by Kathy Krevat
My dad scowled. “Singing and dancing’s not preparing him for the future.”
“He’s twelve, Dad,” I said sarcastically. “He has time. And you think playing with a ball on a field prepares him for the future?”
“It sure does,” he said, defensive. “It teaches teamwork. And following the rules. Something both of ya could learn.” He sat back in his chair, and suddenly he seemed smaller in it. Had he lost more weight?
My anger washed out of me. “He loves it, Dad,” I said, my voice calmer. “And there’s a heck of a lot of teamwork going on behind the scenes and on stage.” I’d seen it first-hand during the obligatory volunteering that went along with any kind of youth theater.
He narrowed his eyes, as if trying to figure out if I was just feeling sorry for him. Then he turned the TV sound back on with his remote. Storage Wars characters were trying to goad each other into bidding higher on someone’s junk.
“It’s a good thing my investments are paying off so I can help with his college,” he grumbled as I took a step to the door. “My new fund is up a full twenty percent this month.”
“What?” I asked. “You have investments?”
“Of course I have investments,” he said, bristling again. “You think I’m an idiot?”
“No,” I said. I couldn’t imagine having enough money for “investments.” “You’re helping with Elliott’s college?”
“Of course I am,” he said. “He’s not getting a singing scholarship, is he?”
I gaped at him. That comment had so many levels of insult that I couldn’t think of a retort to cover them all.
Luckily my phone rang before any sound could come out of my mouth. I counted to ten on the way back to the kitchen and answered it.
“Oh. My. God,” Lani said, her voice breaking up a little over her car Bluetooth connection. “I’m gonna kill Piper.”
“Good morning to you too,” I said. Piper was her wife and Lani threatened to kill her about once a week, usually for no good reason.
I pulled out the now cool pieces of chicken curry and put them in Trouble’s dish. She sniffed it, and then took a bite. Her lips curled back as she chewed. Then she spit it out.
Shoot. There goes that recipe. Unless I tried it again with less curry?
“She threw out my latest prototype! On purpose!” I heard Lani’s car engine zoom in the background, as if it was angry at Piper too.
Lani was the owner and creator of Find Your Re-Purpose, an online boutique of unique baby fashions recycled from used clothing. She cut up old clothing, sewed different materials together, added some fabric paint or other touches, and voila! A beautiful, one-of-a-kind, hundred dollar outfit that anyone with too much money could buy for a baby who would most likely spit up on it in less than five minutes.
We’d met years before when she was the costume designer for one of Elliott’s plays, and quickly figured out that she lived in my dad’s neighborhood. After a few sleepless nights of last minute costume adjustments before the show’s opening, we’d become best friends.
“Was it that cape idea you were kicking around?” I asked.
“Yes!” she said. “It was the cutest thing EV-ER!”
I’d had my own doubts about the safety of capes for infants, but had kept them to myself. Since Piper was a pediatrician, I knew she’d step in. “Where are you headed?” I asked, trying to distract her.
“Ventura,” she said. “A thrift shop just got a big donation of clothes from a rich European family who spent the last six months in Malibu. The material has a bunch of cool designs the shop owner has never seen before so he put them aside for me. I can’t wait to see them.”
Ventura was almost four hours from Sunnyside, which meant Lani would be gone most of the day. Since she liked company on her trip, I put her on speaker phone right by the stove, resumed my stirring, and settled in for a long conversation.
“Have you heard from Twomey’s yet?” she asked, with a change in her tone that meant now-it’s-time-for-friendly-nagging. She’d encouraged me to contact the local chain of seven organic food stores offering my cat food products.
“Not yet,” I admitted. In my e-mail, I’d pushed the fact that buying local was all the rage, especially for the kind of people who bought organic products to help save the planet.
Seeing Meowio Batali products on the shelves of that many stores would be a dream come true. But I wasn’t sure how I’d meet any significant increase in demand without hiring more people. And that took money.
I was pretty stretched already—both physically and money-wise. Too bad cloning me wasn’t an option yet. If I had two, maybe three more of me, I could do everything I should be doing.
I changed the subject. “Hey, I finally met my neighbor.”
“That cute chicken farmer?” she asked.
I turned on the frying pan and dribbled in extra virgin olive oil. “How’d you know he was cute?”
“Everyone knows he’s cute,” she said. “He’s also single, keeps to himself and hasn’t dated at all.”
“Good to know,” I said. I told her all about the chicks and the unfortunate poop incident.
“That’s such a meet cute!” she said. “You can tell your grandchildren that story where you fell in love with his chicks first.”
“I think if there’s poop involved, it’s the exact opposite of a meet cute,” I said. “And I really don’t have time to date right now.”
“You know, it’s really a little like Romeo and Juliet, except with your cat and chickens,” she said. “Joss is a Montague and you’re the Cat-ulets.” She giggled at her own joke.
“And you know how they ended up.” I tossed chunks of chicken in the pan. “Hey, did you head out of town on purpose so I couldn’t drag you to my Power Moms trade show?”
“Oh yeah,” she said unapologetically. “It’s the only reason I chose today to drive to freakin’ Ventura. Just to get away from your cult.”
I laughed. The Sunnyside Power Moms, or SPMs for short, was a group of home business owners who worked together to network and support each other. Our leader, Twila Jenkins, got the idea to start the group when the third mom came up to her at the Sunnyside Elementary School playground to invite her to a party at her house. One of those “parties” where the host/salesperson puts out lovely hors d’oeuvres and lots of wine so that her guests, i.e., sales targets, will feel more inclined to buy thirty dollar candles and forty-five dollar candle holders.
Twila had invited me to join after learning about my cat food business.
“You’ll come around,” I said. “The first step was when you suggested your friend Fawn become an SPM. You’re one step closer to becoming One of Us. One of Us.” I chanted that in a low tone a few times until she interrupted me.
“Not a chance,” she said. “Hey! You should manufacture some kind of scandal. That’ll get people interested in your little coven.”
I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn’t see me. “Be nice or I’ll sign you up to host a candle party at your house.”
She gasped dramatically. “A fate worse than death.”
About the Author
Kathy Krevat is the author of the Gourmet Cat Mystery series featuring cat food chef Colbie Summers and her demanding cat Trouble, the culinary muse behind her recipes. Kathy also writes the bestselling Chocolate Covered Mystery series under the pen name, Kathy Aarons.
Kathy lives in San Diego with her husband of twenty-five years in the perfect location – close to Philz Coffee (her obsession) and the beach, and within visiting distance of her two grown daughters. When she’s not writing, she’s an advocate for youth arts education and president of Partners in Crime, the San Diego Chapter of Sisters in Crime.
You can follow Kathy on Facebook or Twitter or visit her at: www.kathykrevat.com.
p; Kathy Krevat, The Trouble with Talent
