Читать книгу Marriage, Interrupted - Karen Templeton - Страница 6

Chapter Two

Blake found Shaun doing a bad impression of a skateboarder in the cul-de-sac in front of the house. The kid had changed into a pair of droopy jeans with shredded hems, topped by three layers of shirts in varying degrees of grunge. For a split second, Blake considered whether he even wanted to be seen with the kid.

“I’m going back to the hotel to get my stuff,” he called over. “Wanna come?”

The skateboard went flying in one direction, Shaun in another, as he came to a halt. Panting, he took off his hat—its original color anybody’s guess—shook out his now-unconfined hair, then pushed the hat back on his head. Backward. “You staying here?” he asked as he snatched the skateboard up off the pavement, then ambled toward Blake, board dangling from his knuckles.

“Appears so.” Blake waited until the boy reached him before continuing. “Lucille’s idea.”

Shaun nodded, a half grin tugging at his lips as he hissed out a breath. “What’d Mom say?”

“Not much,” Blake said cautiously. “Although she did mention that you had some plans for the next few days and maybe I could play shuttle service.”

Another nod. “Yeah, that’d be cool. I s’pose.” Now he gave Blake’s Range Rover the once-over. “Not bad,” he pronounced, skimming one hand over the hood. “New?”

“The Bronco gave up the ghost last winter.” For some reason, Shaun’s nonchalance was making Blake antsy. “So. You want to come with me or not?”

“Yeah. Sure. C’n I put the board in back?”

“Yeah. Sure,” Blake echoed, opening the door.

The skateboard duly deposited, they both climbed into the car. Shaun immediately asked if he could turn on the radio; Blake, assuming the kid wasn’t thinking along the lines of an easy listening or classical station, not so immediately agreed. Two button clicks later, the glove-leather interior of his car pulsed with mind-numbing, quadrophonically enhanced hip-hop. Blake glanced over at his son, who was drumming the dash in time to the…music. He sucked in a deep, deep breath, then let it out very, very slowly.

It was a start.

Cass blew a puff of air through her bangs and considered the plate of food in her hands, still uneaten, still unwanted. Right on cue, reminding her she wasn’t the only one who needed to eat, the baby delivered a swift kick to her right kidney. With a sigh, she lifted something unrecognizable to her mouth and began to nibble, only to quickly dispose of it in her napkin. Whoever had put the chicken liver on her plate had an obvious death wish. Liver, in whatever form, from whatever animal, was still something’s innards, and Cass did not eat innards. Ever.

Tears sprang to her eyes.

“Hey, honey…you okay?”

Cass immediately reined everything in as Mercy plopped herself down beside her, wiping her sapphire-blue-tipped fingers on a napkin. The nails were a perfect match to the petite woman’s fitted suit. Her lips, thankfully, were not.

“Sure,” Cass answered. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So if you’d already made up your mind how I was, why’d you ask?”

“Because that’s what friends do.”

“Ask? Or predetermine the answers?”

“Whatever works.”

Cass settled farther into the sofa, the plate precariously balanced on top of the mound that contained her unborn child. “Well, consider this. If I was okay, they probably really would come take me away.”

“Good point,” Mercy said. “But with the baby coming and everything? Dana and I are just worried about you, you know?”

Dana Malone, the third partner in their business venture, was—thank God—not in evidence at the moment. “Don’t be. Please. You know hovering makes me crazy.”

“Tough. If we didn’t bug you, you’d probably starve to death.” Yards of ebony corkscrew curls, only minimally tamed by a narrow, blue velvet headband, tangled with the collar of her suit as she shook her head. “For someone so savvy about running a business, you’re pathetic when it comes to taking care of yourself.” Teak eyes settled on Cass’s plate. “Why didn’t you eat the liver?”

“Because I’d rather cut out my own. So live up to your name, Mercy, and show me some.”

“Liver’s a good source of iron, which you need for the baby—”

“So bring me a bowl of Total. Get off my case.”

Mercy humphed, then scanned the room and the dwindled-to-almost-nothing crowd. “Your ex left?” she asked, making Cass jump.

“Only temporarily,” she said, trying to sound blasé. “Lucille got her claws in him and invited him to stay over.”

“Stay over? As in, here?” One sapphire nail jabbed downward. “In this house?”

