Chapter One
I flopped into a chair at a corner table, glad the little
bakery/coffee shop was almost empty. Today not even the
aroma of maple bars, apple fritters, and fresh-baked bread
could burn through my fog of doom and gloom.
"Hey, it's the middle of the afternoon. What're you doing
here?" asked Joella, who was my next-door neighbor as well as a
waitress here. She looked at me more closely as she set a cup of
my usual French roast blend on the table. "Something wrong?"
"I thought the most traumatic event of the week was going
to be my birthday." I fished a paper out of my purse and spun
it across the table. "Wrong."
Joella grabbed for it, but it sailed right on by and landed
under the only other occupied table. A guy in khaki pants and
T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of a sailboat picked it up.
He read it as he walked over to my table.
Indignation joined my funk. "Hey, what're you doing?
That's private!" I snatched my paper back.
Joella patted my shoulder. "Don't mind Fitz. He used to
play a detective on TV. He's nosy about everything."
"I'm not nosy," the guy protested. "I'm just interested. And
it pays off. I spotted a carjacking suspect in the Burger King
parking lot a couple weeks ago, let the cops know, and right
away they nailed him."
"That doesn't give you the right to read other people's private
papers." I held the letter close to my chest.
He ignored my complaint and stuck out his hand. "I'm
Keegan Fitzpatrick, usually known as Fitz. I live with my son on
the Miss Nora over at the marina." He tapped the sailboat on his
chest, which I now noted had "Matt's Sailboat Charters"
arched over it, and "Sail into Adventure" below.
When I offered only a grumpy stare in return, Joella identified
me.
"This is my landlady, Andi McConnell. She lives in the
other half of the duplex. Don't mind her. She's a little irritable
because she has a birthday coming up this weekend. She looks
pretty good for ninety-seven, don't you think?"
He looked me over, speculating about what birthday it
actually was, of course. I saved him the trouble.
"I'm going to be sixty, okay? The big six-o. Six decades.
Sixty percent of a century: 21,900 days."
"You figured out the days?" Joella's tone was somewhere
between appalled and incredulous.
"Does that include leap years?" Fitz inquired.
"I guess I forgot leap years."
"Then you'll have to add-"
"Never mind."
"Doesn't matter anyway," he said. "Because sixty is prime
time. Enjoy it."
"Right," Joella agreed.
Like she'd know. Joella is all of twenty, slim-thighed and
sparkly eyed, with magazine-ad skin and bouncy blonde hair.
"So how old are you?" I challenged Fitz. Not that I cared,
but I figured he may as well have a taste of his own nosiness.
"Sixty-three," he said cheerfully. "That's prime time too.
Although I've never gotten around to figuring how many days
it adds up to."
I had the feeling that when Fitz was ninety, he'd still be proclaimingprime time. On some days I might find that endearing.
Not today, especially when he was slyly poking fun at me. But
he did look reasonably well preserved. Gray hair thinning on
top and a fairly weather-beaten face, but a trim physique and
sharp blue eyes that looked as if they didn't miss much.
"And I'd say you have more to be irritable about than an
upcoming birthday." He nodded toward the paper I was still
clutching.
Joella's perky brows lifted, and I handed her the by-now
somewhat scuffed and crumpled letter. She studied the words
that were about to change my life.
"So the rumors that have been going around for so long
were true," she murmured.
"Worse than true." For weeks rumors had rampaged
around the corporate headquarters of Friends & Neighbors
Insurance about an imminent merger with another company.
The rumors had been much too kind. This was no merger; it
was a shark attack. Corporate murder. Mass execution.
Okay, maybe that's a little melodramatic, but it was a disaster
for most F&N employees. Certainly for me.
"They're closing down and letting everyone go?" Fitz
asked.
"They let us leave early today, to absorb the shock, I guess.
Friday's our last day. Free Fall Friday, everyone's calling it,
because that's where it puts most of us. A few executives are
being transferred to the new main office down in San Diego.
