Napoli sat in the kitchen for a moment to try and sort things out. She looked down at the marigold print on her apron and smoothed it out across her too-ample lap. In front of her lay the parish household accounts, such as they were. A thin black-bound ledger with green lined paper marked with neat columns in her own handwriting marking down weekly grocery shops, cleaning supplies, and other sundry expenses lay on the table-top of the dinette set where she would set out coffee and toast in the morning for the parish priests and their guest, Gar. That was the problem - ever since Gar had joined them the food bills had just gone up. It wasn’t his fault and Mrs. Napoli savored cooking for someone who was always so appreciative but the household allowance hadn’t increased and even with poor, poor Monsignor about to be buried on Wednesday, they weren’t likely to go down, as the old priest ate like a bird. She had tried to use less meat and stretch it out with potatoes and noodles but she wasn’t sure how long it would be before Father Weston would say something.