The soft leather cushioned Cass’s aching neck muscles as she leaned back against the sofa and faced her partner. “Does that mean I’m not the only one who thinks this is a little strange?”

Her brows now dipped, Mercy leaned over and snitched a taquito off Cass’s plate. Crossing her legs, she propped her elbow on her knee as she munched, waving the truncated taquito around for emphasis. “I think…I think I don’t know what I think. Except… Dios mio, he’s a hunk and a half. Oh, God—” Five long fingers clamped around Cass’s wrist. “That was really stupid.”

“Forget it. Besides, you’re right.”

Up went the brows again.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Merce. Look. If someone lets you borrow something—like, I don’t know, a beautiful piece of jewelry or something—it’s no less beautiful when you have to give it back, right?”

Mercedes considered that for a moment, then said, “Well, all I have to say is, what you gave back is serious Harry Winston material.” She shook her head, then picked a cheesy something or other off Cass’s plate and popped it into her mouth. Mercedes Zamora, Cass had decided a long time ago, epitomized the word spitfire. Petite, pretty, vivacious, adorable figure, just quirky enough to keep you on your toes. “So what happened? Why’d you two break up?”

And deadly.

“Geez, lady. Anybody ever tell you your timing stinks?”

Mercy pinned her with a look that could intimidate a Mafia goon. “Maybe. But you have this nasty habit of holding things in, and that’s not good, you know? Very bad for the blood pressure.”

Cass closed her eyes, hoping against hope the woman would go away. “I’d rather think of it as keeping my personal life, well…personal.”

But going away was clearly not on Mercy’s to-do list. From two feet away, Cass could hear her chewing. “The guy’s history, right?”

The mantel clock chimed during the several seconds that passed before Cass replied, her eyes still closed. “Ancient, even.”

“So?”

“So…” So she would toss her friend a scrap and maybe then she’d go away. “We got married too early. We couldn’t handle it. End of story.” The baby squirmed again; Cass absently rubbed the little elbow or knee or whatever it was. And through the anger and the confusion and all the dreck that threatened to turn her into a raving nutso, floated the love she felt for the little guy who knew nothing of any of this.

“And…you’re not going to say anything more.”

Tired as she was, Cass opened her eyes, looked her friend straight in hers and lied. “There’s nothing else to say. Really.” She shrugged. “Just one of those things.”

Mercy rolled her eyes and stuffed another taquito into her cute little mouth.

* * *

Blake’s head was still softly buzzing, like overhead power lines, from his far-too-close encounter with current pop culture. More than his humming head, however, he’d regretted that the noise had precluded conversation. Now, as he tossed his overnight bag into the car before returning to the house, he decided to get the conversation going before his son made any musical requests.

“So…how’s school?”

The sardonic smile seemed far too old on a fifteen-year-old’s face. “Dude—” he buckled up, adjusted his shoulder strap “—you sound like every lame father in every lame movie, you know, when the father is, like, trying to ‘relate’ to his estranged kid.”

Blake tried not to tense. Or get defensive. Or ask if Shaun wanted the music back on. “I see. Well, unfortunately I really am interested in how you’re doing in school. Lame though that may be.”

“’S’okay,” the kid allowed, and Blake felt a muscle or two relax. “I made Honor Roll last nine weeks.” He leaned forward, index finger poised to send Blake over the edge. Blake caught his wrist.

“Forget it. My brain cells are still staggering around in my head, thudding into each other. They need some time to recuperate, okay?”

Shaun was giving him that odd, pitying look again. Then he scrunched down in his seat, his arms folded over his chest. “Yeah. Whatever.”

They pulled out onto I-40, headed back toward Albuquerque’s Far Heights. “Good for you. About the Honor Roll, I mean.”

“Yeah, but like, Mom is still on me about everything.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “Where am I going? Who am I going to be with? Crap like that.”

The reprimand fell out of Blake’s mouth before he could catch it. “Watch your mouth, Shaun.”

“God.” The word came out on a groan. “Not you, too.”

“Yep. Me, too.” Blake checked his side mirror before pulling into the left lane to pass a truck. “A regular tyrant. In any case, your mother has every right to know where you are and what you’re doing. In case you missed it, you’re not legal yet. She’s responsible for you. If you screw up, she gets blamed.”

