Dear Emily. Fern Michaels

Чтение книги онлайн.

      ZEBRA BOOKS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

       http://www.zebrabooks.com

      For my good friends,

       Carol and Bob Ventimiglia

      Contents

      Part One

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Part Two

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Part Three

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 1

      Emily Thorn jerked to wakefulness, certain the sound grating on her ears was her husband Ian’s alarm clock. Then she remembered Ian was off on a business trip. So, what was the sound? She scrunched her head into the feather pillow to blot out the persistent noise, aware of the birds chirping on her windowsill. They were waiting for the seeds and crumbs she set out on the deck every morning. Damn, she must have overslept again. She squinted at the clock: 10:15. “Damn,” she muttered, “it’s the doorbell.”

      A moment later she was out of bed, wrapping her robe about her as she stuffed her feet into felt slippers. By the time she got to the front door, struggled with the security alarm, the dead bolt, and the regular lock and opened the door, the Federal Express truck was halfway down the road. She leaned over, picked up the flat envelope, and carried it into the house. She didn’t bother to look at the address; obviously it was for Ian.

      In the kitchen she fixed the coffeepot, turned on the oven, and slid in a tray of sticky buns, the butter and frosting oozing down the sides. She poked around the refrigerator until she found the butter dish. The microwave would melt it to perfection. She poured a quarter inch of light cream into her oversize coffee mug.

      While she waited for her breakfast, Emily ripped the blue rubber band from the morning paper. She yanked at her hair until she got it into an unruly bunch; the rubber band snapped into place. She really needed to get a haircut. She was too old for the long mane she carried around. “Crowning glory, my ass,” she muttered. Today she would get it cut and styled. It would be something to do, a way to pass an hour or so.

      She poured coffee, checked the sticky buns, decided she couldn’t wait for them to brown. They were warm and would soak in the melted butter. She used a dinner plate, lining the buns up side by side as she drizzled the butter over them. She ate all six in under ten minutes, finishing her first cup of coffee. She poured again, adding cream as she did so. Now, with her sweet СКАЧАТЬ