This Enemy Town by Marcia Talley

officers. Unless one of Goodall’s mids gets into academic trouble, I’m not likely to cross paths with the wretched woman.”
    â€œWith women like Jennifer Goodall,” I fumed, “even three-hundred-some acres is too small. I don’t want you within a hundred mile radius of that—that—” I cast about for the perfect word. “—that bitch ,” I finished triumphantly.
    â€œDon’t worry, love. I have no interest in her whatsoever.” Paul waved a hand toward his papers. “Look, I’m almost done. Let me take you out for a drink?”
    I sat in my chair, arms still folded, mouth still pouting.
    Paul laughed out loud.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?” I snapped.
    â€œYou look like a malevolent Buddha.”
    â€œI feel like a malevolent Buddha,” I grouched. “I’m thinking up Buddhist curses.”
    â€œBuddhists don’t curse,” Paul corrected me. “They’re all about peace and harmony.”
    â€œYou’re right,” I conceded. “But I’m still thinking up curses. And it’ll take more than a drink to get you off the hook. If you think I’m going to cook for you tonight, you are out of your freaking mind. Buy me dinner.”
    Paul attempted to kiss the tip of my nose, but I turned my head and he connected with my earlobe instead. “Hannah!”
    â€œDon’t worry,” I said. “I’ll get over it. Just give me time to stew.”
    I waited for Paul to put on his coat, and as we walked in silence out Gate 3 and down Maryland Avenue toward the State House, he reached for and captured my hand. He squeezed it—one, two, three—our private code for “I love you”—and I felt my load lighten, my doubts begin to evaporate. By the time we reached Galway Bay, I was pretty sure about Paul. But Jennifer Goodall? Who knew what that scheming bitch might do?

CHAPTER 7
    I’d forgotten until we got there that Tuesday is Pub Quiz Night at Galway Bay, the Irish pub and restaurant on Maryland Avenue that was our regular hangout. After hugs all around, Peggy, the hostess, showed us to a table for two near the front, and we’d just gotten settled with the menus when my sister Ruth breezed in, out of breath and unwinding a long bright purple scarf from around her neck. She’d knitted it herself, I knew, row after row, longer and longer, until the yarn she bought on sale had run out.
    Paul and I picked up our coats and cheerfully moved to a nearby table for four. “I thought I’d find you here,” Ruth said, breathing hard. “Hutch will be along shortly.”
    Hutch was short for Maurice Gaylord Hutchinson, attorney at law and my sister’s live-in boyfriend. The previous fall they’d bought a house together on Southgate, a gracious Victorian with a lawn that sloped gently down to the quiet waters of Spa Creek. Must be nice.
    â€œYou’re just in time, too,” Paul announced with a narrow-eyed look at me. “Hannah and I were running out of things to say to one another.”
    Precisely the opposite was true. I had just attacked Paul for not having the sense that God gave a houseplant, chiding him repeatedly for not warning me about Jennifer Goodall, et nagging cetera, until he’d lost what was left of his savoir faire and suggested I put a lid on it.
    â€œThat’s true,” I agreed, with a withering glance at Paul over the top of my menu. “Your brother-in-law is a nincompoop. I have nothing further to say on the matter.”
    I had decided to order an ice cold margarita. Maybe that would help quench the fires of rage still burning up my stomach lining. Or maybe I’d pour the drink directly over Paul’s head. Only time would tell.
    The server took our orders, with Ruth asking for a Bass ale for the still absent Hutch. Ruth was bringing us up to date on the buying trip she was about to make to Hong Kong, when Fintan Galway,