Free Pampered to Death by Laura Levine

looked down at the giant sandwich, the cole slaw, the ice cream, the fudge sauce, the candy bars and a Hershey’s Kiss I’d tossed in for good measure, and suddenly I was embarrassed. I did not want Darryl to think I was the kind of gal who could polish off this cholesterol festival all by herself. Of course I am that kind of gal, but I didn’t want him to think it.
    Which is the only explanation I can offer for what I said next.
    “Oh, but this isn’t for me.”
    “It isn’t?”
    “No,” I said with a carefree wave. “It’s for my roommate.”
    He held up a can of cat food. “Your cat eats cole slaw?”
    “Not my cat. My other roommate. My, um, my grandmother. Yes. Grammy Austen. Darling Grammy. Such a sweetie. She taught me how to crochet my first potholder when I was five!”
    Oh, hell. Where was this stuff coming from? The real Grammy Austen is a kamikaze bingo player raising hell in her assisted living home in Altoona, PA. And the only thing she ever taught me was how to make a good martini.
    “Anyhow,” I babbled, “the doctors wanted Grammy to lose some weight, so here we are. But the food at The Haven was so horrible, Grammy got the munchies and begged me to run into town for a snack. And I just couldn’t say no.”
    Did I detect a hint of a smile on those killer lips?
    “Well, I hope she gives you a bite of the sandwich. I made the bread myself.”
    “You did?”
    “I cook a lot of food for the store. You should try my cannelloni.”
    Wow. Not only cute, but a cook, too!
    “Nice meeting you,” he said, handing me my grocery bag. “And give my best to your grandmother.”
    “Oh, I will.”
    “And come back soon.”
    No doubt about that.
    I skipped out of the store with a song in my heart and a Hershey’s Kiss in my mouth.
    True, I’d told that wee fib about Grammy Austen, but who cared? The bottom line is: I’d had a close encounter with a cannelloni-cooking cutie and I’d scored some fabulous chow.
    At last lady luck had returned to my side.
    But not, alas, for long.
     
    Guess who was waiting for me when I came skipping up the path to The Haven with my goodie bag? Those of you who guessed “George Clooney,” go straight to the back of the class and put on your dunce cap.
    It was the Diet Nazi, of course. Olga stood glowering in the open door, arms clamped across her chest.
    “Give it to me,” she said, holding out her hand for my goodies.
    I peeked into my shopping bag and saw my glorious ham and Swiss beckoning to me, the ice cream and fudge sauce calling my name.
    For a second I was tempted to dash back to the car and lock myself in, defying the Diet Nazi. What could she do to me—have me arrested for snacking?
    But before I could act on my impulse, Olga had snatched the bag from my hand.
    “How could you?” she said, holding up an Almond Joy.
    I saw the way she was eyeing that candy bar. Whaddaya bet she’d be scarfing it down the minute she was alone?
    By now Cathy had wandered into the lobby in her bathrobe and pajamas, taking in the scene.
    “I offered to be her diet buddy,” the little stoolie piped up.
    “That was very generous of you, Cathy.” Olga shot her a Good Cop smile. “Now let’s all go to bed and pretend this shameful affair never happened.”
    Cathy headed back upstairs to her room, having the nerve to actually smile at me and say, “Don’t feel bad, Jaine. I’ll be there for you next time.”
    “Just leave me alone and worry about your own damn cellulite,” were the words I was too polite to utter as I turned on my heel and marched back to my room.
    I was just about to let myself in, when I saw Delphine wheeling her cart out of a supply closet across the hall.
    “What are you still doing here?” I asked.
    “Waiting for you,” the perky teenager replied. “I saw what happened just now. I knew you’d try your little stunt.” She nodded smugly. “Your kind always does.”
    This kid was really beginning to get on my nerves.
    “So, how about