A very interesting.
My name is Manette Enllo, and I’m 68 years old.
Last December, at his company’s Christmas party, my husband rested his hand on my shoulder and introduced me to a table of his new hires.
“That’s her. No job, no degree, no clue.”
The whole corner of the ballroom roared. His sister laughed the loudest, the way she always has.
I smiled because smiling is what I had done for 46 years.
Nobody else at that party knew who held the largest share of the company paying for their prime rib. My husband had spent 15 years trying to find out, and he had a name for that person.
He called them the ghost.
What happened at the Last Kettle lunch two days later, in front of more than 200 people, is why I’m telling you this.
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Let me tell you who we were in October, before any of it started.
We lived on Red Fern Lane in Pennywell, Alabama, in a brick house we bought in 1987 and paid off in 2014. Pennywell sits on a bend of the Tennessee River, 45 minutes from Huntsville. It has one stoplight, four churches, and a candy factory.
And the candy factory was the reason we stayed.
My husband, Wayland, was 70. He had worked at Gerrard Candy Company for 44 years, the last 13 as executive vice president of sales and operations. He liked the title so much he put it on our Christmas card labels.
Every morning, Wayland read the paper at the kitchen table and explained it to me. Gas prices, the stock market, the weather.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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