The Father Next Door
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Gina Wilkins
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Chapter One
Margaret McAlister bent to retrieve her Saturdaymorning newspaper from the bushes in front of her house. She muttered beneath her breath at the notoriously poor aim of her new paper carrier. During the past few weeks, she’d found her papers in the bushes, in the flower beds, in the fountain, on the roof—everywhere but on the front porch where they should have been.
Margaret had little patience with incompetence.
A fat black puppy suddenly dashed past her, stubby tail wagging, ears flapping behind him. She thought she recognized the pup as belonging to the little boy next door. Glancing at her neighbor’s yard, she noticed that the gate to the chain-link-enclosed front lawn had been left open, providing an avenue for the dog’s dash for adventure. She shook her head. Children shouldn’t have petsif they weren’t going to watch out for them.
Hearing the distant sound of car engines growing closer, she tossed the newspaper onto her front stoop and hurried after the animal. “Here, boy. Come here, boy.”
She tried to make her voice enticing, though she’d had little experience communicating with canines. Margaret ’ didn’t particularly like dogs, but she couldn’t simply stand by and watch this little fellow be flattened by a heedless driver. “Come here, boy,” she said again. “Or girl. Whatever you are.”
She’d caught the dog’s attention. It stopped, head cocked, tongue lolling as it eyed her.
She knelt and held out her hands. “Come on, pup. I’ll take you home.”
A moment later she was assaulted by six pounds of wiggling fur and lapping tongue. Jerking her face out of range, she snatched the puppy into her arms and stood. The little mutt squirmed so enthusiastically that she almost dropped it. She tucked it firmly beneath her arm and headed down the sidewalk toward the house next door.
Margaret had never formally met her new neighbors, though she had once had to ask the young boy to please not take a shortcut through her flower beds on his way to his friend’s house down the block. And there’d been the time she’d had to retrieve his baseball from her fountain and return it to him over the fence. She hadn’t lectured him, but she had asked him to be more careful in the future; the ball could have as easily gone through one of her windows.
Both times, the boy had ducked his head and muttered something unintelligible.’Margaret would be the first to admit that she knew little more about talking to children than she did to dogs.
She pressed a finger to the doorbell of the redbrick Georgian home that was so much like her own and the others in this meticulously planned suburban Dallas neighborhood. The new residents had moved in about three weeks earlier.
Margaret had been very busy with work lately, so she hadn’t paid much attention to her new neighbors, except on the two occasions when she’d spoken to the boy. She didn’t even know what his parents looked like. There seemed to be a constant stream of people going in and out of the house, and Margaret hadn’t bothered to try to identify the permanent occupants.
She waited curiously as the door swung slowly open. The little boy she’d encountered before, a stocky, darkhaired lad of eight or nine years, stared up at her with wide green eyes. And then he let out a bellow, turned on one sneaker and dashed away.
“Dad!” he yelled. “Dad, it’s her! That mean lady from next door. And she’s got Boomer!”
Stunned by the boy’s reaction, Margaret closed her mouth with a snap. What the—?
“Hello?” she called out when the dog wriggled harder to get down. Should she set it on its feet and leave, closing the gate behind her? Should she wait here?
The dog wiggled and yipped. The boy was still yelling inside, and she heard a deep voice say, “Settle down, Sam.”
“But, Dad, she’s got Boomer!”
Margaret shook her head. This was getting her nowhere. Lifting her chin and taking a tighter grip on the pup, she stepped over the threshold, peering rather tentatively in the direction of the man’s voice.
A large den opened off the foyer, much like her own floor plan. Stopping just inside the front door, Margaret could see a man sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor. In her first glance, she noted his disheveled dark hair, outdoorsman’s tan, incredibly broad shoulders and ruggedly handsome face—strictly as a dispassionate observation, of course. His concentration was focused en- tirely on his hands, which seemed to be tangled in the dark hair of the little girl who sat with her back turned to him.
An open book lay at the man’s knee; it appeared to Margaret to be an illustrated instruction book on hairstyling. The man looked thoroughly bewildered. The boy had stationed himself behind his father and was bouncing up and down as he bellowed his indignation at being ignored. From Margaret’s firm grasp, the dog yapped again, obviously anxious to play with his boy.
“Sam, take that dog outside,” the man said, glaring at the book as though grimly determined to understand it. “And, Kitten, you’re going to have to be still, or I’ll never get this done.”
