“Well, not exactly,” she said. “I yelled.”
“Yeah, well, after a while all that noise makes my head pound. I’d just go fishin’， but I have things to do here.”
“Listen,” she said, sitting on the stool at his work island. “We have to talk, you and me.”
“Sure.”
She took a breath. “I’ve gained twenty pounds since I came here. Almost ten pounds a year. By the time I’m forty, I’ll weigh two hundred pounds.”
He frowned. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. Finally he smiled a small smile and said, “Well, good for you.”
“This is not good!”
He almost jumped at the angry tone in her voice. Then he frowned.
“Listen,” she said, “you have to start doing some cooking that isn’t so fattening. Understand?”
“No one’s ever complained about the cooking before, Mel. It tastes good…”
“I know, I know—but you’re cooking for men with real physical lives. Except you—you stand in the kitchen all day and I know you sample everything. I don’t know how you keep from getting fat.”
“I clean a lot,” he said. “I lift weights—but not as much with two kids.”
“Yeah, well, you have a lot of muscle, and that eats up calories. Women don’t have that kind of muscle, John. You have to stop using so much cream and butter, that sort of thing. It’s unhealthy anyway—not good for weight, cholesterol and blood pressure, not good for the heart. Make some salads, more vegetables not swimming in butter. I can’t be the only person in this town who’s getting fat on your food.”
“Salads?” he said. “I don’t usually make a lot of salads.”
“I know this,” she said wearily. “But we need to make a couple of changes. Just minor changes. Buy some low-fat, whole-wheat bread for sandwiches. Don’t do pastas, breads and potatoes at every meal. Make salads, stock fresh fruit.”
“There’s plenty of fruit around here,” he said.
“Yeah, and it’s all in the pies.”
“You have pie almost every day,” he pointed out. “You love my pies. You more than anyone, I think.”
She scowled, then grimaced. “I’m going to stop doing that. Listen, can you make some lighter meals available, please? Or else I’m not going to be able to eat here all the time. I’ll have to pack a lunch, make my own dinner at home. This madness has to stop. I can’t keep gaining weight like this. I am not going to be fat!”
Preacher tilted his head. “Jack complaining about the way you look?” he asked cautiously.
“Of course not,” she said in frustration. “He thinks I’m perfect.”
“Well, there you go.”
“John, I don’t think you’re paying attention here. I have to go on a diet. You want me to write down what I need?”
“No,” he said unhappily. “I think I’ve got it.”
“Thanks. That’s all I wanted. I need a little help here, that’s all.”
“We want you happy,” he said, caution in every word.
“It would make me happy.” She slipped off the stool. “Thanks, that’s all I wanted to talk to you about.”
After she left, Preacher stood in his kitchen for a long time, thinking. Then he went out back where the men were at work. He spotted Jack standing in what used to be his bedroom, talking with Paul. They both wore hard hats while Preacher’s head was bare. He waited. Finally Paul and Jack turned to look at him and Paul sighed and shook his head dismally; he took two giant steps away, grabbing a hard hat and handing it to Preacher.
“I’m not going to tell you again,” Paul said. “You don’t come out here without protection for your head.”
“Yeah, right,” Preacher said, putting it on. Too small, it sat high on his head.
“You have the biggest head out here,” Paul said. “We’re framing the second story. You’re an accident waiting to happen.”
“Yeah, I get it. Listen,” Preacher said, turning his attention on Jack, “Mel was just here. She’s complaining about the food.”
“Huh?” Jack answered. “Mel?”
“Yeah. She says my food is making her fat.”
Jack chuckled. “Oh, that. Yeah, she’s making noises about that. Don’t worry about it.”
“She didn’t make it sound like I shouldn’t worry about it. She was pretty much loaded for bear.”