He took it from her, reading the title. The Hundred Year Lie, authored by a guy named Randall Fitzgerald. He furrowed his brow and looked up. “Looks…interesting.”
“It’s about how the accumulation of toxins in our bodies and the environment is – well, you have to read it.”
Preston couldn’t say no to that beautiful face with the beautiful smile. But as he committed silently to read it, somehow he knew the book, as well as this tiny family sharing their meal with him, was about to turn his world upside down.
“You should make him read Wheat Belly, too, Mom,” Melissa said.
Cynthia glanced from her to him, and back. “I’m not making him read anything. I’m inviting him to.”
Preston set the book beside him on the table and smiled at Melissa. “Have you read that book?”
She shook her head. “I tried, but the language is too grown-up for me.” She cut her eyes toward her mother. “But it’s all about how modern wheat, even organic wheat, makes people sick in all kinds of ways because of the huge amount of gluten in it. Right, Mom?”
“Basically.” She shifted her eyes back to Preston. “You’re welcome to borrow that, too, at some point, but you’re already overwhelmed as it is.”
She didn’t know the half of it. Up until a few minutes ago, he had decided he was going to tell the truth about where he worked. Sure, she might kick him out on his rear. But if she were like most people who went on a health kick, she would be over it in a month and, if they were meant to be a couple, would call him back.
She was not going to be over this in a month. She was in this too deep, apparently devouring books on the subject in her spare time. And he knew from their last visit that she had about as much spare time as he did.
Not much.
Besides, his mind was spinning with all the new information – new to him, anyway – that she and Melissa had so generously shared. Generously, and enthusiastically.
Yep, there was no doubt about it. One way or another, he was toast.
Gluten-free, of course.
**********
Since it was a school night, they didn’t have time for a movie once dinner ended, so they played a couple of board games before Preston went home. Cynthia kept sneaking glances at him, hoping, wondering. She hoped that his questions tonight indicated a serious interest in his own health, not just idle curiosity for what she and Melissa were doing. Wondered that several times during the conversation, he seemed more than overwhelmed.
A couple of times she was certain she caught a flicker of guilt in his eyes, and more than a trace of uncertainty. A couple of times, he had been on the verge of saying something – she could tell by the way he’d opened his mouth and postured himself – but then clamped his mouth shut and relaxed back into his chair.
Well, maybe “relaxed” wasn’t the right word, because both times his jaw clenched slightly while his normally smooth brow wrinkled. Only for a couple of seconds, but she’d noticed.
At least this time he’d seemed more open to hear what both she and her daughter had to say about their new choice of diet. She surprised herself with her confidence and excitement, because this was all so new to her and the information on diet out there was often so contradictory and confusing.
Or, maybe her feelings had nothing to do with her newfound knowledge and everything to do with the fact that a kind, handsome man was sitting at her supper table, apparently taking an avid interest in her.
In her daughter.
And there was another hope. She hoped that his interest in Melissa was genuine. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe that there was no chance he was treating her daughter like a princess in order to get to Cynthia. But the more they talked, laughed, and played, the less she feared that this might be the case.
Preston reminded her of Justin: kind, solicitous, honest. He wasn’t as soft-spoken as Justin had been, but that was likely for the best. She didn’t want to expect that Preston would replace her deceased husband. That would be a greater burden for him than to read the book he’d borrowed tonight.
Another hope: she strongly hoped he would bring the book back, because she needed to re-read it at least five more times in order to absorb and understand the information itself, as well as the ramifications implied by the information.
Thirty minutes past Melissa’s usual weekday bedtime, Cynthia reluctantly insisted that Preston go. She could have had him stay after Melissa had gone to bed, but Cynthia was tired herself and couldn’t afford to take a day off from her business.
“Thank you so much for the delicious meal.” Standing at the door, Preston looked from Cynthia to Melissa, smiling, his gloved fingers holding the book against his side. When his gaze alighted back on Cynthia’s face, their eyes locked for a long moment.
“We should get together again soon,” she ventured, suddenly feeling shy.
“I’ll call you.”
Was Preston’s voice shaking? He wasn’t nervous, was he? Yes, he was. That made her feel better.
He broke eye contact with her, and turned to her daughter. “Melissa. Would you mind if I gave your mother a hug?”
Melissa shook her head, grinning slyly. “As long as you hug me first. And no lips. It’s too soon.”
The declaration broke the spell, and both Cynthia and Preston laughed as he reached his arms out to the girl. Then he met Cynthia’s gaze again. If it weren’t for Melissa, he would have kissed her, she could just tell. But his embrace was nice enough. Warm and gentle, but still strong. Lingering.
As he pulled back, Cynthia felt a little dizzy from the closeness. The light smell of aftershave that lingered around him, the caress of his arms, the touch of his cheek against hers, awakened sensations deep inside her that had been asleep for a long time.
Sensations that told her it was too late. Too late to avoid Preston for the sake of focusing on her healthy-food-for-kids mission. Too late to pretend that the memory of Justin was enough.
Too late, regardless of how Preston felt, not to fall in love.