“But you’re pulling my hair, Daddy,” the child wailed.
“You’re the one who wanted me to—Oh.”
Maybe it had been the dog’s barking that made the man look up just then. His surprisingly green eyes locked with Margaret’s, and he went very still, a look of startled curiosity on his face.
And then he smiled, and even Margaret’s longguarded heart jerked in response to the sheer male beauty of it.
Dimples, she thought. She’d always had a regrettably soft spot for them, a susceptibility she usually managed to ignore.
“Well, hello,” he said, cocking his head in a manner that reminded her a bit of the puppy. “Do you, by any chance, know how to French braid?”
“I, uh…” Completely off guard, Margaret stammered ’a bit before she answered, “Yes, I do, but…”
A look of relief crossed his face. “Then would you mind showing me how? She wants to wear it to a birth day party, and this blasted book doesn’t make a lick of sense to me. I don’t think it’s written for single dads.”
Margaret certainly hadn’t come over for a hairstyling lesson. Nor had she realized her new neighbor was a single father.
“Your puppy got out of your yard and into the street,’ she explained, uncertain if he even knew why she was there. “I thought I should bring it back before it was run over.”
“That was thoughtful of you,’ he said, carefully untangling his long fingers from the little girl’s hair. “Was I supposed to put this up in a ponytail or anything first? The book doesn’t say to, but…” He shrugged.
“No,” Margaret answered, feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland. “Mr., er…?”
“Hollis,” he supplied, shoving himself to his feet. “Tucker Hollis. My friends call me Tuck.”
He stuck out his right hand. She placed the puppy in it. He was forced to scramble to keep from dropping the wriggling dog.
“I’m Margaret McAlister,” she said primly. “Your neighbor.”
“Nice to meet you.” He turned to his son, who seemed to be trying to hide behind a chair. “Sam, take this dog outside. And make sure that gate’s shut from now on, you hear? You want Boomer to get hit by a car?”
“No, sir,” the boy muttered, taking his pet with a skittish look at Margaret. He all but bolted from the room as soon’as he had his dog safely in his arms.
Margaret wondered if she’d been sterner than she’d intended when she’d talked to the boy about her flower beds and the ball in her fountain. He acted as though she were the malicious neighbor from The Wizard ofOz. scheming to steal his Toto.
Tucker Hollis planted his hands on his jeaned hips and studied her with a smile. “So you’re the mean ol’ lady next door. Gotta admit, you aren’t exactly what I was expecting.”
She bristled. “I am not a mean old lady,’she declared, feeling compelled to protest. She was only thirty, after all.
He took a leisurely visual stroll from the top of her neatly brushed, chestnut brown hair to her sensibly shod feet, not missing an inch of her slender figure along the way. She realized that she had just been studied and cataloged-eyes, brown; nose, tip tilted; mouth, unpainted; legs, long; curves, practically nonexistent. She resisted an impulse to squirm self-consciously beneath his examination.
“No,” he said, musingly. “I can see that you aren’t an old lady.”
She was appalled to feel her cheeks warm with a blush. She hadn’t blushed in years.
The little girl still sitting on the floor squirmed impatiently. “Daddy,” she reminded him. “My hair.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He gave Margaret a look of appeal. “Would you mind?”
She really would be a mean old lady if she refused to assist him, she supposed. Her Saturday-morning schedule had already been disrupted, so another few minutes couldn’t make a major difference. She was wearing a knit slacks-and-top set, so she was able to kneel on the floor behind the child without concern for her clothing. She picked up the comb lying beside the useless instruction book.
“What’s your name?” she asked the little girl.
“Christine, but everyone calls me Kitten. I’m five. Almost six. What’s your name?”
“Margaret McAlister.”
“What does everyone call you?” Kitten inquired, looking curiously over her shoulder. “Do you have a nickname?”
“No. Just ’Margaret.’”
“Oh.” Kitten didn’t seem to entirely approve of Margaret’s answer.
Margaret turned the child’s head gently but firmly forward, then slid the comb into her silky tresses. She looked up at Tucker Hollis before proceeding any further, finding him standing right beside her.
“Are you watching?” she asked, remembering that he had asked her to teach him how to make the braid.
He nodded. “I’m watching,” he said, though his eyes were on her face, not on her hands.
