Gillian's Do-Over (6 page)

Lauren chortled. “You are too funny. Does he smoke?”

“No way, but he could enjoy an occasional drink.” The corners of her mouth turned down for a moment. “But
not
an alcoholic.” Not like Owen, who’d used booze to hide his troubles, until the drinking had loosened his inhibitions so much he lashed out at people, at her, and dared to threaten Quinn, killing their marriage in the process and prompting Gillian to finally take action.

Lauren nodded. “You haven’t mentioned looks. How tall is he?”

“Does it really matter? I guess taller than me, maybe even close to six feet?”

“Sounds good.”

“Some of those pictures of people online made me realize that not everyone is handsome, but I’d like him to be okay. Even bald, as long as he isn’t so vain he wears a rug to hide it,” Gillian replied. “And he should know what a shower is and use it.”

“Good point, cleanliness next to godliness and all that,” Lauren agreed. “Anything else?”

“He’d have to be in good health.” Gillian pushed her tea glass away and shook her head when Lauren looked ready to pour her another glass. “No drugs, and he couldn’t be a criminal.”

Lauren hooted. “What made you think of that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because of the way Owen acted, those people he was hanging around before I saw the light.”

“Is the man of your dreams working?”

“He could be, but now that I’m not, I guess it would be okay if he’s retired.”

“Okay, so where does he live? Your guy sounds kind of cool. I’d like to meet him.”

Gillian laughed. “I don’t care. Maybe the Mountain or Western states. But I’m not sure a long-distance relationship would work, so he’d probably have to be local.” She sighed. “What do you think?”

“Now that you’re on
line, distance probably wouldn’t matter. Unless he’s on the East Coast, having a face-to-face would be difficult to arrange unless he’s wealthy and enjoys traveling.”

“True.” Gillian thought of the man in the park, Matt.
He was fit … buff, actually, and local. But he was married. Weren’t all the good ones always taken? He had some of those characteristics she’d listed. And he’d mentioned a niece.

Lauren picked up the plates. “I think it’s time you started checking out those guys
online for those characteristics. Maybe one of them would fit you to a
T
.”

“I doubt it. Besides, this is my
ideal
guy. Since when have I ever met an ideal?” She’d once thought Owen was the man for her, and that relationship had died a prolonged and painful death, leaving her with a child to raise on her own, and gambling and drinking bills to pay off. Gillian followed Lauren into the kitchen with the cheese and fruit plates.

“Are you coming to the community sing this weekend? It’s been ages since you joined us.”

Gillian shook her head. “I haven’t decided. I’ll let you know. My garden’s been calling my name. Now that I don’t have to go to the office, I should return the favor and spiff it up.”

“Whatever.
Give me a call if you want to carpool.”

Gillian left Lauren and wandered into her backyard. Her garden. It represented something to do, something she
should
do. But she wasn’t really interested in taking care of it. Maybe Quinn and Lauren were right. She should shake up her life with an adventure. But could she afford to add long-distance trips to her bucket list? For now, she would stick to walks around the park. Maybe with her sketch pad.

She’d
tossed her old supplies when she cleaned out the basement closets in an effort to turn her anger against Nick into constructive activity.

Her art had been relaxing when Quinn was little and she’d been a stay-at-home mom, before Owen’s drinking had driven them apart and she’d had to find a full-time job. It had been so long since she’d sketched. Maybe it was time to find out if she still had the skills.

Gillian began the next day cleaning the house
, then sat down to ponder her mostly empty bucket list. She added a category, “Travel,” and another, “Garden,” but set both lists aside in favor of her sketch pad. She pulled out one of her new drawing pencils. How long had it been since she’d indulged in drawing? When Quinn was little, she’d captured his expressions with pen and ink, charcoal and colored pencil. Several of those pictures were upstairs in his room, the two largest ones in her bedroom.

Gillian walked to the kitchen window and peered into the garden. The angled rays of sun highlighted the beds most in need of weeding and reminded her of the flowers in the park, and the rose Matt had handed her.

She picked up a colored pencil and began to fill the page with lines. An hour later, she looked up from her work when a knock on the back door intruded on her thoughts.

“Come on in, Lauren.”

“Just came to see what you’re doing today. Your second full week not to go to the office.”

Gillian chuckled. “Want some tea? I could use a break.”

