Like a Woman Scorned Read Free Page B

position of needing to work overtime.
    Alison’s high salary afforded her the ability to use a maid service and have her laundry and dry cleaning sent out. She considered it money well spent. That way she could focus on doing nothing if she felt like it—and she often did—or reading, listening to music, perhaps even working on the book she’d started many years ago. It was about her ancestors and required much in the way of research, discovering where they lived, what they did with their lives, and how they acknowledged or ignored their association to other family members. Maybe someday she would finish it.
    Then there was cooking. Was there anything better in life than trying out new recipes? Alison had a reputation among her friends and coworkers as a gourmet cook—beyond gourmet, actually, at a higher level, right up there with the best chefs in the world. Everyone always jumped at invitations to her place. There was a time when she considered going into the business, but she knew she couldn’t handle the hours. Not that the legal field was far from that at times, especially in the beginning when Alison “paid her dues to the profession.”
    Her kitchen was outfitted with high-priced cooking gear, stuff you’d find in Gordon Ramsay’s or Wolfgang Puck’s home. It was all neatly arranged, of course, much of it hanging from trendy magnetic utensil holders. Every item had been carefully hand-selected from catalogs or local cooking supply boutiques. Her assortment of knives alone was something to marvel over; the best money could buy. Over the years she had invested a considerable amount of money in what she needed to complete each new creation, things like butter paddles, a strawberry huller, vegetable cutters, and assorted miscellaneous tools of the trade. She also had fine china, informal plates and accessories, dainty table linens, crystal of various types and shades, bar glasses, and marble cutting boards. Sometimes she stood in her kitchen and took it all in while lamenting over her wardrobe that could have been.
    The kitchen had a marble work station in the center of the large room with bar stools for six, and a dining room table that seated eight off to the side. Even friends who normally didn’t cook much enjoyed preparing a meal with Alison in that kitchen, during her rare charitable moments when she would concede to having some assistance. Alison knew she could go up against anyone in the world of cooking and hold her own, but she chose to keep it at the hobby level, opening her home to friends and an occasional reception for a nonprofit organization she was affiliated with when the mood struck her.
    It was probably time for another of those events. Alison was the co-sponsor of an organization for AIDS victims that began in the mid-seventies. That was the time when Alison and some of her friends lost someone to the terrible disease. She had personally given a lot from her own finances over the years, besides countless hours working in both the office and the hospice. Alison was still amazed at how ignorant people were about the illness itself, and what it meant for someone to be HIV+ and not know if they would live or die. Things were so bad at one time that a large group of volunteers was actually called “The Death Squad.” Those were the people who would go to someone’s home after they died, and clean up everything left by a person who had no one else to do it.
    The phone ringing jarred Alison from her thoughts. She knew it was Rick somehow, and answered on the second ring. The ensuing conversation was light and comfortable, perhaps partly attributable to the fact that Alison was laying around in her jammies. She stretched as they talked. Rick found it humorous that Alison was a football fan. After only a few minutes of pleasantries, Rick got right down to business. It would have to be late in the week when they got together due to the trial.
    Dinner? Alison readily agreed. He would get back to her