Christmas Elopement

To Julia Cameron for her book The Artist’s Way, which has changed forever the way I approach my craft; and To those enlightened employers, managers and supervisors everywhere who contribute to the happiness and well-being of their employees

One (#ulink_8dc0286a-03a8-5f96-aa41-799f9936cd43)

So here it was, Friday the thirteenth. Bad hair, no fiancé, no job, and she felt like she was going to puke for the third time this morning. Tuesday’s flu was no longer the cause. More likely it was the bottle of cheap wine she’d consumed last night during a rare self-indulgent blue funk.

She should have known it would be a lousy week. So far, the bad perm on Monday had been the best part. She grabbed chunks of hair in each hand and growled in frustration. It was dry, fuzzy, bushy. Totally out of control. Unmanageable. Just like her ramshackle life.

“Oh, heiferdust! You really don’t have time for this selfpity, Carrie Sargent.” Where were those old problem-solving skills of hers, anyway?

She munched on a soda cracker, licking the salt from her lips. The teapot whistled, and she poured the steaming water over a tea bag and gave it a few dunks. Mug in hand, she stared out at the foggy mist that hung over Monterey Bay and the Cannery, far below. It was a view to be envied and one that she’d miss, but she had to move. No two ways about it. It might be some time before her lodgings rivaled her recent life-style, but Carmel wasn’t too shabby. If she had to climb off this mountain, there were worse places she could go.

Earlier in the week she’d actually considered the option of letting Brian bail her out—a small loan till she found a new job. Brian. She scoffed at the mere thought of her ex-fiancé. Last night, before she could even broach the subject, he’d whipped out his checkbook in that superior way of his and summarily categorized her problem as”typically female.” So before the night was over, she’d summarily slapped his grandmother’s priceless three-carat marquise diamond in his hand and told him to take a hike.

That was a mistake, she thought now, eyeing another cracker. She should have kept the ring.

The phone beside her jangled and she jumped, the movement sending shock waves through her pounding head, her stomach rolling over again. If it was Brian or her landlord, she didn’t have the time or energy. She was tempted to let it ring, but then she worried that it might be about today’s job interview.

Another curse and she lifted the receiver.”Hello?”

“Carrie, it’s Brian.”

Why did he always identify himself? Like she wouldn’t know?”Brian who?” she snapped.

“Oh, for God sake’s, Carrie, you need me—”

“Need you?” she said, letting the acid in her mouth spike her tone.

“Yes,” he said, his usual arrogance seeping through the receiver.”For many things…not the least of which is money.”

That was Brian. Forever the romantic. What had she ever seen in this jerk—besides his good looks, intelligence and wealth? Was she that shallow?

“What if you don’t get that job today?” he continued, sounding confident he was gaining ground.”May I remind you, Ms. S, your landlord has served you with Notice To Quit? If you don’t come up with the rent by next week—”

“Enough, Brian. I don’t need your money or your reminders.” She heard the anger in her raised voice, and quickly reined it in. In a much more controlled tone, she finished swiftly.”Save the arguments for your next jury, Counselor.” Before he could reply, she hung up the phone and turned on the answering machine.

The start-up beep had barely sounded when the phone rang again. Quickly she turned down the volume. There was no point getting riled up about things. They’d said it all before. Again and again. If last night had been their first major setback, maybe…But it hadn’t. She snatched up another cracker and snapped open the morning paper.

The front page detailed the latest disaster. She flipped to the comics, searching for a quick laugh, finding a chuckle in”Marmaduke.” Finally, after another cup of tea and a fruitless tour of the classifieds, she reread the ad clipped for today’s interview. It was long and detailed. Nothing in it ruled her out. And everything about it sounded good. In fact, too good to be true.

The answering machine picked up another call and Carrie frowned at her ringless third finger. With a weary sigh, she shoved out of the chair and headed for the shower. If she could just keep the crackers and tea down long enough to get dressed and out the door…

When she walked outside an hour later, sunlight had burned off the fog, and her smile widened. A mischievous sensation arched her brow as she fussed with the lucky scarf at her neck. It was a watercolor flurry of kelly green and carrot orange—perfect matches to her eyes and hair. Probably navy or basic black would have been a safer choice.