And they're keeping a handful of people on here to wind things
up and turn off the lights."
"I had my house in LA insured with Friends & Neighbors
before I sold it," Fitz said. "They were a good outfit. Paid off
right away the only time I had a claim with them."
"It's a nice letter," Joella offered. "A very polite letter."
I groaned. Joella is the sunniest, most even-tempered person
I know. She always sees that proverbial silver lining. Me, if
I can even scratch around and find the silver lining, I invariably
spot the tarnish on it.
It's an odd relationship we have, I suppose, considering the
difference in our ages. I feel almost fiercely motherly toward
my daughter, Sarah, and fiercely grandmotherly toward her
daughter, Rachel, who is only a couple years younger than
Joella. But with Jo I feel more . what? Unlikely as it sounds,
more sisterly. In fact, she's so mature and sensible and goodhearted
that it sometimes feels as if she's taking me under her
wing. Like the time I came down with some miserable flu
thing, and she was right there with tissues and chicken soup.
And she'll make a wonderful mother. Though I'm always careful
not to say anything to influence the big decision she'll soon
have to make in that area.
Sometimes I think Jo deserves a medal for her sunny attitude.
Sometimes I'd like to turn her upside down and shake
her and yell, "There's a bad side to everything. How come you
can't ever see it?"
But she was right about this. It was a polite letter. All done
in very proper corporatespeak. It assured me that the termination
was in no way a reflection on my capabilities as an
employee. This was simply a downsizing of personnel necessary
for maximum efficiency in the restructuring of the newly
merged companies.
"It's more polite than some firings I've had," Fitz said. "I
didn't even know my last one was coming until I read in one of
the trade papers that my character was about to be killed off.
And it's not a bad severance deal, considering." He hadn't had
that paper in his hands long, but those sharp eyes obviously
hadn't missed a thing.
Having never been severed before, I was in no position to
evaluate the deal, but I supposed it was fair enough. Not exactly
one of those golden parachutes you hear about, but I'd get a
lump-sum payment equal to four months' pay, and I could keep
my company health insurance for six months. And-oh, happy
day!-I'd also be receiving the company's quarterly newsletter, Security and You. If the company didn't see the irony in that, I did.
"You can get another job," Joella said. "You're hardworking
and dependable, and you know a lot about insurance."
"So do the four hundred or so other people they're letting
go. F&N is the second-largest employer in Vigland, right after
the wood products mill. There'll be rioting in the streets when
that many people start looking for work in a town this size."
"Lots of locals carpool and go into Olympia for jobs. Some
even drive all the way up to Tacoma," Fitz said. "It could be a
great new adventure. I wasn't too thrilled about moving up
here from LA a few months ago, but it's turned out fine. I don't
even get seasick anymore."
Just what I needed. Two sunnier-than-thou optimists.
Couldn't either of them see that what I was most likely to wind
up with was minimum wage at Greasy Burgers, Inc.?
"Yeah, but can I find something soon enough, or something
that pays enough, to help Rachel with college?" I asked
gloomily. Something that would also provide me with something
more than a bread-and-water diet until I was old enough
to qualify for Social Security?
"Who's Rachel? Not being nosy," Fitz added hastily. "Just
interested."
"My granddaughter. She'll be starting college at the
University of Florida this fall."
"Her parents can't afford to send her?" Fitz asked. "Or
scholarships?"
"My daughter and her husband are divorced, and it's all
Sarah can do to make ends meet. The ex-husband just remarried
and has a new baby, so he's no help. But she's checking
into scholarships and loans."
And why did I blurt all that out to Mr. Nosy?
"God can bring good out of the worst of situations," Joella
said. "Maybe you'll find an even better job."
Joella P. Picault. The P was supposed to be for Pilar, but I
suspected it really stood for Pollyanna. And yes, this was one
of those times when I wanted to pick her up and shake her. And
I could do it. Okay, I'm not exactly a powerhouse of lean
muscle . there are those jiggly thighs. But I mow my own
lawn, and I do it with a push-type mower, so my five-foot-six
134 pounds definitely outmuscles Joella's five-foot-one 120.
