Fire

There was no fire the night Gloria Albright’s house burned down. At least, no fire in the usual sense: no candles flickering too close to billowing drapery, no sizzling pan of oil left unattended on the stove, no faulty wiring sparking and smoldering behind the cover of sheetrock, no cigarette dangling from a careless hand. There was no hint at all that Gloria’s life was about to change so dramatically.

On that fateful Tuesday night ―a Tuesday night like any other― heavy clouds rolled over Mt. Equinox from the west. They rumbled and crashed into each other with enormous booms of thunder, settling over the small town of Manchester. Residents grabbed umbrellas and raced for cover. But before a single drop of rain had fallen a bolt of lightening shot from the sky. Careening downward with what appeared to be single-minded purpose it pierced Gloria’s roof. Shingles blasted in all directions. Sparks ricocheted higher than the thirty-year-old cedar that graced Gloria’s front yard.

Neighbors who lived nearby claimed the house was engulfed in flame within seconds. By the time the fire department arrived the roof and floor joists had already collapsed. When Gloria returned from Price Chopper (with her beloved Bassett hound, Chester, tucked safely in the back of her Subaru wagon), there was nothing left of her home of thirty-odd years but a pile of smoldering embers. Gloria stepped out of her car and stared. Then, when it was too late to do any good at all, the sky opened up. Rain began to pour down in sheets, drenching her.

Gloria ―who believed nothing in life happened haphazardly― was convinced the fire was a sign. The universe had spoken. It was time for her to realize her lifelong dream. She cashed the insurance check. She went shopping for real estate. She bought tables and chairs and hired cooks. She painted walls and tested recipes. Three months later she placed a help-wanted ad in the local paper.

She had everything she needed except waitresses.

The universe supplied four.