For a late-stage pancreatic cancer patient, this wasn't a meal. It was poison.
When the aroma filled the apartment, Paulette Fox arrived.
From behind the kitchen door came a syrupy "Thaddy!" followed by Mrs. Gilbert Sr.'s fawning laughter, dripping with approval.
I carried the dishes out.
Paulette was wearing the latest Chanel, carrying a gift bag of high-end supplements, draped against Thaddeus's chest like she belonged there.
The moment she saw me, her nose wrinkled. "Oh my, that grease smell is intense. What on earth did you cook, Pearl? It's so heavy and oily. How is Thaddy supposed to eat any of this?"
Her eyes blazed with provocation.
Thaddeus caught the scent of braised meat, and his Adam's apple bobbed.
In the early stages of pancreatic cancer, appetite vanishes. But his had been misdiagnosed as gastritis, and the only thing he'd been taking was antacids. What he felt now was a sick, gnawing hunger that wouldn't quit.
"Perfect timing. I'm starving." He shoved Paulette aside and dropped into a chair, chopsticks already snatching up a chunk of braised pork belly. "Mm. Not bad."