The Perfect Life (22 page)

Would she even have the courage to try again? She wasn't sure.

Steve said she needed to deal with her loss of the baby, that she was holding in too many emotions. Perhaps he was right. She vacillated between anger and sorrow, minute by minute, hour by hour. Except for when she succeeded in feeling nothing. She much preferred feeling nothing. It was easier to get through the day that way.

“Hayley?”

She gave her head a shake and looked at her sister again. “I'm glad you're not working so you can be there for Mom and Dad. I'm sure they appreciate it.” She took the fork from its place beside her plate. “Now I'd better eat. I need to get back to the office.”

Twenty-eight

I WAITED UNTIL BRAD WAS NAPPING IN THE FAMILY ROOM.
Then I called Susan at her office and told her all that had happened since the last time we spoke.

“Girlfriend,” she said when I finished my tale of woe,“I didn't think things could get worse for you, but they sure have.”

“Thanks. I was hoping you could cheer me up.”

She chuckled—and a more unrepentant sound I'd never heard.

“I'm going to start job hunting tomorrow. Maybe next time you visit Wal-Mart I'll be there to greet you.”

“Ugh!”

My misery wasn't enjoying her company. “I know. But I worked and worked on my résumé this morning, and nothing I do makes it seem like I'm qualified for much else. I can do bookkeeping, but I have no formal training. I'm a fairly good typist, but I haven't been employed since the eighties and never held an office job. I haven't even volunteered at In Step in a decade.
Plus
I'm forty-five.”

“You make it sound like you're at death's door. Kat, you've got a lot of life left in you. Haven't you heard fifty's the new forty?”

“I heard, but I'll bet employers don't think so. Look how hard it was for Brad to find something, even with all his experience.”

She was silent so long I wondered if we'd been disconnected. “Susan?”

“I'm here. I was just thinking. What about interior decorating? I don't know anyone else who can decorate on a shoestring the way you can. The things you've done in your home are nothing short of amazing. I look at something in a secondhand store and see junk. You look at it and see possibilities. Even shopping for new furniture overwhelms me. Too many choices.”

I felt a flutter of excitement but tamped it down. “Yeah, but that was for my home and the pleasure I took in doing it. That's different from it being a job. Besides, wouldn't I have to have some sort of training or business license or something if I was going to do it professionally?”

“I haven't a clue. But it seems to me that anybody can go on the Internet and claim to be an expert at one thing or another. Why not you? There was that article in the paper awhile back about home organization and management. You must've read it. There are people whose sole job it is to go into other people's homes or offices and help them get rid of clutter and organize what they keep. And I saw a special on TV not long ago about a woman who helps stage homes for sale. You could do that blindfolded.”

“You're serious, aren't you?”

Susan laughed. “Darn tootin', I'm serious. Come to think of it, I should hire you to give my place a facelift. Everything about it is so yesterday.”

Whether she knew it or not, Susan had fulfilled my wish. She'd cheered me up. I didn't feel as useless as I'd felt minutes before.

“Kat”—the mirth was gone from her voice—“I'm serious. Would you let me hire you to redecorate my home?”

The excitement was back. More than a flutter this time. A whole wave of it, sweeping over me. “I wouldn't have the first notion what to charge.”

“We can find that out. I'll pay you the going rate, whatever it is.”

“You'd better let me think on it. And I should talk to Brad. He might not—”

“You don't need his permission. After everything that's gone on . . .” She left the sentence unfinished.

I found it odd that I'd questioned Brad's fidelity and honesty almost daily for the past month, but I didn't want others to do the same. I didn't want Susan to dismiss or belittle him. I opened my mouth to tell her so, but she spoke first.

“Listen, I've got to run. I have an appointment in ten minutes, and I'm not ready for it. I'll call you tonight after I'm home from work.”

“Okay.”A click on the other end of the line, followed by the dial tone.

I set the portable handset on the table and leaned back on the kitchen chair. Could I do what Susan suggested? Could I earn enough helping women get organized or decorate their homes on a budget? It could be two months, maybe three before Brad was able to work again. Could I find enough clients from the get-go?

I rose from the chair and walked from the kitchen, down the short hallway, and into the formal living room. A smile tweaked the corners of my mouth as my gaze moved around the room. It was pretty in here. The color scheme was warm and inviting, and the furniture was comfortable. In the far corner was the antique cabinet that I'd refurbished to use as a curio display. The pillows on the sofa and loveseat were some I'd quilted myself. The wall hangings had been discovered at craft fairs or in thrift shops.

Yes, it was a pretty room, but it had evolved over time. It wasn't as if I walked in here one day and said I wanted everything to look like this. If I were to decorate someone else's home . . . A picture of Susan's living room popped into my head. It could use a makeover. If she recovered that sofa in a solid color, a beige or taupe, and then went with warm-colored accents, that room would come alive.

My smile broadened. There was no reason I couldn't help my best friend redecorate her home
and
look for another job at the same time. There would be a limited number of places where I could fill out applications or leave résumés each day. After that, time would be my own for as long as Emma was able to help care for Brad. Once she had her baby, other arrangements would have to be made. But for now . . .

