She eyed him suspiciously. “What job you talking about? I’m not cleaning your bathrooms.”
Reed grinned. “No. Nothing like that. I’m thinking about hiring an assistant. For the studio.”
“No kidding? What? You gonna teach somebody to paint ‘happy little trees’ for you? A Bob Ross gig?”
He laughed. “No, but I do need someone to help out with framing, shipping, deliveries…cleaning up the studio maybe, helping me prepare the canvases. My eyes get strained a lot quicker now. And I’m so far behind getting stuff to the galleries…but if I take time to catch up on all the business stuff, I’ll be that much further behind on the art. You don’t know anybody who’d be good, do you?”
She thought for a minute. “Not right off the top of my head. I’d take the job if I thought you’d pay worth a hoot.”
“Ha! You wouldn’t last a day working for me.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong. I wouldn’t last an hour.”
“Hey…” Reed feigned a wounded pout, and Maggie jumped at the excuse to give him a hug. She wasn’t quite old enough to be his mother—not that anyone could have replaced his beloved mom—but Maggie was like a favorite aunt. And though he’d tried to express it, she would never know how beautifully she’d filled the empty spot Mom left four years ago when her heart finally gave out.
“I’ll keep my ears open…let you know if I hear of anyone who’d be good. Maybe you can write something up and I can have my daughter put it on the bulletin board at her church.”
“Sure. That’d be great.”
She saluted him. “Now, I’d better get back and take that maniac dog for a walk.” She hooked a thumb toward the kitchen. “There’s a plate in the fridge for you. Just some leftovers. Zap it a couple minutes in the microwave and that ought to do it.”
“Hey, thanks, Maggie. I appreciate it.”
Reed was pretty sure Maggie’s “leftovers” were fresh and homemade from scratch, but he wasn’t about to let on that he suspected. She seemed to take great pleasure in keeping him ten pounds overweight, and if that’s what it took to make the sweet woman happy…well, who was he to deny her the joy?
“Elizabeth? It’s Olivia Cline.”
“Olivia! How nice to hear from you. How are you, dear?” That familiar note of sympathy crept in.
Olivia hadn’t seen her former boss since Derek’s funeral. She’d forgotten how much of the native Bronx accent remained in Elizabeth DiMartino’s voice.
“I’m doing well. Truly.” She took a quick breath and plunged in, wanting to avoid the subject of Derek. “Listen, I know you already filled my position, but I was wondering if…if you’re still looking to hire someone? I…I’m thinking I’ll probably come back to the city if I can find work.
There was a long pause before she heard Elizabeth suck in a deep breath. “Olivia, I’d love to have you back…you know I would… But I just can’t. Not now, anyway. You know how business was…still is, really. I’m cutting expenses to the bone as it is and—”
“It’s okay, Elizabeth.” Olivia cut her off, embarrassed to have put the woman in a position to have to make apologies. “I understand. Really, I do.”
“I wish I could help, dear. You know I admire your work. I’ll tell you what, leave your number with Joan at the front desk and if we have an opening you’ll be the first person I call. And if you ever need a reference, you know I’ll give a glowing one.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. I…I hope things pick up.”
“Oh, they will. They always do. Well, I wish I could visit but I’m already late for a meeting. Let me transfer you to reception. You take care, dear.”
“I will—” The phone clicked in her ear and she knew she’d already been dismissed. She visited with Joan, the receptionist, for a few minutes, leaving her number at the house in Hanover Falls as well as her cell phone number. But she wouldn’t hold her breath. Jobs at Interior Ideas weren’t easy to come by and it wasn’t likely anyone would be leaving anytime soon.
What else did she know how to do? She’d started under Elizabeth DiMartino at Interior Ideas fresh out of college, happy to be an assistant to the woman who was Elizabeth’s partner at the time. Olivia had worked her way up the ladder, until Elizabeth had finally turned her loose with a couple of clients. She’d loved her work and there had been a time when she’d entertained fantasies of starting her own firm. It only took a couple of years of witnessing the headaches Elizabeth DiMartino faced—with the building and the staff, not to mention finicky clients—to change her mind in a hurry.
