“You’re right on time,” he said. “Sit down and eat your grapefruit. This’ll be ready in three minutes. Give or take.” He’s very good at the “give or take.” I’ve been cooking for myself, and for him, for two years now, and I’m still a wreck about when everything will be ready. For Jack there’s just nothing to it. And since his sister is a caterer, I’ve come to believe it’s in the blood or the genes or something I have no control over. He sat down across from me and dug into his grapefruit. We had bought a carton of them from the glee club of the local high school, fund-raising for their annual trip. They were the best grapefruit we’d ever eaten, shipped up from Florida just before Thanksgiving, all pink and juicy. Next year we would buy two cartons and double our investment in the glee club. Jack had also been busy with map and compass. “You get as far south as Trenton, New Jersey,” he said, “halfway west across New Jersey, north about to Pough-keepsie, up to maybe Norwalk, Connecticut, halfway across Long Island, and out to sea if you’re so inclined.
What do You think about New Year's Eve Murder (2015)?
