She’d grabbed some of the items Charlie routinely brought home without giving much thought to the fact that she had only the vaguest notion how to prepare them. They sat there—the mushrooms, the carrots, the lettuce, the tomatoes, the ground beef (extra lean, something Charlie always emphasized), the brown rice (again, Charlie’s insistence), the bananas and the cereal and the soy milk for Margaret, whose Indian heritage rendered regular cow’s milk intolerable. Bub plastered himself to her leg, alert to the fact that the appearance of food meant that some might find its way to the floor. Margaret played in the cool shade of the porch, investing pieces of kindling filched from the box near the woodstove with names and personalities. Pal was MIA, as were the running shoes she usually kicked off just inside the front door. Lola turned her attention back to the food. It was late afternoon. Soon Margaret would be hungry again. Despite the café’s substantial sandwich, Lola already was.
