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never correct her boss, especially on an interview. But I don’t mind; she’ll keep me on my toes. She couldn’t be worse to spend my days with than Loretta had been and God knows, she couldn’t be as challenging as Louise.
    “Rotating shifts of eight hours, Monday through Saturday. You have to alternate Sundays with me and Louise and just be flexible.”
    “Oh, so big deal. Benefits?”
    “Management will have health insurance as soon as we get it set up.”
    “Well, that doesn’t matter really. We’re covered on Cobra. Vacation?”
    “Standard. After one year, one week. Two years, two weeks. Up to four weeks, but not all at once.”
    “Okay. Done.”
    “Um, Linda. We didn’t talk money.”
    “Oh, God, I hate asking for money.”
    “Yeah, money’s ugly. Root of all evil and all that. But still . . . okay, what were you earning in New Jersey?”
    “Stinking peanuts for the hell I put up with!”
    Nicely put, I thought. “How many peanuts?”
    “Well, I earned thirty-four thousand at the paper and about six thousand in my other jobs.”
    “Whew! That’s forty thousand!”
    “You watch television?”
    “No, not much. Why?”
    “Well, there’s this ad for hair color and this chick says, I’m worth it. So there you have it. You want to buy my heart and soul? Forty thousand.”
    Then, Linda Breland started to laugh. She put her hand over her mouth and laughed at her own boldness.
    “All right then, give me your Social Security number and nobody gets hurt,” I said.
    “Okay!”
    I walked her to the door and watched her actually strut to her car, snapping her fingers in the air a couple of times. I could not remember when I had ever seen a woman do something so funny and theatrical, not giving a damn if the world was watching. Linda Breland’s courage spread a lightheartedness over me I hadn’t felt in years. I found myself remembering the reckless gambles of my youth and I smiled so wide it surprised me. Robert’s relationship with our investors, the will of Louise, my determination and the mirth of Linda. We would be a culinary SWAT team.

TWO
    LINDA AND MIMI

    I pulled the car into my sister’s yard and stopped. Anyone passing along London Bridge Road would have thought that Mimi’s house was a picture of what life was supposed to look like in a perfect world. Pink and green caladiums bordered her azaleas, pink and white vinca was nestled in between and her grass lawn was cut and edged. Her small but charming front porch was furnished with painted white rockers and her hanging baskets overflowed with asparagus ferns and more pink and white flowers, whose name I couldn’t recall. It bothered me that I had forgotten the name of those flowers and all at once it seemed I had forgotten too many things.
    There had been a time, not too long ago, that I thought I would never get over Fred’s remarriage. I became seriously depressed and I think it wasn’t just because Patti (his new wife) was younger than me or that she was gorgeous and successful in her own right, although that was enough to make me hate her guts with a white heat, even after she had proven herself to be completely reasonable and intelligent with a saint’s patience to boot. No, her litany of qualities was grounds for justifiable homicide. But, part of me said, Shit! If Fred’s the best a gal like Patti can do, who’s left for me? Lurch?
    The real reason for my depression was that I had fallen into this state of complete and utter despair that my life was never going to get any better and would never be any different than it was. I would never feel like anything more than bone tired all the time. I hated my job, um, jobs. I hated never quite making ends meet; I hated the winters, fall allergies, frozen seafood, traffic jams, fear of terrorism, pollution and the fact that I was surrounded by a million and one things I couldn’t take advantage of in New York. Lincoln Center, all the museums, restaurants, shoes I could never afford,