intimidating,
Ms. McMillan, that you do not want to sit?”
My chin lifts and I meet his steely gray eyes. “As much as
you try to be, Mr. Compton, no, you are not. Your tests, however, are. I’d
prefer to wait to be drilled on my knowledge until I can adequately impress
you. I do not, however, want to wait to work the sales floor until such time.”
“We do not always get what we want, Ms. McMillan.” His
expression is inscrutable, but his voice is lower, velvety, and not for the
first time today, I’m not sure we are talking about my job. “Everything I do is
calculated and with purpose. You’ll learn that sooner than later. There’s a
wine tasting here on Friday night. The attendees are not high school students.
They’re wealthy, refined customers, with refined tastes. I need you ready for
them. I need you focused on preparing for that event.”
Refined. There was that word again and it bites with insult;
be it real or imagined, it has the same effect on me. A sense of inadequacy
fills me, a long lost enemy, threatening to bring me to my knees. Anger flares
its ugly, unexpected head, and it’s far easier to embrace. “Then I guess I’d
better get home and study.” Somehow, my voice is steady.
His eyes narrow and darken, and I’m pretty sure he knows
he’s hit a hot spot with me. I’ve got to learn to control my reactions, and put
on a game face.
“Are you aware that Riptide hosts a variety of wine tasting
events in conjunction with some of the top wine producers in the world?”
I blink. ”No. I am not.”
“Are you aware that we hold an annual charity event in
conjunction with the Siberian Orchestra?”
My stomach falls to my feet. Why didn’t I do my research?
“No. No, I am not.”
“Then I’m sure you’ve now realized that I am only trying to
help you, Sara,” he says. “I see something bigger than a few weeks on my local
showroom floor for you. If that’s not what you want, then by all means, I’ll
set you free in the gallery tomorrow to sell to your heart’s content.”
My anger transforms into near panic. “No. I don’t want that.
I want to do more. I can do more.”
“Then trust me .”
I swallow hard, taken aback by his words. “Yes. I...okay.
I’ll learn what you need me to.”
His eyes light with approval. “Good. I’ll give you a
reprieve tonight. Go home and study. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll test you
to see just how far we are from where we need to be.”
It is a dismissal confirmed by his reaching for his phone.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and head for the hallway in a blur of
confusion. It baffles me how I’ve let a summer job become a plea for a new life
but it has, and there is no looking back. To work for Riptide, even through
this gallery, would be a dream come true. I want this as I have not wanted ever
in my life.
I pass my door and scent the roses from the hallway. Back
stepping, I realize I’ve left the candle burning for all these hours. I’m eager
to escape this place, to get home and try to analyze what has happened to me
today, what has happened to me since the day I began reading Rebecca’s journal.
Quickly, I blow out the flame and note a letter sized
envelope on my chair with my name scribbled on it. I recognize the handwriting.
I’ve studied his signature, his script. Rounding the desk I snatch the envelope
and rush for the door. I do not want to stay here and open it. I want to be
alone before I dare a peek.
Finally, when I am locked inside my car with the engine
running, I stare at my name on the yellow paper, not sure what I am waiting
for. In a frenzied rush of movement, I unseal the flap and pull out a piece of
drafting paper and gape.
Inside is a drawing of me sitting at the coffee shop table
in deep concentration, and signed by the artist. I have become a Chris Merit
original.
Chapter Ten
You can’t keep thinking of everything as being Rebecca’s
or you will make yourself crazy, I tell myself
Ms. McMillan, that you do not want to sit?”
My chin lifts and I meet his steely gray eyes. “As much as
you try to be, Mr. Compton, no, you are not. Your tests, however, are. I’d
prefer to wait to be drilled on my knowledge until I can adequately impress
you. I do not, however, want to wait to work the sales floor until such time.”
“We do not always get what we want, Ms. McMillan.” His
expression is inscrutable, but his voice is lower, velvety, and not for the
first time today, I’m not sure we are talking about my job. “Everything I do is
calculated and with purpose. You’ll learn that sooner than later. There’s a
wine tasting here on Friday night. The attendees are not high school students.
They’re wealthy, refined customers, with refined tastes. I need you ready for
them. I need you focused on preparing for that event.”
Refined. There was that word again and it bites with insult;
be it real or imagined, it has the same effect on me. A sense of inadequacy
fills me, a long lost enemy, threatening to bring me to my knees. Anger flares
its ugly, unexpected head, and it’s far easier to embrace. “Then I guess I’d
better get home and study.” Somehow, my voice is steady.
His eyes narrow and darken, and I’m pretty sure he knows
he’s hit a hot spot with me. I’ve got to learn to control my reactions, and put
on a game face.
“Are you aware that Riptide hosts a variety of wine tasting
events in conjunction with some of the top wine producers in the world?”
I blink. ”No. I am not.”
“Are you aware that we hold an annual charity event in
conjunction with the Siberian Orchestra?”
My stomach falls to my feet. Why didn’t I do my research?
“No. No, I am not.”
“Then I’m sure you’ve now realized that I am only trying to
help you, Sara,” he says. “I see something bigger than a few weeks on my local
showroom floor for you. If that’s not what you want, then by all means, I’ll
set you free in the gallery tomorrow to sell to your heart’s content.”
My anger transforms into near panic. “No. I don’t want that.
I want to do more. I can do more.”
“Then trust me .”
I swallow hard, taken aback by his words. “Yes. I...okay.
I’ll learn what you need me to.”
His eyes light with approval. “Good. I’ll give you a
reprieve tonight. Go home and study. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll test you
to see just how far we are from where we need to be.”
It is a dismissal confirmed by his reaching for his phone.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and head for the hallway in a blur of
confusion. It baffles me how I’ve let a summer job become a plea for a new life
but it has, and there is no looking back. To work for Riptide, even through
this gallery, would be a dream come true. I want this as I have not wanted ever
in my life.
I pass my door and scent the roses from the hallway. Back
stepping, I realize I’ve left the candle burning for all these hours. I’m eager
to escape this place, to get home and try to analyze what has happened to me
today, what has happened to me since the day I began reading Rebecca’s journal.
Quickly, I blow out the flame and note a letter sized
envelope on my chair with my name scribbled on it. I recognize the handwriting.
I’ve studied his signature, his script. Rounding the desk I snatch the envelope
and rush for the door. I do not want to stay here and open it. I want to be
alone before I dare a peek.
Finally, when I am locked inside my car with the engine
running, I stare at my name on the yellow paper, not sure what I am waiting
for. In a frenzied rush of movement, I unseal the flap and pull out a piece of
drafting paper and gape.
Inside is a drawing of me sitting at the coffee shop table
in deep concentration, and signed by the artist. I have become a Chris Merit
original.
Chapter Ten
You can’t keep thinking of everything as being Rebecca’s
or you will make yourself crazy, I tell myself
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