Part 2 (1/2)
”It's only until Valentine's Day,” said Sara.
”What are the hours?” asked Bill.
”After school and weekends.”
”That sounds like a lot,” said Lucy, wondering if the dinner had been part of a plan to gain her approval of the job.
”Please, Mom.” Sara was on her feet, starting to clear the table. ”Like I said, it's only a couple of weeks and I could really use the money. The senior trip is coming up and I don't want to have to ask you and Dad for money.”
Zoe, an eighth grader, nodded soberly. ”We know about the recession, you know.”
”Let's not kid ourselves, Lucy,” said Bill. ”They've got a point. A little extra money wouldn't hurt.”
”They're going to New York and I really want to go,” said Sara, carrying the plates into the kitchen. She returned with steaming cups of hot coffee for her parents.
”The whole cla.s.s is going,” said Zoe, rising to help her sister finish clearing the table.
”I guess a job is okay, as long as your grades don't suffer,” said Lucy.
”Thanks, Mom. You won't be sorry. I promise I'll study extra hard.”
”I wish I could get a job, too,” said Zoe. ”I'm fourteen now. I'm old enough.”
”A job's a big responsibility,” said Bill. ”And Dora might be a tough boss.”
”It's going to be hard for her, losing Max,” said Lucy. ”I know they're divorced, but they loved each other once.”
”She seemed real nice at the interview,” said Sara.
”She can be sarcastic, she makes everything into a joke. She was behind that float last summer, the one with the diapers and toilet paper strewn on the beach,” said Bill. ”You might have to develop a thick skin if you're going to work for her.”
For a second, Lucy thought of Max and the silver lure hooked through his lip.
”We could have Mexican sundaes for dessert,” said Sara. ”Dora gave me a jar of fudge sauce and we've got ice cream and peanuts.”
”I guess Dora's not so bad after all,” said Bill, grinning. ”Do you want me to scoop?”
”It sounds like this job may be dangerous,” said Lucy, sipping her coffee. ”Dangerously fattening.”
Chapter Three.
Next morning, Lucy woke up knowing she was facing a busy morning. Deadline was at noon on Wednesday, and Ted's favorite maxim was, ”It's a deadline, not a guideline.” Much of the paper's content had already been written and edited and was ready to be sent electronically to the printer, but this week there were some last-minute news stories. Max Fraser's death was one; there were sure to be some late-breaking developments related to the drowning. And Lucy had an appointment with Trey Meacham at nine-thirty-it was the only time the chocolatier was free-which meant she had to write the story under pressure while the big old clock on the wall above Ted's roll-top desk ticked away the minutes to noon.
She had to get a move on, she decided, indulging in one final glorious stretch before getting out of bed. Bill's side of the bed was empty; he was already up. Lucy headed for the bathroom, pa.s.sing through the upstairs hall. She could hear the girls' voices rising up the back stairs from the kitchen, telling each other to hurry, and then the slam of the door as they dashed for the school bus.
It was already past seven according to the watch she'd left on the bathroom vanity, so Lucy popped her vitamin, splashed some water on her face, smoothed on a dab of moisturizer, and ran a comb through her hair. Mindful of the interview, she took a few minutes to add a quick dab of mascara and a smear of lipstick.
Back in the bedroom, she pulled her favorite pair of jeans out of the closet. They were freshly washed, which was fortunate because she liked to look nice when she went out on interviews. And from what Corney said, it was worth looking nice for Trey Meacham-not that she wasn't happily married. She was. But there was something about meeting a reportedly good-looking man that seemed to require a bit of effort, an attempt to at least try to look good. As good as she could, considering she was in a hurry. So it was a very good thing that her favorite and best Calvins were clean.
Still in her nightgown, Lucy pulled on a pair of briefs and then stuck one foot into her jeans. She hopped a bit on that foot, sticking her other foot in the empty leg, and pulled them up over her bottom. Drawing the two sides together to fasten the waistband, she encountered a problem. What was the matter? She yanked her nightgown over her head and stood in front of the full-length mirror.
Goodness, when had that happened? She stood in shock, surveying the damage. A bulge of flesh, a roll, a m.u.f.fin top, was spilling over the blue denim waistband, which was prevented from closing by a bulging, cotton-covered triangle of tummy. Guiltily, she remembered the seconds on chili, the three gla.s.ses of wine, the two pieces of b.u.t.tery corn bread and, worst of all, the Mexican sundae.