“Sure.” Lauren glanced at the picture Gillian had slid toward the center of the table. “You’re drawing again.”

“
Just doodling.”

“This isn’t doodling, Gillian. That is one good-looking
man. Is he that imaginary guy we talked about yesterday, or someone you know?”

“What? Not really.”

“So you just conjured him up?”

“I saw him in the park my last day on the job. Adelaide, his niece’s dog, got away from him. She came over to say hello. That’s how I met him.”

“He looks familiar. What’s his name?”

“Matt. He’s an attorney.”

Lauren looked more carefully at the picture. “Wish I could place him.”

Gillian lifted the tea cozy from the pot and placed a small plate of cookies on the table. “I do like the planes of his face. He’s what you might call ruggedly handsome, and the angles—his nose and eyebrows and chin—made me think he has character. That’s why I decided to draw him, to try to capture his integrity. He seemed so calm, at ease with himself and his life. But there was a touch of sadness around the eyes. Like he’s dealt with difficult issues in his life—probably because he’s a lawyer.”

“Does he have a last name?”

Gillian’s mouth quirked up. “I think he told me, but I’m not sure. Golden or Gordon or something. I ran into him the other day, too, on the bike trail. He said he lives nearby.”

“
Was that the only reason you drew him? I seem to remember you used to draw that other man you went out with—when Quinn was in high school. What was his name?” Lauren’s right eyebrow rose, punctuating her question.

“
Neal.” Gillian frowned. “He certainly taught me a lesson—saying he was serious about us before I found out he was still married.” She took another sip of her tea.
Why
did
I draw Matt?

In her mind’s eye, she saw
Matt again, the muscles of his arms and shoulders pressing against the black and white biking shirt he wore, the red bike shorts with the white stripe stopping short of his knees and his leg muscles. His legs and arms were dusted with hair that looked bleached by the sun. He probably rode frequently. He’d been helmeted and the leather biking gloves protecting his palms had called attention to his long, expressive fingers.

“He asked me if I was looking for companionship when I told him
I went on that internet site for singles.” Her face flushed.

“Have you answered any of those messages?”

“Not yet. I wasn’t all that impressed. Some of the people seemed kind of weird and one guy even wrote he was married but still looking. Can you imagine?” Gillian poured the tea and reached for a cookie. “I promised Quinn I’d check it every night, but I doubt I’ll do anything other than delete the married ones. And the ones who are into pornographic word pictures. One guy was really explicit about what he wanted to do with his ‘lady love.’” She air-quoted.

“They can’t be all bad. You ought to re
spond if they sound interesting.” Lauren laughed. “Didn’t you say Quinn met his fiancée online? At the very least, you can see if someone nice checked you out. You never know who you’re going to find on those sites.”

“There was this one man
. ‘Homebody.’ When I read his message, he didn’t strike me as dangerous, and he didn’t mention kinky sex, either. But I’d rather focus on my bucket list. I’m toying with the idea of taking a trip, maybe exploring places around here I’ve never bothered to see. I just realized I haven’t been to Bainbridge Island in years and it’s such a pretty place.”

“When was the last time you went there?”

“I think the weekend Owen and I celebrated our fifth anniversary. We went kayaking and then had dinner at this quaint little restaurant. A month later, I told Owen I wanted a divorce, after I realized his drinking and gambling weren’t going to stop.”

“And you want to go back to
Bainbridge Island? You don’t have bad memories of the place, given what happened there?”

“My bad memories are of him, not of
Bainbridge Island.” Gillian smiled. “Maybe I’ll take my sketch pad and draw. I might get lucky.”

“
And find a man?”

“No, silly. I meant
maybe I’d see some orcas.” She laughed.

“Is sketching p
art of your bucket list? If so, I guess you’re getting serious about it.”

Gillian shook her head. “No, but I realized I’ve missed drawing. Maybe I’ll take a class at the community college to brush up on my skills.”

Lauren looked again at the pencil drawing. “You caught his essence, Gilly. I don’t know how you do it, but that’s what I’ve always seen in your drawings, like those darling ones of Quinn at different ages.” She sipped the last of her tea. “I’ll bet you could sell them.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Why
did
you draw that guy you met at the park?”

