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“The book was far better than that ridiculous spy thriller we read last month,” added Lloyd, settling his generous bulk in the chair next to Ingrid’s. “Novelists never get it right.”
She had no idea how a writer’s mind worked, but she imagined it was like a dozen different voices shouting in your head, demanding you tell their story their way. It seemed like a form of madness.
What was it about growing older that turned you into a bird-watcher and made you invest in expensive optical equipment?
Lloyd had never trained on the slalom course at the Farm, yet he expertly maneuvered his SUV as if the entire Russian army were in hot pursuit. He might be a maestro in the kitchen, a talented putterer in the garden, but this? This was utterly reckless, the way he squealed around corners and briefly swerved into the opposite lane to pass another car. “You’re going to get a ticket, dear,” Ingrid said, maddeningly calm. “Who’s going to give it to me? Our fearless police chief is right in front of us.”
An oncoming car blasted its horn, and Lloyd scooted back into his lane just in time. “Damn tourists,” Lloyd grumbled.
“You will stay right here, in your vehicle. Don’t leave the road, don’t try to interfere, or I swear I’ll have you all in handcuffs.” She turned and stalked away. “I don’t think she’s serious,” said Lloyd. “Who carries five pairs of handcuffs?”
when did a single working woman have time to cook? A girl could not live on frozen pizza alone. This was one way to support their local police.
“People can justify almost anything, Maggie. That’s why history keeps repeating itself.”
“Never overlook the human heart as a source of mischief.”
