page 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | all | buy It had been a gamble when she opened, a chunk of her late husband's life insurance money dwindling in a bank account and her two young daughters. It seemed as though running her own business would provide her the type of flexibility she needed with two young girls, and she'd always loved to cook. Loved to experiment with flavors and cuisines and making things look pretty. Her friends, though well meaning, disapproved, encouraging her instead to invest and live off the interest. But there wasn't really enough to quite do that, and besides, Gus had wanted the risk. She needed the jolt. However, taking chances did not translate into being sloppy. No, indeed. And meeting with Alan Holt was a tremendous opportunity she couldn't afford to screw up. She had, in fact, served him several pastries and more than a few sandwiches, never knowing him as more than a regular customer. Until the day he handed her his card and suggested he wouldn't be averse to a home-cooked meal over which they could discuss a business proposal. Gus's fervent hope had been that he was interested in showcasing The Luncheonette in an episode or two. She remembered vividly when Alan came for dinner in the spring of 1994, when Aimee and Sabrina were both young teens and she was a harried single mom, still keenly missing Christopher though he'd been gone six years by then. It was as though she'd hit the "hold" button on her life when he died, waiting for something she couldn't quite place her finger on that might make it somewhat better, and had instead filled up her days with working and organizing her girls. She hadn't much energy left over, which had been her intention. Just enough to wish for the ability to provide her daughters with the life their father would have wanted for them. All Gus had asked the day Alan Holt came for dinner was to be left alone in the kitchen and for her girls to go out and cut some flowers. Something bright and cheery they could bring to her so she could do up a vase. Her oldest daughter, Aimee, had promptly walked outside to the back patio and flopped into a wicker chair, arms crossed, while Sabrina slowly wandered off through the front door, with a look Gus couldn't discern between sulking and concentration. In fact, Gus had been quite prepared for the girls to come back empty-handed from the garden and had put together her own centerpiece hours earlier, working efficiently while her just-turned-into-teenagers slept away a gorgeous sunny Saturday morning. She'd tucked her arrangement onto a shelf above the washing machine, knowing her girls were hardly about to go near anything that seemed like a chore. Her request about gathering flowers had really been a mother's trick to get the kids out of her way while she seasoned and sampled in the kitchen. And then she saw it: seven stones and one feather. That's what Sabrina had placed on the center of the polished rosewood table. "What do you think, Mom?" asked the thirteen-year-old, brushing her glossy black bangs out of her eyes as she gestured to a lineup of polished river rocks arranged by size and a random piece of gray fluff that looked, at a distance, more similar to dryer lint than to something that once winged through the sky. Gus Simpson had chewed her lip as she pondered her younger daughter's contribution that day and cast her eyes down the length of her table, covered with her good ivory linen place mats, clean and crisp, her collection of quality china–the artistically mismatched pieces of creamware she'd collected at estate sales and flea markets and the occasional full-price purchase at a department store–and the genuine crystal goblets and glasses she'd brought back from Ireland years ago. Red, white, water. They'd cost more than three months' worth of mortgage when she'd made the splurge and Gus felt both guilty and exhilarated every time she saw them. Every mouthful–even plain old tap water–tasted better, too. page 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | all | buy