"Cabot, Meg - 1-800-Where-R-You 04 - Sanctuary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cabot Meg)

Yeah. It was my fault the family business got torched.
Never mind the fact that I'd been trying to stop a killer. Never mind that the
folks this guy had been trying to kill weren't just, you know, strangers to me,
but people I actually knew, who went to my school.
What was I supposed to do, just sit back and let him off my friends?
Whatever. The cops nailed the guy in the end. And it wasn't like Mastriani's
wasn't insured, or that we don't own two other restaurants that didn't get
incinerated.
I'm not saying it wasn't a terrible loss, or anything. Mastriani's was my dad's
baby, not to mention the best restaurant in town. I'm just saying, you know, the
persimmon pies weren't strictly necessary. We were bummed and all, but it wasn't
like we didn't feel like cooking. Not inmy family. I mean, you grow up around a
bunch of restaurants, you learn how to cookЧamong other things, like how to
drain a steam table or make sure the perch is fresh and that the fish guy isn't
trying to rip you off again. There was never a shortage of food in my house.
That Thanksgiving, in fact, the table was groaning with it. Food, I mean. There
was barely room for our plates, there were so many serving dishes stacked with
turkey, sweet potatoes, cranberry relish, two kinds of dressing, string beans,
salad, rolls, scalloped potatoes, garlic mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, turnip
puree, and creamed spinach in front of us.
And it wasn't like we were expected to take, you know, just a little bit of
everything. No way. Not with my mom and dad around. It was like, if you didn't
pile your plate sky-high with stuff, you were insulting them.
Which was a very big problem, you see, because I had a second Thanksgiving
dinner to attendЧsomething I hadn't exactly mentioned to them, on account of how
I knew they wouldn't exactly be too thrilled about it. I was just trying to save
a little room, you know?
Only maybe I should have said something. Because certain people at the table
observed my apparent lack of appetite and felt obligated to comment upon it.
"What's wrong with Jessica?" my great-aunt Rose, who was down from Chicago for
the holiday, wanted to know. "How come she's not eating? She sick?"
"No, Aunt Rose," I said, from between gritted teeth. "I am not sick. I'm just
not that hungry right now."
"Not that hungry?" Great-aunt Rose looked at my mother. "Who's not hungry at
Thanksgiving? Your mother and father slaved all day making this delicious meal.
Now you eat up."
My mother broke off her conversation with Mr. Abramowitz to say, "She's eating,
Rose."
"I'm eating, Aunt Rose," I said, sticking some sweet potato in my mouth to prove
it. "See?"
"You know what the problem with her is," Great-aunt Rose said conspiratorially
to Claire Lippman's mother, but in a voice still loud enough for the guys
working down at the Stop and Shop on First Street to hear. "She's got one of
those eating disorders. You know. That anorexia."
"Jessica doesn't have anorexia, Rose," my mom said, looking annoyed. "Douglas,
pass the string beans to Ruth, will you?"
Douglas, who in the best of circumstances does not like to have attention drawn
to him, quickly passed the string beans to my best friend Ruth, as if he thought
he could ward off Great-aunt Rose's evil death glare by doing so.
"You know what they call that?" Great-aunt Rose asked Mrs. Lippman, in a chummy