Abigail swooped down to snatch up the centerpiece. “I specifically told you no poinsettias!” Never mind that it was that time of year, Christmas just three weeks away, Abigail loathed poinsettias. At her mother’s funeral, the church had been awash in them. She thrust the flowers at the hapless production assistant, snapping, “Next time, pay attention when I give instructions!” “Of course. I’m so sorry,” the young woman apologized as she hurried off, red-faced, to find something to replace the offending flowers. Abigail frowned as she rearranged the table, where the beauty shot—the dessert she was preparing for this morning’s broadcast of A.M. America—would be displayed at the end of her segment. Damn it, where was the stylist? What did the network pay these people for, if not to be on top of such things? Abigail had arrived at the studio with little time to spare before this morning’s appearance, so she hadn’t had a chance to go over everything well in advance, as she was in the habit of doing.
