Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

“I’m not doing Natasha’s dinner.”

“You’re not?” Tamera placed her hand on my arm. “What are you making? My Thanksgiving is already a disaster. I have to work. I don’t have time for this.”

“Mostly family, right? Are you having a formal sit-down dinner or will the guys be watching football?”

“My husband made a deal with me. As long as he can watch all the football he wants, he’ll smoke the turkey. I thought I’d set up a buffet.”

“Then why are you serving broth? You know all they want is turkey, stuffing, and potatoes. Maybe a little pie for later. Besides, it wouldn’t be practical for your guests to carry around acorn squashes with soup in them.”

Tamera smacked her forehead. “You’re so right. What was I thinking?” She thanked me and bustled off, relief evident on her face.

The pudgy man smiled at me. “Are you Sophie Winston?”

I assumed the gentleman had an event in mind and handed him one of my business cards.

He reached out to shake my hand. “Dean Coswell. How very fortunate that I ran into you. I was going to give you a call this afternoon. Your ex-husband, Mars, thought you might be the right person for a project I have in mind.” He adjusted his glasses with his thumb and middle finger. “My wife wasted yesterday looking for squab and acorn squash. This morning I had to take her to the emergency room because she mangled her finger with the electric drill trying to make a nut garland. Can you imagine—she was their seventh nut garland victim this morning. Anyway, it occurs to me that despite Natasha’s popularity, a lot of people dislike her. My newspaper is planning a column called “The Good Life.” Think you could bring back some good sense to the good life?”

“Me? Write a column?” It was like a dream come true. I didn’t even care if they paid me. The opportunity to vie with Natasha would be cathartic. “Yes!”

Coswell raised his arms and cheered, “I’ve found my anti-Natasha! Could you have something ready for the Thanksgiving edition?”

Why was it always like this in life? I’d taken time off work so I could prepare for my family’s visit. One day would be eaten up by the Stupendous Stuffing Shakedown and now, already pressed for time, I was committing to another project. But this was important to me. I agreed to write something to ease his overstressed wife and he handed me a card with his e-mail address scribbled on the back.

I waited in line for fresh loaves of crusty country bread for my stuffing, amazed by my good fortune. Mars had recommended me? We might be divorced but no matter how I looked at it, he was still a good guy.

When I left the store, I searched the parking lot for any sign of the man with the kitten. I didn’t see him anywhere and guessed he’d moved on. A kitten was the last thing I needed, but I still felt a tiny twinge of disappointment. I just hoped the kitten would be okay.

I loaded the groceries and backed the car out but was blocked by an elderly woman who could barely see over the steering wheel of her ancient boat-sized Cadillac. She was having trouble maneuvering and somehow managed to stop traffic in the parking lot. There weren’t a lot of choices. To give her room, I eased backward toward the rear of the store.

A dark blue pickup truck idled next to a Dumpster, a banana box on the hood. My stomach churned. Surely that man hadn’t tossed the poor kitten? Driving too fast, I slid alongside the truck.

The insistent wind blew mercilessly and the box threatened to tumble. I hopped out, raced for it, and caught it before the wind could sweep it away. Inside, the tiny kitten stretched toward me. I couldn’t mistake the huge curious eyes. I scooped it up and held it close, immediately rewarded by baby purrs.

I could feel my face turning scarlet with anger. What kind of person would throw out a kitten? Where was that jerk?

Outraged, I assured the little guy I would take care of him. He mewed and I realized I would have to go back for kitten food. He was probably starved.

I didn’t want to put him back in the box. It seemed like a symbol of the horrible man’s callous treatment. Steaming mad, I picked up the box, stepped over to the Dumpster, and threw it in.

And then I saw it. A trail of glistening blood on the asphalt. A crimson smudge on the rim of the Dumpster. I stepped on a concrete block and peered over the edge.

THREE

From “Ask Natasha” :

Dear Natasha,

My mother-in-law loves to drop by for inspection. If I want to stay married, I can’t tell her not to visit. What can I do?

—Constantly Cleaning in Clarksville

Dear Constantly Cleaning,