Shaun shifted in his seat, his brow beetled. “Why does everyone assume I’m going to screw up?”

Remembering what it was like to be his age should have helped. Instead, thinking about the Dark Ages of his youth only made Blake feel old and tired and woefully inept. For a split second he envied his partner, Troy, and his three-year-old twins. Three-year-olds, even those three-year-olds, he could deal with. A Happy Meal and the zoo and you were good to go. Teenagers…?

His heartfelt sigh earned him yet another of Shaun’s looks. “No one does,” he said quietly. Hopefully. “But kids do mess up, you know. And she—and I—just want you to be careful.”

“Geez, man…” The lanky arms twisted more tightly across his chest. But there were no further comments. Blake wasn’t sure if this was a good sign or not.

“So…” Fool that he was, Blake refused to let the silence gain a foothold. “Next lame question…” That got a sideways glance and a cocked eyebrow. “Any girls in your life?”

“You mean, like a girlfriend?” Shaun gave a sharp, short laugh. “Uh, no. Chicks are way too expensive. Besides, with no wheels, it’s like, pointless. I mean, whuttami s’posed to do? Ask Mom to drive me on a date?”

He decided not to go anywhere near the “wheels” topic. “Whoa. Chicks?”

Bam! Up went the wall again. “Hey. Lighten up. It’s not like they care or anything.”

“Well, I care. And your mother would probably boot you clear into next week if she heard you say that. Let me fill you in, if you expect to get anywhere with the female sex, ever. ‘Girls’ is okay until they reach about seventeen. After that, they’re ‘women.” ’

Silence. Then, “You going to criticize everything I say?”

Damn.

“That wasn’t my intention, Shaun. Look, I didn’t come down here to argue with you—”

“Why did you come down, anyway?”

Puzzled, Blake flicked his son a glance. “Because I thought you wanted me to.”

“Oh, right. Like that made any difference before.”

Careful…

“Meaning?”

“Meaning…” The kid hit the automatic window button, lowering the tinted glass. Raised it again. Lowered it. Slouched even farther down in his seat. “Meaning how many times did I ask you to come down this past year, and you were too busy? Now, suddenly, Alan’s dead, and look who’s here.” The boy punched his knee with his fist. “Oh, hell, man…this really, really sucks.”

His own stomach churning, Blake spoke without thinking. “Shaun. Language.”

“Oh, come on, man. This is way kids talk nowadays. Get with the program, geez.”

“I’m not naive, Shaun,” Blake snapped, angry that they were skirting the issue. Angrier because he wasn’t sure what the issue was. “This is the way kids have always talked. Around each other. Not around their parents.” He leveled his gaze at his son. “Got it?”

A sullen glare was his only response.

Several seconds passed before Blake spoke. “I apologize. I didn’t come all this way to hassle you about your language. But I guess…I’m not very good at this.”

He caught Shaun’s frown. “Good at what?”

One hand on the steering wheel, Blake gestured ineffectually with the other. “Knowing what to say when someone dies. To make them feel better.” At the boy’s blank stare, Blake pushed on, “About Alan’s death. I imagine you’re upset about it—”

Shaun’s harsh laugh startled him. “Why would I be upset about that? I mean, yeah, it was a shock and all, but upset?” He shook his head.

Now it was Blake’s turn to look blank.

The kid blew a disdainful “pffh” of air between his lips. “The man didn’t care Jack about me. Oh, he made noises at first like he was going to, I don’t know, fill some gap in my life or something…” Shaun propped one foot up on the dashboard, banging his fist against his knee. “Give me a break.”

Blake didn’t know what to say to that, although a vague anger suffused his thought. “I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

Shaun rubbed his hand over his thigh, then picked at a loose thread from a hole in the denim. “It had nothing to do with you. No big deal.”

“But it does have something to do with you, which makes it a very big deal.”

The boy’s sad shrug made him feel like slime. But his confession sparked more than a few other questions in his brain, all of which centered on Cass’s relationship with her second husband, none of which were any of Blake’s business.

He told himself.

“I really am sorry I wasn’t able to come down before,” Blake said quietly, needing to justify himself somehow while still skirting the truth. “But it wasn’t as if we didn’t see each other. Besides, I thought you enjoyed coming up to Denver. Getting way from the house.” He glanced over. “Going to Broncos games.”

