CHAPTER 14
Tom was sitting at the table, scribbling in his trusty spiral notebook, phone tucked under his ear, when I entered the kitchen. The game was in overtime, the score tied. I didn’t care. I was angry my kitchen was closed, furious my van had been destroyed, and remorseful that I hadn’t been brave enough to tell Tom who was buying his skis. And why was all this happening? Because, years ago, I’d dated Doug Portman. And then, unabashed, I’d offered to do business with him. I’d figured, he’s the perfect buyer for the skis. I’d thought, This money will solve all our problems, and quick. Sure.
I looked around the kitchen. Action is better than inaction. Or something like that. I carefully moved Arch’s still-wet, splatter-frosted cookie sheet onto another counter, then stared at my old
