On the other hand,yes it was a hobby, but it also felt like so much more. It felt deeper and morestable than anything else in my life. But most of all, it felt like thelifeline back to sanity I needed so desperately.
When I finally fellasleep it was with tears in my eyes, but if you would have asked me why I wascrying, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you.
Maybe it was for myparents that couldn’t even be decent to each other.
Maybe it was formyself and my perpetual state of singlehood, the inability to find a decent guy,and the very real prospect that I was going to be alone for the rest of mylife.
Or maybe it was forthe art that meant so much to me, the creative outlet I relied so heavily uponto heal the broken pieces of my spirit.
Maybe it wasbecause I knew I didn’t have the ability to fix any of the things that hauntedme. I couldn’t mend my parents’ marriage or make them respect each other. Icouldn’t make Mr. Right suddenly show up in my life and sweep me off my feet. Icouldn’t make Mr. Tucker give me lead on a good account. I couldn’t make mycoworkers respect me and take my ideas seriously.
From where I sateverything felt impossible. Everything except painting.
Chapter Eleven
Monday morning theoffice drummed with the beat of a funeral dirge. Any other day of the week,people moved around with a spark in their step, hurried with the drive to getthe job done, overwhelmed with all they needed to do before lunch.
But not on Mondays.
Instead of theinsistent, purposeful buzzing of the rest of the week, people stumbled fromtheir desk to printers, guzzling coffee as they went. Their expressions weredroopy and insincere, and their eyes slowly blinked with the memories of abeloved weekend that had died very suddenly the night before.
Usually, I enjoyedthe amusement of Monday morning. Emily and I would play Guess Who’s Hungoverover our second, third and fourth cups of coffee and laugh at ourMonday-oppressed coworkers.
But this morning,after a fitful night’s sleep and a stressful weekend, I was the worst of theworst. I didn’t have a case of theMondays,I had the bubonicplague of the Mondays.
This was how thezombie apocalypse would start. I was person zero.
“You look like theGrim Reaper’s undead bride.” Emily sympathized as I plopped into my chairacross the aisle from her.
I waved her off.“Stop with the compliments already. You’re making me blush.”
She pushed herchair over to my desk, her four-inch stilettos clicking across the bamboofloor. “Seriously, Molly, are you sick? Hungover? Did something happen to ChrisPratt?”
Giving her a lookthat reminded her not to joke about Chris Pratt, I took a shaky sip of mycoffee and said simply, “I’m tired.”
Emily’s eyesbugged. “This is more than tired. Girlfriend, you look like eight miles of hardroad.”
I mustered a laugh,even though I really wanted to slither off to the bathroom and cry. “I justneed coffee.” Tipping my to-go triple espresso latte at her, I added, “This ismy first cup.”
“Well, drink itquickly,” she warned. “Rumor has it there is a very important potential clienthere to see you.”
Perking up at herannouncement, I rolled my neck and tried to will energy into my limpappendages. “Black Soul?”
She shook her head.“No, someone new.”
My coffee hit mystomach with a weird gurgle and I abruptly felt nauseous. “You didn’t get aname?”
Her eyebrows dancedover her very expressive eyes. “Only that he asked for you specifically.”
“He who?”
Emily shook herhead, her lavender hair bouncing around her shoulders. “Molly, I have no idea.”She leaned forward pressing the back of her hand to my clammy forehead. “Areyou sure you’re okay? You look white as a ghost all of sudden.”
My desk phone rang andI made a squealy noise and flailed in my chair. Ignoring Emily’s deeperexpression of concern, I reached for my phone and answered as confidently as Icould. “Th-this is Molly Maverick.”
“Hi, Molly,” Mr.Tucker’s secretary greeted pleasantly. “Mr. Tucker would like you to join himin his office. There is a client here to see you.”
“Oh.” I silently frettedand worried my bottom lip as I tried to think of an excuse to leave for theday. Or maybe I would just quit. A sinking feeling of intuition had snakedthrough my gut, warning me that going to Tucker’s office would be a giantmistake. “I’ll be right there.”
