Linny's Sweet Dream List by Susan Schild Page A

Sell it.”
    â€œConsider it done. Must fly, precious one. Wish me luck at the racetrack.”
    Ending the call, she shook her head slowly. Not the kind of news to make her want to wear widow’s weeds. Slumping into her chair, she glanced at Kate. “More debt. The man lied like other people breathe.” She fumed as she gazed out the window at the snowy cotton fields. Slowly, it dawned on her: Buck had made her stomach churn when he was alive and he was doing it from the grave. She was sick of letting him control her moods, and sick of fuming. She could fret and rage and stay upset every day for three hundred and sixty-five days or however long it took for Diamond sort out Buck’s finances, or she could try—really try—to look forward and rebuild her life. She could almost hear what Andy used to say to her when she obsessed over a problem, “Let it go, sweetheart. Do what you can, and let it go.” His words reassured her then, and they still did—better than any of Indigo’s affirmations. Linny felt a calm settle over her and a budding sense of resolve. Turning to Kate, she said in a flinty voice, “I’ll start the list. I’ll start experimenting, and sign me up for the cookout.”
    Kate clasped her hands, put them under her chin, and beamed. “That’s my girl.”

CHAPTER 6
    Potluck
    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.
    Â 
    Later, she read emails and texts that had flooded in from co-workers, their messages sent from personal email addresses and phones.
    Linny Lou—this sucks. Don’t know what went down, but uppr mgt. is only group doesn’t know A is a b***. Miss u. Jarod.
    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