NINETEEN
CHAPTER ONE
“HERE YOU GO, LAYNE,” said Kit Carson, tossing a copy of the Puget Sound Babbitt on the desk.
“Thanks.” Layne McGraw smiled at the lead mail-room clerk.
“Look at the intrepid explorer, pushing his trusty steed. Or is that just a mail cart?” taunted Regina Sorkin, who thought it was a hoot that Kit was named after a famous explorer.
“And if it isn’t The Kitchen Corner’s smart-ass columnist. I see you have more bandages on your fingers—did you screw up another recipe?” Kit returned, appearing annoyed as he pushed his cart forward.
Layne looked at her friend. “Why do you do that?” she asked. “You know how much it annoys him.”
“Because I know how much it annoys him,” Regina replied, unrepentant. “You’d think he’d be more ambitious with a name like Kit Carson.”
“He’s happy running the mail room. People don’t always want to earn a bigger income or get a more impressive job title.”
Regina shrugged and headed back to her own desk, most likely annoyed with Kit for not being ambitious enough to notice her as a woman. Layne felt bad for her—unrequited love was hell. Still, she didn’t think it was right to torment someone over their career choice...the way her family tormented her.
She leafed through her copy of the Babbitt and spotted signs of her work throughout the weekly regional news magazine. Whenever someone had trouble finding information, she got it for them. She took pride in knowing her facts were triple-checked and documented.
Pulling out her lunch, she munched on a sandwich as she read. It was always fun to see how the information she’d researched translated into print.
“I need some things checked for my next op-ed,” said Carl Abernathy as he walked up and dropped a file onto her desk. His eyebrows rose as he spotted her half-eaten sandwich. “Peanut butter again?”
“Peanut-butter sandwiches are great. They’re easy and don’t have to be refrigerated. And they’re healthier than the greasy-spoon burger and fries you eat every day.” Layne grinned, knowing she was one of the few Babbitt employees who could sass Carl and get away with it.
“I’m an editor—I have to eat like one. Don’t you go to the movies?”
“From what I’ve seen, those editors just chomp on cigars and yell a lot. You have the yelling part down all right. Of course, that isn’t healthy, either. Though I’m sure a cardiologist would disapprove of the burger and fries even more than the yelling.”
Carl’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t yell, I suggest. And don’t pay attention to what your famous mother says—it takes the fun out of life to worry about everything you eat. My God, it must have been dreary growing up with a heart doctor for a parent.”
“I survived,” Layne said wryly.
It wasn’t a surprise that Carl knew her mother was a renowned cardiologist; practically everyone at the Babbitt knew about Barbara McGraw...the same way they knew her father was a top orthopedic surgeon, and that she had three megasuccessful siblings. At one time or other, the magazine had done articles about each of them.
“What’s this?” Layne asked, pulling the file toward her.
“Just an editorial I’m writing on endangered species here in Washington State. Look at it after lunch.”
He hurried away and Layne glanced through the folder. She liked Carl; he was a good editor and uncompromising on journalistic integrity. A year after she’d started working at the Babbitt, one of the columnists was caught using her research notes verbatim without giving her credit. It was a firing offense and while Layne had wanted to feel bad about the incident, she couldn’t because Doug was a snake. He’d not only been copying her work for several months, he had patted her butt in the elevator. But he’d only done it once—her father had taught his daughters excellent self-defense skills.
She scrunched her nose at the memory. Both Regina and Annette Wade, who wrote the nuptials column, had wanted her to report Doug the first time he’d plagiarized, but Layne had figured he’d get caught sooner or later, and she wouldn’t have made points by being a complainer.
“Layne, I have two recipes for your aunt to test.” Regina held out a couple of sheets of paper. “They were awful when I tried to cook them myself. I brought them over earlier, but I didn’t want to talk about it with Kit around. The usual pay rate—two hundred and fifty a recipe.”
“Great. What are they?” Layne asked. Her aunt was struggling financially and when the freelance chef who’d done some of the Babbitt’s recipe testing had retired eight weeks before, she’d suggested Aunt Dee as a replacement.
“A tropical chiffon cake and pecan sticky rolls.” Regina glanced down at the first-aid strips on both her forefingers. “Jeez, I can’t wait until Carl lets me do hard news and takes me off this fluff stuff. A cooking column. Almost nothing I try comes out. Hell, I can’t cook any better than you.”
“Sad but true.” A shared lack of culinary skills was one of the things that had cemented their friendship. “I’ll set it up with my aunt.”
“Fabulous. She could make them on Saturday or Sunday, and the staff can taste test both on Monday.” She checked her watch and made a face. “I’m going to lunch—maybe I’ll meet tall, dark and handsome while eating sushi.”
“Check his ring finger before losing your heart. Now that we’re thirty, tall, dark, and handsome is often married.”
“Also sad but true. See you later.”
Picking up the phone, Layne dialed her aunt’s number.
“Hey, Aunt Dee, just a heads-up. Regina has two recipes for you to test this weekend.” She glanced at the tropical cake and made a face. “One is for sticky rolls that should be easy enough with all the bread you make. But the dessert is complicated. It’s a cake with a mousse filling and whipped frosting and a gazillion ingredients.”
“That doesn’t sound too difficult.”
So said the woman who’d once baked all the pies for the church’s harvest dinner fund-raiser, at the same time creating a pumpkin costume for Layne to wear in her school play. As a kid, Layne had spent far more time at Aunt Dee and Uncle William’s house than she did at her own.
Uncle Will.
Would she ever stop missing him so terribly? Maybe it was because of the way he’d died. She still found it hard to grasp that he’d committed suicide.
Layne chatted with her aunt another few minutes and then went back to work, trying to push the sad feeling away. It didn’t seem possible that