Margaret hastily turned her attention to the task she’d taken on, nimbly gathering strands of hair and carefully explaining what she was doing. “You divide it into three sections, like this. Then you start to braid, picking up another strand of hair from each outside—”
“Say, would you like a cup of coffee or anything?” Tucker Hollis offered cheerfully, ignoring her careful instructions.
“No, thank you. I’ve already had my coffee this morning.”
“So have another cup. Freshly made,” he added enticingly.
She shook her head. “Thank you, but no. Now you take this strand here and—”
“You don’t have any kids, do you, Mrs. McAlister?” Kitten inquired, turning her head to peer over her shoulder.
“No, I’ve never been married,” Margaret responded, moving the child’s head forward again. “You have to be still if you want your hair braided,” she added.
“Yes, ma’am,” Kitten replied with a nod that pulled from her fingers the strands Margaret had already gathered.
Margaret sighed and began again. “Now,” she said, trying to sound in control, “you divide the top section of hair into three equal strands and—”
“Dad.” Still holding the active puppy, Sam burst back into the room. “The latch on the gate’s broke. It won’t stay closed. You’ll have to fix it, or Boomer’ll get out again.”
“Darn,” Hollis muttered, shoving a hand through his hair. The wayward strands at the front fell back over his forehead. He looked apologetically at Margaret. “Would you mind finishing this up without me? I’d better fix that gate so we can get the dog outside.”
“But—”
“But, Daddy.” Kitten’s protest overrode Margaret’s. “I’ll be late to the birthday party.”
“You won’t be late, Kitten,” he promised. “Ms. McAlister is going to do your hair, and I’ll have the latch fixed in a snap. There’ll be plenty of time to get you to your party.”
“We’ll be late,” the child muttered as her father and brother hurried out. “We’re always late.”
After spending just five minutes in this chaotic household, Margaret wasn’t at all surprised. If she’d ever seen a place in need of organization, this was it.
She quickly finished Kitten’s hair, leaving the braid hanging down her back and tied at thebottom with a bright red plaid bow that matched the little pleated skirt the child wore with a crisp white blouse. At least the children looked clean, neat and well fed, Margaret noted, though the room around her was dismayingly cluttered with toys, books, magazines, newspapers, shoes and crayons. Several boxes rested in the corners, apparently waiting to be unpacked.
“Do you and your brother live full-time with your father?” Margaret asked impulsively. She immediately regretted the personal question, reminding herself that it was none of her business.
Kitten didn’t hesitate to answer. “Yes,” she said with a nod that made her bow bounce against her back. “Our mama was in a car wreck with Benny, and they went to heaven. Now Daddy takes care of us all the time. Well, not when he’s at work, of course. He’s a teacher. He teaches big kids—junior high. Our grandma picks us up after school and takes us to her house. We get to have a snack and watch television until Daddy gets through working and picks us up. Sometimes he has meetings and stuff at school and he has to stay late, so Grandma cooks dinner for us.”
Margaret gulped, dismayed by the child’s disclosure about her mother. “I—”
“I’m in kindergarten,” Kitten went on. “My teacher’s name is Ms. Clark. I like her ’cause she makes me laugh, but sometimes she yells at Tommy Perkins and she’s really loud when she yells.”
“Oh. Er…”
“Sam’s in fourth grade. He’s nine. His teacher’s Mrs. Dixon. She makes him miss recess when he talks to his friends in class. Daddy said if it happens again, he’s going to take Sam’s Nintendo away for a whole month.”
Margaret backed toward the door, wondering how quickly she could make her escape. She hadn’t imagined that asking one simple question would unleash this artless flow of information.
“Daddy had an apartment when me and Sam lived with Mommy and Benny, but the apartment was too little for all of us, so we got this house. You want to see my room? I got a new bed and everything. It has a canopy.”
“Not right now,” Margaret answered a bit desperately. “I really should be—”
“Do you live all by yourself, Ms. Mc—Er…?” The child had obviously forgotten the last name.
“Just call me Margaret. And yes, I live alone.”
“Don’t you get scared? I get scared sometimes at night. Daddy lets me put my sleeping bag in his room when it thunders, ’cause I really hate thunder. It was thundering the night my Mommy went to heaven,” Kitten added pensively.
