Kent’s grin was all little-boy then, and it struck Sherman’s heart clear through. “I was just hoping you were feeling bad enough that we could skip the cleaning part.”
“You want to live in a pigsty?”
“No.”
“You got money to pay a cleaning lady?”
The boy’s sigh was long. “No, Dad. You know I don’t.”
“Guess that means it’s up to us to get the cleaning done, doesn’t it?” Sherman stood, both hands on his son’s shoulders as Kent did, too. “At least you got out of vacuuming this week.”
Kent threw another killer grin over his shoulder. “Why do you think I stayed in bed?” he asked. “I waited until I heard it in every room before I got up.”
Sherman’s burst of laughter surprised the hell out of him.
* * *
SHE COULD LEAVE a written report with Mrs. Barbour and walk away. Professionally, anyway.
Doing so would be appropriate.
Late Sunday night, after stopping after work to see her family—adamantly avoiding any mention of Kent Paulson—and then finishing the last of her online homework, Talia pulled a jacket on over her sweats, took her laptop out to the deck on the back of her borrowed beach cottage and sat down with the ocean she could hear but not see.
She saw a couple of lights bobbing in the far distance. Ships out to sea? There was nothing but blackness where she knew the beach to be—the stretch of space between her deck and the water.
It fit her, this little cottage. Alone, she didn’t need a lot of space. And yet, she never truly felt lonely here. How could you when all of life was spread before you just by sitting on your back deck?
Maybe someday she’d actually be able to afford a place like this. And not have to rely on handouts from the family she’d let down so badly.
As she sat there, not yet opening the laptop, Talia stared out into the darkness and replayed a scene from earlier that day. She’d just finished ringing up a fifteen-hundred-dollar sale—a couple of outfits with the highest quality costume jewelry embellishments—when the store’s manager approached her.
“Have you got a minute?” Mirabelle had asked.
“Of course.” Even if you didn’t, you found one when the head boss sought you out.
“You’ve been working here for well over a year now,” the savvy, middle-aged woman said, as though Talia didn’t know the length of her employment.
“Yes.”
“Since your first month you’ve been one of our top earning associates.”
She nodded. Helping people look good wasn’t all that tough. Getting them to spend their money on looking good hadn’t been her doing. That was human nature coming into play. Their own, not hers.
“While finishing up a four-year college degree in three years.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I hear that you’re in school again, adding psychology to your major?”
“That’s right.” Though her original employment had been granted partially on the basis of her performance in the fashion area of study, surely the store wouldn’t have a problem with her continued education. She had her fashion merchandising degree with a dual in fashion design. And her work wasn’t suffering.
“What’s the starting salary for fashion design grads who are psychology students in California these days?” Mirabelle, decked out to the nines in a red suit with black trim, gave her an assessing look.
As far as she knew she’d have to have a doctorate in psychology to actually work in the field of psychology. She was only going for a master’s degree. She told the woman a little bit about her collage program—starting with the experience with collage that she’d received as part of her fashion design degree. And then she admitted that, so far, her collage work was all done on a volunteer basis.
The older woman nodded. Talia held her gaze. She needed this job. The store paid the highest sales commission by far. With only two days a week to work, Talia had to make those hours count.
“Good,” Mirabelle said after several seconds, a small smile forming on her face. “I’d like to offer you an opportunity to do far better than that,” she said. “I have an opening for a full-time buyer for women’s fashions and accessories. You’d have full purchasing privilege in all of the best houses around the world. I’ll pay your travel expenses and a small salary. In addition, you’ll get a percentage of each of your items that sell in our store.”
Mirabelle named an amount she could expect to make that astounded her.
“I...” She was tempted. She could buy a beach cottage. Be able to help her family if they ever had need...
She’d get to travel the world without selling her soul. She’d have respectability.
And she’d be spending a good part of her life traveling. She knew what being a buyer meant. Her nights would be largely spent in hotel rooms. Far away.
“What would the small salary be?”
“Twenty thousand a year. But if you do half as well as the woman you’re replacing you’ll make more than I’ve just told you to expect.”
After her items arrived and starting selling, of course.
Twenty thousand was less than she’d made at eighteen.
But the commission was more than she could hope to make anytime in the near future.
Still, she’d be gone most of the time. Away.
Mirabelle had given her two months to think about the offer. The position wouldn’t be available for another three months.
She had time to weigh the pros and cons. But her gut was telling her that she couldn’t take the job. She wasn’t going anywhere until Tatum had graduated from high school and was settled in college. And then she still wasn’t leaving. She’d learned that in her life family came first, and for her, because of her past, that meant that she had to be where they were. In case they needed her.
So that they knew she was there for them.
She opened her laptop. Opened a blank word processing document and started to type.
About a little boy who was hiding things. Who had thoughts about violence. And a gentle heart. A boy who was angry, and who loved to read and have family picnics. Who wanted to lash out and liked puppies. A boy who was smart enough to keep his true feelings hidden, talented enough to mask his feelings with an artistic presentation, tender enough to see the value in doing the project at all and young enough to put his frustrations right there for all to see. If they looked.
She was telling the story that she saw when she looked at Kent Paulson’s collage. She might be right. Or not. She could be reading him spot-on, or be a bit off the mark.
But
