Ramona and the Renegade. Marie Ferrarella

finding first a baby, then the baby’s aunt on his doorstep.”

      “Technically, the baby’s aunt turned up on the diner’s doorstep,” Joe corrected just before he took his first bite of the sandwich.

      Mona looked at him. She’d known that. Rick had given her all the details—after she’d pressed him for them—when he called to tell her he was getting married. For the purpose of narrative, she’d exaggerated. She should have known better around Joe.

      “I forgot what a real stickler for details you could be.”

      “Gotta pay attention to the facts,” he pointed out mildly. “Without the facts, your story can turn into someone else’s.”

      Too tired to unscramble his remark, she took another healthy bite of her half, but needed something to wash it down with.

      “You wouldn’t happen to have brought along a beverage with your ‘dinner,’ would you?” she asked.

      “I’ve got beer at home,” he told her.

      “Doesn’t exactly do us any good here, now does it?”

      Setting what was left of her half down on the wax paper, Mona eased herself off the chair, taking care not to make any sudden movements that might cause the legs to separate from the seat.

      Meanwhile Joe had made his way over to the sink and slowly turned the faucet. It squealed in protest just before the water emerged. The smell alone was terrible. The color was a close second.

      He turned off the faucet. “Well, water’s out unless rust is your favorite flavor.”

      Since he was conducting the search, she sank back down on her chair. Her half of the sandwich was disappearing much too quickly, she thought, silently lamenting that he hadn’t brought two.

      “I’ll pass.” She watched Joe as he opened and then closed the overhead cabinets. “Anything?”

      He was about to say “No,” but the last cabinet he opened contained an old, half-empty bottle of whiskey. Judging from the dust, it had been left behind a long time ago.

      Turning back to face her, he held the bottle aloft. “Does this count?”

      “Rot-gut,” Mona cried, using the word that had defined crudely made alcohol a couple of centuries ago. That wouldn’t have been her first choice, but any port in a storm, she reasoned. “It’ll do in a pinch.”

      “We’re going to have to drink straight out of the bottle,” he told her, crossing back to Mona and placing the bottle in the middle of the table. “Seems like the last owner didn’t believe in glasses.” His eyes briefly met hers. “I can’t find any.”

      Mona scrutinized the bottle. The light from the fireplace bathed it with gentle strokes, making it gleam amber. But there was no missing the thick dust. She hesitated. “Think it’s safe to drink?” she asked him.

      “Only one way to find out,” Joe answered gamely. Before Mona could say anything further, he tilted the bottle back and took a small swig. Even that little bit jolted him. It took him a couple of seconds to find his breath. “Hell of a kick,” he told her.

      Suddenly, Joe grabbed his chest and began making strangling noises. His eyes rolled back in his head. Horrified, Mona was instantly on her feet. Throwing her arms around him, she struggled to lower him to the floor. She needed to get him to a flat surface before she could start CPR.

      Mona did her best to fight back panic. “Joe, talk to me, what do you feel? Can you breathe? Damn it, you shouldn’t have—”

      The words dried up on her tongue when she caught a glimpse of Joe’s face. He wasn’t choking, he was laughing.

      Furious, she opened her arms and his upper torso dropped, hitting the floor with a thud.

      “Idiot!” she bit off. “I thought you were poisoned.” She crossed her arms before her angrily. “I should have known the poison hadn’t been invented that could do away with you.”

      Getting up off the floor, Joe dusted himself off. “A second ago, you were worried that I was dying. Now you’re mad that I’m not. You sure do blow hot and cold, don’t you?” he asked with a laugh.

      Mona frowned as she sat down at the table again. For a moment, she said nothing, just ate the rest of her sandwich in silence.

      He supposed it was a dirty trick. Sitting down opposite her, he apologized. Sort of. It would have carried more weight if he wasn’t grinning. “Sorry, I just couldn’t resist.”

      She raised her eyes to his face, glaring at him. “That was a rotten trick.”

      “Yes, it was,” he responded solemnly. She knew he was just humoring her.

      “So? How is it?” she pressed, changing the subject. When he looked at her quizzically, she nodded at the bottle on the table. “The whiskey.”

      “Pretty smooth for rot-gut,” he told her. When he saw her reaching for the bottle, he advised, “Go slow if you’re going to try it.”

      He realized his mistake the moment the words were out of his mouth.

      “The day I can’t hold my liquor as well as you can is the day I’ll admit myself into a nursing home and spend the rest of my days sitting in a rocking chair in a corner—rocking.”

      He didn’t crack a smile. “There is middle ground, you know.”

      “Not for people like you and me,” she told him just before she took a swig from the bottle, determined to match him.

      Joe watched her eyes tear up as the whiskey hit bottom. He knew better than to laugh, or even point the fact out. That would only goad her on. For all her education, she really hadn’t changed that much, he mused. She still had that sharp, competitive edge that made her see everything as a personal challenge, even when it wasn’t.

      She would have never made it as a Navajo, he thought. The Native American tribe was known for not competing. They saw competing against their fellow man as being impolite.

      Mona had never been hampered by those kinds of feelings.

      “How is it?” he asked, infusing just enough disinterest in his voice to sound believable.

      “Smooth, like you said,” she managed to get out, her voice a raspy whisper. It felt as if the whiskey had instantly stripped her vocal cords, but she wasn’t about to let on. Mona deliberately took another swig.

      Liquid flames poured through her body. Even so, this time it was a little less jarring than the first sip she’d taken.

      He wanted to tell her not to overdo it, but he knew better. Mona was nothing if not contrary. When she set the bottle down, the look in her eyes wasn’t hard to read. She dared him to take another swig himself.

      So he did.

      And then it was her turn again. Joe caught himself thinking that he was grateful the pint bottle was half empty when they found it. The damage caused by the whiskey wouldn’t be too great.

      Worst case, Mona would get light-headed and giddy for a bit, but since she was with him, she was safe.

      Lucky for her, Joe thought rather grudgingly.

      Yeah, you’re a regular Boy Scout, aren’t you?

      The bottle was passed back and forth between them, traveling faster with each handoff. Before either one of them realized it, nothing was left.

      With a sigh, Mona tilted the bottle all the way over, trying to coax another drop out, but without success.

      She felt oddly relaxed and revved up at the same time, as if sliding around in a bright, shiny echo chamber.

      Setting the bottle down on its side, she planted her hands on the tabletop and pushed herself up into a standing position. The chair behind her fell. There was a crash accompanied by a cracking sound as parts