The Stuff of Ambrosia

The

Stuff

of

Ambrosia

Beth Ann Flowers

Copyright 2014 Beth Ann Flowers

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Notice: This work of fiction contains adult language.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, the imagination of the voices in her head, or are used in a purely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or in-between, events, locales, or the voices in your head is entirely coincidental. May cause drowsiness. Do not operate heavy machinery while using this product. No characters or animals were harmed in the creation of this writing; special effects experts and stunt double professionals were employed for safety. Do not try to duplicate events at home. All characters, except for the livestock, are over the age of eighteen. The author is aware of hyphen overuse, but has a hyphen-hoarding sickness for which there is no cure. This book may be found offensive to somebody, somewhere about something. Sorry ‘bout that. If offended, please carefully adhere to the following procedure: 1. Close book. 2. Delete book. 3. Go on with life.

God bless you.

Dedication

This work is dedicated to my husband and daughter, who believe in me even when I lose faith in myself, and push me up when I’m pulling down. Thank you, God, for blessing me with them and teaching me that happiness is a choice!

Kudos and bear hugs, also, to my daughter, for her silly interruptions in my writing. You keep me young at heart, Magpie!

I also would like to acknowledge Allison DelGallo, who followed my train of thought and put me back on track when I derailed. Thank you, Allie, for showing me that actions do, indeed, speak louder than words, and for contributing with the same 3rd-grader sense of humor as I do. Yes, dear Allie, farts are funny.

A special ‘Thank you!’ to Sage Komatsu for going above and beyond with editing services and for bravely stomaching my tendency to have characters end sentences with a preposition. Remind me to bake you something yummy.

And finally, my gratitude for last-minute proofreading to Kathleen Manganaro, who has been gifted with an eye for detail! You are simply more proof to me that God has his hand in our lives and everyone who enters it does so for a reason. Thank you for your time, your thoughts, and your encouragement! God bless you!

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

End of the Book Stuff!

Chapter One

Have you ever thought you might have led a completely different life if you had a different name? Let me tell you straight out –you wouldn’t. If my name had any impact on my life, I would be a much braver person, much more outgoing, and definitely have much more excitement. Someone with my given name should be extroverted and fun and fearless, and have an attitude! –like a porn star! Okay, so maybe my name is perfectly suitable for a career in sex films, but perhaps it would suit a life just a smidge less brave, too, like a fashion designer or a supermodel or... or something exciting. For my mousy self, though, it’s just an embarrassment.

I once asked my mother if she’d been on heavy painkillers at the hospital when she’d filled out the information for my birth certificate, but she went on for forty-five minutes about how beautiful my name is and passive-aggressively insinuated that I thought she was a terrible mother. It finally ended with me raving about how I love my name and isn’t she just the most thoughtful, caring mom in the world?

"Okay, Amy, just sign your full name here... and here.... and here..," Brenda says, flipping her blonde hair out of her eyes and pointing to the papers on her desk in front of me. She leans back in her big comfy leather chair to smirk.

I’m sitting across from her in one of those little chairs that look all cushy but are unexpectedly hard as a rock and bruise one’s bottom when one plops down. I always forget to ease myself down gently until it’s too late. I hope her chair is the kind that makes her sweat and gives her a butt-rash.

I carefully keep my expression neutral. I’ve worked with her for four years now and she never misses an opportunity to have me sign my full name, knowing how much it irritates me. Bitch.

I make a mental note to later indulge in a little fantasy where I discover Brenda’s real name is ‘Brendaltha’ or something to that effect as I pick up the pen to sign my full name, Ambrosia Peach-Divine Peters, where she’d pointed. As if I could miss it, with each dotted line marked by a huge, red-circled X after the words EMPLOYEE SIGNATURE HERE. It’s a bit of an insult to my intelligence, and I have to quash the temptation to sign myself with a big, black X in response.

