Chapter Eight
Sunday started out as Beatrice expected. Neither she nor Wyatt had been able to sleep very long on Saturday night and had woken up at four-thirty in the morning for good. Noo-noo gave Beatrice a bewildered look as if she’d made some sort of dreadful error in judgment getting up when it was dark outside.
But as much as Beatrice figured she’d pay for the lack of sleep later, there was something wonderful, and very unusual, in not having to rush on a Sunday morning. The newspaper was, remarkably, already in the driveway and they settled down with a pot of rather black coffee at their kitchen table. After they’d built up an appetite, Wyatt cooked a breakfast to rival even Meadow’s. By the time Beatrice had eaten it all, she felt as though she could conceivably go back to bed.
