna, placed his hands on her shoulders, and gently but firmly pressed her into her chair. “Have you got a better idea?”
    â€œWell, maybe we should stock up on bottled water and propane.”
    â€œEat, Joanna,” Teague said, sitting down across from her and helping himself to half the omelet. “I bought some already. Madge Potter will drop it off later, in her truck.”
    Madge, who had lived on Firefly Island all her life, was a local institution. She published the small weekly newspaper, dug clams when the tides were right and sold them door to door—and delivered groceries.
    â€œYou’re enjoying this,” Joanna accused, but she was smiling.
    â€œThe omelet? Definitely. This is first-rate, Joanna. No wonder your cookbooks sell like—”
    â€œHotcakes?” Joanna teased.
    He grinned. “Does the woman in your book write cookbooks?”
    â€œNo,” Joanna said. She hadn’t written a word of the novel yet, but Teague spoke as though she were halfway through. “She’s a chef and owns an elegant restaurant.”
    Teague paused, swallowed, and frowned thoughtfully. “Oh,” he said. When he met Joanna’s gaze, his blue eyes were solemn, even grave. “Do you wish you’d become a chef? Started that restaurant you used to talk about?”
    Joanna considered. “No,” she said. “It would have taken too much time. Raising Caitlin and being your wife pretty much filled my dance card.”
    â€œ ‘Pretty much’?”
    â€œI was happy, Teague.”
    â€œEmphasis on the ‘was’?”
    â€œI didn’t say that.”
    â€œJoanna, if you were happy, we wouldn’t be dividing everything we own—including the dog.”
    â€œIf you were happy, you wouldn’t have worked eighteen-hour days long after the company was up and running,” Joanna said. “You wouldn’t have bought a sports car.”
    â€œThat again? It’s a car, Joanna. Not an effort to recapture my youth.”
    Joanna lowered her fork to the table and stared down at her portion of the omelet, as yet