Bill Anderson’s home was deep in an old part of Atlanta where some of the houses actually survived General Sherman’s March to the Sea campaign.  Todd kept an eye on the GPS as he carefully maneuvered his 720i past cars parked on the road that were twice as expensive as his. “I just love this part of town,” Angie said from the back seat. “I’d love to live here.”

“Maybe after a few years,” Todd said absently, missing the look that Sheila and Angie exchanged.

They had been invited to dinner by Bill the following night after turning in their two weeks’ notice.  Like Todd had expected, they were walked within two hours, carrying their personal effects and nothing else.  His boss was not happy at all, but getting angry at Anderson wasn’t a good idea; they were still one of their largest clients and his soon to be ex-subordinate was about to be bumped *very* high up the corporate ladder.

“Is that it?” Sheila asked, pointing at a two-story brick home set back from the road on a curve.  He spotted the number on the mailbox and turned into the narrow driveway, which took him past the house with what seemed like inches to spare and onto a large parking pad in back.  There was a large carriage house with three garage doors in it and a carport over to the right with a Civic, Prius, and an Element parked underneath.  He parked behind the Element, which put him near a large deck and barbeque.  As he got out of the car, the door to the deck opened and an Indian looking woman in a purple silk blouse and black slacks stepped out and waved.  He noticed that she wasn’t wearing shoes.

“Hi!” she said in a British accent, “I’m Tori, part of the Troika.  Bill’s inside on the phone and Stacy’s upstairs.”

“I’m Todd, this is Sheila, and this is Angie,” he replied.

She looked at the two women with a raised eyebrow, “It appears that Jacques was right, we do have something in common.”

She led them inside and into a huge kitchen with a curved counter in front of a cooktop.  There were eight chairs arrayed around it facing where the cook would be, already set for dinner.

“Help yourself to some wine, there’s a nice Merlot there, a Pinot, and we have a Riesling chilling in the fridge.”  She went back behind the cooktop and lifted the lid off a large saucepan filled with what looked like a dark red and lumpy mush.  In contrast