White Hot

I read to Cliff when we travel. He hates driving long distances in the car and gets sleepy after a short time. Years ago, I discovered by accident that if I read aloud to him, the time passes quickly for both of us.

We have several favorite authors, but we try to vary them so we don't get in a rut. I had never read a Sandra Brown Novel to Cliff, but I decided it would be a change of pace; we'd picked up "White Hot" at a local garage sale.

"Cliff," I warned, "Sandra Brown writes suspense stories that will hold your interest; but I'm telling you, every one of her books I've ever read have quite descriptive love scenes scattered throughout the story; it isn't what the story is about, but it's like her trademark. Forewarned is forearmed."

"Let 'er rip," says Cliff, smiling eagerly.

I've been reading "White Hot" to him during our last two trips; this past weekend, my prediction came true. We were maneuvering our way into Illinois when it first happened.

Cliff said nothing, but took off his baseball cap and began fanning himself, a big smile on his face.

"I told you this would happen," says I.

I suppose we'll finish this book on short trips to the grocery store and such.

He's had to fan himself with his hat several times now.

I think the next book I read aloud to him will be a little tamer fare. Perhaps something on the order of Huckleberry Finn.