She was on the line in the kitchen. She’d listened in, heard everything,
hadn’t said a word. His heart was pounding slow, heavy
strokes. He was so furious he couldn’t think of anything to say.
Then he opened his mouth and shouted into the receiver at the
top of his lungs, “BECCA!”
She cleared her throat. “Ah, Adam, I’ve got to go to the hospital
now.”
He breathed deeply, got hold of himself, and said, “Not just yet.
Bring me my apple. I’ll even give you a bite before I wash your
mouth out with soap for those whoppers you told me.”
“Sorry, Adam, the apples aren’t ripe enough. You know Sheriff
Gaffney, he exaggerates, really, he–”
“After I wash your mouth out, I’m going to maybe shave your
head. Then if I’m still pissed off, I’m going to make you change
that green tile in the bathroom, then–”
“I’m outta here, Adam. I love you. Er, I’ll buy ripe apples while
I’m out.”
She hung up the phone.
“BECCA!”