Public Secrets
Chapter 128 : "The boy doesn't eat right since he moved out." Pleased to have both me

"The boy doesn't eat right since he moved out." Pleased to have both men

at her table, Marge filled the coffee cups. "You're skin and bones,

Michael. I've got the best part of a nice ham I cooked earlier in the

week. You take it home with you."

"Don't give this deadbeat my ham," Lou objected.

Michael lifted a brow, then doused the remaining pancakes with Aunt

Jemima. "Who you calling a deadbeat?"

"You lost the bet, but I don't see my gra.s.s getting mowed."

"I'll get to it," Michael grumbled and s.n.a.t.c.hed another sausage. "I

think that game was fixed."

"The Orioles won, fair and square. And they won over a month ago. Pay

up."

Michael gestured with the sausage. It was a conversation they'd had

every weekend since the World Series, and one they would undoubtedly

continue to have until the first of the year when the bet would be paid

in full.

"As a police captain you should be aware that gambling's illegal."

"As a rookie, a.s.signed to my precinct, you should have better sense than

to make a sucker bet. Mower's in the shed."

"I know where it is." He rose, swung an arm over his mother's shoulder.

"How do you live with this guy?"

"It isn't easy." Marge smiled and patted Michael's cheek. "Be sure to

be careful with that weed whacker around the rosebushes, dear."

She watched him go out, slamming the screen door as he had always done.

For a moment she wished he could be ten again, but that feeling pa.s.sed

quickly, leaving a quiet pride. "We did a good job, Lou."

"Yeah." He took both his and Michael's dishes to the sink. He'd aged

well, putting on less than ten pounds over the last twenty years. His

hair was fully gray now, but he'd kept most of it. Though he

occasionally realized he was uncomfortably close to sixty, he felt

better than he had in his life. Due, he thought as he put his arm

around Marge, to his wife's diligent watch on things like cholesterol

and sugar.

As for herself, Marge had settled contentedly into middle age. She was

as trim as she'd been the day they'd been married. Nothing kept her

from her twice-weekly aerobic cla.s.ses. Her hair was colored a

flattering ash-brown.

Five years before, she'd gotten what Lou had thought was a bee in her

bonnet about starting her own business. He'd considered himself

indulgent when he'd stood back and let his "little woman" open a small

bookstore. He'd been kind and considerate, like an adult patting a

child on the head. Then she had astonished him by showing a keen and

often ruthless head for business. Her little shop had expanded. Now she

had three doing brisk business in Hollywood, Bel Air, and Beverly Hills.

Life was full of surprises, he thought as he heard the mower gun. His

wife, who had seemed content for years dusting furniture and baking pies

was a businesswoman with her own accountant. His son, who had breezed

carelessly through college, then had spent nearly

eighteen months drifting, had enrolled in the police academy, without

saying a word. As for himself, Lou was giving serious thought to