Sandwiched. Jennifer Archer

on the stool and clap my hands. “Ladies! You, too, Oliver.”

      The talking stops. They all look up at me.

      “What do you think about this?” I pick up Erin’s book, turn it over, read the blurb on back….

      “When Lady Penelope Waterford stowed away on

      The Voyager

      She wanted only to escape an arranged marriage

      To be carried away in the arms of a powerful ship

      Toward a fresh start in a new, untamed land.

      When Captain Damian Stonewall set sail

      He wanted only to deliver his cargo on time,

      To see his crew safely to the opposite shore

      And collect the money owed him.

      The captain never suspected he harbored a passenger

      Or that one glimpse of her creamy skin, flaming hair

      And flashing blue eyes would force him to question

      His priorities and tempt him to break his own rules.

      The lady never expected she might be forced to marry

      The hot-tempered captain who found her hiding, soaked

      And exhausted, below deck. Or that his touch would

      Make her tremble with lust as well as with anger.

      But as land disappears from sight

      And the wind rages around them

      Penelope and the captain discover their biggest

      Surprise of all:

      A passion more vast and powerful than the sea….”

      I lower the book to my lap and look up.

      Doris whispers, “Oh, my.”

      The Frans snort, then smile at each other.

      Oliver chuckles. “Now you’re talkin’.”

      Mother looks from my briefcase, to the book, to me. She lifts an eyebrow.

      Shrugging, I smirk at her. “Ladies and gentleman, I believe we just found our next selection.” I turn the book around to show the group the sexy cover. “I give you, Penelope’s Passion.”

      A hush falls over the room, but is broken seconds later by the sound of an ear-piercing alarm.

      I hope it isn’t someone’s pacemaker going off.

      CHAPTER 5

      My kitchen smells like chicken and dumplings tonight. I think Mother’s trying to fatten up Erin, but I’m sure it’ll be me who ends up waddling, not my teenaged daughter. She can exist on a diet of French fries without gaining a pound.

      We’ve fallen into a routine. One instigated by Mother. She cooks. We eat as a family at the table. Erin and I clean up. I’m amazed it’s lasted an entire five nights; I don’t know how she managed to recruit Erin in the first place, much less keep her coming back. But, though I enjoy the family time, I’m also a tiny bit jealous that my mother pulled off what I couldn’t. Since this school year began, my offers of a home-cooked meal have been turned down. Erin’s either had other plans for dinner or says she’d rather get takeout. I realize I’m not Julia Child or even my mother when it comes to the kitchen. But I whip up a decent omelet, and my spaghetti’s not bad. I add spices to the Ragu.

      “Did you talk to your dad today?” I scrape chicken into the disposal, then hand the plate to Erin.

      “Yeah. He called right after school.”

      Right after I called and gave him an earful. If that’s what it takes for Erin to receive some attention from her father, so be it. I’ll bug that man from now until he drops dead.

      Erin places the plate into the dishwasher. “Did someone straighten up my room?”

      I laugh. “If so, they didn’t do a very good job.”

      “I’m missing a book.”

      “Penelope’s Passion?”

      A blush stains Erin’s cheeks as she reaches for another plate. “Yeah.”

      “I borrowed it and forgot to put it back. Sorry. When we finish up here I’ll get it for you. I’m planning to read it at Nana’s group so I’ll be buying my own copy and copies for all the members.”

      Pausing with the plate in her hand, Erin’s eyes widen. “Mo-ther!”

      “What?”

      “You’re joking, right?”

      “No. Why?”

      “You can’t read that to people their age.”

      I wet a dishcloth, turn off the faucet and wipe down the counter. “Why not?”

      “There’s stuff in it.”

      “You think your generation invented stuff?”

      Erin lowers the plate she’s holding. “But, they’re old.”

      Mother enters the kitchen, headed for the breakfast nook and the hutch where she keeps her knitting basket. “Listen here, smarty-pants,” she says to Erin in a teasing voice. “We old people could teach you youngsters a thing or two about romance. There’s a lot to be said for wooing.”

      “Wooing?” Erin scowls.

      “That’s right, wooing.” Mother tucks the basket under her arm and smiles. “Candy and flowers. A walk in the moonlight. Stolen kisses on a front porch swing.”

      I want to sigh. It sounds so old-fashioned. And wonderful. In my dating days, an evening was considered romantic if the guy paid for the movie without trying to cop a feel afterward. How did my generation miss the boat? The one with champagne, candlelight and a string quartet?

      “When I was young,” Mother continues, “the boys pursued the girls, not vice versa. At least not in such an obvious way like I see today. We didn’t call them on the phone or chase after them. A young man came to a girl’s house and met her family before any dating went on.” She pauses to give us The Look. “And I might add that he came to the front door.”

      Erin tucks her lower lip between her teeth, and for a second, I sense a silent message passing between my mother and my daughter. But then a memory hits me full force, and I realize the message is for me, not Erin.

      “Oh, I get it.” I lean against the counter and cross my arms. “You’re taking up where Dad left off, is that it? You’re not ever going to let me forget about that time when I was seventeen and he caught Dave Baldwin outside my bedroom window.”

      “According to your father, the boy reeked of beer.” Mother chuckles. “Harry was fit to be tied.”

      “You can say that again.” Shaking my head, I look sideways at Erin. My laugh sounds nervous even to me; I hope she doesn’t notice. “And after your grandpop put the fear of God into poor Dave, he tore into me like I was the one who’d been drinking beer. Which, by the way, Dave hadn’t been drinking, either.” It was strawberry wine. “I never convinced your granddad of that, though.”

      Mother joins us at the sink. “He thought—”

      “I know, I know, he thought I was going out the window.” I glance at my daughter again. She’s reading the instructions on the dishwashing detergent, which strikes me as odd, but lately everything she does strikes me as odd, so I blow it off. “Just so you know, Erin, I wasn’t about to sneak out.” Not that night, anyway. “Dave and I were just talking. But your granddad never believed that, either. And for the rest of his life, he never tired of teasing me about it.”

      “Suzanna