Now, I have to admit, name-wise I have it a little bit better than my poor sister. I can’t imagine what Mom was thinking when she named her Zsa-Zsa Cherry-Jubilant Peters. (We call her Jane.)

I’m secretly convinced Mom got our names off some fancy dessert menu at a burlesque show.

That’s all I need, Amy, Brenda says, handing me a thick file. You’re set up for Mr. Grullen, starting Thursday.

I take the file, shove it into my workbag and nod at her, Thanks, Brenda.

Grullen, Grullen, I repeat silently to myself, planting the pronunciation in my mind. Rhymes with ‘sullen’. Sullen Grullen. Sullen Grullen.

You might not thank me later. He’s already managed to run off three Helpers. He’s not exactly the most cooperative client.

So I’d heard. My job is to help my clients, who are usually seniors, with everyday tasks. A little cleaning, a little cooking, perhaps wash a load of laundry, run the odd errand, help with bathing and dressing –that sort of thing.

In reality, we either do a lot of that or practically none of that, depending on the reality of the situation. We also somehow are expected by the clients to magically acquire the skills to become personal beauticians, accountants, manicurists, gardeners, repairmen, and a million other professions we have no training for. I wonder if I can test out for my doctorate in the Serving Wench/Handmaiden Arts.

I now keep in my workbag a small ratchet set, nail polish remover, duct tape, setting lotion, a 1945 cookbook, and a myriad of other odd supplies. It makes my bag heavy, but I have an impressive muscle building up on my right shoulder. I’m trying to get into the habit of carrying it on my left side, to even things out, but it feels too awkward.

Oh, just to note: I’ve washed more wrinkled old willies and powdered under more saggy boobs than I care to think about. Just thought you should know.

See, I’m a Ducky Home Helper.

Yes, seriously.

That’s the company I work for: Ducky Home Helpers.

I’ll just give you a moment to wrap your head around the idea that someone, somewhere, jumped up out of their seat and cried out, "Yes! We’ll call it Ducky Home Helpers! I’m brilliant!"

To add to the humiliation, we are required to wear the company shirt. It’s a sunshine-yellow polo shirt with the company’s trademark on the front (a winking, cartoon duck wearing an apron and giving the thumbs-up), and the oh-so-inspiring company motto on the back in screaming capital letters, "SHAKING A TAIL-FEATHER FOR YOU!" I am allotted two of these punishments per year. Generally, they wash fairly well, but mine are all blotched with permanent stains of coffee, heaven-only-knows spots, and accidental bleach splashes. Fortunately, I didn’t have to wear it today, as it’s only a quick meeting and I have the rest of the day off.

But even though he’s a handful, Brenda continues, "I know you can manage it. I have faith in you. The other girls were still too new to know how to handle someone like this. It’ll be nice to finally get through a full week without getting a phone call about something he’s done. You’re the ace up my sleeve."

The ace? I’m getting played all right! What she’s actually saying is, I’m sick of dealing with this problem client, so I’m throwing empty flattery at you so you’ll tough it out rather than risk losing my esteem by bothering me when you find out he’s a complete ass and brings new meaning to the word ‘non-compliant’.

I hold back a sigh and force myself to look pleased at the plate of bullshit she’s just served me. It’s true that two of Sullen Grullen’s Ducky Helpers were fairly new and had only lasted a week or so, but Heather had been a well-seasoned Helper, hired well before I started, and she’d lasted barely a month. Of course, in her case, there were extenuating circumstances; she’d been ‘quietly urged to resign’ after Sullen Grullen and another client had reported missing valuables. I’m not supposed to know any of this. I overheard two of the nurses talking about it while I was waiting for my appointment with Brenda.

Finally free from the oppression that is Brenda’s office, I head toward the Liquid Insomnia Cafe with my mind on Heather and my new client.

That’s usually the way it goes. Something’s missing? Hired help took it. Something’s damaged? Hired help broke it. The neighbor’s dog keeps pooping on the lawn? It stormed outside and lightning blew up the television? The wrong politician got elected? Hired help’s fault!

