32 ChanningChanning’s best friend was engrossed in the newspaper she’d delivered. Leaving her to it, Channing tiptoed into Nora’s tiny kitchen, pulled the half-full carafe off the coffee maker, and poured the contents down the drain. The sludgy liquid smelled cooked.
Nora’d probably made it when she got out of bed. Her friend didn’t care how her coffee tasted so long as it included caffeine.
Channing liked a wake-up dose, but she bought organically-grown beans, ground them seconds before brewing, and drank her perfectly prepared cup immediately. She was a coffee snob like her mother.
Since the surprising reaction to her haircut, she’d started questioning some of her inherited habits. She smiled down at her new blue-jeans-style leggings. A week ago, she’d have worn linen slacks and a cot
