Chapter 14: The Church Kitchen

Marjorie's church had a fellowship hall with a kitchen at the back, and on Tuesday mornings she ran it.

I found her there at nine, in an apron over her good slacks.

Forty chicken breasts lay on a steel counter, and four women in hairnets looked up when I came in.

"Ladies, this is my daughter-in-law," Marjorie said. "Give us the kitchen, would you? She wants to see where I hide the sugar."

They left without a word, and one of them winked at me on her way out.

The door swung shut.

Marjorie dried her hands on her apron and looked at my face for a long moment.

"You've seen it," she said.

I put the printed letter on the counter between the chicken and the flour.

"Authorized by Marjorie Breckinridge," I said. "Tell me why."

She didn't flinch, and she didn't look away.

"Sit down, honey."

"I'd rather stand."

"Then I'll sit," she said.

She pulled a stool out from under the counter and lowered herself onto it.

"I signed the first wire because I sign everything," she said.

"Joanna put it through as a marketing expense, which it was not.

She knew I'd see it, and she was too proud to ask me for it."

"She didn't want you to know?"

"She didn't want me to say no."

I stared at her.

"You'd have said no?"

"I'd have said yes before she finished the sentence," Marjorie said. "That's why she didn't ask."

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