Linny's Sweet Dream List (9 page)

Kate clasped her hands, put them under her chin, and beamed. “That's my girl.”

F
riday morning, Linny woke in a panic, her pulse racing as she glanced at the clock. Good Lord, she'd overslept. She leapt from the bed and raced to the bathroom to shower before she remembered she was now unemployed. Slipping back in bed, she tried to close her eyes, but found herself staring at the ceiling, her thoughts racing. Not having to bolt into the day was disorienting, and more than a little bit scary. She breathed slowly and deeply—Indigo's breath of abundance—and, after a moment, dozed off.

 

Later, she read emails and texts that had flooded in from co-workers, their messages sent from personal email addresses and phones.

Aaron wrote,
Be cool, L. I'll meet you for drink if I ever get out of Jersey.

She smiled, warmed by their support. Sipping coffee, she composed a cheerful, carefully worded email to colleagues from other companies whom she'd met through professional associations. She tapped a finger in her mouth, revised, and revised again.
With deep appreciation for the opportunities given me,
she was
moving on from Kipling,
and
looking forward to continuing to grow professionally.
She ended by asking them to keep her in mind for
jobs that might be a good fit.

Satisfied she'd hit the tone she was going for—businesswoman on the move, hungry for challenges, and not desperate—she reached over to pat the Lucky Duck decoy on her desk and pushed the send button. She combed online want ads, but her eyes glazed over, and her brain wouldn't retain what she'd read, just like the day before. For several minutes she fought an almost overwhelming sense of sleepiness and, finally, closed the laptop.

Impulsively, she grabbed the Linny's Sweet Dream List notebook and a pen, and stretched out on the couch, wiggling her bare feet. Her dressy work shoes used to always hurt her feet. Maybe she could find a job where she could wear shoes that made her feet happy. Opening the notebook, she rested it on her stomach and made her first entry on the blank page:
Free-range toes.
She smiled. The idea might not be so silly. Maybe she could find a job where she didn't have to dress so corporate. She jotted down,
Get another porch swing.
She and Andy had one, and she remembered how safe she felt, his arm draped around her shoulder, gliding and dreaming about the future. She sighed. Her thoughts were crazily unrelated, but she would not critique anything she wrote. If she just let the ideas fly, she could sort them out later. Holding the pen to the page, she waited . . . and waited. No other ideas were flying. Roy scrambled up, tight-rope walking up her legs, and lay down on the notebook on her stomach with a contented sigh. Scratching his ears, Linny felt herself relax, and promptly fell asleep.

 

Saturday afternoon, Kate slid a casserole dish onto the kitchen counter and raised an eyebrow. “You're wearing that? You look like Ms. Corporate-Uptight.”

“What?” Linny glanced down at her outfit. She'd spent a good twenty minutes in front of the closet before she'd made this choice. Throwing up her hands, she grumbled, “I don't have any clothes.” What she didn't say was that she was scared as a rabbit about the potluck.

“Let's go take a look.” Kate sailed toward the bedroom.

Linny snagged an apple from a bowl on the table and followed her, taking in her sister's artlessly ruffled hair, and vintage cotton sundress. Audrey Hepburn gone country. Lounging on the bed, she munched the apple as she watched her sister fold open the crooked closet door.

Kate held out her hands, palms up. “Why are all your clothes so neutral? You need color.” She held up a taupe jacket, examined it, and looked at Linny appraisingly. “You're not beige. You are more of a peach, plum, brandy, cherry red . . .”

“A fruitcake?” Linny offered helpfully, holding up her apple.

“Let's find a fun outfit for tonight, Miss Fruitcake.” Kate's tone was firm. “Also, let's get rid of any frumpy, neutral clothes, and only keep what flatters you.”

Linny stood, tossed her apple core in the trash, and felt a buzz of energy. “Out with the old, in with the new?”

“Exactly,” Kate agreed. “Be ruthless. I'll start here, and you start at that end.”

For the next half hour, the two pulled clothes from the hangers, and dropped them onto the thrift shop pile. Linny enthusiastically tossed in the perennially wrinkled linen dress, the boxy jackets, and the Oxford cloth blouses that Kate said looked like a man's shirts.

