But now, he wanted to stare forward into his bright future until he went blind. Even now, just sitting with his arm wrapped around Alicia, Tanner couldn't wait for the next step. Getting a house, maybe secretly lifting one of Alicia's rings to get her finger's size and then visiting a few jewelry shops, looking for that perfect diamond...
Yes, he couldn't wait for the future.
Briefly, Tanner wondered if Alicia had any idea what he might be considering for the future. She hadn't said anything, certainly, hadn't given him any sort of hint or prodding. But still, when he sometimes looked up to find her just gazing at him, loving him, the strength of her affection for him so strong that he could practically feel it as a physical thickening in the air, he suspected that she knew a lot more about what he was considering than what she was willing to divulge.
Not that he minded. Tanner knew that Alicia was smarter than him - one of the first times he'd realized that about his dating partner, and found comfort in it.
Right now, he could just relax, focus on helping her as much as he could, and wait for that bright future to arrive.
Tanner realized that he'd been tuning out for a few minutes, and quickly played back the last bit of conversation between Freddie and Alicia in his head. They'd been talking in incomprehensible jargon about some sort of computer security stuff; Alicia had a cybersecurity bill sitting on her desk, waiting to be reviewed, and Freddie clearly had some strong feelings on the matter.
He listened idly, focusing more on watching the animation, the energy, in Alicia's face and hands as she debated with Freddie. This woman, he thought fondly, would go far in politics. For once, he found himself believing the hype that the pundits summoned up when they debated who they'd see as contenders in future Presidential campaigns.
And Tanner swore, yet again, to himself that he was done with tearing people down. He'd left that part of himself behind. Now, instead of focusing on holding back others, he was going to help make things happen, make a brighter future.
After all, he considered happily for a moment before crushing the thought as too much, too soon, that future might not belong just to Alicia and himself.
Who knew what their future might hold?
No matter what, however, Tanner knew that he'd be spending the rest of his life working to make sure that Alicia was happy, as happy as he could promise her. He loved her, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life showing her, each and every day.
So he sat next to his true love and his best friend in the Capitol Lounge, sipping his drink and listening to them talk, enjoying being happy. This was all he needed.
The End - but there's another story ahead:
Selling Grace
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Chapter One
*
"...and you can handle that?"
I dragged my eyes away from the little black stone statue in the corner of Preston Halesford's office, back to the man himself sitting behind his desk. "Yes, totally," I said, aware that he wanted some sort of positive response from me.
Preston clapped his soft, chubby hands together. "Excellent!" he exclaimed, before reaching forward with a little grunt to pick up the sheet of paper from his desk. "Now, I think I have a few more questions..."
I did my best to appear interested, fighting hard against the pull of my eyes back towards that statue. Something really seemed off with it, I kept thinking to myself. It was fairly small, only about eight inches tall, and partly hidden by some of the books on the shelf along with it, but something about its curved lines made me think of-
"Sorry, what was that?" I asked, realizing that, once again, Preston was waiting for me to offer up some response.
Instead of repeating himself, Preston sighed, setting the paper back down on top of his cluttered desk. I glanced down at it, and even though it faced away from me, I had no trouble reading part of the headline: TEN QUESTIONS YOU SHOULD DEFINITELY ASK A NEW EMPLOYEE. Great. Preston was taking his interview questions right off of some online list website. Was that the BuzzFeed logo?
"Becca, I'm trying to help you out here," Preston said, reaching up and rubbing the bridge of his nose. The gesture pushed his little round glasses up into his shock of white hair, and he had to pull them back down into place. "I know that you've been going through a tough time, which is why I thought of offering you this position, but you're not exactly suited for this kind of work-"
Oh crap. That didn't sound good. "Uncle Preston, I really do think that I'll be good at this job," I said quickly, "but look, do you really need to ask me all these questions? You've known me since I was in diapers! Why do you need to ask me some sort of hypothetical about..."
I tried to think back to this disaster of an interview's beginning. "...people tied to train tracks, or something?"
My uncle sighed again, but I sensed that he was ready to just be done with this, just like me. "You really want to work as the manager of my art gallery?" he asked. "Be honest with me, Becca. It's not exactly up your alley."
Preston was right. I didn't know the first thing about art, much less about any of the artists who displayed their work at the Halesford Gallery. I did know, however, that I needed a paycheck, and desperately. My bank account balance was rapidly dropping towards the level where I'd literally be able to count my dollars on my fingers, possibly without even needing to take off the conservative black ballet flats I'd chosen to wear to this interview. Besides, that huge bill for my divorce, the last one, was looming ever closer.
If I didn't find a source of income, and soon...
Well, I didn't want to think about that option, not until I'd really exhausted every possible alternative. So now, I leaned forward, doing my best to focus all of my will on convincing my uncle Preston to agree with me.
