a platter bearing what appeared to be a shaggy orange basketball. “What’s that supposed to be?” Wes asked.
“A pumpkin”. A celery stem poked out from the top.
He rolled his eyes. “At least you didn’t try to bake the Mayflower.”
Laurel returned to the kitchen and brought out Charlie’s pie. No one asked for a piece. Charlie picked at the cake, pushing crumbs into a ball. The frosting looked strange, and she couldn’t put her finger on what it tasted of.
“Is it all right?” Laurel asked anxiously.
“Oh yes.” Charlie took a bite. “It’s very...” she searched for the word. “different.”
“I used pumpkin pie filling for the frosting. Made that up myself. It’s like two desserts in one.”
Charlie pursed her lips. “Very clever.”
Wes clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Maybe...” he said, then stopped.
“Maybe what?” Laurel asked,
“Maybe Craig had a reason.”
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about this,” Laurel said.
“Maybe Larry knew something.”
“Stop it,” Laurel insisted.
“Like what?” Charlie asked.
“About the time I left, some auditors were poking around.”
“Well, of course,” Laurel said. “That makes sense, with the company being sold.”
“These looked like government types. Pole up the ass, clean cut, wouldn’t talk to anybody except Craig and the finance guys. Lots of closed doors and, secret meetings.”
“What are you saying?” Charlie asked.
“I’m saying he may be in deep shit.”
“Not like jail or anything?”
He threw up his hands. “Wouldn’t bother me if it was.” He pushed away from the table and stumbled out of the room.
Charlie followed Laurel to the kitchen with an armload of dirty plates. They worked side by side till everything was cleared away except for the myriad pots draining on the counter. While Charlie dried them, Laurel filled a grocery sack with food. “Who’s that for?” Charlie asked.
“You.”
“Please, no,” she protested, staring at the oversized doggy bag. “I have so much food at home, I should bring you some.”
Laurel forced the bag into Charlie’s hand and walked Charlie to the door. “You’re invited for Christmas dinner. I know Wes was a pill tonight, but he’ll be in a better frame of mind by then. I don’t want you to be alone.”
Charlie kissed Laurel’s cheek. “Thanks, but I’ll have the kids then.”
“Just remember, you’ve always got us.”
That night, sleep eluded Charlie. She replayed Wes’s last statements over and over in her head trying to make sense of them. What kind of trouble might Craig be in? If that was the reason he was so adamant about selling her home, was there any way she could persuade him to back off?
CHAPTER 4
On Sunday morning, Laurel sat across the kitchen table from Wes over a breakfast of turkey and stuffing omelets. Justin was sleeping in after a late night at the Homecoming Dance. While Wes read the sports pages, Laurel studied the classified section. “I see Radicom is advertising management positions,” she said as casually as possible.
Wes grunted without looking up.
“It would be an easy commute.”
“Let it go, Laurel. I’ll take care of the job search,” he said without looking up.
Laurel bit her lip. She didn’t see any signs of his looking for one. Unless he expected to find it on television. He spent most of his days glued to the seat of his recliner. He’d always been addicted to sports shows, but now he was even watching Celebrity Poker and Gunsmoke reruns. The resumés he’d had printed up in an initial burst of energy sat piled on his desk.
She felt a sharp pain in her chest. Was this spasm a heart attack or gas? Most likely stress. Her mother had taught her patience was a virtue, but she’d been virtuous enough. It was time for Wes to get off his duff.
Just below the management ads, the words MEAL PREPARATION caught her eye. There was scant information -- part-time job, mornings only, the name Dixie’s Catering, and a phone number.
She folded the paper so the Management section was prominent and laid the classified section on the table in front of Wes. He finished his coffee, got up, and walked into the den without looking at the paper. Laurel sighed and poured herself a second cup of coffee.
The next morning while she dusted around the pile of resume’s on Wes’s desk, Laurel asked, “Aren’t you going to send these out?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said as he surfed through the channels with his remote
Laurel folded her dust cloth and tucked it into her apron pocket. Enough was enough.
She marched into the kitchen, looked up the newspaper ad, then hesitated. She had never applied for a job before. What if they asked for a resume? She had no work experience. On the other hand, she knew about cooking. As her mother always said “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” Laurel picked up the phone and dialed. If Wes wouldn’t look for work, she would.
“Dixie’s Catering.” It took Laurel a moment to determine that the deep voice was female. She sounded as if she were speaking with a throatful of sand.
“I saw your ad,” Laurel said.
“What’s your experience?” Dixie asked.
“I have a lot of kitchen experience.” Laurel crossed her fingers, though it wasn’t really a lie.
“Hours are five to eight, Monday through Friday.”
“I’m afraid that won’t work. It’s our dinner time.”
“That’s A.M.”
“Oh.” She hesitated. It would be a challenge to get up that early. But the rest of her day would be free. And she could use the money. She arranged to meet Dixie that afternoon.
Wes would be furious. He had never allowed her to work, and she’d never wanted to. But she would do whatever it took to keep them afloat until Wes found a job. Which, she thought ruefully, would be a long while if he didn’t start looking. Besides, it wouldn’t be like work. She loved to cook.
Laurel stood in her walk-in closet pulling hangers off the poles, agonizing over what to wear for her interview. She laid several outfits on the bed
