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„Anyway, I don’t have time right now to… start changing a lot of other things.“ She went into the kitchen for more coffee, calling, „I have a system. And once I get the clients that I’m keeping set up in my system, I’ll have more time for shopping and… and whatever. Plus, I’ll have to close out the companies I’m not keeping, which could take a while if they can’t find someone to take over right away. Dad would just die if I… he would expect me to stay with them until they found new accountants.“
She returned to find him with his elbow on the table, his fist in his cheek, looking utterly bored.
„And…“ he prompted.
„And what? That’s it. I’m too busy.“
„Have you ever noticed how easily that flows from your lips? I’mtoobusy. It’s like one word for you. It’s your favorite excuse.“
„Maybe because it’s true.“
„Ah-ha.“ He put on a long-suffering face and pushed himself to his feet. „Fine. Swell. No problem.“ He shuffled slowly over to the couch. „It’s been twenty-eight years, seven months, three days, ten hours and sixteen minutes. I guess we can put life off a little longer.“
„Oh, stop it.“ She watched him lie down and put his hands under his head, the large muscles in his arms straining the sleeves of the Grateful Dead T-shirt. A vision of those arms wrapping around her flashed through her mind and she quickly blacked it out. „I have a life.“
„Yeah, I know,“ he said to the ceiling, his tone jaded and dull. „It’s been one thrill right after another so far. I can hardly bear it.“
„You’re really obnoxious, you know that?“
„So sue me. You have your work, I have mine. You crunch numbers; I crunch the truth.“
„You want a blanket?“ She’d had enough truth for one day. The sooner he went back to sleep the better.
„No. I find warmth in your resentment.“
That tickled her memory. „Where have I heard that before?“
„You read it in a poem by Isbin Rudger, poet and philosopher, 1422 to 1458, while you were researching a paper for English 404. You used to like poetry.“
She read autobiographies and spy thrillers now. They were something her parents had liked, as well. They passed them around, discussed them like a mini book club. It was something else the three of them had in common, besides accounting.
„I’ll be in my office if you need anything.“
„Okay.“ He didn’t sound particularly interested.
Had she stopped reading poetry because she’d lost interest in it or because her parents had no interest in it at all? She couldn’t remember. But then, it probably wasn’t one of those things lost in a single, memorable moment; rather one that slipped away gradually and u
„You can watch TV if you keep it low.“
„Great. Thanks.“ His tone told her he disliked daytime television as much as she did.
„Are you going to be mad at me all day?“
„Neither one of us can tell the future, Charlotte.“ He hesitated, then rolled over on his side to look at her. „If it makes you feel any better, try to remember who I am and that I’m more likely to reflect your emotions back to you then to generate my own.“
He rolled onto his back again and closed his eyes.
So, she was bored and a
And yet, why would it seem so much more upsetting coming from someone else than from within? Was she so used to pleasing other people that pleasing herself had become so insignificant? Had she pushed her dreams aside so often that they didn’t matter any more? Had she given up on them?
She took one last look at the large male body stretched out on her couch, then left in search of her copy of Emily Dickinson.
As it happened, Emily still spoke to Charlotte’s soul and she’d missed that kinship. The revelation weighed heavily in her heart; her thoughts tied themselves in knots, with no clear answers.
She felt stifled in the large back bedroom, where two desks were positioned face to face; computers on the right at opposing angles; the walls lined with filing cabinets and bookshelves full of tax codes and books on marketing, finance and accounting.
It was her parent’s office for as far back as she could remember – their bookkeeping and accounting business. It specialized in small businesses, which constituted 85 percent of the twenty million businesses in America, and was incredibly lucrative. It was a good business, and now it was hers.
But when she graduated from college she had plans… plans to get an apartment and set up her own office. She wanted to travel and take up scuba diving. She had exciting and wonderful plans for her life.
Looking back, she could remember the devastating disappointment she felt a few weeks after her mother’s sudden death as she lowered herself into the chair across the desks from her father. It was logical, practical – and besides, he needed her. He was elderly. He’d be lonely. Who else would take care of him?
She stopped making plans, pictured herself living with her father until she was as gray as he was. She started dressing and acting like the old lady she felt herself becoming. Her perspective narrowed to one monotonous day at a time.
She couldn’t regret staying with him, especially now, but she could see that giving up on the rest of her life had been a huge mistake, and not one that was in any way his fault. She’d quit. She’d settled for dry meatloaf when juicy prime rib was just as easy to order and eat.
Finishing her entries much later than anticipated, and vowing to recheck them all a third time for errors the next day, Charlotte tiptoed into the living room.
She couldn’t believe her good luck to find Mel still sleeping, his big masculine body curled toward the back of the couch, the colorful T-shirt scrunched to show part of his strong back, the football pants looking just as they ought to…
She blew out a short, hard breath to curb the excitement curling low in her belly. He wasn’t real. Her disappointment had her sagging against the hall wall as she watched him sleep. Why was it so hard to remember that? Because she could see him, hear him, touch him, smell him… taste him maybe, if he’d let her? Because every sense she used to distinguish what was real and what wasn’t was… malfunctioning? All of them? All at once?
She wasn’t stupid. She’d heard of hallucinations, audio and visual, and how one or both can be so convincing people can actually feel them. People like… schizophrenics and drug addicts. She wasn’t taking anything, so was she losing her mind? Was she crazy?
She listened to Mel’s deep rhythmic breathing and occasional soft snoring noises and thought about it. Seriously. Because if she was nuts, Mel was the most exciting thing in her life since… ever, and she found it really hard to care, one way or the other. If she’d gone around the bend, she wanted to keep on going… and there didn’t seem to be any reason for her not to.
Her gaze gravitated along his strong muscled back to the football pants before she caught herself again. If she allowed herself to remain mentally impaired, there had to be rules; she had to draw some lines somewhere, right? Or did she?
She laughed silently and shook her head. Whatever Mel was, she was having fun. She liked him, except when he was grouchy and being too truthful. She liked having him here. He knew her, knew what she was feeling. He was something to think about besides how lonely and alone she was. He was company. He was… well, he was her dream man.
She snuck out quietly, hurrying over to West McGraw Street, and the one company her father represented that still kept its offices within walking distance of the apartment. Custom Window Coverings. They now had a large factory in Renton and did a booming catalogue business as well, and should have moved their offices out there, too, long ago. which she told the owner, Mike Woodall.