hot, was brighter and certainly burn-ier than most she’d encountered. Thank God Dolly had loaned her an old hat—one of her deadbeat husband’s, as it turned out, but far more reliable than he’d turned out to be. She’d actually felt less silly than she’d expected in the brown, broad-brimmed cowboy chapeau, though she wouldn’t be posting selfies anytime soon.
All in all, working the Last Chance had been pretty cool—for about the first half of the day.
Then her muscles had begun to sing German opera. And by the end of the day, there’d been Carmina Burana competing with the “Ride of the Valkyries” to express their thundering disapproval of Merry’s unaccustomed activity. She couldn’t imagine hiking in the mountains for hours tomorrow, trying to keep up with Sam Cassidy, who would surely brook no laggards.
For a moment, Merry was tempted to slink out to her car and head for the nearest airport. But then she pictured the look on Jimby’s face, should he ever catch her committing such a colossal act of wussery.
Jim Beardsley, her former coach and dear friend, would never have let her get away with that kind of cowardice, neither before nor after the accident. Merry hadn’t forgotten the gentle schooling he’d given her, when, months after she’d been discharged from the rehab facility, she still hadn’t started returning phone calls, or, for that matter, bothering to brush her hair or put on anything snazzier than the moth-eaten bathrobe a previous tenant had left in the back of her condo’s closet.
Merry had been lolling on her sofa, listlessly watching an old rerun of Hoarders on TV when Jimby rang her doorbell. Then pounded on the door itself, for a solid five minutes. Then yelled that he was going to call the gas company to report a leak if she didn’t open up.
So Merry opened up. An inch, then a couple more when her eyes couldn’t quite take in what she was seeing. Her coach, she saw with a dull sort of surprise, was struggling under the weight of an enormous rectangular package wrapped in what looked to be Hanukkah paper.
“It was all I could find at the store,” he said, gesturing at the dreidel-adorned wrapping. He hitched the burden up gingerly with his leg to rest on one hip in a motion that clearly said, “Um, this ain’t getting any lighter, here.”
“Hey Jimby,” she said, moving only reluctantly to allow him inside her condo, and then only after it became apparent he wasn’t going to take a hint and bugger off. “I didn’t realize you were in town. If I’d known you were coming, I would have tidied up the place.”
Jim’s gaze skidded over the living room, taking in the coffee table strewn with pizza boxes, ice cream cartons, and crumpled cans of Diet Coke, the floor festooned with wadded-up tissues and candy wrappers. His nose crinkled at the funk Merry had grown so accustomed to she no longer could smell herself. “If you’d pick up the phone once in a while, you’d have known I was coming,” he pointed out. “I’ve been leaving you messages for days.”
Merry’s phone had died of lack-of-charge-itis some days earlier and been jettisoned under the very sofa she was longing to get back to now. “Sorry, Jimby,” she muttered. “Did you need something?”
“I need a landing place for this big-ass present I brought you, for starters.”
The manners her mother had so painstakingly instilled in her kicked in. Merry ditched the roll of raw cookie dough she was holding in one sticky paw and limped over to help Jim set the package on her coffee table. Together they sat staring at it, while Merry maintained a sullen silence. She was not in the mood for one of Jim’s chipper pep talks, and she had a feeling that was what this was. I’m not going to ask. I’m not going to ask.
Okay, fuck it, I’ll ask.
“Alright, Jim. What is this?”
“Unwrap it and see.”
Merry sighed and shredded Hanukkah paper.
“A turtle ?”
“He’s a metaphor,” Jim said,
All in all, working the Last Chance had been pretty cool—for about the first half of the day.
Then her muscles had begun to sing German opera. And by the end of the day, there’d been Carmina Burana competing with the “Ride of the Valkyries” to express their thundering disapproval of Merry’s unaccustomed activity. She couldn’t imagine hiking in the mountains for hours tomorrow, trying to keep up with Sam Cassidy, who would surely brook no laggards.
For a moment, Merry was tempted to slink out to her car and head for the nearest airport. But then she pictured the look on Jimby’s face, should he ever catch her committing such a colossal act of wussery.
Jim Beardsley, her former coach and dear friend, would never have let her get away with that kind of cowardice, neither before nor after the accident. Merry hadn’t forgotten the gentle schooling he’d given her, when, months after she’d been discharged from the rehab facility, she still hadn’t started returning phone calls, or, for that matter, bothering to brush her hair or put on anything snazzier than the moth-eaten bathrobe a previous tenant had left in the back of her condo’s closet.
Merry had been lolling on her sofa, listlessly watching an old rerun of Hoarders on TV when Jimby rang her doorbell. Then pounded on the door itself, for a solid five minutes. Then yelled that he was going to call the gas company to report a leak if she didn’t open up.
So Merry opened up. An inch, then a couple more when her eyes couldn’t quite take in what she was seeing. Her coach, she saw with a dull sort of surprise, was struggling under the weight of an enormous rectangular package wrapped in what looked to be Hanukkah paper.
“It was all I could find at the store,” he said, gesturing at the dreidel-adorned wrapping. He hitched the burden up gingerly with his leg to rest on one hip in a motion that clearly said, “Um, this ain’t getting any lighter, here.”
“Hey Jimby,” she said, moving only reluctantly to allow him inside her condo, and then only after it became apparent he wasn’t going to take a hint and bugger off. “I didn’t realize you were in town. If I’d known you were coming, I would have tidied up the place.”
Jim’s gaze skidded over the living room, taking in the coffee table strewn with pizza boxes, ice cream cartons, and crumpled cans of Diet Coke, the floor festooned with wadded-up tissues and candy wrappers. His nose crinkled at the funk Merry had grown so accustomed to she no longer could smell herself. “If you’d pick up the phone once in a while, you’d have known I was coming,” he pointed out. “I’ve been leaving you messages for days.”
Merry’s phone had died of lack-of-charge-itis some days earlier and been jettisoned under the very sofa she was longing to get back to now. “Sorry, Jimby,” she muttered. “Did you need something?”
“I need a landing place for this big-ass present I brought you, for starters.”
The manners her mother had so painstakingly instilled in her kicked in. Merry ditched the roll of raw cookie dough she was holding in one sticky paw and limped over to help Jim set the package on her coffee table. Together they sat staring at it, while Merry maintained a sullen silence. She was not in the mood for one of Jim’s chipper pep talks, and she had a feeling that was what this was. I’m not going to ask. I’m not going to ask.
Okay, fuck it, I’ll ask.
“Alright, Jim. What is this?”
“Unwrap it and see.”
Merry sighed and shredded Hanukkah paper.
“A turtle ?”
“He’s a metaphor,” Jim said,
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