Leftovers by Heather Waldorf Page B

pulls out chairs. “Here, ladies. Let’s sit.” He yanks open the fridge door and pulls out a pitcher. “Lemonade?” he asks Helen.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œSarah?” He offers me a glass.
    I look frantically around the kitchen. “I guess I could take a short break,” I say, slowly lowering myself into a chair.
    â€œI know this must seem a bit overwhelming,” Helen says to me kindly. “But it will be a while, a year
at least
, before you’ll actually see your products on the shelves of the big-box pet stores.”
    How would my father feel about me landing this deal? And so easily. Without ever asking for it. Without even thinking it was something I might want to do someday.
    Here’s the thing: if the dead can really see the living, I’d so much rather my father be sickly green with envy right now than rosy with the glow of fatherly pride. Except that my father was never the jealous type. He’d be happy for me. Ecstatic. Pleased as rum-spiked punch.
    Helen takes a sip of lemonade and continues, “I always have someone do market testing before I commit to full-scale production of new products, so I can’t offer you much up front. Would two thousand be okay?”
    DOLLARS? That was more money than I’d make in a
year
serving coffee and crullers part-time at the Doughy Donut Emporium.
    â€œUm...sure...that would be great,” I admit. “But... uh...can I ask you a question?”
    â€œOf course.”
    I take a deep breath and glance up through my hair at Helen. “Would you need to take photographs?”
    She smiles. “Of course! Visuals are very important. I’ll even bring in a food stylist to work with the photographer to make sure all photos of the finished biscuits look both professionally baked and—more importantly—mouth-watering.”
    â€œI like it!” I exclaim. Anything that doesn’t involve taking my photograph is fine with me.
    Judy barks.
    â€œSarah, I’m so proud of you!” Dr. Fred interjects, reaching across the table to squeeze my arm.
    He is proud of me. I can tell. And Dr. Fred’s pride means way more to me than knowing my father would be proud. Because Dr. Fred’s pride is so...uncomplicated.
    Helen looks at her watch. “Yikes, it’s getting late. My friends and I have to be pushing off. We’re doing dinner in town this evening.” She grabs her purse off the back of her chair and rummages around inside. Extracting a business card and extending it to me, she says, “How about you spend the rest of the summer perfecting a set of recipes? Ten to fifteen should be plenty. We’ll choose a few to start with.”
    â€œWorks for me.”
    â€œI’ll be back at my office in Toronto in two weeks. I’ll draft a contract and have my assistant send it to your home address.” She locates a notepad in her purse, rips off a piece of paper and passes me a pen so I can write it down for her. “You’ll want to have a parent look over the contract, maybe hire a lawyer to—”
    â€œI...uh...already have a lawyer,” I mention, scribbling my Riverwood address on the paper and passing it back to Helen.
    â€œThat’s...handy,” she muses, a grimace of concern flashing across her face for a nanosecond. Dr. Fred introduces all his community service teens as “volunteers,” so Helen may not know she just offered a contract to a juvenile offender.
    I’m feeling a bit giddy, like Dr. Fred spiked my lemonade, though fat chance he did. “Just don’t ask me to write any driving manuals,” I add, giggling.
    â€œYes. Well, then, Sarah,” Helen says, extending her hand once again. “I’ll be in touch.”
    Dr. Fred leaves to walk Helen back to the dock. When both are out of sight, I bound over to Judy and bury my face in her fur. Judy licks my ear. Dog drool seeps down my neck. “My recipes are going to