“I don’t know. I just picked up my pencil and this is what came out. Maybe because he seemed so calm, so in control of his life. What I’d like to be.”

That evening
Gillian slouched in front of her computer and checked her emails. Good heavens—thirty more messages! She quickly scanned the messages, deleted most and stopped at one from Niftyatfifty. He had a shock of grayish brown hair that draped over one side of his forehead. And a nice smile. Gillian imagined he might have a pleasant laugh.

Dear Fab: How are you today? I was hoping you might like to talk. I can usually tell a lot about a person from their voice.
Better than what they write, especially online. I courted my first wife with little handwritten notes—showed off my handwriting skills, which she said was what attracted her to me. But I guess we can’t do that online. I live north of Seattle. Where are you? Is that close enough for us to maybe meet and share a coffee at Starbucks? Hoping your weekend went well. Niftyatfifty.

“Hmm
.” North of Seattle. She wondered how far north. Perhaps they could meet somewhere in the middle, with lots of other people around. Wasn’t that something Quinn had said she should arrange? Or had Lauren mentioned that? Her fingers, poised over the keys, began to tap.

Dear
Niftyatfifty: I like your online name. It’s cute. I’m not quite sure about meeting, but perhaps we could exchange messages online first. If that works out, I might be willing to talk on the phone. How far away from Seattle do you live? I used to work downtown. Are you retired? Sincerely, Fab

Homebody hadn’t sent out another message. Maybe he was waiting for her. She re-read his first message and tapped out a quick reply.

Dear Homebody: Yes, I am a homebody, too. You seem like a very calm individual. Is that the case? What do you do at home? Garden? Fish off a dock? I noticed you were standing on a boat in your picture. Do you go for walks? I’m just now getting used to being at home fulltime. How long have you been a homebody? Fabatforty.

Gillian closed the computer.
I’ll check tomorrow.
She ambled into her family room and picked up the newspapers, speculating where this online chatting might take her. Probably no place. On the other hand, Quinn claimed to have met his soulmate, Bianca, online. Maybe she, too, would at least make a friend or two.

Chapter 4

The next day Gillian pulled on a light sweater, tucked her sketch table with the attached cloth holder for storing papers and other supplies under one arm, her three-legged folding stool under the other, and walked to the park. She set up the folding table, angled so that the morning sun shone on her sketch pad.

Her first subject was the play equipment on the far c
orner of the park. When two preschoolers climbed the slide, she murmured to herself, “Perfect timing,” and added quick lines of charcoal to the picture as she captured the action of the children on the slide. When the picture was done to her satisfaction, she quickly sprayed it with fixative and allowed it to air-dry in the light breeze.

She
was about to tuck the picture into the folder attached to the back of her sketch board so that she could begin another sketch, this time using colored pencils, when she saw that she’d attracted the attention of an older couple.

“
That’s a very nice drawing, young lady,” the silver-haired man offered as he leaned on a wooden cane.

“No one’s called me a young lady in years,”
Gillian replied, pleased that they liked her drawing.

“
My husband says that to every woman under seventy,” the man’s female companion added. “After all, you have to be younger than either of us, and your drawing is lovely. Do you sell your work at one of the galleries in town?”

Gillian
chuckled. “Oh, no. I just sketch to relax. I’m not sure why, but when I draw, I lose myself in the pictures. And those children over there—” she pointed toward the playground “—made a great subject.”

“May we see
it again?” the woman, her white hair tightly-curled, asked.

Gillian
held up the sketch.

“Th
ose youngsters look just like my great-grandchildren!” The lady poked her husband. “Don’t you think so, papa?”

“
If you like it, here.” Gillian handed the picture to the man.

He reached for the sketch. “
You won’t take money for it?”

She shook her head.

“Will you sign it? My family will want to know the artist.”

“Sure.”
Gillian initialed and dated the picture in the lower right corner. “There you are.”

She returned home feeling relaxed for the first time since she’
d stopped working, determined to sketch again. Soon.

That evening she checked her email. Seven new messages and three more winks.
Hmm.
Nothing from Homebody, but a comment from Niftyfifty caught her eye.