“Let's look at accessories, too,” Kate suggested, as her cell rang. “Hi, baby.” She sank down on the bed and listened, her eyes narrowing. “So, you're going to be late for your own staff supper?”

Linny slid onto the bed and, chin in hand, listened unabashedly.

Her sister's eyes were fiery. “I've heard this all before. Just get home as soon as you can, and we'll talk about it later. Okay. Goodbye.” She ended the call with a little stab of her finger. “Yikes,” Linny said mildly. Kate was usually unflappable.

“If Roy had a doghouse, Jerry would have to borrow it,” Kate glowered. “He's been working late and has to go in most weekends trying to keep up, but he still worries business will dry up if he turns down a single job.”

Linny felt a flash of sympathetic kinship toward Jerry. “It's hard to say no.”

Her sister grimaced. “He's forty pounds overweight with a family history of Type 2 diabetes. He eats terribly, doesn't exercise and he's stressed out. If he dies young, I'll . . . I'll . . . ,” she spluttered.

She finished for her sister. “. . . kill him. We could be the Black Widow sisters.”

Kate just shook her head. “That man . . .”

She shot her sister a knowing look, and grinned “. . . is the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“I know.” Her expression was dark, but she gave a hint of a smile.

“Let's finish up. Apparently, I'm hosting a staff cookout by myself in a few hours.”

Despite the skirmish, Linny knew Kate and Jerry always got past their fights and seemed stronger for it. They were an unlikely pair— his mountain man build and her pixie stature, his steadiness and her ebullient warmth, him at thirty-five and her at thirty-nine—but they were well matched and had a strong marriage. “You'll get him to come around.”

Kate lifted her chin. “I absolutely will. It's a go-to-the-mat issue.”

Linny shot her a puzzled look.

Kate clarified. “One you have to win, since it's an area your spouse doesn't have any sense about, and it could put the marriage at risk.”

Linny thought about how quickly her recent marriage had flamed out. “Buck's infidelity was a go-to-the-mat issue, but I was never sure about it and couldn't have gotten him to change if I'd wanted to,” she said in a small voice. Her face grew warm as she remembered how she'd thought if she were prettier, sexier, or more sparkly she'd be able to keep his interest. Marrying Buck had given her self-image a slam even though she knew, on some level, it had nothing to do with her.

Kate said in her firm, schoolteacher voice, “Buck's wandering pee-pee problem couldn't be cured because he had bad character. If he'd married a Miss America who was a member of Mensa and a pole dancer, he'd have had the same problem. As Mama would say, ‘a leopard can't change his stripes.' ”

Linny smiled crookedly. “Spoken like a good sister.”

Her sister nodded firmly. “Spoken like the truth.”

 

Her nerves jangling and her stomach tight, Linny was ready to leave the house at 5:55, but decided not to fluster her hostess, Margaret, by showing up early. She tried to pace, but pacing was hard in a trailer—going back and forth and back again. She'd wait until 6:15. How had she let Kate talk her into this?

She gave herself a final glance in the mirror at the outfit Kate had handpicked—big, faux gold hoop earrings, strappy sandals and a sage, V-neck sundress that showed more skin than she was used to. Kate had insisted she needed to
jazz it up
. Shaking her head, she examined her bright tipped hands. She never wore nail polish, and Kate had talked her into wearing a shade called Hot-Cha-Cha Red. Linny had gazed longingly at the bottle of pale pink Demure Dream, but her sister had snatched it away. She turned slowly in the mirror. She liked the look.

She didn't look like a loser after all, she tried to reassure herself. Under Linny's anger at Buck was a mucky swamp of sadness that she was afraid showed through. Her shoulders drooped, and she saw the new lines around her eyes and mouth. She was on her own again and getting older. She'd probably die alone.

She gazed at the picture she'd found while unpacking, and stuck in the corner of the mirror. Her sister had snapped the shot of Linny and Andy after one of their early dates, a day of hiking. Linny stood in front of Andy, leaning back into him. He had his tanned arms around her neck and his chin on her head. Both looked windblown, sun-kissed, and more than a little in love.

