Rennie was, Arden decided, as she snapped off the woody ends of fresh local asparagus, constitutionally tardy. In all the time they’d been together, he had never come home—or, for that matter, done anything—when he had said he would. Snap.
She gave the garlic and onions, which were sautéing in an All-Clad saucepan that her mother had given them for Easter (even Kyrsten had, with palpable envy, called it a ‘classic’), a quick stir, took a sip of wine, scanned the receipe and then returned to preparing the asparagus for the Crème D’asperges. Snap. Snap. She had to do everything herself: shoulder the full financial burden of the family; keep the house in perfect order (who else could be counted on to do it?); make a decent dinner every night; deal with the foul dog (Talisker had followed her downstairs into the kitchen, hoping—in vain—that something delectable would be tossed her way); and try, without much success, to manage their seemingly ungovernable daughters. Snap. Snap. It was no wonder that Skye (who was, admittedly, looking trimmer and fitter) was, having recently fallen into the habit of disappearing into her room every night before dinner, becoming a recluse. And that Aran was becoming a slut. Snap. If things were falling apart—she poured herself another glass of wine—it was…Snap…certainly not her fault.