The boy went through his hat-off, shove-fingers-through-hair, hat-back-on routine. “Yeah, I guess. It was okay.” Since that’s what you want to hear, Dad, his expression said, that’s what I’ll give you.

“But it wasn’t what you wanted.”

That merited a grunt.

“I told you,” Blake persisted, “I was busy. Getting away this past year wasn’t easy. The business—”

“You own it, for crying out loud. You can do anything you want.”

“It doesn’t work that way, buddy.” At Shaun’s not-buying-it glare, Blake added, “Just because I don’t punch a time clock doesn’t mean I have more free time. If anything, I have less. And this year was a killer in terms of expansion—”

“Dad, please. You make ice cream.”

Blake’s hand squeezed the steering wheel, hard. Anger hissed through his veins, at Shaun for his insolence, at himself for creating the situation that created the insolence to begin with. “Yeah. I make ice cream. By myself, in my kitchen, one gallon at a time.”

Again, no response.

“Maybe this doesn’t seem like a big deal to you, but in ten years Troy and I have set up three processing plants around the country and sold more than a 150 franchises in thirty-seven states. That didn’t happen by working nine-to-five.”

He could feel duplicates of his own deep-brown eyes scrutinizing the side of his face. “And was it worth it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re rich, right?”

Wondering where this was heading, Blake carefully replied, “Let’s just say it’s been a long time since I’ve worried about meeting the monthly bills.”

“And, like, what has all that gotten you, exactly?”

Ah. They’d pulled into the wide driveway fronting the three-car garage at the side of Cass’s house. Blake cut the engine, then leaned back, one hand on the steering wheel. Typically for this time of year, the wind had picked up, hazing the air with dust and pollen. But the clog in his throat, he guessed, had little to do with the sudden jump in the pollen count. “I’ve been able to provide jobs for a lot of people, Shaun. You won’t have to worry about college—”

“Dammit, Dad! Can’t you give a single straight answer?”

His heart pounding, Blake met his son’s angry gaze. “Give me a straight question, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Fine,” Shaun retorted. “Are you happy?”

Blake squinted out the windshield, jabbing a hand through his hair in a gesture that echoed his son’s. “No. Not really.”

“So what’s the freakin’ point?” Shaun said with such vehemence Blake whipped his head back around. “What is it with grown-ups and their fixation with success? So you’ve, like, buried yourself in this business. And now you’ve got all this money, right? But, what else do you have?”

An early season lizard darted up the adobe wall as Blake stared out the windshield, trying to figure out what to say. “Are you talking about us, Shaun?” He turned to face his son. The lowermost earring in Shaun’s lobe glinted dully. “About my not being here for you?”

“Man, you just don’t get it, do you? Dude—I’m not talking about you and me! I’m talking about—”

“Oh! Oh! Come quick!”

They both looked up to see Lucille frantically waving from the second-story deck, the fringed ends of a gold-and-purple scarf she’d tied around her head plastering to her face in the wind. “It’s Cassie!” she yelled, clawing at the scarf. “She fell, now she’s having contractions, and she won’t let me call anyone—”

Blake was out of the car like a shot, aware of Shaun’s car door slamming a split second behind his as he bounded across the driveway and up the stairs into the house.

Her mouth set in a grimace, Cass adjusted the pillows behind her back, then leaned up against the black lacquer headboard. “They’re just Braxton-Hicks. They’ll pass.”

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Blake saw her lips thin even more in an attempt to mask the contraction. He instantly leaned over, placing his hand on her abdomen. Obeying an instinct for which he’d long since had no need, he sneaked a glance at his watch, breathing out a small sigh of relief when he felt her muscles relax after barely twenty seconds. He caught her glower, the bright-blue eyes faded to almost the same gray as her sweater and maternity pants. In that outfit, she was practically invisible against the muted-plaid bedspread covering the enormous bed. She swatted at his hand, which he posthaste removed.

“If I’d needed my midwife, I’d’ve called her.”

“I doubt it.”

She shot him a look, then levered herself higher up, lacing her hands together over her middle. “I’m not having this baby, Blake. Not today, at any rate.”

He gave her thigh a friendly pat. “That’s my girl. As much of a pain as ever.”