Margaret had never felt more awkward or inept. Should she express her sympathy for the child’s loss, or would that be inappropriate with a little girl so young? She decided to simply answer Kitten’s questions instead.
“No, I don’t get scared at night,” she said. Not anymore, anyway, she could have added. Not since she’d carefully put together an orderly, controlled life for herself—a safe environment, a comfortably predictable routine, a steady, dependable income.
She didn’t mention any of that, of course. Her life— most especially her past—wasn’t open for discussion, even with this talkative little girl. She was relieved when Tucker Hollis strolled back into the room, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction.
“All done,” he announced. “See, Kitten, I told you it wouldn’t take long. Hey, your hair looks great.”
Kitten preened and patted her braid. “I know. I can see it in the mirror over the couch,” she answered immodestly.
“Did you thank Ms. McAlister for braiding it for you?”
“She said I can call her Margaret. Thank you, Margaret.”
“You’re welcome, er, Kitten.” Margaret inwardly cringed at the silly nickname. “I hope you have a nice time at your party.”
Kitten smiled brightly. “I will. Patty’s mom always gives out cool party favors.”
Her father groaned. “Materialistic brat. Go put on your shoes. We’re supposed to be there in ten minutes.”
Kitten sighed as she left the room. “We’ll be late/’ she predicted. “We’re always late.”
“We won’t be late.” Tucker turned to Margaret. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of coffee or something?”
She was inching toward the door again. “No, thank you.”
He moved after her. “I’ve been meaning to get over and introduce myself, but everything’s been so hectic since the move that there hasn’t been time. I told Sam to stay on the sidewalks and out of your flower beds from now on, but if you have any more trouble with him, you let me know, okay? He’s a good kid, but he forgets his manners at times. Like most kids, I guess.”
“Yes, of course,” Margaret murmured.
Tucker followed her to the front door. “Have you lived in this neighborhood long?”
“I bought my house five years ago.”
“You were pretty young to buy a house, weren’t you?”
“I was twenty-five.” Margaret kept her voice just a bit cool, a subtle indication that she didn’t particularly like answering personal questions.
“Then you and I are the same age. I just had my thirtieth birthday a couple of months ago.”
“Congratulations,” Margaret murmured, stepping outside.
Her mild sarcasm didn’t seem to faze him—or to discourage him from his openly curious interrogation. “Where did you live before you moved here?”
“My family moved around a lot.” She descended the porch steps, intending to end the conversation there.
Tucker Hollis followed her, leaving the front door gaping behind him. “Do you work out of your home? I’ve noticed that you don’t leave often.”
She didn’t like the implication that he’d been watch- ing her house. She frowned, telling herself she really should put him firmly in his place. Then again, she had no desire to antagonize her neighbors. She answered reluctantly, “Yes, I work out of my home. I’m a certified public accountant. I do contract work for several small local businesses that can’t afford a full-time bookkeeper.”
“No kidding. You don’t look like a number cruncher.”
She lifted an eyebrow without slowing as she walked briskly down the steps and onto the walkway. “Kitten told me that you’re a schoolteacher. Physical education?”
“History,” he corrected her. “Eighth and ninth grades.”
“Really? You don’t look like a history teacher.”
His grin deepened. “Touche.”
They had reached the gate. Tucker opened it for her. Margaret stepped through, expecting him to stay behind. Instead, he followed her again.
“You really don’t have to walk me home,” she said.
He shrugged. “Nice morning, isn’t it? Going to be a beautiful day.”
She hadn’t really noticed before, but he was right It was a lovely late-September morning, the sky clear and blue, trees awash in fall colors, an autumn crispness in the air that was especially refreshing after a very hot summer. “Yes, it is a nice morning.”
“You aren’t going to spend it inside with your spreadsheets and software, are you?”
“I work from ten until noon most Saturdays. I reserve Saturday afternoons for shopping and errands.”
Tucker slanted her. a wary look. “You aren’t one of those organized types, are you? Every minute planned, every hour accounted for?”
She couldnt help but smile at his exaggerated dismay. “That pretty well sums me up.”
He clucked and shook his head. “Could be a problem.”
She frowned. “Why is that?”
His cheek crinkled appealingly with his grin—dimples deep enough to raise goose bumps on her arms in response. “I’m just the opposite type. And you know what they say about opposites attracting….”
