CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Couldn’t sleep, either?” Linda asked, removing two slices of overly crisp toast from a retro-style two-slice toaster—as in charred-shingles crisp.
“I’ve been awake since five,” I confessed, glancing at the new coffee-cup kitchen wall clock; it read seven on the nose. Turning to the window, I noticed sunlight, which was welcome, and it was also very breezy … and cool, according to the thermometer hooked outside. I was glad I’d opted for a ribbed seamed sweater and ponte pants.
“The winds kept me up, strangely. I guess GrimReaperPeeper got into my head.” Nodding to the coffee pot, she plopped a huge tablespoon of grape jelly on the flat charcoal that was once bread. No butter or margarine. Ugh.
“You’re looking very professional. That a new outfit?”
She glanced down at
