Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [47]
It had. She added fresh water and set the pot on the stove. She peeked at the roasting chicken breasts and grinned. They were browning nicely and the dressing underneath would surely add to its flavor.
Boy, the kitchen smelled good. Charlie would be pleased. Men liked to come home to a goodsmelling house and know that all they had to do was sit down and eat. She was definitely channeling her grandma.
What else? Oh, right. Coffee. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use an automatic coffeemaker. Old-fashioned perked coffee was the only kind she liked. Irma, her mother’s housekeeper, had taught her that. Angela stared at the coffeemaker and decided it must be fairly new since there were no stains on the white plastic. Charlie probably used it because it was quick and he didn’t have much time in the morning. She pulled out a stool, climbed up, and started to search the cabinets. Charlie looked like the type to save things if they weren’t worn out.
Angela finally found an aluminum percolator in the back of the third cabinet she searched. Industriously, she scoured the small pot till it gleamed. It was the kind that perked on the stove, and now not only would there be dinner aromas but also the fragrant smell of real brewed coffee to greet Charlie.
Gee whiz, she thought wryly. Look at me, morphing into a 1950s housewife. Everything but the gingham apron. Well, playing house made her feel calm. Almost normal. And it kept her from obsessing.
She measured out the coffee, added cold water, and set the pot behind the string beans. Both would be turned on at the same time.
Satisfied that everything was under control, Angela trotted back to the living room to the movie. She had missed too much of it and her interest waned. Oh well. Another half hour and Charlie would be home. They would sit down and eat and talk. It had been a long time since she had talked to anyone—really talked.
Tears stung Angela’s eyes; she impatiently wiped them away with her shirt sleeve. Crying like a baby wasn’t going to snap her out of this weird, drifting mood.
But she couldn’t stop herself. Something was wrong with her and always had been. If you were to believe her mother, she had been hatched from an egg. A rotten egg. The tears burned again. This time she let them gather on her lashes and then trickle down her cheeks.
Emotional cripple. She had heard her mother say those very words about her to her father, if not to her face. If she was, then it was because they had made her one. God knows she hadn’t become this way on her own.
Charlie walked into the house promptly at sixteen minutes after six. Angela’s eyes lit up as she watched him sniff the air. Her thin face brightened into a delightful grin that matched his when he said, “It smells just like Sunday dinner the way my mother used to make it. Roast chicken, chocolate cake, and all the works.”
“Right, right. And I found your old aluminum coffee pot and perked some real coffee for you. I know you like coffee,” Angela said, suddenly shy.
“I love perked coffee,” Charlie said exuberantly. “Is it ready?” he asked hopefully.
“All you have to do is sit down and eat. Come on.” Angela took him by the arm. He didn’t pull away from her as she thought he might.
Quickly and deftly, she served him—a regular June Cleaver out of the old TV show. Charlie ate ravenously, making comments like “This is delicious. Where did you learn to cook? This is every bit as good as my mother used to make. More, one more helping.” And then, finally, “How did you know my mother used to pour pudding over the cake?”
“I didn’t know.” Angela could feel herself smiling from ear to ear. “There wasn’t enough sugar