Everything’s Coming Up Josey Read Online Free Page A

crannies and suddenly my heart feels warm and full. Russia. A missionary. Couldn’t I do that for a year?
    Eternal purpose.
    I envision small children following me home, my name like a song on their lips. They smile, grab my legs to give me a hug. I’ve taught them to read. I’ve sung them Bible songs. I am Josey Berglund, missionary, teacher. Mother Josey?
    Okay, definitely not. But, at least Josey—friend to the lost.
    And maybe, in the end, I might find myself, also.
    For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do. That feels pretty good right about now. I’d even call the feeling that makes me gasp, peace.
    Here I am, Lord, send me.
    Â 
    A bread maker!
    Yowza, Grandma Netta went all out. I sit at the edge of the room, cradling a soggy paper cup of orange punch, watching the froth dissolve along with my verve. The late afternoon has brought the newlyweds back to the big house for a little personal torture: opening wedding gifts. Who, really, is thrilled by this event except the bride and groom? By the way, they’ve spent their honeymoon night in one of the Berglund cabins. How original is that? I’ll never clean that cabin again, believe you me.
    The redolence of jealousy simmers in the room along with the lunch in my stomach. Like we aren’t all just forcing our smiles just a little, wishing that the cappuccino maker from Uncle Milt and Aunt Florence was going to sit on our kitchen counter. Or the painting by Monet was going to hang in our bedroom.
    I’ll let the happy couple keep the potholders shaped like aprons. Some gifts are too endearing to part with.
    My brother Buddy has joined us for the celebration, and he sits on Mom’s brand-new green sofa, cradling his own wilting punch cup. The plastic isn’t even off the sofa yet, and if the past is any indication, that step won’t happen until well into the next decade. We were the only family in town allowed to drink soda in the living room on Sunday afternoons. A privilege I found less than wonderful when I realized that sofas were actually supposed to be comfortable and not make noise when one sat on them.
    This one looks nice, however, and matches the rest of the décor—straight out of Mother’s decorator home parties. I especially love the flock of mallards springing from the wall, surrounded by the plastic flowers. I am hoping to inherit them when/if she ever dies.
    I suppose I need a slap.
    It doesn’t help my outlook on life that Chase has arrived, sans Buffy thankfully, and is leaning near the door, arms crossed, giving me a Doberman look. I’ve avoided him like leprosy since he arrived an hour ago and plan to play hide-and-don’t-seek all night. I smile at him, however. Never let it be said that Josey Berglund can’t be gracious.
    The two-timing chiseler.
    I squeeze past Buddy and don’t make eye contact with Milton’s mother, a woman twice my size (which makes Milton’s double chins inevitable, something I should have remembered and, today, assuages my pain just slightly). She’s probably remembering the game of Scrabble I walloped her in the weekend I went home with Milton to meet the parents.
    Come to think of it, my relationship with Milton took a quick nosedive after that incident. I am tempted to spill my punch on her bright red, poppy floral dress.
    It’s a diabolical plot. I know it.
    Get a hold of yourself, Josey. I pick up a croissant sandwich and fill my punch cup. No need to go hungry while I watch the newlyweds rake in all my gifts.
    â€œOh, a hand-stitched dove quilt!” Jasmine holds up the wall hanging and Aunt Bonnie beams. Jas can obviously pull this off way better than I ever could. She even holds it to her breast and sighs deeply, while gazing into Milton’s eyes.
    Oh, brother.
    Maybe now is the time for my announcement. The family is here, my mother distracted. I can