Her eyes flitted briefly to his, then away. But he saw the smile twitching her lips. “A gal’s gotta maintain her reputation, after all.”

Blake sat on the edge of the bed, carefully palming the knot her hands made over her tummy. “What happened?”

He could see her struggle to remain aloof as she contemplated their layered hands. “I can’t see underneath me,” she said softly, like a child trying to downplay an errant deed. “I was on my way into the living room and misjudged where the step was, that’s all. And my sandal twisted out from under me.” One shoulder hitched. “So Mommy went boom.”

“And then the contractions started—”

That got a sigh of pure exasperation. “I told you. They’re not contractions. Not real ones, anyway. I’ve been having these for the last month.” A fierceness out of all proportion to the situation blazed in her eyes. “They do seem to come on when I’m particularly stressed. And I think the last few days would qualify, wouldn’t you?”

He gently squeezed her hand, then removed it, tamping down the irrational, absurd surge of jealousy. He’d left her, for God’s sake—what did he expect? That she’d stay alone for the rest of her life?

“Yes,” he finally said. “I imagine they would.”

“You okay, Mom?”

They both looked over at Shaun, who’d come a few feet into the room, wearing that hopeful, frightened look of a kid desperately seeking reassurance.

“Yes, honey, I’m fine,” Cass replied with a tired smile. “Lucille just went a little nuts, that’s all.”

“A pregnant woman lands flat on her tuchus four feet in front of me, I’m going to go nuts,” came from the doorway. “It’s an old lady’s prerogative.” Lucille stomped into the bedroom—or she would have stomped if she’d weighed more than a feather and the room hadn’t been so thickly carpeted—sweeping the scarf’s tails over her shoulders with a gesture worthy of Greta Garbo.

“Well?” she directed at Blake, though her eyes remained pinned on her quarry. “Did you talk some sense into her?”

Reluctantly, Blake stood. “I…” He caught Cass’s warning glare. “Actually, I think she’s probably fine. The contractions seem mild and short and she’s not in any pain.” He frowned at her. “Are you?”

She shook her head. Blake lowered his voice, although he decided against wagging his finger at her. Since he wasn’t really keen on the idea of having it bitten off.

“But she will stay in bed. Won’t she?”

On another sigh, she nodded, then said, “Only if everyone will quit obsessing about me.”

A brief tremor of familiarity swept through him. At about the same point in Shaun’s pregnancy, Cass had slipped off a ladder while hanging curtains in the nursery. She’d started contractions that time, too. And she’d refused to get herself checked, just like now. And Blake had bullied her into staying in bed, just like now.

That time, though, she had accepted his railroading with good humor, love shining in her eyes. Now her acceptance seemed tainted with bitter resignation. She clearly didn’t want him here. Yet her very resistance had set off a faint, persistent alarm—illogical though it was—way at the back of his brain that her not wanting him around was exactly why he needed to stay.

“You want something to eat, sweetheart?” he heard Lucille ask, jarring his thoughts. “Some juice, maybe?”

“Nothing, thanks,” Cass said with a hint of a smile. She slid down into the pillows, then over onto her side, shoving one pillow underneath her bulging middle. “I think maybe—” she yawned “—I’ll just take a little nap…”

Her eyes closed the instant the words were out of her mouth. Blake looked up to catch Shaun looking from one of them to the other, and he instantly surmised what Shaun had been about to say when Lucille’s screams had interrupted him. No, he hadn’t been talking about Blake’s relationship with him. He’d been talking about Blake’s relationship with Cass.

Oh, God, he thought on an exhaled breath after Shaun and Lucille left the room. Blake wasn’t the only one who wanted his family back. Which meant—maybe—he had an ally.

Of course, this also meant that Cass had an adversary—since somehow he suspected she’d rather give birth while riding a galloping camel than get back together with him—but, hey. Sometimes the odds are in your favor, sometimes they’re not. Such is life, right?

On his own way out, though, he glanced around the bedroom his wife had shared with another man, at the mottled tan walls and thick taupe Berber carpet and lifeless chrome-and-glass nightstands. He caught himself wondering if the baby Cass carried had been conceived in that bed, then sharply reminded himself he was being juvenile.

Just as he reminded himself that she didn’t owe him a damn thing. And certainly not a shot at something he’d forfeited so long ago.

