Vera could not dispute this; Feldspar was right. This was Vera’s dream, to some day own a place of her own…
And I could, she realized. At that salary, with all her major expenses paid by the company, she’d be able to save enough to buy her own place in cash. No assumed loans, no mortgages. If she invested the majority of her net, in four or five years she’d have more than enough.
But—
The image crumbled, a house of cards exposed to a sudden draft.
What are you thinking, you idiot? she asked herself.
“I’m engaged,” she said.
“I foresee no problem in that regard,” Feldspar promptly replied. “Your fiancé can move with you. The suites are not only well restored but quite large—”
“I’m engaged to a metropolitan journalist,” she explained. “He writes about cities, not farm towns. There’d be nothing for him to write about in Waynesville. His career would fall apart.”
“Then he can commute.”
“Waynesville is a two and a half hour drive at least.”
“Then he can remain here during his assignments, and be with you on weekends or some such. This is not an uncommon occurrence. Many upwardly mobile professionals maintain relationships around their separate careers.”
Upwardly mobile professional. She stared glumly at her drink. Is that what I am?
It’s your call, Vera, another voice seemed to trace across her mind. She could talk to Paul, but…it would never work. Driving nearly three hours each way every day? Or a weekend romance? Vera knew too many good couples whose bonds had snapped under such circumstances. This job offer was phenomenal. She’d be crazy to turn it down if she wasn’t—
If I wasn’t in love, she realized. But I am. And that’s more important to me than money.
That simple truth made her smile. She was in love. Suddenly nothing else mattered, nothing else at all.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Feldspar,” she said. “I appreciate your confidence in me, and I’m grateful for your generosity. But I’m afraid I can’t accept your offer.”
She handed the ten thousand dollar bank check back to him.
“Why not sleep on it?” the man suggested. “Think about it. Why not at least consider trying us out? We won’t hold you to a contract. Come and work for us on a probationary basis. If you don’t like it, or if, in fact, it does burden your relationship, then quit.”
A fair proposal, and a logical one. Vera could not deny that the offer excited her. But she knew. Sleeping on it wouldn’t change that, nor would trying the job out. She knew it would distance her from Paul. And she knew she would not risk that, not for anything.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“Your mind’s made up, I can see.” Feldspar didn’t seem angry at all, nor disappointed. He’d made his pitch and he’d lost. He would simply have to find someone else. “It’s regrettable, and I’m certain that you would do wonderful things for our restaurant, as our restaurant would do wonderful things for you. But your priorities are set, and I see that they’re admirable. I must go now, Ms. Abbot—” Feldspar left a one hundred dollar bill on the table. “I thank you for your consideration, and I wish you luck in all your endeavors.”
“I wish you luck in yours,” she returned.
Feldspar awkwardly stood up, pushed his chair in. His jeweled hand glittered like tiny lights, particularly the amethyst in the gold pinky ring. In the odd man’s eyes, Vera saw it alclass="underline" no, not anger or disappointment. It was sadness.
Feldspar smiled. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning; I’ll be staying at the Radisson tonight. On the off chance that you should change your mind, please contact me.”
“I will, Mr. Feldspar.”
“Good night then. I’m happy to have made your acquaintance.”
He turned and left. Vera’s eyes followed him out. It wasn’t a limp he walked with but a slight slow-step. Vera felt sad herself, seeing him leave. In a moment the short, broad figure had wended through the standing crowd and disappeared.
Vera finished her Grand Marnier. Something seemed to struggle in her psyche, but the notion quelled. Her love was worth more than money. She knew she’d done the right thing.
It was time to go home now, back to her life and to her love.
— | — | —
CHAPTER THREE
His mind seemed to disperse as though his skull had dissolved. Lights ran like smeared neon. Where am I? Who am I? He wasn’t sure. Gradually all that was real to him transposed with a thousand unreal ecstasies. Shapes moved like intent chiffon blobs through the close space of wherever he was.
What’s…happening?
He saw voices and heard tastes. Luxuriant scents touched him palpably as deft hands. From somewhere music played; he could see the notes floating from the speakers, a slow passacaglia by Bach. Each dark note seemed to approach him like an amorphous physical presence.
He felt skewered; he couldn’t move. He felt cosmically heavy and light as air at the same time. He could hear the blood push through the arteries in his brain.
“Watch,” a voice kneaded him.
He opened his eyes. The smeared lights dulled to pasty white, images congealing like lard, squirming.
When he realized what he was looking at, he screamed.
He was looking at his own body sprawled beneath him.
He felt his distant muscles seize, his tendons tighten. He watched his sweat-sheened chest heave in terror.
Wet, syrupy laughter launched about his head like a flock of great black birds.
The old Tercel coughed against the cold, then sputtered to start. Cracks had formed in the dash, the upholstery was peeling, and the brakes squealed as Vera pulled out of the lot and turned onto West Street. Even a company car, the thought drifted. I wonder what kind? An Iroc? A Mustang GT? Maybe a Vette! She knew she was being silly. Even a moped would be better than this clunker.
It was fun to think about, at least.
She knew she’d made the right decision. What other decision was there? To even consider taking Feldspar’s offer was nothing more than a fantasy. Still, she wondered what Paul would say.
The Tercel puttered on, hitching through gears. The heater blared cold air. She rounded Church Circle and veered onto Duke of Glouchester. Spectral blue lights illuminated the great dome of the State House, below the bright moon. Icy street lamps shimmering through the winter air made the streets look frosted. More light weirdly assaulted her at the turn before the bridge: an ambulance roving slowly with its red lights throbbing but no siren.
Her mind strayed as she traversed the bridge. The bay chopped, treacherously black with squirming tails of moonlight. Beyond, myriad sailboats and yachts bobbed in their marina slips. A hundred and fifteen thousand dollars a year, she mused. A higher tax bracket, but so what? With the free car, plus no rent or food expenses, she’d be able to bank fifty a year probably. She’d —
Stop it! she commanded herself, half laughing. A fantasy is all it’ll ever be.