Sundays With Ingrid
They ate at the kitchen table, under the sailing-ship calendar. It was different from dinner at Ingrid’s. First, it was called supper. Second, it was happening earlier. Third, they were eating steak, banished from the Levin-Hills’ table because of mad cow. Ingrid loved steak, especially medium rare and juicy, just like this.
“Been saving these,” said the chief, loosening his tie, a navy-blue tie that matched his uniform shirt. “How’s yours?”
“Great,” Ingrid said.
“Pass down that A1, Joe, where she can get it.”
“That’s all right,” Ingrid said.
“No A1?” said the chief. “How about ketchup?”
“I like it just like this,” Ingrid said.
“Me, too,” said the chief. “Joe puts sauce on everything.”
“That’s not true,” Joey said, although his steak was swimming in A1 and there was a pool of ketchup on the side.
The chief rolled up his sleeves—his forearms were huge, the links of his steel watchband stretched to the max—and poured himself a beer. Ingrid and Joey had milk—whole milk, which she’d hardly ever even tasted. So good, like a meal all by itself. There was a lot to be said for eating at Joey’s.
“How’s school?” asked the chief.
“Good,” said Ingrid.
“Ingrid’s one of the brainy kids,” said Joey. She felt something press against her foot.
“That’s clear,” said the chief.
Joey’s foot. “I’m not,” said Ingrid. How could a foot pressing against another foot feel this good?
“What’s your favorite subject?” the chief asked.
“English.” Joey pressed a little harder; it actually sort of began to hurt.
“Least favorite?” the chief said. “Send those rolls around, Joe. And the butter, for Pete’s sake. What’s wrong with you?”
Joey withdrew his foot fast.
Welcome Max, Rocket, Peet.
Tags: Echo Falls Series
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