"Uncle Preston, I really do appreciate you going out on a limb for me like this," I said to the older man. "And yes, I know that art isn't really my thing. But I'll work as hard as I can, just to see the gallery succeed. You need a manager, and I really need a job, and I'll be here every day. I won't let you down."
My uncle's blue eyes clouded slightly behind his little round spectacles, nostalgia flooding over his face like a wave. "I know you won't, Becca," he said softly, and suddenly, for a moment, I felt on the verge of tears.
After all, Uncle Preston really had seen me at my highest and lowest. He'd sat in the front row of the church with my parents just a few years ago, watching as I declared my love for a man who was no longer in my life. He'd seen me hit what (still) felt like the peak of my life, only to come crashing back down all the way through the floor. I didn't have any secrets from him, and I trusted him, never hesitated to tell him about problems in my personal life. I owed him so much already, even before he reached out to me with this job offer.
For a moment, both of us just sat there silently. I struggled against the tears, and I guessed that Uncle Pr
eston was doing the same. Finally, he clapped his hands together and then planted them on the arms of his chair, grunting a little as he hoisted himself up to his feet, his belly jiggling a little as he rose up.
"Well, if you don't want to just sit around answering interview questions that I printed off for this, I suppose that I ought to show you around," he said brightly. "What do you say? I guess that, at worst, I'll just keep you on for a little bit until I find someone else who wants to manage my art gallery."
"Sounds good, Uncle Preston," I said gratefully as I stood up as well, running my hands down in an attempt to smooth out some of the wrinkles in my jeans.
As I stood up, however, my eyes again fell on that little statue on my uncle's bookshelf, and this time, raised up from my chair, I saw the full thing, exposed and on display.
"What?" Preston asked after a moment, as he saw me frozen, half out of my chair, staring across his office. His eyes tracked along the path of mine, over to the little black carving. "Oh! You've noticed my little piece in the corner, have you?"
"Kind of hard to ignore," I said, my voice sounding half-choked.
Preston chuckled, stepping over to his bookshelf and picking up the little statue. He moved it over to set it on top of the papers on his desk, one hand still curled around it. "It's an Onyx, of course, like a couple other pieces out in the gallery. He's an amazing local artist, and his work is very highly valued. I was so touched when he gave this little miniature to me as a token of his appreciation."
"That's a miniature?" I asked, wishing that my uncle wouldn't wrap his hand around the statue in such a way. "They're normally bigger?"
Preston chuckled. "Oh, quite a bit, I'd say. You should see the size of some of the ones that he brings in! There's only so much gallery space, or else I'd offer him an entire feature on them."
"That would raise some headlines," I said, forcing my eyes away from the slightly curved rod as it pointed up. "And all his works tend to, um, look like that?"
My uncle nodded happily, picking up the statue and admiring it for a moment before placing it back on his shelf. I held off on rolling my eyes, but made a mental note to watch out for anything else by this Onyx artist. I'd need to put up some sort of sign to warn parents about letting their children loose in here, in case they saw something that scarred them permanently, I groaned to myself.
Thankfully, Preston let go of his grip on the shaft of the eight-inch black statue and led me out of his office, out into the gallery. He began talking as soon as we left, giving me a constant narrative about all the different artists who contributed their work for his gallery to sell, how he'd originally found this space and turned it into a collective for local sculptors and painters and other artists to sell their work, how he'd been featured in a couple of national magazines and news articles. I just nodded along, having heard it all a dozen times before. Heck, I'd spent many of my weekends as a small child running around the different rooms of the Halesford Gallery - although I certainly didn't remember seeing any giant, erotic shapes carved out of black rock!
I realized that I was tuning out again, and I tried to force myself to listen. I really did need this job, and I wanted to not totally screw it up. I didn't know the first thing about managing an art gallery, but it couldn't be that difficult, right? I once helped run a stall at the local farmer's market as a kid, so the retail experience ought to transfer over, I told myself.
Preston led me through the four rooms of his little gallery space, pointing out various artists and telling me factoids that I immediately forgot, in one ear and out the other. Instead, I tried to imagine myself working here, showing off these slightly dusty paintings to the tourists and decorators who wandered inside.
"So, Uncle Preston," I cut in as he pointed at a large oil painting of a cow, "what exactly would be my responsibilities? You know, day to day."
He frowned at me, distracted from his litany of trivia. "Well, as the manager, you'd open the gallery, close it, and handle anyone who wants to make a purchase. The gallery doesn't usually get a ton of visitors, so you can probably handle it on your own - but you'd need to be here from nine to five."
"And taking payments? What about if an artist comes in?"
"Oh, I can show you that," he said, and he led me back over to the front desk of the gallery. "Everything you need is back here. See, here's the credit card swiper..."
