"So what did you win?"
"An all-expense-paid trip to Noow Yark City to compete in the cookoff a month from now. It's for me and a companion, and the KoKo-Nut people are paying for the airplane and the hotel where we'll be staying right smack in the middle of Manhattan." She puffed up just a bit, and she made me wait a good ten seconds before she continued. "There'll be cocktail parties and a press conference, and when the winner's announced, the president hisself of Krazy KoKo-Nut presents the ten thousand-dollar grand prize."
My resolve cracked, and I croaked, "Tell me you're making this up, Ruby Bee. Please, tell me this is a joke."
"It's all in this letter, every blessed word of it."
I held out my hand, trying not to whimper. "May I read it?"
"Thought you wanted to talk about Dahlia's wedding dress and wasn't-it-a-lovely ceremony? You, missy, can suit yourself. I got more important things to do, like shopping and packing and practicing my recipe." She flapped the letter at me as she left.
"You've got your maps?" Eilene Buchanon said as she bent down to peer through the car window. "You just be sure and stick to the route I drew, and don't go gallivanting off on some side road that's likely to dead-end in a swamp. And call collect every other night, and don't talk to strangers, and be sure and keep an eye on the gas tank, and-"
"Ma!" Kevin protested. "I am a married man now, and you can't treat me like a kid anymore. I aim to take care of my bride in a befittin' manner."
His bride belched softly from the passenger's side. "That wedding cake sure was tasty, wasn't it? Come on, Kevvie, we got to get started. Just imagine going to Niagara Falls on our honeymoon! I can't think of anything more romantic." She belched again, dreamily and with a look of bovine contentment that made Kevin feel like a frontiersman in buckskin.
"Mrs. Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon," he said as he patted her hamlike thigh while stealing a peek at her wondrously pendulous breasts-his to have and to hold from this day forward.
Earl came out of the house and thrust a sack at Kevin. "Here's some cans of oil in case you run low. Make sure you check it every time you gas up, along with the water in the radiator, the tire pressure, and the fan belt. This ol' heap's on its last legs."
"I can handle it, Pa," Kevin said in his Daniel Boone voice. After all, he and his goddess were setting forth into the wilderness, in a manner of speaking. Neither of them had ever been farther north than Springfield, Missouri, and that had been in a rusty blue church bus with the choir. This was different. This was an adventure…a love quest.
"Do you have a sweater?" asked Eilene. "It might be chilly at night, and you don't want to run the risk of getting sick in some unknown place so far from-"
Kevin cut her off with a steely look. "Good-bye, Ma and Pa. My wife and I are leaving now." He glanced at the object of his adoration. "Are you ready, woman?"
"I might just visit the little girls room one more time. That pineapple sherbert punch was so good I couldn't seem to get enough of it."
Thus the wagon master was obliged to lower his whip and listen to his ma for another ten minutes before he was finally allowed to round 'em up and ride 'em out, rawhide.
Geri Gebhearn was finding it increasingly difficult to read through the file, since the words were distorted by the tears that filled her eyes and tumbled down her cheeks to linger on her chin and then plop like gentle rain upon the page beneath.
An outsider would be perplexed to see this display of unhappiness in such a pretty young woman, dressed in discreetly expensive clothing, her short dark hair expertly styled to draw attention from her square jaw and emphasize her exceptionally large (although currently watery) brown eyes. Her body was sleek and slender, her jewelry not one carat less than twenty-four, and her keys to an Upper East Side condo and a forest green Mercedes tucked in her hand-sewn leather briefcase beside her desk.
Her desk was in a spacious office on the twenty-seventh floor of a Madison Avenue building, and although the view was not intriguing, it was hardly the interior of an airshaft. On the opposite side of the door was a gloomy yet competent secretary who took dictation, juggled meetings, winnowed calls, picked up Geri's dry cleaning, and made reservations at chic restaurants. She came in at nine and left at five, and she never cried.
"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you," Geri muttered, not at the splattered file but at the framed photograph of a handsome young man. Like her, he was perfect-except for his sudden desire to date some slutty girl he'd met in Barbados whose father owned a dumb insurance company in Providence.
She turned the photograph face down and tried to pay attention to the work at hand. It was utterly absurd to have this dropped in her lap like a chunk of plaster from the ceiling; she'd been out of college for less than four months and was only beginning to feel able to make valuable contributions during the interminable meetings. Now that beastly Scotty Johanson had betrayed her, all she wanted to do was go home to Hartford and…No, not home to Hartford, where Mother would insist the best cure for a broken heart was participation in whatever charity fund-raiser most recently had begged for her renowned expertise. To the summer house on Cape Cod, where she could lie on the wicker chaise lounge, paint her fingernails black, and drown out her sorrows with Tab.
But noooo. Her boss had walked in not two hours ago, told her she was to handle the KoKo-Nut account, and walked right out on his way to LaGuardia and some Caribbean island. As if she could just cancel her hair appointment and her lunch with Giselle, as if her late afternoon aerobics class was inconsequential, as if she had nothing better to do than immerse herself in the marketing of some product that, from what was mentioned in the photocopied ads in the folder, consisted of synthetics. Geri hated synthetics (with the exception of rayon, of course). She hated her boss, she hated her secretary, she hated her father for making her work while everyone else was at the club playing tennis, and she hated Scotty Johanson for being such a low-down, devious, horny bastard.
Her hand trembled as she picked up the receiver and punched for an outside line. Daring him to answer, she dialed her ex-fiancé's number. She was disappointed when the machine clicked on and a sultry female voice repeated the number and invited her to leave a message at the sound of the beep.
"I'm delighted you and your new friend have become intimate so quickly," Geri purred. "But from what I've heard of her, I'm not totally surprised. I left a tortoiseshell brush in the bathroom. Be a sweetheart and pop it in the mail, and please make every effort to have a really nice day."
She replaced the receiver, dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, and glared at the next page in the folder. Not only would she be obliged to deal with synthetics, she would have to deal with people of uncertain backgrounds. Five of them, to be precise, and all under her immediate supervision to participate in a cooking contest. For three days.
She hit the intercom button. "Meredith, cancel my hair appointment and the lunch reservations, and try to catch Giselle before she leaves the gallery. Oh, and get my mother on the line so I can let her know I won't be home this weekend. Mr. Fleecum has simply ruined the next month of my life."
"Yes, Miss Gebhearn. There's a Kyle Simmons on the line to speak to you. Shall I put him through?"
"I cannot take any calls the rest of the day. Mr. Fleecum's notes are indecipherable, and the contest is next month. I suppose I'd better run down my liaison at the KoKo-Nut office and-"
"Mr. Simmons is from that office," Meredith interrupted without inflection. "He says he's from promotion."