We take the rap for everything. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a client throw a hissy fit over a missing item, point the finger at me, and then eventually find it. Of course, after being accused, I must have put it back, right? Yes, of course! Apparently, I’m a klepto when it comes to denture brushes, hemorrhoid ointment, and random parts and pieces to things that no longer function.

Speaking of random parts and pieces...

One of my former clients, the late Mrs. Smithers, was fun and lively and played a mean card game of King’s Corners. She also had her home cluttered with more tacky knick-knacks than even the most hardened gift-shop junkie could hoard. Dusting them would have been a nightmare if spending time with her wasn’t so much fun.

Currently, I believe her family are still fighting over her possessions. Funny thing is, I’d been with Mrs. Smithers since I started this job –and I’d never met a single one of those people until her funeral! The husband of one of her daughters asked me if I’d like to have anything to remember her by, but everyone swarmed in to tell him that I wasn’t family and it wasn’t his place to hand out her belongings to random strangers. Random strangers?! I’d politely declined, hoping to keep the peace, but a few of them couldn’t let it drop and spent the entire funeral talking loudly about how hired help always try to take advantage of the elderly. Assholes.

I actually would have liked to have had her old cigar box with the large-print deck of cards in it. It wasn’t worth anything to anyone, but had sentimental value to me. After four years of playing King’s Corners three days a week with her, it was a bit of a shock for me when she died. Two weeks ago, her Meals-on-Wheels delivery lady found her at her desk, in front of her computer. The last thing she’d posted was a humorously captioned picture of Grumpy Cat. I miss her. She’d never accused me of anything wayward.

Which brings my mind back to Heather. I have to admit, having two clients accuse her of thieving actual valuables within days of each other is a little too coincidental. I’d met her a few times during mandatory in-services, and she’d seemed so sweet. Just goes to show you, you can never judge a book by its cov– Oh, ew! That’s something my mother would say! Meh.

I finally arrive at the cafe and order my usual from the hot, way-too-young-for-me barista and sit myself by the window. After a few minutes, he brings my drink order to my table.

Your usual, Mocha Crème with just a hint of orange, Milady, he says, gazing deep into my eyes and delivering a sexy, crooked smile to my currently un-caffeinated soul as the combined aroma of chocolate, coffee, and orange softly embraces my heart. For a moment, I feel more like an ‘Ambrosia’ than an ‘Amy’.

I smile dreamily and quickly swallow before I drool... Ooh, yeah!... this place is so worth the overpricing!...

I can never remember whether the hot barista’s name is Brandon or Brendan so I surreptitiously glance at his name tag. It says Brayden.

Thank you, Brayden. You know me so well!

I hand him a tip. He takes it without breaking eye contact and deepens his smile before retreating behind the counter.

Now, I know that the twenty-something year old barista flirting with the thirty-*cough* year old me is simply trying to increase his tips, but I always suck up the flattery in all its feigned glory and tip well. It’s worth it. The unspoken reciprocal agreement leaves us both happy. After all, where else can I get that much of an ego boost by someone who’s not trying to get me into bed? And it only costs me a few dol-

Oh. Let’s not think about it that way, shall we? That makes it sound a bit... Well, let’s not tarnish my little indulgence. Moving on...

I really enjoy the atmosphere here. It’s clean and uncluttered without feeling institutional. The curved walls are painted a soft mauve with fern-green trim. The little tables are also green, accompanied by comfortable mauve chairs. Live ivy plants dot the room. The restroom is always clean, well-stocked, and smells of bleach and eucalyptus –I’m a stickler for a clean restroom. Yes, I could happily live here.

I pull the heavy file from my bag and open it in front of me. Hmm... Mr. Laszlo Grullen...