As it turned out, running an art gallery really didn't seem to be that different from running a farmer's market stall after all. Sure, I'd be selling expensive paintings and statues instead of bunches of tomatoes, but in the end, the mechanics seemed fairly similar. Listen to customer, ring up purchases, accept cash or credit card, get signature and hand over items.
"Not too bad," I said, telling myself mentally that yes, I could totally handle this.
Preston nodded. "It really will be a great chance for you to get back on your feet," he said, looking over at me with a little bit of worry still lingering in his eyes. "And of course, if you can sell some of the larger pieces, there's commission..."
That made my ears perk up. "Commission? I earn commission?"
"Well, of course!" my uncle answered, smiling once again as he saw me cheer up. "Five percent on everything! Always good to offer an employee a commission, I always say."
I nodded, trying to imagine raking in a fat commission on some of the art pieces. Some of these paintings and statues had five figure price tags! Just selling one of those art pieces could net me an entire month's worth of rent!
"Well, that's put a smile on your face, I see," Preston finished, clapping his hands together once again. "So, I've got faith in my favorite niece-"
"Uncle Preston, I'm your only niece," I pointed out.
"Still. I believe that you'll do a great job at managing my gallery for me." He chuckled, and for a moment reminded me of a Santa Claus on summer vacation. "And it will give me a lot more time to go get my tan on by the pool and check out all the fine ladies!"
"Eww, not at all what I want to hear!" I protested, holding my hands up to my ears. "Besides, don't you go to the rec center, where all the women are past menopause?"
"So am I," he replied, and then frowned as his brain caught back up with his mouth. "Oh, you know what I mean. So, are you taking the job? Willing to be the new manager of the Halesford Gallery?"
I didn't consider the question for more than a second. On one hand, I really never thought of myself as someone who should be working retail at all, much less the kind of person who could sell expensive art pieces to tourists who wandered into our gallery. But on the other hand, I really needed a job, and any port in a storm, right?
"You bet," I told my uncle, accepting his handshake. "I can't wait to get started."
Chapter Two
*
Forty minutes later, I arrived back at my apartment, locking the door behind me and heading straight over to collapse down on top of my couch.
"Well, I've got a job, at least," I announced, trying to cheer myself up by looking on the bright side. That had been a recurring recommendation from friends after my divorce, and even though it didn't seem to help nearly as much as they expected, I still did my best to say at least one good thing about my life out loud each day.
With a soft little gurgle, my roommate announced himself, sauntering in from my bedroom. I narrowed my eyes at him. "Yeah, and what have you done today? Anything productive at all? Have you contributed to this household?"
In response, he yawned at me, blinking a few times, then wandered a few steps closer before dropping down to sprawl out on the floor, limbs akimbo as he watched me, taunting me with his idleness.
"Didn't think so," I sniffed, as he lost interest in me and started licking himself, showing off a range of flexibility that would make a yoga inspector bite straight through her rolled-up mat.
After a few minutes of furious swiping with his pink tongue over his black fur, he sat up again, blinking big, green eyes up at me. "Oh, I can't stay mad at you,"
I told him, rolling off the couch and over so that I could scratch him right behind the ears. His eyes squeezed almost all the way shut, down to slits, as he leaned into my hand and started to rumble.
My roommate's name was Salem, and he'd been with me since the divorce. In fact, as soon as I announced to that slimeball Barry that I was divorcing him, the next thing I did was head straight to the shelter to adopt a cat, just to drive the point home. He always complained about my wanting a cat, how he hated the creatures for acting so stuck-up? Well, suck on this, Barry! Your ex-wife's now a proud cat owner!
To my surprise, however, Salem turned out to be much more than just a way to spit in my former husband's eye. I didn't intend to grow so attached to the big lazy lump, but I soon found myself holding him in my lap whenever a wave of tears hit me, and his purring seemed to help reassure me that this wasn't the end of the world, that I wasn't going to be a pariah for the rest of my life because I went through a bitter divorce. I grew used to feeling his warmth on top of my feet when I went to bed, and he acted as an ersatz alarm clock each morning, wandering up to sit on top of my chest and, while purring, bat at my face to encourage me to come and provide him with his breakfast.
I'd gladly trade away a couple of cans of cat food each day for keeping Salem as my companion, and occasional therapist. Now, sitting comfortably in my arms, he purred deeply, squeezing his eyes shut at me in the feline equivalent of a warm hug.
After a few minutes, however, Salem oozed out of my grasp, getting up and arching his back as he stretched, flexing his claws on my rug. He tore at the carpets sometimes, but I'd read online about how declawing cats was basically the same as chopping off the last little third of their toes, and I couldn't bring myself to do that to the poor fellow. He'd already lost his testicles, I told the vet. He didn't deserve to lose anything more, just so that he could be a pet. I could handle his scratching.
Fixer: A Bad Boy Romance Page 18