Still, interior design was all she knew. Other than painting. And that was a pipe dream. One she’d never shared with anyone after the first time Derek laughed away any illusions she might have had. She winced, surprised by the pain she still felt thinking of his flippant dismissal of her artistic gifts.
But Derek had been right. It was anybody’s guess how artists ever got to the point where they could make a living off their work. She put the phone quietly back in its cradle and slid the phonebook back in the drawer.
Chapter 9
Traffic was flowing smoothly and Olivia tapped the cruise control up a notch. She didn’t know Jayne’s neighborhood well, so she was anxious to get into Chicago before dark. She still wasn’t sure what had possessed her to call her friend and former coworker and invite herself to stay the weekend, but Jayne Dodge had welcomed her and it seemed like a good thing to get back to the city for a couple days.
The countryside was lush with summer’s green and it lifted her spirits as she ate up the miles along the interstate.
Jayne was sitting on the front porch waiting, when Olivia pulled into the driveway just before six. Her friend wrapped her in a warm hug the minute she got out of the car. “How are you, sweetie?”
Olivia teared up at the endearment. “I’m okay. I think…”
“Well, I packed Brian and the kids off to his parents’ for the weekend, so it’ll be nice and quiet here.” Keeping one arm around Olivia, Jayne steered her through the front door. “I’ve got a pasta salad in the fridge…or we can go out if you’d rather.”
“Oh, no. A salad sounds good. I’ve been living on casseroles.” She rubbed her belly absently. The thought of another bite of spicy food turned her stomach.
Jayne looked surprised. “You’ve been cooking?”
She shook her head. “The people from Derek’s church…my church…brought dinner every night for two weeks after he died. It’ll take me months to eat all the casseroles in our freezer.”
“How thoughtful…that the church would do that.”
“It was.” Olivia hesitated, not wanting to sound ungrateful. “It was just kind of weird having complete strangers show up on my doorstep serving up pasta and pity. I was tempted to hide and pretend I wasn’t home.”
Jayne clicked her tongue in sympathy. “How are you doing, Olivia? Really.”
Olivia pressed her lips into a tight line. “I don’t think it’s really hit me yet. It feels like he’s just away on a business trip. I keep expecting the phone to ring and he’ll be calling from some hotel to tell me he misses me—”
“Oh, Olivia. I can’t even imagine. I’m so sorry. You’ll come back to Chicago, of course.”
“I don’t know if I can, Jayne. Derek didn’t have any insurance and we’ve—I’ve—got the mortgage on the house. The Realtor says it’s unlikely I could get what we paid for it.”
“Didn’t you have mortgage insurance?”
Olivia bit her lip. “No. Like a fool, I told Derek we didn’t need it.”
“Oh, no…”
“Yeah. Dumb, huh? But even if the house wasn’t an issue, what would I do in Chicago, Jayne? When’s the last time they hired somebody new at Interior Ideas?”
Jayne grimaced. “Good point. But what are you going to do in Missouri?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice trembled as she realized how hopeless her situation was.
“Do you…do you want to stay he
re for a while?”
Olivia stifled a mirthless laugh as she looked around the cramped combination living room and dining room. “It’s sweet of you to offer, Jayne, but…” She shook her head.
“I just hate to see you stuck all alone so far away.”
Olivia patted her friend’s arm. “I’ll be okay.”
Jayne brightened. “Let’s go fix something to eat.”
She followed Jayne into the cozy kitchen, the knot that had sat in her stomach since Derek’s death twisting tighter.
Reed wiped his hands, threw down the turpentine-soaked rag and stared at the cold pine boards. All day, he’d tried to ignore the niggling impulse that pricked at his conscience. He’d paid for ignoring it, too. He had two ruined canvases and a preliminary sketch that was mediocre at best to show for six hours of work.
