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“You bet. Thanks. For the unnecessary pep talk, for the coffee and muffin. I rearranged my office to make room for the wall screen I’m going to order. I can toss my work up on it. Like giving myself a presentation. Want to see?”
“Only if I get to make sure it’s feng shui.”
“I can accept that. Cleo, don’t get pissed, but Brandon did me a favor. I don’t think I’d ever have done this otherwise. And today? I really feel it’s what I’m supposed to do. What I was supposed to do.”
“I wouldn’t go as far as favor, but we’ll say his absolute assholiness gave you a push in the right direction.”
“That works. Come see.”
Three weeks later, she had the new website up and running for the writer—whose book wasn’t crap. She’d designed holiday ads for Baby Mine, and wedding invitations (was that irony) for her next-door neighbor’s niece.
By Christmas, she had three more website designs in the works, had designed two book covers and more digital ads.
She closed out what she’d expected to be the worst year of her life feeling on top of it.
Maybe the cut in salary and benefits stung a little, and the expense of shouldering the cost for her supplies and equipment stung a little more. But for a woman who’d been in business less than three months, she did just fine.
She’d have done finer without the plumbing emergency the week before Christmas, and the $1,600 that cost her.
But she did just fine.
She had to keep her prices competitive to build up her client list, her project portfolio. And, she reminded herself, she saved on gas—no commute—on lunches out, basic wear and tear on her car.
Did she miss the camaraderie of coworkers? Sometimes. Then again, she liked working solo, answering only to herself. And wearing whatever the hell she wanted.
Maybe she’d get a dog, or a cat. Since she didn’t leave the house for eight or ten hours every day, she could have a dog or a cat.
Companionship.
Food bills, vet bills—with a dog, possibly a groomer.
She’d think about it, work out a budget.
Most of all, tightening her belt a little meant nothing compared to the satisfaction of doing what she loved, and the way she loved doing it.
She wasn’t worried.
Yet.
In mid-January, while Boston shivered under two feet of snow, when business had slowed—it would pick up again—she answered the door.
The man looked to be into his late forties—what she could see of him in his heavy coat and ear-flap hat. He held a briefcase in his gloved hand, and smiled.
Slow, easy, charming.
Under brows sharp and black, his eyes, soft, almost eerily blue, studied her through the lenses of a pair of glasses. The silver frames matched the tufts of hair that found their way from under the cap.
“Ms. Sonya MacTavish?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“I’m Oliver Doyle, attorney for the late Collin Poole. Your uncle.”
“I don’t have an uncle—other than my aunt’s husband, Martin. I don’t know anyone named Collin Poole.”
“Your father’s brother.”
“You have the wrong information, Mr. Doyle. My father didn’t have a brother.”
