U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

Patrick said, “I hadn’t heard that bit. Where was Shawn all this time while she was getting it on?”

“They were all there together—kids, moms, strangers, potheads, and heroin addicts. They played guitars and bongo drums and made money writing poems they sold to tourists on the streets.”

Patrick finished his drink and signaled the waitress for another. Kip raised his hand as well, like two guys bidding on the same lot at an art auction.

Patrick shook his head in exasperation. “What’s wrong with these kids? You give them the best of everything and they end up spitting in your face. This girl knows it all. You should hear her mouth off. She doesn’t have a brain in her head and she’s got the gall to criticize the president of the United States, like she has a clue. She can’t even run her own life. They’re vegetarians, for god’s sake. Do you know how much time and energy that takes?”

Annabelle said, “More than I’d be willing to expend. I guess you have to give her credit. I couldn’t manage it.”

“Oh, please. You think Shelly cooks? No, ma’am. She refuses to subordinate herself. Deborah’s the one saddled with all the meals. You ask me, it’s just one more form of narcissism, making everybody jump to their tune while they sit there thinking they’re above it all.”

Annabelle said, “That’s ridiculous. Why don’t you make them fix their own meals?”

“My point exactly. Ask her,” he said, hooking a thumb in Deborah’s direction.

“You know what she eats, Patrick. If it were up to her, every meal would be soy cakes, sprouts, and brown rice. Shawn would starve to death if I didn’t give him peanut butter sandwiches behind her back. You should see him wolf down his food. He’s like a little animal.”

The waitress set down two fresh drinks along with a basket of Parker House rolls and a plate of individual butter pats. Kip turned to Annabelle. “Sorry, I should have asked. You want another martini or you want to switch to wine?”

“I better lay off. I’m embarking on a new exercise program—a half-mile ocean swim three mornings a week.”

“Starting on a Saturday? You’re not serious!”

“I am. I leave the kids with a sitter. It’s the only time I have for myself.”

“Must be freezing.”

“You get used to it.”

Deborah said, “I’ll make the sacrifice and drink her wine as long as you’re ordering. It’s the least I can do.”

Kip asked the waitress for a bottle of Merlot, pointing to his selection on the wine list before he surrendered it.

Deborah raised her hand. “Here’s one I almost forgot. Yesterday, I found Shelly sobbing her heart out. It was the first emotion I’d seen that wasn’t anger, petulance, or disdain. I thought maybe she missed her mother, but when I asked, she said she was still in mourning because Sylvia Plath had killed herself.”

Annabelle said, “Who?”

“A poet,” Patrick said. “She was mentally ill.”

Annabelle shrugged and chose a roll from the basket. She pulled off one segment and buttered it. She took a bite and tucked the nugget of bread into one side of her cheek, a move that slightly muffled her speech. “We know a couple who claim to be vegetarians. Talk about tedious. We had ’em over for dinner once and I served macaroni and cheese. After that I was stumped. They invited us back for a sumptuous bowl of vegetarian chili. The worst. Inedible. Not even close. What got me was they were wearing leather shoes. I voted to drop them and Kip was opposed until I told him he’d have to cook for them if they ever came back.”

That set Patrick off again. “Here’s the kicker as far as I’m concerned. Shelly doesn’t like vegetables. The only vegetable she’ll eat is beans. She doesn’t like fruit either. She says bananas are disgusting and apples make her teeth hurt. She’s got a list of food no-no’s that includes just about everything known to man. Except quinoa, whatever the hell that is.”

Kip was shaking his head. “Why do you put up with her?” Deborah said, “She’s carrying our grandchild. How can we turn our backs on her without rejecting an innocent child? Would you do that?”

“I guess not,” he said. “Well, I might, but Annabelle would have my hide.”

There was a pause while they studied their menus and decided what to have. Salads, rare New York strips, and baked potatoes with sour cream, green onion, and grated cheese.

Once the waitress took their order, Patrick returned to the subject. “It wouldn’t be so bad if she weren’t so opinionated and superior. She looks down her nose at us. We’re materialistic and shallow. Everything we do is ‘bourgeois.’ She talks about the proletariat. God save the Queen.”