The top page is his need-to-know medical information, for which I’m sworn to secrecy and must not reveal to anyone, ever, so help me. Number One Rule of Ducky Helpers: No One Talks About Ducky Helpers. The papers I’d signed for Brenda were mostly about confidentiality.

I stop short and look up at the Author, who is glued to her laptop, writing my thoughts and completely neglecting her own domestic duties.

Go wash your dishes! I yell, knowing she’ll let her house rot and family starve if she’s not reminded to attend to her own weird little world once in a while.

She ignores me.

Go on! I’m not going anywhere! You’ll find me right where you left me when you come back!

I watch the Author frown as she shoots a rubber band at my head. Fortunately, she can’t hit the broad side of a barn with a spatula. I cross my arms over my chest, lean back in my seat and give her my best stubborn I’m-not-doing-jack-shit-until-you-comply look.

It works.

I swear, do I have to take care of everyone?

I turn back to the page in front of me and read: Heart attack two years ago, overweight, occasional vertigo. Meds for heart, supplements, low-fat diet. Must use cane or walker.

That’s it? I flip the page over to check the back, just in case, but it’s blank. Usually the list is a lot longer. Not bad. A little vague, though. I’d thought there would be pages and pages, given the amount of papers in the folder. It occurs to me that our clients have to approve their medical information before it can be released to the helpers. Perhaps this is all Mr. Grullen would agree to.

The second page is a copy of the list of tasks I’m responsible for. I signed the original at the office. It’s pretty standard: basic cleaning, laundering as needed, help with cooking, aide in bathing and dressing. And I also have to eat the yard, as usual. No challenge there.

Eat the yard? What? Oh.

As I expected, I look up to find the Author’s daughter chuckling at me. She likes to sneak on and create a silliness the moment the Author steps away.

Skedaddle, you! I say, waving her away.

I re-read the tasks and snicker quietly to myself, knowing these lists are useless and rarely, if ever, reflect reality. I’ll just have to find out as I go along, as usual.

The last stack of pages are notes from the previous helpers.

Oh, my goodness! No wonder no one sticks with him for very long!

I’ve never known a client to have this many FYI notes on record! I scan over the pages, stopping at random notations.

Will send me to grocer to return fruit that is over three weeks old because it is starting to rot.

Will not allow me to help him in shower. Refuses to take a shower if I’m in the house. Rarely showers even when I’m not in the house. Really, really, really, REALLY needs to bathe more often.

Has tons of boxes and bags of musty old clothes that haven’t fit him since he was in his twenties. Won’t get rid of them. Claims they are expensive and he may fit into them again someday. Won’t let me wash them for storage, either, claiming I’ll ruin them.

Demands a kiss before I leave for the day. I’ve taken to keeping a supply of the candies in my bag. It suffices.

He is a collector. Of everything. Is very protective of his stuff!

When it’s time to pay, he will fake a sudden onset of chest pains. I get him a glass of water and an aspirin and he’s fine. I’m now sure to ask him to pay well in advance of the time I’m done for the day, because his dramatics usually take a while.

Always asks me to make him a screwdriver. This means orange juice and water. The water is in a vodka bottle. I assure you, it IS only water. I refill from faucet when it gets too low, but I don’t let him see me do it, per his request. It’s one of his weird idiosyncrasies.

He has a tendency to lose shoes. Has about 30 or so single shoes with no match. Will not let me throw them out.

Important! If he’s in the bathroom and yells HOLY SHIT!!, do not –I repeat– do not go in there! I made that mistake and have learned my lesson!

If he wants to get rid of me, he sends me to the store for things that don’t exist, no longer exist, or are practically impossible to find. Examples: Left-handed wrench, blank 8-track tapes, yellow typewriter ribbon, a current map of Siam, and so on.

Will eat food that is outdated or has been sitting out too long. Check in the nightstand beside his bed for containers of food that need refrigeration.

