“I can be creative!”
“Celia, honey, you’re good at many things, but you aren’t creative. Just let me fix dinner, and you go do your homework.”
Celia had surprised her mom by learning to out-cook her. She’d also created a good little side business baking cakes for friends and family’s birthdays, anniversaries, and such. Not that she was a big fan of gatherings, but it was fun to see someone’s face when she brought out a perfect cake, especially her mother’s.
The phone rang, and Celia hoped it wasn’t Bart. It wasn’t; it was her neighbor, Lucille, asking if Celia had seen her cat. The woman was beside herself. Celia told her no, she hadn’t seen the old tabby, and she hung up before the woman started crying. Celia was not a fan of most animals, especially cats. However, this tabby was too old to cause much trouble, and she didn’t wail the way some cats did, so she didn’t bother Celia much. Not like that stupid tomcat that used to roam in the alley. That thing wailed half the night and left his paw-prints over everyone’s cars. Thank goodness a bit of antifreeze had solved that problem. Feral cats were one of the issues the city had tried to do a better job of addressing the past couple of years, and Celia was glad. Still, she’d go ahead and put up a flyer at the corner like her neighbor asked. It never hurt to have the neighbors on your side. The lady was always willing to watch Celia’s place or get the mail when she traveled. Her daughter rarely visited, and the elderly woman appreciated the fact that Celia always said hello.
Once she had the cake on a cooling rack, Celia decided to catch up on some office work. Natasha Bronlov wasn’t her only story, and she wanted to finish a couple of outlines. She was saving a draft when she heard a knock at the door. She pulled aside the curtain and saw Bart’s car parked on the street. Rolling her eyes, she kept working. He knocked a couple of times, and then she heard a car start, and she watched him through the window as he drove away. Good, she thought. Maybe he’ll take the hint.
By 9:00, Celia’s stomach was growling, and the screen on her laptop had started to blur. She needed something to eat, but cooking was out of the question. Instead, she grabbed a sleeve of crackers, some peanut butter, and a beer and sat on the sofa to watch television. She fell asleep there and barely moved until Monday morning when the headache that kept her home awakened her.
Chapter 8
Natasha was more than a little surprised when Celia walked into Room 4 with a cake in hand at their next visit. “They x-rayed it, so no file. Sorry,” Celia said dryly.
Throwing back her head to laugh and slapping the table, Natasha asked, “Did you at least bring some forks?”
“No forks, sorry. But I did manage a few spoons and some napkins,” Celia replied, pulling them from her pocket. She laid out a napkin for each of them, sloppily cut two slices with one of the spoons, and invited Natasha to taste the cake. It was a strawberry cake with buttercream frosting.
“Oh my God, I may have a sugar orgasm,” Natasha moaned after taking a bite. “Why are you a reporter when you could be doing this full-time?”
Celia smiled and picked at her own piece of cake. “It wouldn’t be fun if I had to do it.”
“True,” Natasha said, pointing at Celia with a spoon full of frosting. “Still, I think I may request this for my last meal. The frosting alone is worth dying for.”
Celia laughed, but then she considered Natasha’s flippant remark. “Not to ruin our treat, but how do you feel about losing your last appeal?”
“You mean facing the fact that I am going to die? I try to be pragmatic about it.”
“I think I would find that difficult.”
“I did too, at first. I wanted to win. Winning meant thwarting the death penalty. I poured an ungodly amount of my money into winning.”
“Success has its benefits, even in prison.”
“Exactly. However, after my second appeal failed, a chaplain came to visit me. I had managed to avoid such things during the trial and afterward, but I guess he slipped in,” Natasha rolled her eyes. “He asked me about the state of my soul and the afterlife.”
“Interesting.” Celia wrote swiftly, found out the name of the chaplain, and then returned her attention to Natasha. “What are your thoughts on that?”
“I understand how religion might give some people security. But I don’t need it, nor do I believe it. I believe he was sincere, and I wasn’t rude to him. But I did tell him I had no concerns about my eternal soul and let him know there would be no need for him to visit again.”
“I see,” Celia replied.
“Do you believe in a god or afterlife?” Natasha moved her napkin to the side and leaned in with interest.
“Not really. I mean, I know objectively it cannot be proved either way. I suppose I’m agnostic. I just don’t see the relevance except, as you said, it gives comfort to some people.”
“I didn’t think you seemed like the religious type,” Natasha nodded with approval. “I think I’d like another piece of that cake.”
“Really?”
“If there is no god, then gluttony is not a sin,” she teased.
Celia cut another slice for Natasha, but she didn’t finish her own. “So you feel settled about the inevitable?”
“After the chaplain visited, I thought about things. I realized that if there is no afterlife, I have nothing to fear from death. And truly, what most people want for those on death row is for them to be afraid. To suffer. By refusing to fear this, I am still winning, in a sense.”
“I never thought of it
