Two burned pork chops out of eight wasn’t bad. With the creamy-mustard sauce, you could hardly notice the “charcoal” flavor. That I’d managed to singe Eddy’s shaggy eyebrows wasn’t that bad, either; he liked the trimmed look. That Rey’s were now non-existent, well, that was another thing altogether. But they’d grow back.
At seven, Eddy returned to his Waipahu apartment, three-dozen salt-water taffy candies happily in hand. At half past seven, the three of us—kids at our feet—were seated on the lanai, drinking iced tea with fresh lemon slices and watching a beautiful starry sky.
“There’s no place like home,” Rey said happily. Stretching long legs onto a birch-colored cushion of a long metallic-framed rectangular ottoman, she draped an arm along the top of the sofa, next to Linda’s shoulde
