Sacked!

by Melinda De Ross

  My lower lip quivered a little, but I stiffened my spine and sniffled back the tears. It really hadn’t been that good a job. The pay was lousy and the work sucked. It definitely wasn’t a career option. Scratch animal retail off the list. I would find something else, something better.

  With a determined nod at my reflection, I stepped away from the mirror and into the shower. After I washed thoroughly, I disinfected the scrape on my temple and put a Band Aid over it. Then I went to the living room and turned my laptop on. While it was booting up, I walked to the bookshelf and fed Fish, watching listlessly as he devoured the tiny granules.

  A faint smile curved my lips and I stroked the glass bowl with one finger. This little creature comforted me. He depended on me for survival. He waited anxiously for me to wake up in the morning and to come home in the evening. For some unknown reason, this thought made me feel better. Maybe it was pathetic to have a fish as my life partner, but it was better than nothing.

  With renewed energy, I plunked down onto the sofa and accessed the Internet, browsing through a few job sites. There weren’t any openings for which I was qualified—after the pet shop debacle, I would avoid that trap again.

  Staring at the screen, it occurred to me that I had no idea what I might be best suited for. I was a good paralegal, but I didn’t want to do that. I reached out for this morning’s newspaper on the coffee table, then settled back to thumb through it. Perhaps I would find a potential job in the want-ads.

  I rarely read the headlines and front page articles in the paper since those generally revolved around politics and I had no interest in political shenanigans. An article below the fold on the front page caught my eye: WELL-KNOWN JERSEY JEWELER MISSING, by Carter Evans.

  The article speculated about the kidnapping of a high-end diamond merchant. I didn’t bother reading it. I was taken with the byline, Carter Evans.

  The memory of his smile flashed through my mind and my cheeks heated as I thought not only about our brief encounter in the park yesterday, but about my naughty dreams from last night.

  Still, I couldn’t imagine why my heart raced. The man was married. Off limits. A crazy impulse drove me to snatch the laptop up again and open my search engine. I typed Carter Evans. There were hundreds of results, and I didn’t know where to start. After all, Evans was a common surname and Carter couldn’t be that rare. I found his public profile on career websites and social websites. A few of the photos made my pulse accelerate, but it stopped dead at one article.

  JOURNALIST TRAGICALLY WIDOWED. Below the title, the subtitle gave the damning evidence. ‘Tragic car accident on Christmas Eve kills four. Journalist Carter Evans refuses to comment on the death of his wife.’

  I pressed my fingers against my lips and lay back, still staring at the screen. Not married, but a widower. How terrible for such a young and attractive man to lose his wife that way ... He couldn’t be more than thirty. And he still wore his wedding ring. Inexplicably, that brought tears to my eyes. I didn’t even know the man, yet it had seemed, at least to me, that we’d had an instant connection. Now I realized why his smile had appeared reluctant and why he seemed guilty when our eyes had held so long.

  I glanced at the date of the article and saw it was last year. Almost seven months ago. I read the rest of the sketchy piece and noticed a picture of Carter’s wife attached to it. My God, she’d been beautiful, with an exotic face filled with happiness. The olive skin, dark eyes, and curly black hair reminded me of a gorgeous gypsy’s. Her eyes were as alluring as her husband’s, a sparkle of mischief hovering in their dark depths. Even her name was exotic—Carina Evans. The article said she had just completed her doctorate in Marine Biology.

  How sad to die at twenty-eight when she’d had so much to live for. Had they had children? The article didn’t mention any.

  The details surrounding the accident itself were sketchy. Carina and three of her friends had been Christmas shopping. The sedan she’d been in had stopped for a light. The brakes of the truck behind them failed, and the vehicle crashed into them, pushing the sedan into the intersection where it had been struck by several cars. The writer described the scene as a blood bath.

  I shuddered and my heart contracted in sympathy for Carter. He must have gone through hell. I’d never loved a man before—not the kind of love that would lead to marriage—so I couldn’t imagine the heart-wrenching experience of losing a life partner. The closest I could come was the idea of losing one of my parents, or even Carrie. I cringed.