Chapter Sixteen
It was too late. If Preston thought he was going to keep thinking of Cynthia as just a friend, or going to be able to harden himself against the inevitable pain that would come when he finally talked straight with her about his job, he had blown it tonight. He hadn’t felt desperate to kiss her, as Melissa had feared. He’d tried moving fast with women before, and moving slowly, and discovered that the latter was always the wiser course. Still, he had wanted, more than anything, to show her some affection. Even though in reality they hadn’t spent that much time together, in his soul he felt like he’d known her for years. And wanted to physically express what their friendship was coming to mean to him.
He hadn’t expected her touch to arouse in him the desire that had been aroused. Not just physical, but emotional as well. He’d had to force himself to leave her house that night, struggling against a powerful longing to sit up with her all night and learn as much about her as he could – her past, her hopes, her dreams, her fears. More than anything, he wanted to learn if she was feeling as strongly toward him as he was toward her. He believed she was, since she had invited him back.
But he didn’t know if he would come back. If she called Kelly to find out the “scoop behind the soup”, what would stop her from finding out the names of the company leaders? His name was, after all, listed on both the national corporate website as well as the smaller website for the regional headquarters. And she had apparently been online a lot these days, doing research.
And when she found out who he really was, she would not want him to come back.
As he had a few days ago, all the way home he wrestled with this idea. Except this time, the fight was so painful his chest began to ache. He could give up a promising career that paid a salary that put him in the top five percent of wage earners in the U.S., and be able to continue on with his relationship with Cynthia. Or, he could keep his financial and career future secure, and lose Cynthia.
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The catch-22 about the whole thing was that he had no guarantee he had a future with Cynthia. Of course, with the way things were going with Delico, he had no guarantees there, either. On the other hand, if he left Delico now, he would have a hard time trying to ascertain whether or not the company truly did have anything to do with Melissa and the other St. Peter students’ illnesses. If he could convince Cynthia his job gave him a position to help her in her plight, would it make a difference?
By the time he got up to the floor where his apartment was, he’d grown exhausted by the mental tug-of-war. All he wanted was to get into bed, pull the covers over his head, and sleep like Rip Van Winkle, waking up to a brand new world where all his previous troubles were but a distant memory. The last time he had had such an urge was when he was eighteen. When his father died – because Preston had copped out on his convictions.
As he traipsed down the hall to his door, another door opened. The door to Karen’s apartment, he realized too late.
In a flash, the girl was beside him, clinging to his arm with both hands, smelling of wine and dressed in – could he even say that she was dressed? Frilly, lacy lingerie, a scanty top and a bikini bottom, barely covered her private parts.
“Preston, I’ve been waiting for you all night.”
He scoffed, keeping his eyes straight ahead after that first glance and trying to shake her from his arm. “It’s only nine o’clock. That’s hardly all night.”
Her fingers gripped him more tightly. “All the more time for us to have a little fun.”
Preston stopped walking, grabbed both her wrists in his hand, and peeled her hands off his arm. “Look, I’ve told you before, you’re too young for me. Besides, I’m seeing somebody else.” Thank God, he could honestly tell her that now.
“So? Are you engaged?” Her voice was sweet and seductive.
“None of your business.” He tried to walk away, but she kept pace with him.
“Even if you were committed, there’s no law against having a little fun on the side.”
“My mother would say differently.” It just slipped out, and he immediately regretted it.
“Your mother?” Karen’s tone became mocking. “Are you still under Mommy’s thumb?”
“No, but – “
“Spend the night with me. Just this once.”
Preston, nearly at his door, stopped abruptly and pivoted around to glare at her. With strength he didn’t know was inside him, he managed to keep his eyes on hers, ignoring the rest of her body.
Her beautiful, voluptuous body that reeked of female desire. Even without looking at it, its presence made his vulnerable emotional state go off-kilter. Just a little.
He inhaled deeply, reminding himself that he was not cheap, nor a womanizer. He felt his gaze soften. “Karen, I don’t do cheap sex.”
The hurt immediately registered in her eyes. “Cheap? You think I’m cheap?”
Preston glanced around, afraid that her shouts would be heard by the neighbors. “That’s not what I –“
“Fine!” She stepped away from him. “If that’s what you think of me, it’s over between us. Hear me? You’ve blown it, mister!”
She whirled around and began stomping toward her apartment as his next door neighbor, another single businessman, opened his door. He glanced at Preston, then stared after Karen’s scantily- clad figure with wide eyes. “I wouldn’t mind some cheap sex.”
Preston almost said, “Help yourself.” But he didn’t want to see Karen used any more than he would use her himself. Instead, he shook his head at the man – whose short, obese body would likely have no chance with Karen, anyway – and said, “You need to think better of yourself.”
As he went into his apartment, he realized that his mother had just come out of his mouth again. Perhaps Karen was right, in a way. But if being under his mother’s thumb meant that he would be less of a screw-up, that wasn’t such a bad thing.
**********
Taking a tour through the factory on her lunch break on Thursday was an eye-opener for Lucy. She had had an idea of what went on, of course, but actually seeing all the machines and the huge vats of steaming liquid and watching robots pour pre-mixed additives into various cans and containers cemented her conviction that the resulting products were as natural foods for the human body as were yarn, quilting pins and knitting needles.
