“Don’t you ‘well’ me,” Mel said in a fine imitation of Joyce. “How could you, Mom? How could you think that of me?” “Tate is the love of your life,” she said. “It’s understandable that the thought of him marrying another might provoke . . .” “What? Homicidal tendencies?” Mel smacked a hand down on the table. It sounded like a shot, and made her mother jump. It was louder than Mel had intended, and defused her first surge of anger. However, she was still mightily annoyed. “Mom, I am not now, nor have I ever been, in love with Tate. He’s my friend and that’s it.” Joyce stepped close to her
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Whack her Mel. Then it might get through to her head. I grit my teeth has soon as this woman is on the page.