  I shook my head, overcome with sorrow for the young, vibrant man I’d met. The wild notion of trying to find a way to meet him again settled in my mind, but I dismissed it, rubbing my tired eyes. The man was still in love with his dead wife. He was a troubled man, and he definitely didn’t need a klutz like me around to screw with his life. He was probably fighting hard to find a balance, a purpose, a goal to channel his energy and focus. A no-prospects scatter brain like myself was the last thing Carter Evans needed.

  Chapter Five

  Determined not to focus on the impossible, I tore my thoughts away from Carter and reached for the newspaper again. I might not be able to have the man of my dreams, but at least I could find a job to pay the bills. I read every want ad. Who was the idiot who’d opted to make the print so small?

  I was discouraged, almost ready to give up and start packing to move back home, when I found an ad for kitchen help, no experience necessary. Well, I did have some experience in the kitchen—I could cook, wash dishes, make salad and sandwiches—hell, I was probably overqualified.

  Fredo’s was a little Italian restaurant right near where I lived. I’d eaten there a few times. The place wasn’t huge and if they needed kitchen help, I was ready and willing to offer mine. It seemed simple enough. I took a pen and circled the ad.

  By now, it was late afternoon, too late to go job hunting. My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. Delivery didn’t appeal, and I was sick of fast food. Since I had time to kill, I decided to make myself dinner. Homemade soup would not only fill me up, it would pick me up, too.

  Slipping my feet into pink slippers, I shuffled to the kitchen to see if the Fridge Fairy had brought me something overnight. She hadn’t, but neither had she cleaned the food that was no longer edible. After a thorough cleaning, I filled a garbage bag with rotted vegetables, curdled milk, and some baloney that had turned so hard I’d need a chainsaw to cut it.

  Grimacing, I tied the bag shut. Heedless of the fact I was still in my robe and barefoot, I carried the bag to the garbage chute and bid farewell to the food. If my parents would see this I’d get a hell of a lecture—which I fully deserved. But in my defense, I’d had a hell of a week.

  I noticed my elderly neighbor, Bernie Schneider, a dirty old man if there ever was one, had his door cracked open. Bernie had worked for New Jersey Power until he’d retired two years ago and had moved into the building just after I had. This day was only getting worse.

  “Camilla,” he called, widening the crack so I could see him in his plaid housecoat, black knee socks, and slippers. His white hair was disheveled, and he held a beer bottle in his hand. “You’re home early. Come on in and join me for a beer. I can put on BBC, and we can enjoy it together.”

  I rolled my eyes. Another encounter with a pervert. Just what I didn’t need. BBC isn’t what you think it is. Mr. Schneider enjoyed watching porn, and his BBC stood for Big Beautiful Cocks. I was thinking, once I finished it, I should offer him my copy of the novel with Cockasaurus Rex, the name I’d given to the overendowed hero, but I definitely wouldn’t want it back.

  “Tempting offer, Bernie,” I lied, “but I’ve got something on the stove, and I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  “Big day, schmig day. You need to loosen up, meydl. You’re too uptight. You need to relax, like I do.”

  “Yeah, right.” I smiled to take the sting out of my words, wondering what a meydl was, not daring to ask. “Maybe some other time.”

 
Hurrying past his apartment to my own, I closed and locked the door, leaning against it. I hadn’t read Dante’s Inferno in years, but my life had become one of his Circles of Hell, maybe the second one since I was being blown by the strong winds of fate from one disaster to another, unable to find peace, rest, or happiness.

  I didn’t have much appetite now, but I had to eat something, so I dragged myself into the kitchen and walked barefoot to the fridge. No sign of the Fridge Fairy, but I had a chicken breast in the freezer. I took it out and put it into hot water to defrost. While I waited for that to happen, I peeled and chopped vegetables and threw them into a pot of salted water to cook. The chicken was still partially frozen, but I sliced it and added it to the boiling vegetables. Turning down the heat, I let the soup simmer.

  Returning to the living room, I sat on the couch and continued to read the novel Corinne had recommended. It was a simple romance, with a silly one-dimensional heroine, a hunky hero, a few hot spots, and the kind of plot that didn’t require thought—just the kind of quick read I needed right now.