His gaze once again swept the room. For all its lack of charm or warmth, nothing in here had come cheap. A study in minimalist extravagance. And again, very un-Cass, who adored chintz and frills and lace. And cats. The woman was crazy for cats, he remembered suddenly. When they’d been married, they’d had four, not counting the outside strays Cass would “secretly” feed.

He looked back at her, then crossed over to the beige tweed chaise in the corner of the room, pulling a gray mohair throw off of it. That’s what was wrong, he decided, gently covering the obviously unhappy woman who still held his heart in her hands. There were no cats in this house. No goofball kittens, no swaggering toms, no prissy longhairs to climb up in your lap and leave a veritable fur rug in their wake. He skimmed one knuckle over the soft pile, shaking his head.

No wonder she was so miserable.

Finally.

Once she was positive Blake was gone, Cass opened her eyes, tucking one hand underneath her cheek, only to choke with the effort not to cry when she smelled his scent on her hand.

This wasn’t going to work, his being here. She wished he’d go away, leave her alone to sort out what was left of her life in peace. Okay, sure, when push came to shove, he’d made a rotten husband and father. And yet, she mused as she hitched the throw higher on her shoulders, she’d never known a kinder human being. When he was around, anyway. And she didn’t need, or want, kindness. Kindness was dangerous, made you believe in things that shouldn’t be believed in.

And pity was even worse. And that’s what it would become, wouldn’t it? When he found out? She didn’t think she could stand that. So what was this nearly overwhelming, idiotic urge to beg him to stay and make it all better?

Well. Apparently, she hadn’t changed any more than Blake. At least, not as much as she’d wanted to believe. Not on the inside, at least. But then, perhaps growing up wasn’t as much about conquering your weaknesses as it was about seeing them for what they were. And then never, ever letting them get the upper hand.

She was exhausted was all, she told herself. And the contractions had given her more pause than she’d let on. Still, her sadness had gone beyond weeping, to a sort of not-quite numbness a millimeter short of despair. She’d like to think it was nothing more than hormone-induced moodiness, exacerbated by recent events, but she’d given up lying to herself for Lent. And for however many days on earth she had left after that.

In all this, the baby was the only thing that seemed to make any sense. Not that Cass loved this child more than Shaun—as if that would have been possible—but by virtue of Shaun’s being first, she spent so much time worrying about him and fussing at him that sometimes love got lost in the shuffle. She’d made lots of mistakes with Shaun, more than she liked to admit. So maybe she was being a Pollyanna, but somehow she hoped this child would give her an opportunity to make things, if not right, at least better. Even if, once again, she was doing this all on her own.

Such was obviously her lot in life, one with which she should have long since made peace. Because being on her own was good for her, made her stronger. Lord, she thought on a tight smile. The life-as-spinach philosophy. Hey—she could write a book, go on Oprah.

She lay there, feeling the little one squirming inside her, watching the pine tree outside her window shudder noiselessly in the wind—the triple-glazed windows allowed no sound. After a year, she still hadn’t adjusted to the airless silence. But Alan couldn’t stand outside noises. Or dust.

Weenie, she thought irritably, clutching the pillow. How would he have dealt with the noise and mess and dirt of a child?

Well. Moot point now, wasn’t it? Fifty years old, no spare tire, no predilection for junk food, no history of heart disease, and the man drops dead while jogging. Major coronary, gone within minutes, the paramedics assured her. He didn’t suffer, they said.

No. He wouldn’t.

Her eyes squeezed shut again as she realized she couldn’t move. Didn’t want to. Her brain felt cluttered—so many decisions to make so quickly, none of them easy. But there was one thing, if nothing else, Cass knew—fish would play strip poker before she’d ever marry again. Not for her sake, not for the child’s sake, not for anyone’s sake. Two unmitigated disasters were quite enough for one lifetime, thank you. Especially as she’d be paying, literally, for the second mistake for the rest of her life. So from now on, she was relying on nobody but herself. God knows, she wasn’t perfect, but at least she wouldn’t give herself a broken heart She didn’t think, anyway.

A tear dribbled down her cheek, tickling her nose; she irritably swiped at it, despising herself for feeling like a whiny toddler who couldn’t have a cookie before dinner. But after all, she reminded herself, cookies weren’t good for you.

Spinach, however, was.

She should write that down.