Don't Scream. Wendy Corsi Staub
again slams his fist into his palm, shakes his head sadly, and asks Brynn, “Did you hear what happened to Millie Dubinski yesterday?”
“Millie Dubinski…Oh, you mean the lady who used to work at the deli?”
Arnie nods. “She was out for her early-morning walk, and some crazy driver ran her down. Poor thing had just stepped into the crosswalk on Fourth Street. Died on the spot.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. Hit and run. No witnesses. Probably some college kid.”
Brynn says nothing to that.
Arnie, like many Cedar Crest old-timers, has little patience for the five thousand Stonebridge College students who invade the town every September.
“So you stay away from the street, buddy,” Arnie warns Jeremy again with a grandfatherly pat on his head. “You hear?”
Jeremy replies, “Street! Bus!”
Arnie chuckles. “Your big brother should be along any second now.”
Yes, he should…But there’s still no sign of the bus.
Brynn waves to Arnie as he retreats down the walk toward the Chases’ house.
Then, keeping one eye on Jeremy as he plucks a fuzzy white dandelion from the grass, she flips through the stack of mail in her hand. Bill, bill, something from Cedar Crest Travel…?
Oh, right, that would be Garth’s plane ticket to Arizona for the sociology symposium next month.
What else? Bill, credit card offer, bill…
Hmm.
Coming to a larger white envelope that looks like it must contain a greeting card, Brynn sees that it’s for her.
But her name and address aren’t handwritten in ink. The envelope bears a printed label. It’s probably one of those time-share invitations, she decides, slipping her finger under the flap. Perpetually homesick for the sea, she was tempted to accept the one that came the other day—four inexpensive days at a beautiful oceanfront resort in Florida, and all they’d have had to do was listen to a sales pitch.
Garth said no way. A nervous flier, he dreads the academic conferences he has to attend, other than the nearby Boston one last June, to which he drove.
Of course he vetoed the Florida resort. But maybe—
Brynn’s thought is interrupted by the unmistakable rumble of a large vehicle making the turn onto Tamarack Lane.
“The bus, Jeremy! Caleb’s home!” she announces with relief, the mail tossed aside onto the step, forgotten as she hurries toward the curb to greet her son at last.
“Here’s your mail, Ms. Fitzgerald.”
“Thanks, Emily.” Fiona doesn’t look up from her computer screen or miss a beat as her manicured fingers fly along the keyboard. “Just put it down. I’ll get to it in a second. And be ready to go FedEx this cover letter and the contract to James Bingham’s office in Boston in about five minutes.”
“James Bingham?”
“Hello? The new client? The one with the multimillion-dollar telecommunications company?”
The one who travels in the same Boston circles as Fiona’s friend Tildy, who introduced them in June…
The one who happens to be New England’s most eligible bachelor.
“Oh, right. The new client.” But Emily sounds as vacant as she probably looks.
Fiona opts not to glance up, knowing the visual evidence of Emily’s cluelessness will just irritate her further.
She sighs inwardly, wishing the damned building weren’t nonsmoking, because she desperately needs a cigarette.
Stress. This is what she gets for hiring a college sophomore as the new part-time office assistant at her public relations firm. Emily is a pale wisp of a girl whose personality leaves much to be desired. Still, she showed up for the interview ten minutes early and appropriately dressed—neither of which she has done since she started the job.
Fiona should have gone with someone more savvy, more professional…and older. At least, beyond school-age.
Right…like whom?
There’s not a large pool of applicants to choose from; Cedar Crest isn’t exactly crawling with upwardly mobile types. This is a college town—a tourist town as well during the summer, foliage, and ski seasons. The year-round population—mostly upper-middle-class families and a smattering of well-off retirees—provides precious few candidates willing to consider part-time clerical employment. And those who are willing prefer to work for Stonebridge College, with its benefits, higher pay, and college calendar.
Fiona thinks wistfully of the lone exception: her former office manager, the folksy-yet-efficient Sharon. She moved to Albany at the end of August to be near her grandchildren and her newly divorced daughter, a choice Fiona quite vocally discouraged—and privately derided. The way Sharon went on and on about the tribulations facing her poor, poor daughter, you’d think raising a child and running a household without a man was a challenge equivalent to heading FEMA.
Expertly juggling single motherhood and a household plus a full-time career, Fiona has little sympathy or patience for anyone who can’t seem to independently accomplish a fraction as much as she does in twice the time.
Which is precisely why the future isn’t looking particularly bright for halting, clueless Emily of the granola-crunchy wardrobe and limp, flyaway hair.
But I’ll worry about her later. Right now, there’s too much to do.
Fiona rereads the letter she just composed, hits SAVE, then PRINT, and closes the document. There. Done.
She notes the angle of the sun falling through the tall window beside her desk and realizes that it’s probably too late to eat lunch. Which is a shame, because she’s hungry. Breakfast was, as usual, black coffee chased by a sugar-free breath mint.
Oh, well, just a few more hours until dinner.
Maybe more than a few, she amends, remembering that Ashley has an after-school playdate with a friend whose mother is keeping her for dinner and bringing the girls to their gymnastics class afterward. So Fiona doesn’t have to be home until eight.
“Emily!” she calls, and swivels her leather desk chair toward the adjacent antique console. “Come here, please.”
Plucking the paper from the printer, she scans it briefly, signs it with a flourish, and clips it to the prepared contract.
“Emily!” she calls again, frustrated.
The girl appears, looking flustered, in the graceful doorway that once divided the pair of formal Victorian parlors that now are the reception area and Fiona’s office.
“Sorry…I was, uh, wiping up something I spilled.”
Fiona groans. “What was it? And where did it spill?”
Please let her say water…and on the floor by the Poland Spring cooler.
“Coffee…on my desk.”
Terrific.
“Did you get it on any papers?”
“Just a couple of pages of the Jackson proposal…I’m sure they’ll dry.”
Fiona exhales through puffed cheeks and forces herself to count to three. Then she thrusts the Bingham contract and cover letter at her assistant. “Here, take this over to Mail Boxes Etc. for FedEx delivery first thing in the morning. Then come right back and deal with your desk. You need to toss the Jackson proposal and print it out again.”
“The whole thing? But…Only a few pages got wet. That would be a waste of paper.”
This is what you get for hiring a tree