Peering more closely at the photo, she remembered the unremarkable start to their romance. One Saturday morning, she'd gotten greedy at the annual Library's Used Book Sale. Congratulating herself on her finds, she hadn't noticed Andy, who stood behind her in line to pay. When her box collapsed, he'd helped gather her books, and secured the cardboard with duct tape he'd borrowed from the cashier. As he carried her box to her car, she'd peeked over the edge of his box.
Songbirds of the Carolinas
and
World War II Fighter Pilots
confirmed her theory that he was a harmless—though gentlemanly—nerd.

Andy began to call. He replaced the broken board on the stairs to her little house and fixed a sticky lock. Linny shook her head at the memory. She hadn't known what to make of the shy accountant who paused thoughtfully before he spoke. He was not her type, an absent-minded professor instead of a dashing leading man.

Linny grimaced, remembering that, in reality, her type then had not been particularly dashing. She'd flipped for clean cut men who were shallow and had one foot out the door. A man could pique her interest just by being quick with a joke, looking good in Levis, and only half-listening to her. Pathetic. She shook her head, embarrassed at her stupidity.

In college, she'd dated a brooding soccer player who only traveled in a pack with teammates, and an Adonis who played banjo in a bluegrass band and—she later found—had too devoted a female fan base. After college, she hadn't dated much more substantial men. She was twenty-eight when she met Andy, and her last boyfriend had been an Outward Bound instructor who lived three hours away and was always gone on whitewater rafting trips.

When she'd made it clear to Andy that she was only interested in a friendship, he'd softly said, “Whatever you want, Linny,” and kept coming around.

Andy had called every night. She'd picked up on his gentle, self-deprecating humor, and came to count on him for his insights about work problems. She listened to him about his plans to open his own firm, and helped him brainstorm ideas for his parents who were dealing with his wild child younger brother. Linny had been shocked when she felt a stirring desire in response to his languid grace, the way his brown eyes sparkled, and his mischievous smile. Finally she'd given up the friends idea and just kissed him.

Linny had read about people who'd been struck by lightning and gotten knocked out of their shoes. Kissing Andy had been like that. She must have finally been ready for the emotional heft of a solid man, because she married him a year later.

“Andy, why did you leave me?” she whispered. She drew in a shaky breath, and gave herself a pep talk. This wouldn't do. She was an out-with-the-old, new dream maker. This morning's personal affirmation from Indigo was
Sadness is dispelled by the sunshine of new friendships.

Pausing at her desk, she gave the Lucky Duck a pat. “Help me out here, buddy,” she murmured.

Slipping Kate's serving dish in a canvas tote, she gave Roy a final hug and trotted off across the field. Her goal was to talk to two new people. She'd written it down on her Sweet Dream List, and rehearsed safe conversational topics. She'd just say she was in Human Resources and not mention being fired . . . or the dead husbands. Indigo's Golden Goddess Rule was
Demonstrate keen interest in others, and they'll think you are fascinating.
She'd pepper them with questions, she decided, and felt a wave of confidence. She'd be a regular Diane Sawyer.

The confidence evaporated when she stepped into the clearing of her neighbor's driveway, and saw all the cars and trucks. Linny drew in her breath sharply. Yikes. People. Lots and lots of people. She knocked tentatively, and when no one answered, had a panicky moment in which she considered high tailing it back across the field. But she made herself knock again, and a handsome woman with a long gray braid opened the door and beamed. “I'm Margaret. You must be Linny. So glad you made it.”

Linny smiled shyly, instantly liking her.

As she ushered her into the kitchen, Margaret took the dish, and peeked under the lid. “Three-bean salad is my favorite.”

“My sister made it for me. I'm a disaster in the kitchen.”

Margaret chuckled.

Linny scrabbled around mentally, but drew a blank about what to say next. In her old life, she was never the life of the party, but she could talk with almost anyone. She was off her game from all the mess. Gratefully, she seized upon Indigo's idea of asking questions. “How long have you lived here, Margaret?”