Dear Fab: I realized perhaps I was pushing too fast in asking to speak to you by phone. So
… if you just want to converse by email, I can accept that. Maybe you need to know more about me, so here goes: I’m really not fifty—actually I’m fifty-five, but I wasn’t sure any woman wort
h
her salt would be interested if I was honest about my age—especially when most of my friends keep telling me I don’t look that old. I like to think I look at least ten years younger, but I’ve been afraid to ask for fear no woman would agree with me. LOL. Niftyatfifty.

Gillian
chuckled at how Nifty had added five years to his age.
Honesty. I’ll write him back.

Dear Nifty: Fifty-five or fifty
, does your age really matter, as long as you’re young at heart? I’ve always thought honesty was the best possible policy, so I’m glad you ‘fessed up about your real age. Actually, I’m forty-six. I hope you don’t mind that I’m also older than you might have guessed. If you want to talk on the phone, I’m game, but not quite yet. Perhaps after we’ve chatted online some more? Fab.

The next morning, Gillian was just finishing a late breakfast when the doorbell rang.

“Shelley.”

The young woman looked embarrassed and a little desperate.

“I’m
so sorry to bother you at home, Ms. Griffiths, but I had to talk to someone and you weren’t at the office. Fred said you don’t work there anymore.”

Gillian
opened the door wider and motioned for Shelley to enter. “What can I do for you?”

“The severance package you gave me. It included a check for the rest of the week, even though you let me go on Tuesday.”

“Yes. Standard operating procedure. Is there a problem?”

“
It’s probably all my fault. I should have deposited it right away. But I was so upset that I just couldn’t go through all that paperwork until the end of the week. I took the check to the bank on Monday and yesterday, I got a call. The lady at the bank said the check bounced.” Shelley’s eyes filled. “I was hoping you could tell me what to do. I really need that money.”

Gillian
’s insides twisted. Why had Shelley’s check bounced? When she’d authorized the payment with the bookkeeper, he’d said nothing about the company not being able to cover the severance checks she’d asked for. Come to think of it, where was
her
check?

“Let me get you some tea
, Shelley. I need to check something in my office. If you could please take a seat?” Gillian pointed to a chair in the kitchen, filled the teakettle, pushed the lever in the back to start it heating quickly, and went into her office. Then she remembered. When Nick had fired her, he’d never given her a severance package. And she’d been so shocked, she hadn’t thought to ask for it. But wasn’t that against the law?

Gillian
returned to the kitchen, and placed two mugs on the table before reaching for the basket of assorted tea bags. “Pick whatever flavor you like best, Shelley.”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t know why your check bounced. It shouldn’t have. When you stopped by the office, did Mr. Bartlett
offer an explanation?”

Shelley shook her head. “
I asked for you. Mr. Bartlett didn’t say anything except that you weren’t there. I’ve always worked with you, so I didn’t—” she used her napkin to wipe her lips “—I just couldn’t think past you not being there anymore.”

“
Uhhuh. Well.” Gillian sipped her tea. “Let me make a call and see if we can straighten this out. I’m sure there must be an explanation.”

She retreated to the office, picked up the phone, and dialed the office.
Nick’s voice boomed at her. “Talmadge Property Management. Leave a message.” No receptionist? Had he fired her, too? She hated the thought of going back to the office, but Shelley deserved an answer.

Gillian
returned to the kitchen. “I’m not sure I can help you. But I’ll go to the office and talk to Mr. Bartlett.”
Assuming he’ll talk to me.
Gillian patted Shelley’s shoulder. “Why don’t you write down your home number? I’ll call you as soon as I find out what happened.”

“Oh, thank you.” Shelley grasped and held
Gillian’s hand with both of hers. “I just
knew
you would be able to help me. You always know what to do.”

“Please d
on’t get your hopes up.”

“Can I give you a hug? You’ve always been so nice.” Before
Gillian could back out of range, Shelley pulled her into a tight clinch.

Like a child clinging to her mother.
That’s how she views me
. Gillian patted Shelley’s back then eased out of her embrace and escorted her to the door.

An hour later, after climbing into
the suit she’d worn to work that last day—how ironic was that?—Gillian pulled into the parking lot at the back of the building. She nodded at Gerald, the building security guard, and he waved nonchalantly at her as she entered the elevator. He didn’t seem to think she was out of place, so perhaps Nick hadn’t told him she was no longer on staff.