The attraction was most definitely there—on her part, at least. But just because she’d noticed his masculine attributes didn’t mean she’d completely lost her common sense. This man was trouble if she’d ever seen it.
“Yes, well,” she said briskly. “I’ve never been one to go along with what ’they’ say.”
They’d reached her front porch. She scooped up her newspaper and tucked it beneath her arm. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Hollis.”
“Yeah. Thanks for bringing the mutt home.” He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave, though her hand was already on her doorknob. “You’re sure I can’t talk you into having a cup of coffee or something with me?”
“Thank you, but I still have work to do. And you have to take your daughter to the birthday party.”
Tucker frowned and glanced at his watch. “Oh, yeah. Right. She’s supposed to be there now, I think.”
“Then you’d better hurry.”
“I guess you’re, right. Rain check, okay?” He was already loping toward his own home, saving Margaret the effort of coming up with a suitably evasive response.
She shook her head as she entered her house and closed the front door behind her. Little Kitten had been right. They were going to be late for the party.
Tucker Hollis was most definitely trouble, she thought, picturing those dimples. Fortunately, she had become very good at avoiding that sort of risk.
Nearly every Saturday afternoon at four o’clock, Margaret took a forty-five-minute nap. It was a small indulgence after a day of doing housework and running errands, both part of her Saturday routine.
She always turned down the lights, put on classical music and stretched out on the antique fainting couch in her bedroom, covering herself with the luxuriously soft, hand-crocheted afghan she’d bought several years ago at a rural craft shop. She never slept deeply, just dozed, savoring the rare moments of idleness while the music she loved drifted through the room. It wasn’t necessary to set an alarm; she never lay there longer than fortyfive minutes.
At 4:25, she was brought abruptly out of her light sleep by a sudden blast of noise from outside.
It seemed to be coming from directly beneath her west bedroom window—music, laughter, cheerfully raised voices, children’s shrill shrieks of laughter, a dog’s manic yapping. It sounded as though a party had begun, one that would probably go on for a while.
She rubbed the remnants of her nap from her eyes and sighed, thinking wistfully of those twenty more minutes of self-indulgence she could have had.
She glanced out her second-story bedroom window, standing to one side so as not to call attention to herself. Several people had gathered in Tucker Hollis’s roomy backyard. Wisps of smoke were beginning to rise from an outdoor grill, and portable picnic tables were being arranged on the lawn while children dashed among the adults in pursuit of the happy, tongue-lolling black puppy Margaret had rescued that morning.
Family, she thought with that old, familiar, bitterwistful tug at her heart.
She let the curtain fall back into place and turned away. She had things to do. She might as well get to them.
Judging from the noise level, the party next door was still going strong when Margaret’s doorbell rang almost an hour later. She was expecting a friend to pick her up for an evening out, so she hastily finished brushing her hair, dropped the hairbrush and hurried downstairs. She smoothed a hand over her soft white blouse and gray pleated slacks before opening the door, a last-minute check for neatness.
She was caught completely by surprise to find her next-door neighbor on her doorstep. “Mr. Hollis,” she said. “What—?”
“Tucker,” he reminded her. “Or Tuck. I answer to anything but ’Mr.,’ unless you’re one of my students.”
“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.
“Actually, I came to invite you over for dinner. We’re having a barbecue—real casual, just family. Sort of a housewarming party. Kitten’s been telling everyone that you did her hair this morning, and I thought maybe you’d like to have a burger with us.”
A low-slung black car pulled into thedriveway behind them as he spoke. A tall blonde dressed in a brightly colored sweater and snug jeans hopped out.
“Thank you,” Margaret told Tucker, “but I have plans for the evening. My friend and I are going to a movie.”
“Hi, Margaret. Who’s this?” Jackie inquired as she approached them.
“Jackie Shelton, this is my new neighbor, Tucker Hollis.”
Jackie extended a brightly manicured hand. “Nice to meet you, Tucker. Come to borrow a cup of sugar?”
Tucker smiled—as Margaret had expected. Everyone smiled at Jackie. It seemed to be almost impossible not to do so. “Actually, I came to invite Margaret over for a barbecue party. I thought she might like to join us— but, of course, you and she already have plans for the evening.”
Jackie shrugged, eyeing Tucker with a curiosity that made Margaret wary. “We were just going to see a movie—hadn’t even decided which one yet. A party sounds like a lot more fun.”