  When the soup was almost ready, I added more spices and some fresh dill, then turned off the stove. I tasted the fragrant liquid, closing my eyes in ecstasy. It was divine.

  Cooking was the one thing at which I excelled, although I didn’t have much time or inclination to do it. But when I did, the results were well worth the effort. An image of Carter Evans and I having a romantic candlelight dinner popped into my head.

  “God, what’s wrong with you?” I chided myself as I ladled soup into a bowl. “You’ve barely spoken to the man; now, you’re obsessing about him. It’s all in your head. He’s not interested,” I said, emphasizing the words as though I was speaking to an idiot—which, in a way, I was. I certainly felt like one.

  I grabbed the novel while I waited for the soup to cool. I’d gotten to another of the hot parts Corinne had mentioned. The hero and heroine were about to get into bed and things were getting hotter with every sentence. Now, his large cock is standing up straight in front of him, and she gasps. He pushes down her bra and her nipples pop out to wave hello.

  A giggle escaped me. My nipples had never waved hello or anything else. I continued reading, curious to see Cockasaurus Rex in action once more. Unfortunately, this sex scene, almost identical to the other two I’d read, was a letdown. By the end, I was only wondering how they managed to survive those violent climaxes.

  I shook my head and put the book down, my shoulders trembling with laughter. If Corinne got off on this stuff, who was I to judge? But I could definitely come up with something better just based on last night’s dreams. Maybe I was going about this new career search the wrong way. I had been a booklover since I’d learned to read, but my tastes leaned toward Mark Twain, Jane Austin and Agatha Christie. I like sharp, witty humor and gripping mysteries.

  Perhaps I should consider writing a book—The Trials and Tribulations of Camilla. Catchy title, but I would have to write under a pseudonym. I wouldn’t want my parents knowing what a screw-up I really was.

  Setting the book aside, I ate the soup slowly, enjoying its taste and mood lifting quality. Once I’d finished supper, I grabbed a chocolate bar and went into the living room to watch the evening news, stopping by the bookcase to see how Fish was doing.

  When he saw me, he started undulating back and forth, his tail sweeping as industriously as any friendly dog’s. I sprinkled some granules into his bowl, and he nearly jumped out in his desperation to wolf down the food. I smiled indulgently, watching him grasp left and right with his tiny mouth until the water surface was clear again. At the pet shop they’d told me to feed him two times a day, but I preferred to give him food as often as he seemed to ask, which was once every hour. Was he getting fat? I hoped not because Shauna had mentioned Betta fish were prone to constipation often mistaken for weight gain.

  “That’s it, Fish. No more until tomorrow or it’ll be green pea bits for you.”

  I ate the chocolate and surfed the channels, bored to death. As I wasn’t a fan of soap operas, game shows, or reality TV, there was nothing to watch.

  Finally, even though it was still early, I turned off the TV and the living room lights and went into the bedroom. I shimmied into a pair of blue silk pajamas, brushed my teeth, rubbed cream into my skin, and did my bedtime stretches.

  As I slid between the cool sheets, my skin tingled strangely. I didn’t know if it was from reading about Cockasaurus Rex’s adventures or just normal sexual deprivation. It had been a long time since I’d slept with someone, too busy when I’d been at Finch & Associates to invest time and effort into a relationship. Now, I felt as though my body had a new awareness of itself. My breasts ached to be touched. The insides of my thighs were hot and I squeezed them tightly together, spreading the heat upward. Even the soles of my feet became an erogenous zone.

  I fought to ignore all these sensations and switched off the bedside lamp. I firmly plumped up my pillow and turned over onto my belly. But as my eyes closed and I drifted away, I wondered how Carter’s sensual lips really felt and tasted.

  * * *

  Fredo’s was a family owned restaurant in the style of an Italian trattoria. I knew the owner on sight—a rotund, middle-aged Italian who used to be a cook at a fancy restaurant. Probably tired of working for other people, he’d taken his family, moved to Jersey City, and had opened this business. Though it wasn’t the most popular restaurant in the city, it had cultivated a steady clientele in the five or six years since its opening.