With her blonde hair, blue eyes, and pink cheeks, she looks like
the girl on top in a high-school cheerleader pyramid. Albeit a
considerably pregnant one.
"God doesn't care about my situation," I informed her
firmly.
"How do you know? Did you ever talk to Him about it?"
I waved a hand dismissively. Joella and I don't really argue
about God. I kind of think He exists, out there somewhere, but
I'm not on Hi there, God, how're You doing? terms with Him, the
way Joella seems to be.
"What about Jerry?" she asked.
I wasn't surprised that Fitz immediately cut in with,
"Who's Jerry?"
"When I have time, I'll send you a cast list of everyone in
the program of my life," I snapped.
"I'd appreciate that."
"He's the boyfriend," Joella explained. "He works at F&N
too."
At my level of sixtyish, boyfriend seems a much too adolescent
term, but I suppose it's as accurate as any.
"I haven't talked to him yet." I glanced at the ceramic rooster
clock on the wall of the shop. "He'll probably call later."
I needed some commiseration time with Jerry. The downsizing
at F&N would surely hit him hard. He'd been in line for
a position as head of the finance department, if Mr. Findley
ever retired, but this corporate change would sink that possibility.
He wouldn't have Joella and Fitz's rose-colored-glasses
view of the situation.
"Look, how about if I buy you one of the great new peach
smoothies, and we'll talk about the job problem?" Fitz
suggested.
I wasn't interested in discussing my job problems with a
stranger, but the peach smoothie sounded appealing. I was just
about to accept when my cell phone played that hard rock
thing Rachel programmed in when she was here at Christmas.
It always gives me a little jolt, but I haven't changed it because
it reminds me of my granddaughter.
As if just thinking about Jerry a minute earlier had made a
connection, his voice on the phone said, "Hi, Andi. Hey, I've
got a little time and thought I'd run over for a minute. I need
to talk to you."
"I'm down at the Sweet Breeze rereading my you're-fired-have-a-nice-day
letter. Want to join me?"
"This is kind of private. I'd rather come to your house."
"Sure. I'll head on home. Want to barbecue burgers later?"
"No, I have some things to do."
"See you in a few minutes, then.
"Jerry," I said to Joella as I returned the phone to my purse.
And to Fitz too, of course, since he seemed as interested in my
phone call as he was in my correspondence.
Joella looked mildly disapproving as I headed for the door.
She doesn't actually say anything against Jerry, but she tends to
avoid him, and once she said that he seemed "a bit insensitive."
I hadn't asked her to elaborate, but I think it had to do with a
mean crack he made about an overweight woman when we
were all at a neighborhood barbecue. I'm sure he didn't really
mean anything by it. It's just that Jerry runs and works out, and
his lean physique shows it, and he hasn't much sympathy for
those who don't take such care of themselves. And Joella is
prejudiced toward some guy, Dean somebody, at her church
that she wants me to meet.
"I'll see you at home later," she called. "And don't forget,
we are going to celebrate your birthday this weekend. I'll bring
the cake."
"With sixty candles?" Fitz looked interested, as if he might
like to be invited to the blaze.
"We'll think about the birthday." Given my coming unemployment,
even hitting the big six-o had dropped a notch on
my worry list. Although age and employment status were probably
a combination problem. No matter what Fitz said, sixty is
not prime time for finding a new job. "See you later."
"Maybe we can have that peach smoothie some other
time," Fitz called.
I gave him a noncommittal wave.
"We're heading out on a charter trip tomorrow, but when
we get back, I'll give you a tour of the Miss Nora, and you can
meet my son."
Right. Like I'm going to rush over and give Nosy & Son,
Inc., a chance to rummage around in more private details of
my life.
(Continues.)