He lifted his gaze to the high, beamed ceiling. “Okay, Lord. I get the message.”
He washed his hands at the freestanding porcelain sink in the corner of the studio and went into the kitchen. He rummaged in the desk drawer for a decent piece of stationery. Settling for a lined gray sheet from a legal pad, he pulled out the chair and sat. He tested three pens before finding one that worked.
He still had to make his script large and bold to see it clearly, but his sight was improving day by day. His fear that the transplant would ultimately fail like the first one was one reason he’d hesitated to write this letter before. But it had been more than two months now and he was beginning to feel real hope that the surgery had been a success. That knowledge spurred him on.
He balanced the pen over paper, eager to let his gratitude spill onto the page. But ten minutes later, the paper was still blank. His mind whirred with ideas and pictures…every thought except the one that would give him the words he needed right now.
How did one express gratitude to the family of a person who’d had to die so that Reed’s life could be returned to him? A corneal transplant wasn’t a matter of true physical life or death, but without it, Reed knew his life would not have felt worth living. Were it not for the gift of some unfortunate person, by now he would no doubt be dependent upon others for his livelihood, and for who knew what other basic needs.
He touched the tip of the pen to the pad and forced his fingers to move the pen.
Dear Donor…
The words were impersonal and anemic on the page. He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it in the general direction of the trashcan. He slid the desk drawer open, ripped another sheet of paper from the tablet and started again…
Dear donor family,
First, let me say how deeply sorry I am for your loss. You will never know how much your loved one’s gift of life has meant to me.
Every word seemed so trite and emotionless. He didn’t know one thing that mattered about the person whose corneas had given him back his sight. Only that he had been a thirty-four-year-old man who’d been killed in an accident. Reed assumed a car crash. No doubt this man was someone’s son, someone’s husband, perhaps even some little boy’s daddy.
If he thought about it too long, it overwhelmed him with guilt. Where was the justice when the recipient, Reed Vincent, had no ties—no one who depended on him for protection, for every financial need? Not even anyone who waited eagerly for him to come home from work every evening. If he dropped dead tomorrow, no one would know about it unless Maggie discovered him while delivering a plate of her famous leftovers.
Reed gave himself a mental kick in the pants—something he’d had to do too often of late. Didn’t he trust that God knew what He was doing when He’d allowed the surgery that had restored Reed’s sight? That’s what he claimed. Then he would not be so ungrateful as to question the gift that had allowed him to resume working in his studio, to return to the life he loved and an income that was now greater than what he’d earned before the insidious disease had nearly robbed him of his sight.
His hands went up to rub his eyes, but he caught himself. Though his eyes no longer felt irritated, the doctors had warned him to take extra precautions. He still wore an eye guard at night and had been cautioned not to strain his eyes by reading or working too long.
He returned to his vain attempt at a thank-you, penning a few final, feeble words. The instructions forbade him from giving any identifying information or from signing his real name so he merely signed his initials.
That done, he went in search of the folder he’d gotten from the organ transplant agency that gave the address where a thank-you to the donor family could be sent. The information included sample letters and a list of phrases and “jump-starts” for thank-you letters. Reed had purposely avoided reading them. He wanted his note to come from his heart, not sound like every other letter the family would undoubtedly receive.
But reading his note over one last time, he wasn’t sure he’d succeeded. There simply were no words to express his gratitude. This would have to do. He folded the note and placed it in a plain white envelope.
“Lord, please bless this family,” he whispered. “And help me to deserve the sacrifice they had to make in order that I could have my sight back.”
As difficult as it had been to pen the note, it felt good to complete the task. He had to put the “survivor’s guilt” behind him now and move on.
Anything less was a slap in the face to the God who had allowed this miracle in his life.
