as I settle into my office
chair, on day two at the gallery. It’s a hard earned conclusion I’d come to
while lying in bed the night before, staring into the darkness. Thus why I am
exhausted today, but at least I’ve resolved to claim this place as mine. I have
to, otherwise how will I rise to the challenge my new boss has put before me?
How will I truly reach for the dream of a successful career in art, after all
of these years of convincing myself I could not?
With a vow to form my own identity at the gallery, I sink
deeper into my l eather chair, behind my desk. Before me sits my
impulsive purchase of a new, beautifully jeweled, red leather journal that I’d
picked up at Ava’s coffee shop a few minutes earlier. My hope is that writing
down my own thoughts will help me stop thinking obsessively about her thoughts, or at a minimum help me to understand why confusion rules my every
waking moment.
I pick up the red ink pen I’d also purchased and open to
the first blank page, where I write ‘August 21, day two at the Gallery’. Guilt
twists in my chest, and I set the pen down again. You are not forgetting
about Rebecca. You’re simply clearing a path to finding her.
Inhaling, I pick up the pen again and stare down at the
journal, seeing only a mental image of the drawing of me that Chris had left me
the night before. Or rather, of a woman who looks like me, but different. I am
not the girl that a famous artist is inspired by, but yet, I am, or I was
yesterday.
A buzz from the phone on my desk jolts me from my thoughts
and I answer automatically. “This is Sara McMillan.”
“Good morning, Ms. McMillan.” There is an unexpected smile
in my new boss’s tone and I relax, if only marginally.
“Good morning, Mr. Compton.”
“I’ve been called away to New York on Riptide business until
Thursday.”
The tension in my gut uncurls and my spine relaxes.
Breathing room. Yes. Yes. Yes.
“That doesn’t mean you can sneak onto the sales floor,” he
chides, as if he’s plucked the idea from my brain before I ever had it. Which I
hadn’t, but, well, I would have. “Friday, Ms. McMillan. Your goal is to be as
ready to impress me then as you possibly can be. I trust you studied well last
night?”
“I certainly did.” I want this opportunity. I will not allow
a knowledge barrier to defeat me.
“Excellent. Then you can log into your email and click on
the link I’ve sent you to begin testing. I won’t grade the test, at least not
for now. It’s simply a tool for you to use to see how you’re progressing.”
The good news keeps coming and I know my smile can be heard
in my voice. “That sounds perfect.”
“Ms. McMillan,” he says sharply, prompting a reply that I
dutifully offer.
“Yes, Mr. Compton?”
“Have a good day.”
The line clicks and goes dead.
***
Two hours later it’s nearly noon, and I’m making myself
crazy. The names and regions of wines, and wine manufacturers, are running
together and I decide to turn to my old faithful solution to all that is wrong
in life. Coffee. It is my one real vice, so I figure why not indulge with an
Olympic-style commitment? Besides, Ava mentioned having lunch together. She
hadn’t been at the coffee shop when I’d bought the journal and I haven’t heard
from her either. I figure it can’t hurt to try and catch up with her now. My
curiosity over what she might share about this strange new world I inhabit is
killing me. And despite my grand declaration of owning my new office and job,
on some level I know I will never fully feel that I do, not until I uncover the
mysteries of Rebecca’s whereabouts.
After heading to the front desk and making idle chitchat
with Amanda and a few of the other staff members, I barely contain the urge to
help a customer. Amanda warns me off the action with a promise of Mark’s wrath,
and I quickly head to the coffee shop again. I scan the empty tables and there
is no denying my disappointment to find
chair, on day two at the gallery. It’s a hard earned conclusion I’d come to
while lying in bed the night before, staring into the darkness. Thus why I am
exhausted today, but at least I’ve resolved to claim this place as mine. I have
to, otherwise how will I rise to the challenge my new boss has put before me?
How will I truly reach for the dream of a successful career in art, after all
of these years of convincing myself I could not?
With a vow to form my own identity at the gallery, I sink
deeper into my l eather chair, behind my desk. Before me sits my
impulsive purchase of a new, beautifully jeweled, red leather journal that I’d
picked up at Ava’s coffee shop a few minutes earlier. My hope is that writing
down my own thoughts will help me stop thinking obsessively about her thoughts, or at a minimum help me to understand why confusion rules my every
waking moment.
I pick up the red ink pen I’d also purchased and open to
the first blank page, where I write ‘August 21, day two at the Gallery’. Guilt
twists in my chest, and I set the pen down again. You are not forgetting
about Rebecca. You’re simply clearing a path to finding her.
Inhaling, I pick up the pen again and stare down at the
journal, seeing only a mental image of the drawing of me that Chris had left me
the night before. Or rather, of a woman who looks like me, but different. I am
not the girl that a famous artist is inspired by, but yet, I am, or I was
yesterday.
A buzz from the phone on my desk jolts me from my thoughts
and I answer automatically. “This is Sara McMillan.”
“Good morning, Ms. McMillan.” There is an unexpected smile
in my new boss’s tone and I relax, if only marginally.
“Good morning, Mr. Compton.”
“I’ve been called away to New York on Riptide business until
Thursday.”
The tension in my gut uncurls and my spine relaxes.
Breathing room. Yes. Yes. Yes.
“That doesn’t mean you can sneak onto the sales floor,” he
chides, as if he’s plucked the idea from my brain before I ever had it. Which I
hadn’t, but, well, I would have. “Friday, Ms. McMillan. Your goal is to be as
ready to impress me then as you possibly can be. I trust you studied well last
night?”
“I certainly did.” I want this opportunity. I will not allow
a knowledge barrier to defeat me.
“Excellent. Then you can log into your email and click on
the link I’ve sent you to begin testing. I won’t grade the test, at least not
for now. It’s simply a tool for you to use to see how you’re progressing.”
The good news keeps coming and I know my smile can be heard
in my voice. “That sounds perfect.”
“Ms. McMillan,” he says sharply, prompting a reply that I
dutifully offer.
“Yes, Mr. Compton?”
“Have a good day.”
The line clicks and goes dead.
***
Two hours later it’s nearly noon, and I’m making myself
crazy. The names and regions of wines, and wine manufacturers, are running
together and I decide to turn to my old faithful solution to all that is wrong
in life. Coffee. It is my one real vice, so I figure why not indulge with an
Olympic-style commitment? Besides, Ava mentioned having lunch together. She
hadn’t been at the coffee shop when I’d bought the journal and I haven’t heard
from her either. I figure it can’t hurt to try and catch up with her now. My
curiosity over what she might share about this strange new world I inhabit is
killing me. And despite my grand declaration of owning my new office and job,
on some level I know I will never fully feel that I do, not until I uncover the
mysteries of Rebecca’s whereabouts.
After heading to the front desk and making idle chitchat
with Amanda and a few of the other staff members, I barely contain the urge to
help a customer. Amanda warns me off the action with a promise of Mark’s wrath,
and I quickly head to the coffee shop again. I scan the empty tables and there
is no denying my disappointment to find
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