Part 137 (1/2)

”The kitchen is up-to-the-minute. I had it remodeled just two years

ago.” She pushed open the swinging doors and gestured. ”All builtins.

Microwave, Jenn-Air range, a convection oven, naturally. Acres of

counter s.p.a.ce. A pantry, of course.”

Emma stared at the streamlined, soulless kitchen. It was all white and

stainless steel. Gone were the copper pots Bev had kept s.h.i.+ny and hung

from hooks. There were no more little pots of herbs on the windowsill.

No high chair for Darren, no clutter of cookbooks or colorful apothecary

jars.

The woman droned on, obviously considering the kitchen her pidce de

rdsistance, while Emma stood, grieving.

When the phone rang, she closed a slick white cabinet door. ”Excuse me,

just a moment.”

”Are you all right?” Michael murmured.

”Yes.” She wanted to be. ”I'd like to go upstairs.”

”Listen, Jack.” Ms. Steinbrenner's voice had lost its cooing flow. ”I'm

not interested in your complaints or your lawyer's threats. Got it?”

Michael cleared his throat. ”Fxcuse me.” He offered the woman an easy

smile. ”Would it be all right if we wandered through?”

She waved them away and snarled into the phone. ”Listen, a.s.shole.”

”Sounds like she'll be tied up awhile,” he said lightly. ”You sure you

want to go up?”

No, she wasn't sure. She was anything but sure. ”I can't come this far

and not finish.”

”Right.” Whatever her claims against fragility, he put an arm around her

shoulders as they started up.