Chapter 10
The pastor offered the benediction with outstretched hands and the organ music swelled along with the rustle and murmur of the congregation. Olivia tucked the worship program in her purse and slipped the bag over her shoulder. This was the hardest part. Getting through the gauntlet of sympathy and questions.
She looked up to see the Meredith family waving at her. She pasted on a smile and waved back. Claire Meredith worked her way through a knot of worshippers, and hurried toward Olivia. Claire was probably planning to ask her to have dinner with them, since Olivia had turned down their invitation the last time she was here. She scrambled to think of an excuse. It was sweet of them to want to include her. But as much as she hated going home to an empty house, it was harder still to think of making conversation with people she barely knew. They would ask her about her plans, and plans were one thing she did not have.
“Good morning! We missed you last week.”
“Oh…thanks.” Claire’s perky countenance roused a smile in Olivia. The upward turn of her facial muscles felt completely foreign. How long had it been since she’d had a reason to smile?
“I was visiting a friend back home—in Chicago, I mean.”
“Oh? You’re not thinking of moving back, are you?” Claire seemed genuinely disappointed.
“I don’t think I can. My job has already been filled and I’ve got the house here…”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I love this town so much, I just expect everybody to feel the same. But it must be really hard being here…under the circumstances.”
“Mommy?” Claire’s daughter tugged on her mother’s skirt, breaking the awkward silence that fell between them.
“What is it, Kati-did?” Claire put a hand on the little girl’s cheek.
Katherine grinned shyly up at Olivia before turning pleading eyes to her mother. “Lindy wants me to go to Chuck E. Cheese’s with them. Can I?”
“May I. And did you ask Daddy?”
“He said to ask you.” She put a small hand on her hip and gave an impatient huff. “Can I? May I…please?”
Claire laughed. “If Daddy says it’s okay, then it’s fine with me.”
The little girl squealed and raced for the door.
“Katherine Jean!” Claire called after her, her voice stern. But then she shrugged, rolling her eyes in mock aggravation. “Oh well. I was going to ask if you wanted to go out to eat with Michael and me. This is even better—” She motioned with raised eyebrows in the direction Kati had run. “We can choose something besides pizza this way.”
Olivia laughed and made a quick decision. It was time
she stepped out of her self-imposed exile. “I’d love to have lunch with you.”
“Oh— Great!” It was obvious Claire had expected to have to argue with her. “Let me find Michael and we’ll meet you in the foyer.”
Out in the entryway, Olivia turned away from the friendly but intent stares of other parishioners, pretending to inspect the collage of thank-you notes and activity notices posted on the large bulletin board near the front doors.
Her feigned interest turned real when she discovered a small notice posted in bold handwritten block letters:
WANTED—ARTIST’S ASSISTANT. PART-TIME. POSSIBLY PERMANENT. PREFER EXPERIENCE, BUT WILL TRAIN RIGHT PERSON. HOURS FLEXIBLE. CALL REED VINCENT.
There was a neat row of tear-off phone numbers at the bottom of the page. Olivia ripped one off and stuck the tiny scrap of paper in her purse.
“Oh, that would be a great job.” Claire materialized at her elbow. “Have you met Reed?”
Olivia shook her head. “No. Do you know him?”
“I know his work. Michael and I drooled over a painting he had hanging in The Breadbox downtown a few months ago, but then we saw the price sticker. Ouch.”
“Pricey, huh?”
“That’s putting it mildly. I’d become an artist if I thought I could get that kind of money for every painting.”
“He must be pretty good to command that kind of money.”
“Well, I’m no judge of art, but I think he’s fabulous. Michael does, too, and it’s not often we agree when it comes to décor. Who knew that husbands were allowed to have opinions when it came to decorating the house?” She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t hide the affection for her husband that flickered there.
“Derek and I used to go around about that too.” Olivia laughed. “I was the interior designer in the family, but that didn’t stop him from having opinions.”
Claire looked at her with a new spark of interest in her eyes. “So you’re a professional interior decorator?”
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