At this point, I have the sensation I am being watched. I look up to see a good-looking guy, sitting two tables away, staring at me. He looks to be a little older than me, with dark hair and these dark amazing eyes –which are staring unblinkingly straight at me. I feel my scalp prickle under his gaze.

I wonder if I’d been whispering, reading out loud. Or if I have something hanging from my nose. Do I have a mocha-mustache? Is my hair sticking up?

Well, so what if it is! I declare self-righteously to myself. Who cares what some stranger thinks! I will not be my mother and worry about what everyone thinks!

Resolved to not be like Mom, I stare straight back at the man, violently mess up my hair with both hands, then take a swig of my mocha, intentionally leaving a chocolate dot on my nose and foam mustache on my lip.

Good-Looking-Guy starts as if jerked out of a reverie. His eyes seem to refocus.

Oh. Oh, I see. Okay. So, perhaps he was staring off into space, lost in thought, zoned out, and just didn’t realize his eyes were aimed at me. I’ve done that many times. It’s embarrassing enough to be caught staring without having the staree respond like I just did.

Way to over-react, Amy!

Good-Looking-Guy and I are staring at each other. He raises an eyebrow and gives me a strange little smile before turning in his seat to face the window.

I picture what this good-looking man’s first real look at me must have been: A rabid Medusa, foaming at the mouth. How attractive! I unsuccessfully will myself not to blush as I wipe the mocha off my face with a napkin in one hand while I quickly finger-comb my hair with the other. I hear the little Mom-voice in my head saying, "Oh? So now you care what other people think? Good-looking men in particular?"

No, no I don’t! I have a boyfriend! I don’t need the approval of strange men to feel good about myself! I’m not my mom and I’m not like Cheri, either!

Cheri, born Cheryl Ann Barsetti, is one of my two best friends, the other one being my own sister. The three of us have been a trio since elementary school with Cheri a year older than myself and Jane a year younger. Upon discovering my and Jane’s ‘real’ names in the fourth grade, she’d taken to calling herself Che’ryl. It sounds like she’s saying ‘shay-rill’. She legally changed her name to Che’ryl Angelique Barsetti the moment she turned of-age. Parroting my mother, to my and Jane’s annoyance, Cheri’s always harped on about how we were lucky to be given such exotic sounding names and cannot understand why we went by such boring nicknames and should be proud of our names. Of course, this is coming from a grown woman who to this very day has not told her mother she’d changed her name.

Jane and I rent half of a duplex together, with the other side occupied by Miss Molly, our widowed landlady. We sub-let our third bedroom to Cheri when she’s between husbands. Currently, the third bedroom is vacant.

Speak of the devil...

Hello, Ambrosia! Cheri calls out to me as she click-clacks into the cafe’s entryway in her fashionable heels, toting a trendy little purse and multiple shopping bags from stores I can’t even afford to window-shop at.

Jane follows right behind, wearing her usual attire of a safari shirt with matching cargo shorts and hiking boots. Although she’s never worn one, the mind’s eye automatically visualizes an Indiana-Jones style hat on her head, her long brown braid hanging down her back. She tends to get followed around department stores by employees or undercover security because she doesn’t use a purse; instead, she carries a backpack. It services as a purse, shopping bag, and primitive living supply pack –you know, just in case the zombie apocalypse suddenly hits and we somehow end up stuck on an iceberg in the desert. She likes to say, "If we’re in a plane crash and find ourselves stranded on a deserted island, we will survive, no problem!" Honestly, if we’re in a plane crash, it means one would have to fall out of the sky on top of us because we’ve never even been in the airport parking lot together, let alone inside an airplane.

Jane waves hello to me as she passes, joining Cheri at the counter. She rolls her eyes at me and toys with a coupon while waiting patiently for Cheri to finish fawning over Brenton... Bradden... hot-barista-guy... so she can place her order.