“Er…” Margaret began.
“The invitation extends to both of you, of course,” Tucker said promptly.
Jackie sniffed delicately. “Do I smell hickory smoke?”
He grinned, his cheeks tucking into the dimples that Margaret had noticed—quite objectively, of course— earlier. “You do. Burgers and ribs. My mom brought her world-famous potato salad, and my sister makes coleslaw like you’ve never tasted before. My brother’s got two electric freezers cranking homemade ice cream even as we speak.”
“Your brother?” Jackie asked with a birdlike tilt of her head. “That would be your married brother, Gus?”
Tucker chuckled. “No. That would be my single, currently unattached brother, Mick.”
“Homemade ice cream,” Jackie crooned. “God, it’s been years since I had any.”
She turned to her friend with a gleam in her blue eyes. “Ribs and ice cream, Margaret. You don’t really expect me to turn that down, do you?”
I was rather hoping you would, Margaret almost said. She held on to her smile with an effort. “Well, I—”
“Great.” Jackie turned back to Tucker with a grin.
“We’ll be right over.”
He nodded, looking pleased. “We’ll be in the backyard. No need to ring the bell or anything, just come through the gate when you’re ready.”
“Ten minutes,” Jackie promised.
Tucker sent Margaret a vaguely apologetic smile, proving he was well aware that she’d just been manipulated into something she wouldn’t have done otherwise. “It’ll be fun,” he assured her, then turned and loped across the lawn toward his own place.
“I,” Margaret said, turning to her closest and dearest friend, “am going to strangle you. Slowly.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you had such interesting new neighbors?”
“I just met Tucker and his children this morning. I certainly wasn’t expecting an invitation to a barbecue this afternoon. Why did you—?”
“Margaret, he is gorgeous,” Jackie breathed, staring after Tucker in awe. “I guess he’s married, since you mentioned kids, but did you hear? He has a single brother. We can share him.”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “I don’t share men, Jackie. And Tucker isn’t married. He’s a single father.”
“Wow, even better. One brother for each of us. We’ll decide who gets which after we meet the other one.”
Had Margaret been the type to graphically express her emotions, she would have screamed. As it was, she drew a deep breath and shook her head, reminding herself that Jackie always carried on this way and didn’t usually mean a word of it. They couldn’t have been more different—nor could there be any better friend in the whole world, despite Jackie’s occasional tendency to make Margaret consider screaming.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I, for one, am not interested. You’re welcome to both brothers, if you want them.”
“Hmm. Brothers.” Jackie seemed to consider the idea for a moment, then broke into an infectious grin. “I can handle that.”
“Right. Now, since you’ve gotten us into this situation, I suppose we’d better go on over there. We’ll make nice with the new neighbors, have a quick burger and then make a graceful, early exit All right?”
Jackie shrugged. “Sure. But we can’t go emptyhanded. What have you got to add to the festivities?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, come on, you always have something. Let’s go look.” Jackie scooted past her and headed for the kitchen.
Margaret followed hastily. “Really, Jackie, there’s nothing. He doesn’t expect us to bring anything, since the invitation was spur-of-the-moment. We—”
Jackie had already pounced on a couple of sealed containers. “Homemade chocolate-chip cookies! They’ll go great with homemade ice cream. Looks like a couple of dozen here.”
“Four dozen. And put them down—I made them for the church social tomorrow.”
“So you can make more later. I’ll help you.”
Jackie, Margaret knew, couldn’t boil water without scorching it. “But—”.
Jackie had already tucked the containers beneath her arm. She eyed Margaret critically. “I don’t suppose you want to change into jeans?”
“No, I do not.”
Jackie sighed. “You look very nice, of course, just a bit prim for a backyard barbecue. But if that’s what you want to wear—”
“It is.”
“Then let’s go.”
“We planned this movie outing a week ago,” Margaret muttered, tagging dutifully after her friend.
Jackie laughed. “Yes, I know. You really hate it when your plans are disrupted. But, as I keep telling you, it’s good to be spontaneous sometimes. Keeps you from becoming an old fuddy-duddy.”
“Thirty is not old,” Margaret said defensively, peeved at having the word applied to her, even indirectly, for a second time that day. “And I don’t mind being spontaneous on occasion. I simply like to be better prepared for it”
Jackie was still laughing when they closed Margaret’s door behind them.
