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"I'll make sure I pair you up with somebody a little more pleasant next week."
       "Not to worry." Kegan reached for a grater and got to work on the carrots. "Most people are pretty resistant when they first hear about the theory of sustainable agriculture," he said. "Brad will come around. Someday, everybody will. They'll have to. We're decimating our forests. And destroying whole species of plants and animals. It's a global problem, and it's everyone's concern. There are just some people who don't realize it yet."
       "And your job is to make sure they do."
       Kegan's cheeks got pink. "I work for Balanced Planet, you know, the ecological think tank group in D.C. I'm afraid sometimes I forget that I'm not at the office. I get carried away. I'm sorry."
       "No need to apologize. Hey, if you guys can ignore the way I botched every recipe and Jim had to jump in and show you the right way to do things . . ."
       Kegan returned my smile. He glanced toward the front of the kitchen, where Jim was showing one of the grillers the proper way to put out a small grease fire that had erupted. Call me shallow; I was glad to see I wasn't the only one who had to deal with culinary adversity.
       "He's the owner, right?" Kegan asked, and when I said Jim was, he went on. "Is he the one I'd talk to . . . you know . . . about making the place greener?"
       I looked around at the butter-colored walls and was about to say something about how repainting wasn't in our budget when I realized what Kegan was talking about.
       "Greener! You mean the restaurant using more ecologically friendly products. Jim makes the final decisions, of course, but you'll need to come through me for that."
       "Then maybe . . ." Kegan's gaze was on the table again. The knife trembled in his hand. "Maybe I could talk to you about it sometime?"
       "Sure, if I can talk to you about—"
       I was going to mention Eve, but I never had the chance. The first tray of brownies came out of the oven, and a gasp of appreciation went up from around the room.
       "That's dessert," Jim called out. "Each of you, get your food in order, and let the folks in charge of presentation get them plated up. Looks like it's time to eat!"
       By that time, there was no use even trying to bring up the subject of Eve. I got out of the way, and I stayed out of the way, at least until everyone was out of the kitchen and out in the restaurant.
       "You eating with us, Annie?" Jim whizzed by with a tray filled with water glasses. "We've got plenty."
       "In a minute," I told him, and he didn't have to ask why. He knew this was the first chance I had to go searching for Eve.
       I found her right where I expected: in my office.
       She was sitting at my desk, her head in her hands. I knew from the way her shoulders were heaving that she was sniffling.
       "Eve!" I put a hand on her shoulder. "What's going on? What's wrong?"
       "It's that man!" Eve spun around in my desk chair. Her eyes were red. So was her nose. She was breathing hard, and her shoulders shook. But remember, I know Eve well. I knew she wasn't as upset as she was just downright mad.
       She proved it when she popped out of my chair. The
    office door was open, and from where she stood, she could see into the restaurant. And our students, just sitting down to eat, could see her, too.
       "It's him," Eve shouted. "It's Brad. I'd like to kill that man!"

Three
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    Q WHAT WAS THAT I SAID ABOUT DISASTERS?
              Even before Eve's words faded, I saw the mother of all PR catastrophes looming in front of me, as chilling and awful and every bit as undeniable as the looks of shock on the faces of the students who stopped what they were doing and turned to stare. Their mouths gaped. Their eyes bulged. I don't think I need to point out that along with his share of the gaping and the bulging, Brad's expression included a whole lot of outrage.
       Now remember, I've