Read Riding Shotgun for Free Online Page B

at social gatherings very discreetly so that only her family could see. She said she had learned it from her husband’s mother. Dad wouldn’t do it because he thought it was undignified. Blackie loved to do it after he picked it up from the Deyhle family. There has to be an oddball in the family, and their mother often played that part.
    “I miss Mom.” Cig laughed again, remembering the delight in Amy Deyhle’s eyes when she’d pull one of her snakes.
    “Is this what getting old is about?” Grace innocently asked. “Do we just say good-bye all the time?”
    “I guess it is, but we get to say hello, too. Hello to grandchildren. Hello to the new generations.”
    “What if I don’t like the next generation? I certainly didn’t want to produce any of them. I left that to you. Will still harps on it though.”
    “Some people are meant to be mothers and some aren’t. You aren’t.”
    “I don’t think I’d be a good mother.” Grace sounded unconvincing.
    “Probably because you’re still a child.” Cig laughed. “I’m hungry again. Can you believe it?”
    They repaired to the kitchen where Cig served up a delicious carrot cake she’d bought on the way home, and Grace declared she was not a child and if she really wanted to she’d be a superior mother or a mother superior, take your pick. After devouring the cake and washing it down with a good cup of tea, Grace glanced at the big wall clock. “Time to boogie.”
    “Stay here if you want. We’ve got to get up so early.”
    “Will pitches a fit if I’m not home when he’s had a late night at the hospital. I don’t know why. I’m usually sound asleep.”
    “He loves you in his own way.”
    “No—he’s dependent in his own way.”
    “All men are dependent, Grace. Big deal.”
    Grace pushed down her fork to mash the crumbs on her plate. She ate them, too. “Why? If I just knew why. You start out as their siren and wind up as their mother.”
    Cig shrugged. “Who knows?” Then she added, “I’m glad you came over tonight.”
    “Me, too.” Grace scooped up the vicuña then hugged her square-shouldered sister, who walked her to the back door. As they entered the mud room, Grace said, “October has to be the very best time of year. The leaves changing, the first frosts, those clear, crisp nights that cut into your soul.”
    “Yeah.” Cig agreed and wished she could be as glib, as descriptive, as Grace.
    Grace turned to face her. “Cig, I have this premonition. It’s—well, last night I came home after my tennis committee meeting for the country club and the moon was huge—huge like a bursting melon.”
    “Saw it.” Cig smiled.
    “Well, I had this feeling, like a Chill crawling down my spine. Even my hair tingled. And I just looked at the moon and a thin cloud passed over it like a Prussian blue knife blade and I thought, ‘Something’s coming down. Something’s coming down and well never ever be the same,’ and I don’t know if it’s good or bad but—I’m scared.”
    “Blackie’s death. You’re so sensitive, Grace. The anniversary’s working on you.”
    “No. This is about the future, not the past.” Grace reached up and kissed her sister then opened the mud room door and walked to her car as Cig switched on the light for her. “Hey,” Cig called, “maybe the past is in the future.”
    She stopped on the worn brick walk. “Wouldn’t it be perfect if there were no time, or at least if we had no sense of it?” She threw her hands in the air, undone by the philosophizing, and changed the subject. “Has Laura talked to you about the dance?”
    “Yes.”
    “I mean, really talked to you?”
    “She said she’s not going with Donny Forbush. And she’s worried about Will.” Cig suppressed a flash of impatience. “We talked about this at supper. Are you suffering from early Alzheimer’s?”
    Grace gulped in the sparkling air. “No.” She started to say something then continued walking. She reached the car and then