She pushed open the
outer double doors to the office. No one sat at the reception desk, and the area they called the bull pen was ominously quiet. She walked slowly down the aisle past the now-silent cubicles that had so recently been occupied, the voices of their occupants a quiet counterpoint to the ringing of phones, indicators of work going on between the account executives and the homeowners’ associations they managed.

Nic
k’s door was closed. As Gillian approached, she heard his voice rising as he angrily vented to someone. She knocked. He stopped talking. Another knock. Silence.

She was about to knock a third time when the door opened and
Nick Talmadge glared at her, his hair looking like he’d been running his fingers through it. The leavings of his lunch lay on his desk along with a paper bag and a paper cup, its straw crumpled nearby.

“What do you want?” he demanded. He turned his back on her and
slumped into his desk chair, knocking the paper bag to the floor.

Manners dictated that she remain civil. “Good afternoon,
Nick.” She leaned down and picked up the bag then tossed it into the overfull trash receptacle under the window. “I came by to ask why Shelley Kramer’s final check—the one in her severance packet—bounced. Taylor never said we were short of cash when I asked him for it.”

Gillian
’s first clue that Nick was about to explode occurred when he stood up abruptly, his brow deeply furrowed, his eyes squinting in her direction.

“How’d you know about that?”

“Shelley came to see me. When I called the office, all I got was a voice message. A new one.” She remembered when she had recorded their voice message. Obviously erased and replaced by that dreadful one she’d heard. Not friendly. Not helpful. Just cold.

“I’m closing the doors,” he announced.

Her heart clutched. “Just like that? What about all the clients?”

“They’ll have to muddle along without me.”

And everyone else, too, it seemed. “Did you fire everyone, Nick?”

“
Why are you asking? Are they all coming to cry on your shoulder?” he thundered at her. “Like they always did before I fired you?” He reminded her of a bull preparing to charge when he took two steps in her direction.

She backed toward the door, hoping he wouldn’t follow her. “I’m sorry to hear that,
Nick. I never dreamed things were so desperate.”

When he turned away
from her, she took it as her cue to leave.

In her car,
the doors locked, she sat for a moment, trying to catch her breath. The office was closing? He’d never given her a chance to ask about her own severance check. She looked up when she saw Nick trot out of the building and stride rapidly up the street. She waited a few minutes then drove home and called Shelley to tell her she wouldn’t be receiving a replacement check and to apply for unemployment if she hadn’t already done so. Fat lot of good that would do if Nick truly was closing the business, but perhaps he was just trying to get rid of her. If so, he’d succeeded.

The next day Gillian returned to the park, selecting a place to sit where the sun shone on the trees and the walking trail. She pulled out her colored pencils and began to draw, losing herself in the scene, highlighting the trail as it wound through the shrubbery. Using her colored pencils, she sought to capture the shades of green in the leaves and the mottled effect of the sun and shade. She had just smudged some of the colors together to blend nearby shades of green when she sensed someone looking over her shoulder. She turned.
Oh no.

Nicholas
Talmadge stood behind her, his breath coming in quick gasps, as if he’d been running. “There you are. I called you twice, Gillian.”

Her
gaze took in the man as he stood there, one hand on a hip, the other emerging from his pocket holding his cell phone, deep furrows on his brow. He looked at his phone as if willing it to generate a ringtone.

“I’m sorry,
Nick. My cell phone’s at home. I didn’t see a reason to bring it with me.” She slipped the colored pencils, one at a time, back into their carrier. “Now that I’m retired.”

“F
ired.”

“
I prefer the other word.” She sat straighter in her chair, forcing herself to maintain her composure. “Some people would say I’m unemployed. I’ve decided to consider myself retired.” But the way Nick was looking at her stole her calm, and her pulse began to climb.

She reached for another piece of sketch paper and looked away from him. If she didn’t
say any more, maybe he would take the hint and leave her to her sketching. The sense of relaxed accomplishment she’d been enjoying had flitted away in Nick’s presence, replaced by a tightening in her stomach and new tension in her shoulders.

But
her former boss didn’t leave. Instead, he grabbed her arm and pulled her upright, knocking over her three-legged stool and spilling her pencils out of the box perched on the edge of her sketch board.

“Are they talking to you?”
He grasped both of her arms and shook her. “What are they saying?”

“
Nick, take your hands off me.” She was surprised that her voice sounded so calm, even though her inner self was screaming.