  I decided to walk the few blocks to the restaurant, enjoying the morning air and the shaded streets. Dressed in jeans and a casual gray shirt, with my hair pulled back in a braid, I thought I looked efficient and professional as I walked through the wood and glass doors into Fredo’s.

  The light inside was dim compared to the harsh glare of the sun outside. I blinked several times before my eyes adjusted. There were approximately a dozen wooden tables in the intimate room, set for two, four, or even six. The décor featured earth tones—dark brown furniture, beige walls, green and beige tiled floor. Three of the tables were occupied, and those patrons were watching the flat screen TV tucked high in a corner above the bar, next to the swinging doors leading to the kitchen.

  I was heading toward the kitchen when the doors flipped open and a blonde waitress appeared carrying a tray. I stopped dead, gaping at the sassy curls, saucy swinging hips, and red lips set in a permanent pout. Even though I envied her and her bigger boobs, it always pleased me that her thighs and waist were thicker than my own.

  “Carrie? What the hell are you doing here?” I whispered, moving quickly toward my sister.

  She turned her head and her pout increased when she recognized me.

  “Oh, it’s you.” Her impudent nose lifted slightly. “I’m working here until I start college. Didn’t Mom tell you?”

  “No, she didn’t.” I bit off, making a note to talk to my mother about that oversight.

  “I heard you got fired,” she announced, raising one eyebrow. “What did you do now?”

  “None of your damned business,” I snapped. “Where’s your boss? I saw an ad in the newspaper for a job here.”

  “Oh, no!” She rolled her eyes, propping the tray she held onto one shapely hip. “You can’t possibly mean you want to work here. This is my place. Find somewhere else.”

  “Hey, miss,” one of the seated customers shouted. “Are you going to deliver our order while it’s still hot or are you going to stand there chatting all day?”

  Carrie darted me a killing glance, plastered a brilliant smile on her face, and sashayed toward the man’s table. I swallowed my annoyance and continued toward the kitchen, pushing the swinging doors aside.

  The large room was blindingly white, with huge stainless steel counters and appliances. Two middle-aged women wearing hairnets and white aprons fussed at the pristine counters. Both were brunettes and emaciated, not a surprise since the kitchen was like a sauna. Within seconds, sweat beaded on
my brow, and I swiped at it. Could I work in this heat?

  One of the women spotted me and frowned.

  “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here? No one is allowed in here other than staff!”

  I smiled tentatively. “That’s exactly why I’m here. I’m hoping to become part of your staff. I’m here regarding the ad in the newspaper. Do you still have a vacancy?”

  She squinted at me. “You mean the job for the pizza making? No, we’ve already hired a boy to do that.”

  My smile collapsed and my shoulders slumped. I murmured ‘thank you’ and turned to go, but the second woman stopped me.

  “We could use another waitress if you’re interested. We’ve recently hired someone, but she’s broken too many plates to count and spends more time flirting with the customers than serving them.”

  “I can believe that,” I muttered. “That would be my sister. I saw her out front, but I think I could do a much better job.” For one thing, I didn’t flirt.

  “Have you ever waitressed before?”

  “Yes, a couple of summers when I was in high school.”

  The two women—sisters—looked at each other. The older one hitched her chin toward a side door. “Let’s see what you can do. Get in there and put on a uniform. We have them in all sizes. Wash your hands, and then come back here. I’m Polly, and this is Molly. We’re the cooks. What’s your name?”

  “Camilla Jackson,” I said, trying to hide my amusement at their cartoon-like characteristics. “Thank you, Ms. Polly. I’ll be right back.”

  I walked into the small room, closing the door behind me. Apparently this was where the employees took their breaks. The room sported a table and chairs, a small sofa, a closet, and a door that led to a minuscule bathroom. The place looked unused, which made me think breaks might be rare commodities around here.

  I searched the closet until I found a uniform my size. In the bathroom, I changed out of my clothes and into the uniform, identical to the one Carrie wore—short red and green skirt and t-shirt with the restaurant’s logo on my left breast. I gazed into the mirror and winced. It was absolutely hideous.