Hot-barista-guy is all the polite gentleman, but doesn’t play up much to Cheri, knowing she doesn’t tip nearly enough for how demanding and particular she is. Her displeasure at his lack of interest is short-lived, though, as she spots Good-Looking-Guy. Finishing her order, she helps herself to the chair at my left, angling it to face the man’s table, so I end up having to talk to her profile. He’s still half-facing the window, though, and hasn’t seen her yet. She uses his lack of attention to check herself in her compact mirror, patting her dark hair in its perfect updo though there’s not a strand out of place.

Oh, Ambrosia, dear! she gushes a little too loudly in an attempt to make her presence known to him. "I came across such wonderful sales today! You should have come shopping with me! Even you could have afforded a few of them!"

Cheri is a pro at unintentional insults. She believes she’s saying something helpful or nice and doesn’t realize how it sounds. At least that’s what I sometimes tell myself.

Sorry, but I had that meeting at work this morning, I reply, ignoring the slight.

"Jane won’t go into the good shops with me, she pouts. She knows better than to call Jane by her given name. The first and last time she did was during recess in elementary school. Jane pinned her to the muddy ground, yelling, SAY MY NAME!" until Cheri promised to always call her ‘Jane’. Jane got detention for that. The following week Jane staged a peaceful protest after school, picketing for better detention conditions, feeling there wasn’t enough mental stimulation or access to the water fountain. My mother was absolutely appalled, (What will the neighbors think!), but my father, full of pride, stormed down to the school and raised all hell when they tried to give her detention again for it. The next day, I’d heard the detention hall had gained a small, portable radio and students were permitted to bring beverages in lidded containers. Jane still wasn’t happy, but Dad had a talk with us about choosing our battles and when to know we’ve won. I think I was only included in that talk because Dad was hoping some of Jane would rub off on me.

Cheri continues to complain, "She always wanders away to some manly store and wants to look at men’s merchandise. I’ve never understood her fascination with men’s tools!"

Jane grins at the possible innuendo as she sits herself across from me, effectively blocking Cheri’s view of Good-Looking-Guy. Cheri immediately feels the need to rearrange her bags by her feet and, in doing so, adjusts her chair to accommodate the view she’s after. I can now see her whole face, but she’s sitting about two-and-a-half feet away from the table.

"I don’t go to a man’s store, for heaven’s sake! Jane laughs. And if I did, what makes you think I’m not shopping for my boyfriend? You make it sound like I’m shopping for men’s clothing for myself! You know I haven’t cross-dressed since high school!"

Cheri eyes up Jane’s outfit, but Jane wisely continues before Cheri can voice her opinion. "And anyway, camping and hiking gear, lawn and gardening tools, and health supplements are not men’s shops. They are for everyone! Me, Kenneth, you... everyone!"

Jane’s boyfriend, Kenneth, is currently somewhere about the country mapping the migration pattern of some species of bird. He’s often gone months at a time, following one type of bird or another, then lecturing about it. Usually I have no idea what he’s talking about, lectures aside –even when we’re just chit-chatting about the weather. Jane doesn’t get to see him much, but they talk and text on the phone a lot. It’s a relationship that I, personally, couldn’t live with, but it seems to work well for them. Oh, and never call him ‘Ken’. He goes by ‘Kenneth’.

Brenner-Braddon-whatever-hot-barista brings Cheri and Jane’s drinks to our table. He climbs the wall like a spider and jumps down, screams like a little chipmunk, and gives it to them.

I blink. My jaw hangs slack in utter confusion. What the hell?

I notice the Author’s youngest daughter is sitting at the Author’s laptop again, giggling like crazy.

"Oh, stop that! This is my life, you know! Go get your mother! I scowl fiercely, NOW!"

I watch as she scurries away.

The Author apologizes profusely. Let’s try that again, shall we?

Brenner-Braddon-whatever-hot-barista brings the drinks to our table, handing Cheri hers first and announcing, "One caramel, hazelnut, mocha latte with a half-shot of espresso, light foam, filled two thirds of the way to the top, then add skim milk to fill, add a