“Shit.” She forced her respiration to slow. Long, deep breaths. Hold it. Let it go. Breathe in slowly, count to ten, let it go slowly ... slowly ... slowly.
Find the calm. You’re awake now. No more dreams. Just relax. Pull it together.
Little by little, her body responded to the technique she’d used for half a lifetime. She stretched her neck, then rolled her shoulders. The digital numbers on the alarm clock taunted her. She slapped the off button despite having another thirty or so minutes of sleep coming to her. That wasn’t happening. She might as well get up and get ready.
Kicking the covers back, she rolled out of bed. She needed coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.
She stumbled to the kitchen in the dark. Guided by the glow of the streetlight invading her narrow-but-prized kitchen window, she went through the necessary motions to get her favorite Colombian blend brewing. On the counter next to the microwave, the answering machine’s blinking red light warned that she had a message. Probably a lot more than one. A closer inspection confirmed her speculation.
Four messages.
Answering the phone at home was something she rarely did. Once locked away in her personal space, she preferred not to be disturbed. The rest of the world could just go away.
If only that was possible.
Knowing who had likely left the most recent message, she reached over and pressed the play button. Get it over with. If she failed to hear whatever instructions he’d left before she headed north, he’d bitch at her.
Hearing was vastly different from listening, and she only listened when she really wanted to. One would think he would have learned that lesson by now.
“Sarah,” her aunt’s voice sang out, “you should be ashamed of yourself, dear. You never call anymore. I—”
Skip. Next was her shrink. Definitely skip. Then the airhead of a guy she’d made the monumental mistake of dating a couple of weeks ago. Permanently erase.
And finally, the newest message.
“Newton, what the hell is wrong with your cell phone?” a booming male voice demanded.
She rolled her eyes. Yep. Her editor. Sometimes he treated her like a child. He should have had kids of his own decades ago. She was damned tired of him using her as a surrogate.
“Remember, this is February. You’re going to Maine. There are certain essentials you will absolutely need. Pack your gloves and winter boots and wear your fucking parka, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want you coming back here sick. Call me when you get to Youngstown.”
“Right.” He would hear from her when he heard from her. Probably when he called her cell phone. And when she decided to answer, which was rarely at the same time.
Sarah hit erase, then turned back to the only essential she absolutely needed right now.
Hot, steaming coffee.
The mere smell was like sex, only without the awkward postmortem chitchat.
Was it good for you?
Sure. You?
Cradling the warm cup, she sipped the stiff brew and moaned as satisfaction and the caffeine infused her blood, wiring her for the day. Youngstown. The Weather Channel had reported snow on the coast of southern Maine last night. Perfect. She hated snow. That was the one thing she deplored about living in New York, the winters. Still, she’d take a New York winter any day over a Maine winter.
“But we go,” she muttered, “whenever and wherever the work takes us.”
That was another thing she was beginning to hate. The work. She refilled her cup and hoped like hell a second shot of caffeine would get her on the way to feeling remotely human. Three or four more cups between now and flight time and she might just attain that elusive goal.
She trudged back to her bedroom. Pack, get dressed, then take the train to LaGuardia. A short flight to Portland, then a ninety-minute rental car drive to Youngstown. Whoopee.
No doubt a welcoming committee would be waiting for her.
Something else she intensely disliked. Sarah downed the last of the coffee. The people. Wherever her work took her, she could always count on being the passing freak show.
The locals would stare at her. Whisper behind their hands. Make up weird shit to say about her in their little newspapers. Bring up crap from the past and call her unreliable. Then, when she was finished, they would really go for the jugular.
A charlatan who just got lucky when she stumbled upon what no one else had found. A burned-out pessimist who got off on damaging the lives of others with her harsh, tell-all reports of truth in relation to so-called real life in small-town America.
