LITMIR.BIZ

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of me and I threw the cover aside and plopped my feet on the icy floor. I needed another throw rug in here. I whipped on my terry cloth robe and shoved my feet into my New York Giants slippers—a Christmas gift from Bill. The text was from him suggesting we have a do-over dinner this week: call me.

      I would, but first, a hot shower, coffee, vitamin C, and aspirin: marching orders for my cold. I turned up the heat and stepped into the shower, the water pinging off my body and warming my skin. I shampooed my hair, letting the sudsy residue run down my face and shoulders. I toweled off and slipped on a sweat suit. I shivered and had a dream flashback. Snow and ice and…Massachusetts! I was trekking in Massachusetts during the American Revolution. Made no sense but it did remind me of Sally’s saying New Jersey’s freezing temperatures would be nothing more than a nip in the air compared to Boston. She was a nice addition to the Etonville Little Theatre—sane! My cell beeped once more. Bill was eager to talk this morning… But it was Lola asking if I was up. I tapped on her name in my contacts.

      “Hey,” I said.

      “How’s the cold? Did you take some Echinacea? Carol swears by—”

      “I know. She dropped some off Saturday.” I was a little iffy on an herb cure. Especially after last fall’s run-in with a Chinese herbalist and a prescription of tree bark, wet leaves, and clods of dirt for back pain which I didn’t have anyway. But that’s another story. “I think I’m getting better.” I sneezed.

      “Good. Look, I hate to ask you, I know how busy you are with the restaurant and concessions. If you have a break, could you come to tech rehearsal for a while tonight? I need to know if this show is working. I’m having second thoughts,” she said.

      “Lola, it’s a little late for second thoughts.”

      I could hear Lola’s hesitation. “I need an honest opinion.”

      It was a little late for an honest opinion too. But I couldn’t refuse; I’d cover dinner and then slip out for an hour. Benny could keep an eye on the dining room. “I’ll see what I can do.”

      “Thanks, Dodie. I really appreciate this one.”

      I called Bill’s cell but no answer. I would have to wait for his second round of apologies. By ten o’clock I was well fortified by two cups of coffee, whole wheat toast, and the New York Times. I wrapped myself in layers to win the battle with the cold. The air was crisp, the temperature hovering around thirty, and the snow underfoot crunched as I scraped an inch off the windshield. I shivered inside my Chevy Metro. My sturdy little car was sluggish on winter mornings and the heat trickled out of the vent at its own slow pace.

      I eased out of my driveway, my tires leaving parallel tracks lined with mini mounds of snow. I was hoping for a rise in temperature to melt the fresh blanket of white as well as the residual ice packed underneath. The salt trucks had been out in force already and most of Main Street was clear. I slipped into a space in front of the Windjammer and noticed the parking meters had paper bags covering their faces. An Etonville signal that parking was free due to the weather.

      Inside the Windjammer, I put on the coffee and turned up the heat.

      “Brrr. I love wintertime,” Benny said, rubbing his hands together, his knit hat pulled low over his forehead.

      “Wise guy. You’re here early,” I said.

      “Not early. Just not late. Which is early for me, I guess.”

      “Right.”

      Benny hung up his scarf and coat, placing them on a hook next to mine, and popped behind the bar. “How was the baking class yesterday?” He sniffed the air. “Is that eau de burnt cake I smell?”

      “Only the first batch.” I laughed. “Poor Georgette. She had her hands full.”

      “I was going to come by. But I had to babysit.”

      Benny’s wife had gotten a new job at a toy store in the Bernridge Mall, in the next town over. It was a good deal for the family: She got a twenty-percent discount on products and Benny’s six-year-old daughter was thrilled with the results.

      “People were out shopping in that weather yesterday?”

      Benny shrugged. “Kids and toys.”

      “How’s the princess doing?” I asked.

      “Another earache. I’m taking her to the doctor later, okay? I’ll be back for dinner.”

      “Sure.”

      “You sound better,” he said as he scrubbed down the bar and cleaned the soda taps. “Good enough to have celebrated Valentine’s Day.” He grinned and winked.

      Benny had closed for me Saturday night and still assumed I’d had my romantic dinner with Bill. “Uh-huh.”

      I made for the kitchen, snatching the clipboard off the wall. I was still getting used to the fact that as police chief, Bill was on duty 24-7. Which meant last-second cancellations and reshuffled plans. Why was I so hesitant to admit that I’d spent Valentine’s Day alone nursing my cold and my ego? I attacked the freezer with a vengeance, noting what meats and seafood needed to be restocked this week.

      “Dodie!” Henry boomed at the entrance to the storeroom.

      I jumped, caught gathering wool. I’d been so lost in thought I hadn’t heard him come in. “Henry, you want to give me a heart attack?”

      Henry ran a mittened hand over his bald head and eyed me warily. “Who burnt what in my kitchen?”

      “A few cakes. No big deal.”

      “There is cake batter on the oven,” he said, peeved.

      Henry was fussy about his domain. “I’ll check the vegetable bins. You’re good to go for the broccoli cheddar soup for lunch.” I slammed the freezer shut. Henry’s soups were legendary in Etonville and often ran out during the lunch service.

      “I’m glad no more baking on Sundays,” he harrumphed and stomped off, his damp boots leaving a puddle by the storeroom entrance.

      There was no doubting Henry’s skill in the kitchen. It was his personality that sometimes needed a transplant. He was still cautious about my theme food ideas for the Etonville Little Theatre as a marketing tool. It started with dinners that reflected the subject matter of the plays—seafood for Dames At Sea, Italian fare for Romeo and Juliet, beef bourguignon for the French farce.

      But last fall I upped the ante with the 1940s food festival for Arsenic and Old Lace, and when the director died during the event, poison was suspected and the Windjammer suffered a setback. Henry was still smarting from the loss of customers, even though business came roaring back when the Windjammer was exonerated. And now here I was, taking over his territory on Sundays and messing up his immaculate equipment. For what? ELT concessions. Even I had to admit that the theme food idea might be growing old. Maybe the concept had outlived its usefulness. After all, both the theater and the restaurant were thriving and who needed the publicity? Thanks to the Windjammer’s website, we were creating an online presence. Maybe it was time to come up with another gimmick to promote—

      Benny appeared in the pantry. “Gillian called in sick, and Enrico and Carmen had a fender bender on the way here. They’re going to be late.”

      “Better tell Henry we’ll be short-staffed for lunch. I’ll call Enrico’s cousin.” One of our part-time waiters.

      “Okay. I’ll set up the dining room,” Benny said.

      “Maybe everyone will stay home,” I added hopefully.

      “In your dreams.” Benny hurried off to warn Henry.

      It felt as if much of Etonville opted not to stay home today and descended on the Windjammer for lunch. I’d done the prep for Henry’s soup and his special burgers while he chopped and sautéed onions and garlic for his pot of chili. Fish tacos were scratched from the menu and grilled three-cheese sandwiches substituted. I ran from the kitchen to the

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