Ten Times Guilty Read Free Page A

home. Yet she didn’t want to risk running into Carrie. One session was enough.
    From the kitchen, the scent of baking bread drifted through the butterfly doors, accompanied by a sugary, cinnamon fragrance. Rita must be making her giant rolls. Tracy dug in her purse, hoping to come up with some change to take one home. She shouldn’t, but tonight she could use something warm and gooey to soothe her insides. And she would share with Ritchie. But her purse held nothing but three pennies and a lint-encrusted breath mint. Three days before payday was no time f or extras like cinnamon rolls.
    Rita pushed through the kitchen’s doors, a saucer holding a huge cinnamon roll in her hands.
    “Hi, kid, I was about to come and get you.” She placed the roll on one of the five round oak tables then tucked a strand of brilliant red hair behind her ears. “Sit down. Got something I want to talk to you about.” She poured coffee from one of the large urns then sat down.
    “Now?” Tracy asked, glancing through the archway, checking for Carrie. “I need to get home. Besides, I don’t want to run into Carrie again.”
    “The boss gave her enough work to keep her busy for a couple of hours. Relax. I have something important to tell you.”
    Tracy eyed the tea bags next to the water urn. She had used the last one at home two days ago and a cup would taste good. She made her tea and joined Rita. Maybe she would ask if she could take a roll home and pay for it payday. She had never asked before, and she knew Rita often took them home.
    Then she remembered the doctor’s bill for Ritchie’s last checkup.
    Rita took a bite of her roll. “Want one? They’re on special this week.” She captured some of the overflowing cream cheese frosting with her finger and licked it.
    Tracy swallowed and looked away. “No thanks.”
    Tall and lanky, Rita enjoyed her own creations and was able to eat anything she wanted without gaining a pound. It wasn’t fair. No matter how often Tracy dieted, she always wound up where she started, sometimes weighing even more. 
    “A man likes ‘em tall and willowy,” Jim, her stepfather, had said over and over, “with long, long legs to wrap around a man so he knows she’s got him.” He always managed to say those things when her mother was in another room.
    At five-three, Tracy had never measured up to his standards. Her mother always said she was built voluptuously, like a Rubens painting.
    Rita gulped her coffee and stood. “I have to get the last batch of rolls out of the oven.”
    “Wait! What did you want to talk to me about?” Another round of thunder rolled through the house. “I better get home before it rains,” Tracy said, scooting back her chair.
    “Stay just a few more minutes. You know how these spring storms are, gets all dark then it blows right over. Bet it doesn’t rain a drop.” Rita hurried to the kitchen.
    While Tracy waited, she wondered what Rita thought was so important. As Mr. Madden’s assistant, Rita did the scheduling. Tracy hoped there wasn’t a problem with her new hours.
    She finished her tea and had to admit she didn’t mind waiting. She loved the old Victorian, loved working surrounded by history. 
    Against the east wall, a burled walnut server held a silver tea set, the aged patina carefully preserved, and the daily tour schedule stood encased in an antique gold-scrolled frame. A large sepia portrait hung above it.
    A raw-boned man, clean-shaven except for a drooping mustache covering his mouth, stared at the camera with a level gaze. Sitting next to him, a tightly corseted woman, rows of buttons fastening her dark dress securely at her neck, gazed at the camera with an equally somber stare. The only attempt at levity was her wide-brimmed hat, gaily decorated with flowers, netting and feathers. What stories they could tell, Tracy thought. What a spirit of adventure and determination they must have felt, building a life at the foot of the harsh Rocky