8
Sera
“So, how’d it go?” asked Fred when I arrived home forty minutes later. He was in the kitchen, stirring, what appeared to be, a large pot of chili or spaghetti sauce.
“Good,” I answered, feeling my stomach growl. Like Sam, Fred was an excellent cook, and the smells in the kitchen were reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. “I start on Monday.”
“See, I knew it would work out for you,” he said, setting down the large wooden spoon. “In fact,” he walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of champagne. “I picked this up earlier today. So that we could celebrate.”
I smiled at Fred, whose eyes were twinkling. He was such a kind old man. Not only had he opened up his house to us, he’d volunteered to watch Emma whenever I needed a sitter. She now adored
