There was no way I could see how I was going to make it to the end of the month. I keep a certain amount in savings—enough to eke out a six-month stretch if work drops off—and I refuse to dip into it unless I absolutely have to. This had only happened once so far and I like to keep it that way. What it meant for today was that I needed extra cash.
I drank a glass of water for my headache, which subsided to a dull throb. I could take aspirin, but hey, you actually have to have some on hand. I decided to see how far I could go without drugs. Snagging the keys to the Volvo, I headed to Greg Hayden’s office.
I was halfway there when it occurred to me that I should call in advance. Greg answered his cell on the fourth ring. He’s even more electronically challenged than I am, so I half-expected to be cut off before we made contact.
“Hello,” Greg greeted me.
“It’s Jane. Got any notices to post?”
“Nah. Everyone’s paying on time.”
I stared out the windshield. Just my luck that the deadbeats weren’t out in force. How was I supposed to make a living? “Nothing?”
“Are you anywhere near here? I’ve got a twenty. Get a couple of Standish’s burgers and keep the change.”
“It’ll take a thirty.”
“All right.”
Well, okay, free food was worth it. Especially since I’d already eaten up the gas for this trip. I stopped in at Standish’s, which is a Portland institution known for their plate-sized burgers, and placed the order. Greg’s always concerned about calories and nutrition so I didn’t order the mammoth-size burgers. We each got a normal-size one.
Twenty minutes later I was at Hayden’s office, transferring his burger to him. He gave me thirty dollars and I congratulated myself that I’d cleared over ten. The food and cash took care of the headache and I was good to go.
I took a slow drive back to my cottage. Coming up my drive, I was surprised to see a familiar, slightly battered Honda parked in my usual spot. Cynthia, my arty friend who is the new owner of the Black Swan Gallery, was still seated inside the car. I parked to one side of her and came around to peer through her windshield at her. She had one hand in a death grip on the steering wheel, the other clenched around her cell phone. I signaled her that I was heading inside and she gave me a curt nod. I was pretty sure the curtness was for the caller.
Binks was thrilled to see me. She did her little happy dance and ran to her bowl. She seems to feel that any homecoming requires food. I hated to break her gluttonous little heart, but I have to be firm. Instead of food I opted for one of her stuffies, a pink elephant with drunken looking eyes. It was the only dog toy that called to me the last time I was at PetSmart. Or, Pets R Us. Or, Petco. I can’t be required to remember the names of these stores, can I? Pet ownership should not be so taxing.
Binks and I were playing a game of tug-of-war when Cynthia entered in a rush of air that seemed to vibrate with her own internal outrage. Binkster’s ears lifted and she eyed Cynthia with interest but her jaw remained clamped on the elephant.
“Everyone who works for me is either a moron, a backstabber or a fucker.”
“What constitutes a fucker?”
“They need to get the fuck out of my life.” She threw herself onto the sofa. I didn’t have time to warn her about the dog fur. She wore a black knit skirt and matching jacket with a silky chartreuse blouse underneath. “God, I hate being management. What was I thinking?”
“You wanted your own gallery.”
She ran tense fingers through her spiky, dark brown hair and made a growling sound. Binkster dropped the elephant and stared at her. “I started sleeping with Ernst.”
I ran the names of Cynthia’s friends through my mind and drew a blank. “Ernst?”
“He works for me. A painter…sort of.” She snorted. “He’s like forty, going on six. He’s a moron. And a fucker,” she decided as an afterthought. “I’m an idiot.”
“I take it you’re not sleeping with Ernst anymore.”
“Not for a good six hours.”
“Oh.”
“Do you know what that piece of shit said to me? He said I was too old for him.”
Cynthia is around my age, thirtyish. “He’s forty? Does he want to be killed where he stands?”
“He meant my soul, or so he says. I’m an old soul. Which I have to say, I thought was a good thing until I heard him say it. Then it just sounded wrong.”
“He must believe he’s a young soul.”
“He’s a larva. No…he’s an egg. A louse egg.”
“A nit,” I supplied.
“Is that what a louse egg is?” She was momentarily diverted.
“Yep.”
“That pretty well says it all. Now I don’t know what to do. I’ve got to fire him but he’ll probably sue me for sexual harassment or something. I can just smell it.”
“Then you must put up with him.”
“Oh, puh-leeze. Like that’s gonna work. If I could only sleep with him but not have to work with him. This is like some terrible marriage. I can’t explain how I feel. And what’s worse, I think he feels the same way. He can’t stand me, except in bed. What does that say about us?”
I shrugged. Nothing good. Cynthia isn’t one to have tons of relationships. If she was involved with this guy it had to be for some reason that she wasn’t revealing. She’s a tough cookie, but once in a while I sense her vulnerability. I’m always at a loss at those times. Should I be this great huggy friend? It’s not my style. And Cynthia’s pretty prickly most times. Besides Dwayne, she’s my closest friend, but it’s a fine balance. Friendship can be so tricky.
She clammed up about further information on the mysterious new lover/employee and I let it go. She hung around the rest of the afternoon, making phone calls and generally wasting time. Fine with me. I had nothing to do but wait.
By the time she got up to leave it was after three. At the door, she said, “Thanks, Jane.”
“For what?”
She just waved at me and left. I watched the Honda back down the drive. Because of an incident earlier in the summer the Honda bore a few more scratches. The incident was my fault and I suspected Cynthia might hold a bit of a grudge. Maybe not. It’s all long over now, but I felt better thinking I may have helped her in some way this afternoon. She was enough of a loner for it to be a rare thing for me, or anyone, to be there for her.
My good feelings lasted until I had to fret over my wardrobe. I’m not that great at “outfits”. But…I was meeting with the Purcells and this required some thought. I dug through my closet, even though I know I’ve only got a couple of dresses I save for funerals and weddings. Eventually I settled on a dark brown knit dress with a large silver belt. The belt was a gift from Cynthia, as were the slightly worn, brown boots which I