I headed for the den and another lengthy session in front of the computer, this time to learn everything I could about the business of interior decorating.

My stomach growled, causing me to lift my eyes from the computer screen to the clock on the wall. I couldn't believe the time. It was almost five-thirty.

As I left the den, I heard clattering sounds coming from the kitchen. When I got there, Brad was setting a saucepan on the stovetop. A can of Campbell's vegetable beef soup was on the counter nearby.

“Brad, let me.”

He looked over his shoulder. “I was about to fix myself some soup for supper. Want some?”

“You shouldn't be doing that yourself.”

“I figured you were busy. Haven't seen you all afternoon.” He grimaced, and pain flashed in his eyes before he straightened in his chair again.

The physician at the hospital had told us it would take time and lots of rest for the cracked ribs to heal. They couldn't be immobilized like his broken leg because doing so put a person at risk for severe lung problems. We'd been told that just breathing would hurt for a good while.

“Next time you get hungry, call me. I don't need you to make yourself worse.” I moved to the back of his wheelchair and rolled him away from the stove toward a more open area of the kitchen. “Give me a few minutes, and I'll whip up something better than canned soup and crackers.”

He repositioned his chair so he could see me without twisting his body. The swelling in his face was better this afternoon, but it had been replaced by two black eyes. He looked like he was the loser in a barroom brawl.

I turned around. After a short perusal inside the refrigerator and the pantry, I decided on tuna salad over lettuce and crispy chow mein noodles. I set to work at once.

“What's kept you so busy this afternoon?” Brad asked after a lengthy silence.

“You don't need his permission,”
Susan taunted in my memory. And she was right. I didn't need Brad's permission. Still, telling him my decision wouldn't hurt anything.

I opened a can of tuna fish and drained the water into the sink. “I was doing some research on the Internet. I'm thinking of trying my hand at interior decorating.” I set the can on the counter and turned, leaning my backside against the edge of the sink. “I'm going to have to get a job of some sort. I'm not qualified for much. But Susan thinks I could help others with decorating homes and offices.”

Brad didn't say a word, and with his face distorted because of his broken nose, I couldn't tell what he thought.

“Emma agreed to stay with you while I job hunt. If I'm lucky enough to find something soon, she'll come over while I'm at work. By the time she has her baby, you should be more mobile.”

“Sounds like you've got it all worked out.”

“Not all.” I felt defensive—and didn't like it. I shouldn't feel that way.

I returned to my dinner preparations, anger stirring in my chest. Anger was somehow preferable to the host of other emotions I'd felt of late.

“You'll be a good designer, Kat. You'll be good at whatever you decide to do. I'm always amazed at what you can accomplish. You learn things twice as fast as I ever could. In Step never would have gotten off the ground without your help.” He paused, then added, “I've missed your feedback since we moved the office into the Henderson Building.”

His words—meant as a compliment—didn't soothe my anger. In fact, they seemed to make it worse. I pressed my lips together as I chopped bread-and-butter pickles on the countertop, then scooped them into the bowl with the tuna fish and salad dressing.

After another period of silence, Brad said, “I called Stan earlier. He's going to drop by to see me tomorrow. About ten in the morning. Will you be here?”

“Do I need to be?” I opened the cupboard and removed two plates and a couple of glasses. “I planned to go to Job Services first thing in the morning, and then, after I apply wherever they send me, I thought I'd visit a few furniture stores in town, just to get some ideas.” I glanced at him. “Emma will be here.”

He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “That's fine. You don't need to be here for Stan. He said he's got an update on In Step and the AG, but I think he's mostly coming over to see how I am.”

I felt a twinge of guilt. I hadn't called anyone at church about Brad's accident. I should have. At the very least, I should have advised the prayer team or my Bible study group by e-mail. But I hated feeling needy. I didn't want people to know our business. Too much of it had become public knowledge already.

Pride. My objections revealed plain unadulterated pride on my part. There was no pretending otherwise.

I shook my head, hoping to drive away such thoughts. I had enough problems without dredging up new ones.

Twenty-nine

MY FIRST EXPERIENCE WITH JOB SERVICES LEFT ME
disheartened. Even though I used some creativity when writing my résumé—volunteer work should count as experience, shouldn't it?—I got the distinct impression the job counselor deemed me a hopeless case.

It was close to noon when I entered a furniture store located near downtown Boise. I wandered through the various displays, taking note of colors and patterns and lines. I saw a number of items that would be perfect for my friend's home. And if I could convince her to spring for new carpet, the possibilities expanded.

I was sitting on a cocoa-colored sofa in a soft suedelike material, running my hand back and forth over a seat cushion, when I heard someone say my name. I turned to see who it was. Fran Thompson. A former neighbor. A couple of years before, she and her husband had built a large new home—
mansion
was the more accurate term—in an upscale community outside of Boise. I'd lost track of her since then.