3
Ginny
“Would you pass the potatoes please?” asks Heather.
“Sure,” I say. I lift the antique dish piled with mashed potatoes. Enid always pulls out the heirloom china when Heather and her husband come for Sunday dinner. I hand Heather the dish and she wrinkles her nose.
“How are things?” she asks.
“Good,” I say. I learned years ago that the less said around Heather the better.
Her husband, Mayor Joel Wilson, chuckles and stretches back in his chair. “That’s good. Real good. I was worried we’d have to find you a job somewhere.”
I smile, which probably looks more like a wolverine gritting its teeth. I’m still working as a personal trainer and fitness instructor, the same job I’ve been at for the past three years. As Joel knows.
“Can’t have welfare cases in the family,” Joel says to
