Chapter Nine
Waiting—she thought Jon Rush was pulling her body and mind through a twisted straw. Her view of life changed, the circumstances contorted with each intrusion he made in her life. He wanted her more often than she imagined, three times a week calling to give her orders. In the middle of making salami on rye or grilled Swiss cheese for some shiny-faced customer, Bret—her right arm in the deli—would hand her the phone. Even before she heard his voice, she could tell it was Jon Rush by the way he breathed.
“Yes,” she said into the receiver tucked between her ear and shoulder, this time while making a turkey club for a frequent customer who was in the middle of a long narrative about his daughter’s French Horn recital—a calamity of the worst proportion to hear him tell his tale.
