[The saga continues as Grace’s backstory is revealed. Tomorrow, and on the next few Sundays, we will take a break from the Still Time story to present the other literary work to emerge from The parsonage recently, Silverbelle Sandy’s magnificent cookbook/memoir “Sweet Dreams from The Parsonage!” SB SM]

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Cobb Salad

The women meet on Monday for their usual morning workout. Afterward, they shower and change in the locker room, then adjourn to their booth at the Oasis.

“Weekend highlights?” Lisa Grace asks. “Geoffrey is completely obsessed with today’s presentation for the capital campaign for the new Mary Holmgren Performing Arts Center. I have to listen to him practice his introduction of Pierce Holmgren so many times I can recite the man’s entire biography word for word. The whole time he’s stressing out, he’s eating those grandfather peppermints, and it’s starting to show around his waistline. Besides that, I carted the girls around to a dozen different soccer practices, birthday parties, and a sleepover. Same old, same old. I guess my personal highlight is that the main character in the paperback I’m reading finally decides to sleep with her lawyer. You?”

“The Married Dickhead tracked me down,” Lorette says, picking up her fork. “I don’t know how he got my office number, but he spends ten minutes whining about how much he needs to see me.”

“Did he show up at your office? Or your house?”

“Oh no, nothing like that. Just a phone call, but you can always tell when a man is pouting through the receiver. I tell him, rather eloquently, to get lost and stay lost. Other than that glamorous highlight, I watched a couple of Hugh Grant movies on VHS. Wasn’t the official presentation for the arts center yesterday?”

“Yes. The architect’s scale model is incredibly impressive. Pierce Holmgren… do you know him personally?”

“I know of him. Everyone in the valley does.”

“He’s the Board Chair, and you can really tell this is going to be his grand legacy project. But Lorette … they need to raise $75 million. That is an astronomical number for a small-town college! They’re treating the whole thing like a military operation, with a strict chain of command and all kinds of talk about ‘strategic weapons in the arsenal’… all that typical boy stuff. And guess who gets drafted onto the front line? Little old me.” Sarcasm drips.

“‘Little old you?’ What is your role supposed to be?”

“Yeahhhh…” Lisa Grace’s smile crinkles tightly at the edges. “They pull out a giant foam-core organization chart that explicitly lists me as ‘Captain of Direct Sales’… whatever on earth that means. Oh, joy, I’m a Captain. Mind you, nobody ever actually asks me if I want to do it, but there I am, neatly boxed on the chart. I guess as the president’s wife, you are simply considered institutional chattel.”

“Captain? What does that even mean in fundraising? No one consults you beforehand? That’s bizarre.”

“After the meeting breaks, Pierce walks right over to me and puts his big, good-old-boy arm around my shoulders. I’ve barely met the man, and I’m standing there thinking, Really? People in academic boardrooms still think this behavior is okay? What decade is this, anyway? And then he tells me that I am going to be a ‘key operative’ in ‘The Mission’ and that he wants me to come to his corporate headquarters on Wednesday morning to meet with him and his vice president of marketing for ‘sales training.'”

Their Cobb salads arrive, and the women immediately begin their customary ritual of customization: Lisa Grace forks her hard-boiled eggs onto Lorette’s plate, receiving Lorette’s cherry tomatoes and raw onions in return.

“I honestly think I’d just be hosting a few elegant cocktail parties at the house,” Lisa Grace continues, “but Pierce is trying to turn me into a used-car salesman.”

“Did he give you a name? The vice president you’re meeting with?” Lorette asks.

“He did, but it goes in one ear and out the other.”

“Was it, by any chance, Hank Trottier?”

“It might be. I really don’t remember.”

Lorette stops eating entirely, lowering her silverware and setting her fists flat on the table. “If it’s Hank Trottier, he is already on my watch list. I know he works over at Pioneer Valley Company, but I wasn’t sure what his title was.”

Lisa Grace stares blankly. “I’ll try to pay attention on Wednesday. What exactly is a ‘watch list’?”

“Eligible men I am keeping an eye on in case they become available. It’s like in real estate—you always keep a private inventory of properties that aren’t technically on the market yet, but the moment a ‘For Sale’ sign goes up, you want to be the first one making an offer. You honestly don’t know who this guy is?”

“Hank? No, I have absolutely no idea who Hank is.” She pronounces the name with a slight cough, as if it is stuck in her throat.

“Think back to the kids’ soccer league last summer. There was that handsome guy who always came to the Saturday games by himself. Good-looking, two kids, a boy and a girl. Light brown hair? He always stood off by the bleachers alone.”

“I can’t say I noticed him.”

“That’s because you aren’t a single woman in her mid-thirties who has been divorced for over five long years. I checked him out immediately and put him right on the list.”

“How do you find out his name, Sherlock?”

“I’m not giving away my professional secrets, but let’s just say I did some digging through the team’s printed roster and found two kids with the last name Trottier.”

“What else did your investigation uncover?”

“That he works at Pioneer Valley and that their corporate directory lists an H. Trottier in management.”

“And?”

“Turns out he is technically married, but the whole situation is a little murky. The wife is never around, and rumor has it she’s off somewhere out of state.”

“Like where?”

“How should I know? I’m not a stalker. I’m just doing some innocent homework. In real estate, we call it due diligence.”

Lisa Grace shakes her head, endlessly amused by Lorette’s absolute candor regarding her romantic pursuits. “Due diligence, my ass. If the man I meet on Wednesday turns out to be Hank, should I let him know he’s on your watch list? Or should I call it a ‘watch-out’ list?” She flutters her eyelashes playfully.

“Let’s change the subject,” Lorette says with a smirk.

“Sure. But don’t forget about your old pal when you go to that corporate office.”

“Trust me, I won’t, old pal. New subject, though. Remember last week when I had to deliver Geoffrey’s organizer to his office? I used his private bathroom, looked in his medicine cabinet for eye drops, and saw prescription bottles. I didn’t recognize the names on the labels.”

“Do you remember what they were for?”

“No. I want to ask him directly, but I don’t want him to think I am snooping. What do you think I should do?”

“Here’s exactly what your pal Lorette would do,” Lorette says with absolute certainty. “I’d find another convenient excuse to use his office bathroom, slip a piece of paper out of my purse, and write down the exact names of the medications. Then we could take the list to the library or ask a pharmacist what they are. You’re his wife. You have a legal and moral right to know.”