The Tides by Melanie Tem Page A

at the nursery buying tulip bulbs — and they'd spent the day together gardening and having lunch and then the night. Thinking about that night and every other night since, thinking ahead to tonight with Adele, Ros felt sinful and joyful at the same time, both feelings stronger than anything she'd experienced in years, maybe in all her life.
     
    Half-asleep and obsessing over Adele, she'd cut somebody off on the highway and missed the Elm Street turnoff, for Chrissake, which made her even later than she already was. She had trouble with the key in the back door and then stumbled over a bucket the supper crew had left in the way. Just before she'd flipped on the light switch, she'd thought she glimpsed somebody else in the empty, dim, echoing dining room, flitting from table to table, wearing purple. Ros didn't know who it was and couldn't take time to look. By the time she got herself situated, coffee started (stronger than recommended; no self-respecting coffee drinker could stomach the dishwater the budget called for), and went out to do a quick check of the dining room, she hadn't seen anybody but Morley.
     
    She kept looking over her shoulder, though, and squinting into the shadows behind the cooler, behind the doors. She couldn't shake the feeling that somebody else was there, just outside her field of vision, making a disturbance not quite loud enough for her to hear. Amazing what lack of sleep and a sex drive newly awakened and impossible to satisfy could do to you. She'd been better off married and celibate.
     
    Bob Morley gave her the creeps. For one thing, he was tall and big-jointed, kind of like Abe Lincoln. And he looked right at you. Not many people around here did that. His blue eyes were like windows on a war, whole regiments in there, whole armies, most of the bloodshed from friendly fire. You always had the feeling you were walking into an ambush. Ros didn't much like being alone with him early in the morning. On top of everything else, he had a rancid body odor that could curl your hair.
     
    For all that, Ros got a kick out of the fact that Bob Morley and Petra Carrasco were getting it on, not least because it scandalized practically everybody else around here. The two of them couldn't keep their hands off each other. There was a time when Ros wouldn't have understood that. Now, her palms itched to be following the sweet swell of Adele's breast, her own nipples hardened before she was even consciously aware of thinking about Adele, and she felt an unwelcome comradeship with Bob Morley, of all people.
     
    There wasn't enough pancake batter for the second shift. Gordon Marek alone could eat a dozen pancakes, and Ros didn't see why he shouldn't. Annoyed with herself for the oversight and with Adele for distracting her, she hefted the big box of pancake mix and decided there was enough left for another breakfast after this one. She detested using mixes and prepackaged crap, but there wasn't time or money to make things from scratch. For a minute she indulged herself in a fantasy about bran and banana pancakes. Bran would help these people's bathroom problems — hey all had bathroom problems of one kind or another — and bananas were good for their electrolytes, which could make old people dizzy and confused if they weren't balanced. Ros knew a helluva lot more about nutrition than anybody gave her credit for.
     
    She poured mix into the huge stainless steel bowl and added water without bothering to measure any of it. She wedged in the big beaters and lowered them into the bowl. The mixer shrieked when she turned it on. Holding the bowl precariously with one hand, daring it to spill or break, she leaned over to check how much fruit she had. Four gallon cans. Sweetened fruit. There was no earthly reason she couldn't serve these people fresh fruit in season. She resolved to talk to Rebecca about that, for all the good it would do. Ros did not like working for a woman, especially one young enough to be her