“Oh, well.”

She tucked the colorful scarf under the lapel of her salmon-colored suit and settled behind the wheel of her rusted Woodie station wagon. This outfit was far more fun, she’d convinced herself, one that was certain to stand out among the other corporate types. She turned the key and the car coughed and sputtered before turning over.

“Besides, S, when have you ever played it safe? When did caution ever enter into the equation?” She smiled through the bug-spattered windshield and snaked her way down toward the city.

Yep. With her experience and references, she’d get that job. If not today, by the next interview. She’d better. She was down to her last hundred bucks. After the interview she’d go talk to Gus at Day’s Pub in Carmel. One way or the other she’d find a way to work things out. She cranked down the window, turned up the Mozart and clutched the wheel of her Woodie for dear life, willing away the butterflies in her stomach.

Tourist traffic had picked up now that the holidays were drawing near, making the trek a slow one, giving her time to enjoy the late-fall air and the ever-present trade winds that wafted through the window. Cunningham Construction was a couple of blocks away. She glanced at her watch: ten minutes till eleven. Plenty of time.

Twenty minutes later she darted around the last construction barricade, yanked the steering wheel a hard right into the parking lot and ran smack-dab into the front fender of a Mercedes convertible. She jerked against the seat belt, and her head whipped back, soda crackers revisiting the back of her throat. The sickening sound of dimpling metal reverberated in her already aching head.

Great! Just what she needed. She did a quick inventory of her body parts and found none bleeding, so she flung open the door to inspect Woodie. The left fender looked like she felt. Mean and ugly. The other car looked a little like Brian’s, only this one was black instead of navy. Probably another lawyer, she thought, as she spun on the guilty driver.

“Look what you’ve done!” she shouted at the black suit and wing tips, not having made her way to his face yet.

“What I’ve done! You’re the one driving like a bat out of hell!”

“I had the right-of-way. I was turning right.”

“Except I was already there.”

Carrie glanced at the tanned face, her words lost momentarily. Drop-dead gorgeous. The sun bounced off his black hair like a halo. Blue eyes were invading her space. She stepped back and regrouped.

“I’m in a hurry. Just write out your insurance information and I’ll do the same.” There. She was in control again. Although he hesitated a moment, his jaw muscles working overtime, he did what she asked.

They exchanged papers and then, with slitted glances flitting between them in an angry duel, they returned to their vehicles. He pulled away first, backing off Woodie, loosening the front bumper in the process.

“Damn!” Would this week ever be over? Slowly she pulled into the lot, the bumper scraping the blacktop in a cry for help. She got out and walked to the front of it, taking a long, slow look.

“Oh, Woodie, look what he’s done to you. No respect for the elderly, that one. Well, just wait till he hears from my insurance company!”

She straightened her scarf and her shoulders and quickened her pace to the front door. She hated being late. She was never late. First the construction, now this.

A large three-story atrium greeted her when she walked through the door, the only decoration a huge brass sculpture suspended overhead. Off-white concrete walls, no photos, no plants. She headed for the elevator, her heels echoing on the pristine hardwood floor. The secretary had said the third floor, so she punched the number and made her ascent.

The name Cunningham Construction was displayed in dense brass letters behind a reception area that was also devoid of color or warmth. Not even a hint of the impending holidays. The young woman behind the desk, however, smiled warmly when Carrie approached her.

“Carrie Sargent?” she asked, still smiling.

“Yes. I’m sorry I’m late, but—”

The woman waved her hand.”Not to worry. The boss just got here himself. He said the construction down there has everything tied up. Would you like some coffee?”

She’d like some more tea, but with her luck she’d spill it all over herself or the interviewer.”No, thank you.”

“I just handed him your résumé. Let me see if he’s ready.”

Carrie watched her disappear around the corner and exhaled a slow breath. Time for an attitude adjustment. The week so far might have been lousy, but she needed this job. This could be the turning point she was hoping for…

“You may go in now, Ms. Sargent,” the young woman said when she returned, then added softly under her breath.”He’s not in the best mood this morning, but his bark is worse than his bite. He’s really a nice guy when you get to know him.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Carrie whispered back, her lower intestines contracting. Great. Just great.

“First door on the right,” the secretary called over her shoulder.