Scratch the Surface

stellar fashion. “If anything, your readers want to meet your protagonist. Or they expect to.”
    “My protagonist is a man,” said Janice, “so they can’t honestly expect me to be him.”
    “What matters for you,” said Felicity, “is your sense of having to be a star.”
    “But my hair is awful. I’ve been thinking about going blonde. Could I ask you who does your hair?”
    “Her name is Naomi. But I have to warn you—”
    “Oh, I know! She must be hideously expensive. Cheap hair color looks so... cheap, doesn’t it? But money is no object.”
    “Money is always an object,” said Felicity.
     

 
    Seconds after informing Janice that money was always an object, Felicity reminded herself that time, too, was always an object, especially her own time, and that she shouldn’t waste too much of it on this business of Janice’s scam. Having intended to serve an early dinner, she had cooked the rice, which was keeping warm in Aunt Thelma’s new rice steamer. A small roasted chicken with no seasoning except salt was in the oven, and the green beans, which she’d blanched, needed only to finish cooking in a little butter. She now rose and began to heat the green beans.
    “A drop of wine with dinner?” she offered.
    “Well, a little tiny bit, I guess. You know, if you eat raw oysters, you’re supposed to drink white wine with them. It minimizes your chances of getting hepatitis.”
    “We’re not having oysters on the half shell, I’m afraid. Just roast chicken.” It occurred to Felicity that the meal she’d prepared was so unexciting as to be almost Scottish. Her maternal grandmother had often served chicken. She had prepared it by boiling it in gallons of plain water for many hours. “But we can still have white wine.”
    “Actually, chicken is crawling with bacteria.”
    The bottle in the refrigerator was a white burgundy. As Felicity opened and poured it, she found herself thinking that it was a shame to waste it on Janice. She should have saved it for Ronald, who would have appreciated it. Even Ronald would not have referred to its germicidal properties. When she had served the food and taken a seat, she didn’t bother to raise her glass. Janice hadn’t waited for her, but was already sipping the wine while stroking Brigitte. At the sight and smell of the roast chicken, which Felicity had arranged on a small platter, Brigitte abandoned Janice to poke a curious nose into the food. Without consulting Felicity, Janice picked her up and placed her on the floor. “There are limits,” she said.
    Felicity had intended to delay the confrontation until the end of the meal, but she was annoyed to have Janice take it upon herself to remove Brigitte from the table. Had Felicity been a guest at someone else’s house, she’d have been disgusted by the presence of a cat on the dinner table and nauseated by the thought of eating food that a cat had already sampled. This, however, was not someone else’s house, and if anyone were to set limits on Brigitte, she herself, and not Janice, should do it. “There’s something we need to discuss,” she said.
    “My book! I am so happy that you like it.”
    “Actually, it’s something else.” Felicity kept her eyes on the chicken she was cutting. Instead of describing her visit to Tony’s Deli and going on to accuse Janice of fraud, she spoke obliquely. “I went to Jamaica Plain this morning.” She ate a bit of chicken. “And before I say more, I want you to know that I understand your motives and that I sympathize.”
    “Empathize.”
    Empathize? Felicity did not question the correction aloud. In fact, enjoying as she did a high opinion of her own communication skills, she disregarded the possibility that she and Janice were talking about two entirely different matters. In Felicity’s view, her own mastery of verbal expression usually eliminated the risk that she would be misunderstood or would misinterpret the blundering efforts of others. Janice, she decided, failed to comprehend the distinction between sympathy and empathy. “I do understand,” she said magnanimously.
    “Of course you do. You of all people!”
    If Felicity’s conscience had been clear, she would probably have realized that she and Janice were speaking at crosspurposes. As it was, Felicity bristled. She was no thief! Keeping Uncle Bob’s cash didn’t count. She had inherited the house and its contents. Therefore, she had inherited the fireproof box. “It’s ironic