The 13th Juror

Начало книги

Jennifer Witt rechecked the table. It looked perfect, but when you never knew what perfect was, it was hard to be sure. There were two new red candles – Larry had a problem with half-burnt candles, with guttered wicks – in gleaming silver candlesticks.

She had considered having one red candle and one green candle since it was getting to be Christmas time. But Larry didn't like a jumble of colors. The living room was done all in champagne – which wasn't the easiest to keep clean, especially with a seven-year-old – but she wasn't going to change it. She remembered when she'd bought the Van Gogh print (A PRINT, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! YOU'D HAND A PRINT IN MY LIVING ROOM?) and the colors had really bothered Larry.

He liked things ordered, exact. He was a doctor. Lives depended on his judgment. He couldn't get clouded up with junk in his own home, he told her.

So she went with the red candlesticks.

And the china. He liked the china, but then he'd get upset that things were so formal in their own home. Couldn't she just relax and serve them something plain on the white Pottery Barn stuff? Maybe just hot dogs and beans? They didn't have to eat gourmet every night. She tried hard to please, but with Larry, you never knew.

Читать дальше →