She had asked dozens of questions, careful to avoid any that would make her sound critical or skeptical, and studied the different lines of production with hawk-like eyes. But nothing she saw or heard gave her any reason to believe that anything fishy was – or had been – going on in this factory.
She either needed to dig deeper, or decide that the poisoning of the food was happening on the various school campuses, not at any of the factories of the companies that provided school meals. She would dig as deeply as she could, of course, but the second possibility began to make more sense. If Delico – or anybody else – was putting out dangerous foods, why wasn’t anyone in the general public getting sick from them? Why just the kids at school – and why only a few kids?
Cynthia had given her a partial answer to that when she’d told her that Melissa had revealed that several of the kids around her that fateful day had complained about the taste of the lunch, and then not eaten it. But what about all the other kids? Were their lunches distasteful, too, or just the batch of food for Melissa’s class?
Lucy had held fast to her vow not to discuss anything else about the tainted food issue with her husband, but she had to talk to somebody. So after supper, she went into the bedroom to call her former partner in crime.
“Ick,” was Erin Halley’s comment when Lucy had summarized her factory tour. “It’s a wonder people who eat that stuff aren’t dead within ten years.”
“They maybe are half dead.” Lucy shifted on the bed. “They just don’t know it.”
“Not till they have a heart attack.”
“Or get diagnosed with cancer.”
“Or suddenly develop Parkinson’s.” Erin’s voice rose with excitement. Lucy wondered if she could quit teaching school and make twice the money she did now by channeling her enthusiasm for healthy eating into some sort of business.
Lucy tried to keep her voice down, but felt the same excitement. “Of course, then they blame it on genes.”
“Or bad luck.” Erin paused. “This doesn’t have anything to do with food, but my and Leila’s classes are bussing over to Wainwright next week to perform for their Kindergarten classes. Do you have any idea whether this would require a field trip permission letter signed by the parents? I’ve e-mailed Mr. Wade, and left him a note in his mailbox, but for some reason he’s not getting back to me.”
Lucy told her that if the kids were getting on a bus, even if for only half a mile, she needed to count it as a field trip and at least notify the parents to give them an opportunity to forbid their children from going.
That was the end of the conversation, and after, Lucy felt she wasn’t done talking about all she had seen today at the plant. Witnessing the actual processing of what had once been nutritious food had given her a whole new perspective, spawning dozens of new thoughts and questions. A short phone call wasn’t enough. She needed to sit down with somebody and share what she was thinking, somebody sympathetic to her cause.
Not Mario. And not Emma, because she was a little too young to take in everything swirling through Lucy’s mind. Nearly in high school, the girl had enough stress in her life without Lucy adding to it.
Looking down at the phone she still cradled in her hand, Lucy scrolled through her contacts until she found Cynthia’s number. A few minutes later, the two women agreed to meet together for a couple of hours on Saturday morning.
***********
“This can’t be true.”
Preston sat in his recliner on Thursday night, reading the book Cynthia had lent him. Non-fiction, especially diet-related, was not the genre he typically read. The suspense-thriller
novel, Koontz and Grisham style, was his usual pick. But this relatively slim volume was turning out to be just as riveting.
He’d started reading as he ate dinner, and now sat in his recliner, unable to put the book down. His muttered comment didn’t reflect his belief that the author was making things up as much as his fear that the author was relaying straight facts. More than that – truth. If Fitzgerald was indeed revealing a truth about the modern world and how its inundation with toxic substances was gradually and progressively destroying not only the planet, but even the brains of each successive generation of people, whether or not Preston was going to stick with his career was more than a matter of catching or losing the woman he wanted. It was a serious matter of moral and ethics.
Even the fact that Delico used chemical dyes and oodles of plastic every year in its packaging was enough to indict the company under this author’s scrutiny. But Preston hadn’t gotten to be V.P. of a big company for nothing. He was smart enough to know not to take the word of one person. He got up out of the chair, went to his computer, and began searching and surfing.
An hour later, stunned by what he’d discovered, he knew the author was in no way misinforming, misleading, or deceiving his readers. Where had this information been all his life? And could it be true that just because he was cancer-, Alzheimer’s-, and Parkinson’s-free now did not mean that the cocktail of toxins that had been growing inside him since before birth was going to cause him serious pain, misery, and financial loss ten, twenty, thirty years ahead?
By this time, it was getting late. Preston needed to somehow find time to do some of his own investigating into the school lunch illnesses, and if he was going to get an early start on things tomorrow he needed to go to bed soon. But he could spare a few more minutes. He sat back down in his recliner, intending to read just the next chapter. Four chapters later, he went to bed, his mind reeling so that it took him another forty minutes to finally drop off into a restless sleep.
The next day, Friday, he wanted nothing more than an excuse to drive out to the plant again. After a morning staff meeting, the excuse came. Another quality inspector was scheduled to show up at the factory at one. Perfect. Preston was required to be there, so he did not have to risk raising suspicion by shirking his office duties in order to make an unplanned trip out. Not that Guy would have cared, but if Preston were to receive an e-mail from the national office and not respond in a timely manner, things could get ugly.