LITMIR.BIZ

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be with us, celebrating.”

      “Don’t worry about me. I’m happy as a clam. On the half shell. With shallot vinaigrette and a touch of hot pepper.”

      Linda chuckled. “No way I can convince you? I just hate thinking of you sitting there by yourself on such a wonderful day.”

      “Trust me, sitting here by myself is what I love most about Christmas.”

      Linda sighed, for once not sounding like a sitcom laugh track. “Well, if you change your mind, please come. We send you our blessings of the season.”

      “Thanks.” Annabel hung up the phone. Blessings of the season? What blessings? That she was so maniacally busy she could barely see straight? Not that she’d at all prefer the alternative.

      “I’m going home.” Stefanie appeared in the doorway, leaned against the jamb and yawned.

      “See you tomorrow, bright and early. Ted’s taking the Moynahans as usual, right?”

      “Yes. He had a final this morning, he can do tomorrow.”

      “Good. Get some rest, you look exhausted.”

      “Oh, I’m fine. Just tired. Good night.”

      Annabel waved her out the door and settled down to read the newspaper’s business section, looking for any possible—

      Phone. Scowling, she picked it up. It was probably—

      “Bob here.”

      Yep. “Hi, Bob.”

      “Did I call at a bad time?”

      “You know me, I’m always busy.”

      “Yeah, no kidding.”

      “What’s up?” She kept her voice brisk.

      “Well…how’ve you been?”

      “Did you want something?”

      “I was wondering, if you’d like to—”

      “Bob…” She rested her head on her hand.

      “Meet me for coffee, that’s it.”

      “No.”

      “I just want to—”

      “We’ve been through this. And through this. And when we were done going through this, we went through this some more.”

      “I’m not trying to come on to you. I’m calling as a friend. I have this—”

      “I’m sorry.” She hung up the phone, slightly sick over her behavior. She’d tried niceness. Then firmness. Now it seemed out-and-out bitchiness might be the only thing he’d respond to.

      Back to the business section. Nothing interesting in the news, nothing triggering any new ideas. She stuffed the paper into the blue recycling bag and went online to the Metro Milwaukee Association of Commerce site to check for new events she should attend to maximize networking. The one next week she knew about…nothing else looked—

      Knock at her door. Grimacing, she stalked into the hallway and down the steps to the back. A short, sweet-faced middle-aged woman smiled up at her. “Hello, Annabel.”

      Annabel blinked. “Hi.”

      “I’m Kathy. Your neighbor across the street.”

      Duh. “Kathy, I’m so sorry. I was thinking…that is I was working, and my brain was…” She made a helpless gesture.

      “I understand. I’m asking for donations for the cancer society. And to see if you could spare some time to—”

      “Anything but time.” Annabel ushered Kathy in. “I’ll get my checkbook.”

      “Thank you. Are you coming to the Christmas Eve block party?” Kathy’s smile turned pitying when she registered Annabel’s blank look. “The invitations went around last month.”

      “Oh. No. I’m…busy that day, sorry.”

      “Too bad. It’s a nice way to meet neighbors.”

      True, if she had any desire to meet her neighbors, that would be a nice way. “I’m sure.”

      She signed the check, handed it over to Kathy’s profuse thanks, and ushered her out the door when Kathy showed signs of wanting to linger and chat. Back in her office, Annabel grabbed a small stack of résumés from students at MATC. If the Dinner and a Show program went well, she should be in a position to hire more help. More help doing the work in people’s kitchens meant more of Annabel’s time freed up to generate new business. Things might be going well, but they could be going—

      Doorbell. Back door again. She groaned and went to answer, hoping for a nice package or letter dropped at her door that she could pick up and bring inside without having to interact with anyone.

      No package. A bunch of kids, probably from the neighborhood. Who—oh, no—started to sing, the worst, most off-key rendition of “Frosty the Snowman” ever heard by man or beast. The first verse was pretty cute, but when they showed signs of gearing up for verse two, she thanked them firmly and shut the door.

      Apparently privacy in her own home was too much to ask.

      Back into her office, a few e-mails, some correspondence…she was getting hungry. The very fact of life that made her business possible—that bodies needed regular feeding—could often be an inconvenient interruption.

      An hour and a half later, papers spread out on her kitchen table, she’d eaten the rest of a decent beef-cabbage soup and the other half of a grilled chicken sandwich taken home the night before from Carter’s, her usual dinner spot. She’d also worked up a few ideas for their diabetic menu choices, and had an inspiration for a carb-free burger with artichoke bottoms instead of a bun for their Atkins selections. Substitute a portobello mushroom for the beef, and add it to their vegetarian menu.

      Good work. After she cleaned up, she’d surf the net to see if anything new struck her for a Valentine’s Day special that would bring in more business after the big holiday rush subsided. And she needed to figure out how to lure more traffic to the Web site. Oh, and tomorrow she had a dinner party to cook for in the evening over on the East Side; she’d need to remind herself to get the fish in the morning from Empire Seafood.

      Dishes done, she stepped into her clogs, grabbed the full garbage bag and hauled it outside to the receptacle behind the house. Started back in, then remembered she’d forgotten to check her mail, not that it was anything but catalogs at this time of year.

      She walked briskly down the driveway in fog so thick it felt like a clammy attempt at a drizzle, with streetlights illuminating the mist like spools of glow-in-the dark cotton candy. The eerie silence on the street was broken only by her steps—impossibly loud, as if the sound waves were trapped, bouncing between the stone houses on the block like the ball in video Ping-Pong.

      The temperature was supposed to drop radically tonight, possible snow predicted in the next few days. Oh, how not lovely. But that was Wisconsin in December. She pushed impatiently at her rapidly dampening hair and climbed three steps to her front door, heavy stained wood with an overly large brass knocker.

      A breeze blew up suddenly, cold and damp. A glance over her shoulder showed the swirling fog lifting slightly, exposing the street. She crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed them, elbow to shoulder. Creepy night. She started to lean toward her mailbox, when a black flash of movement reflected off the knocker. Annabel whirled around and scanned behind her.

      Nothing.

      Strange. She reached again for her mail—yes, catalogs, catalogs and more catalogs—when a sound…or was it just a feeling?…made her freeze again. Was someone watching her? She had the distinct impression of a presence nearby, of eyes on her. Her own eyes flicked over to the knocker, searching again for the brief reflected movement.

      Still nothing. Then a noise.

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