“Congrats,” Rosie wired from British Columbia after hearing about the promotion. Hazel had not received a telegram for some years. She was surprised that this austere printed sheet went by the name of telegram. Where was the rough gray paper and the little pasted together words? She wondered who had composed the message, Robin or Rosie, and whose idea it had been to abbreviate the single word and if thrift were involved. Congrats. What a hard little hurting pellet to find in the middle of a smooth sheet of paper.

“Gorgeous,” Brian’s mother said of Hazel’s opal-toned silk suit with its scarf of muted pink, pearl and lemon. Her lips moved appreciatively. “Ah, gorgeous.”

“A helluva improvement over a bloody smock,” Maxine sniffed, looking sideways.

“Most elegant!” said Mr. Cortland, who had called Hazel into his office to discuss her future with Kitchen Kult. “The sort of image we hope and try to project. Elegance and understatement.” He presented her with a small box in which rested, on a square of textured cotton, a pair of enameled earrings with the flying letter K for Kitchen Kult.

“Beautiful,” said Hazel, who never wore earrings. The clip-on sort hurt her, and she had never got around to piercing her ears. “For my sake,” Brian had begged her when he was twenty-five and she was twenty and about to become his wife, “don’t ever do it. I can’t bear to lose a single bit of you.”

Remembering this, the tone of Brian’s voice, its rushing, foolish sincerity, Hazel felt her eyes tingle. “My handbag,” she said, groping blindly.

Mr. Cortland misunderstood. He leaped up, touched by his own generosity, a Kleenex in hand. “We simply wanted to show our appreciation,” he said, or rather sang.

Hazel sniffed, more loudly than she intended, and Mr. Cortland pretended not to hear. “We especially appreciate your filling in for Peter Lemmon during his leave of absence.”

At this Hazel nodded. Poor Peter. She must phone tonight. He was finding the aftermath of his dental surgery painful and prolonged, and she had been looking, every chance she had, for a suitable convalescent card, something not too effusive and not too mocking-Peter took his teeth far too seriously. Perhaps she would just send one of her blurry impressionistic hasty notes, or better yet, a jaunty postcard saying she hoped he’d be back soon.

Mr. Cortland fingered the pink conch shell on his desk. He picked it up between his two hands and rocked it gently to and fro, then said, “Mr. Lemmon will not be returning. We have already sent him a letter of termination and, of course, a generous severance settlement. It was decided that his particular kind of personality, though admirable, was not quite in line with the Kitchen Kult approach, and we feel that you yourself have already demonstrated your ability to take over his work and perhaps even extend the scope of it.”