It was clear she could not continue to eat like that, not if she ever wanted to wear these jeans again. It was time for action, so she threw herself flat on the bed and through sheer determination managed to b.u.t.ton the jeans and zip them up. They'd stretch, she knew they would. If only she could get back up, onto her feet, despite her constricted middle.
Rolling onto her stomach, she used her arms to push herself off the bed, then marched stiffly over to her dresser, where she found a bra and a long, tummy-concealing sweater. The next challenge, she realized, was getting down the stairs.
”Are you all right?” asked Bill, as she shuffled into the kitchen.
”My jeans shrank in the wash,” said Lucy, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
”Yeah, right,” he said, laughing. ”That's a good one.”
”Are you saying I'm fat?” asked Lucy, turning to face him.
”No, no,” said Bill, quickly backtracking. ”You look great.”
”I'm going on a diet,” said Lucy glumly, seating herself with difficulty opposite him at the round golden oak kitchen table.
”I think we've all gained weight this winter,” said Bill.
”You do think I'm fat!” exclaimed Lucy.
”Uh, is that the time?” Bill was on his feet, draining his coffee cup. ”I've got to, uh, see somebody.” He bent and kissed her on the top of her head. ”Have a good day.”
”I'm not counting on it,” she said, sipping her coffee and watching him put on his outdoor clothes. Then he was gone, and she reluctantly went back upstairs to change into yesterday's comfortable, already stretched jeans.
Chanticleer Chocolate was just too cute, thought Lucy, steeling herself against temptation. The shop had a scalloped yellow awning and a handsome blue-and-yellow rooster on the sign that swung from a bracket over the door, and the mullioned windows were curtained with lace. Business must be good, thought Lucy, noticing a discreet HELP WANTED sign taped to the door.
Inside, a scattering of bistro tables were stacked with blue-and-yellow boxes containing three, six, nine, and twelve pieces of chocolate. An old-fas.h.i.+oned gla.s.s case containing trays of candies stood in front of the rear wall, beneath a large painting of the same rooster that was on the sign outside. Through a doorway behind the antique bronze cash register, Lucy caught a glimpse of a work area with a long, marble counter where, she a.s.sumed, the chocolates were made. The aroma of chocolate filled the air in the shop and Lucy reminded herself that smelling involved no calories and was almost as good as tasting, which did.
”Can I help you?” The speaker was a tall, slender woman with a remarkably large bust. Lucy didn't usually notice that particular feature, but there was really no avoiding it considering the woman's very low-cut black sweater dress. It was short and clingy, stopping some inches above the over-the-knee black stiletto boots that she was wearing.
”I'm Lucy Stone. I'm here to interview Trey Meacham.”
”Right. I'm Tamzin Graves. I manage the shop,” she said, with a toss of her long, wavy, bleached-blond hair. ”Trey called, he's running a bit late, so maybe I can help you out and answer some questions.”
She grinned apologetically and Lucy noticed some telltale crinkles on either side of her fire-engine-red lips, as well as a certain thinning of the skin beneath her heavily made-up eyes. Tamzin, she guessed, was well into her forties. Although, from a distance, you'd never know it.
”That would be great; I'm working on deadline,” said Lucy, pulling her notebook out of her oversize handbag. ”So I guess this is quite an honor, winning Best Candy on the Coast in the readers' poll.”
Tamzin's bosom heaved with emotion and her hands fluttered, displaying impossibly long, painted nails. ”It's fabulous! We had no idea! I mean, we consider these chocolates extraordinary, made with all natural ingredients and everything absolutely the finest, but still, you don't expect an honor like this, not in the first year, anyway.”
”Right.” Lucy was getting it all down. ”And the chocolates are made right here, in the shop?”
”Oh, no. It's a quality control issue. Trey is a fanatic about quality. No, all the chocolates are made in an old sardine factory in Rockland. It's all been cleaned, with steam and everything, there's no trace of the sardines anymore.” Tamzin giggled. ”In fact, Trey got an award for creative repurposing of an existing industrial s.p.a.ce-I think that's right-from Keep Maine Green.”