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“Thecrystaldinnergobletsare quaint reminders of the nostalgic era before the war, and the…” I hesitate, shake my head, and glare at my screen, backspacing until the sentence deletes into the void where it belongs. “The inn flaunts dinnerware sure to warm any antique lover’s heart.”
That’s not right, either. No matter how much I spin this sentence, it sounds like something out of my mother’s back issues ofGood Housekeeping.
My coworker, Gwen, pops another olive into her mouth and shakes her head at my rambling before looking back at her laptop. Resigned and already bored with myself, I pull another pencil out of my makeshift bun and put it between my teeth. If I keep chewing my pencils to the nub every time I have a deadline, I’ll have lead poisoning before I hit my thirty-first birthday in two months.
“Ava!” a voice booms from across the bullpen. The tone startles me, and I knock over the cold coffee still in a mug from this morning. “Do you have that piece on hidden gems in the French countryside yet?”
“Not yet, Mr. Gosnell,” I say. I grab some crumpled tissues and dab at the sloshed coffee. “You said Tuesday at noon.”
Mr. Gosnell, a squat man in his sixties, puts his hands on his hips like he’s a junior high teacher in charge of an unruly bunch of seventh graders. The gesture only makes him look older than his actual age. Wrinkles line his mouth and the corners of his eyes as he squints in my direction. I paste a smile to my face, hopeful he’ll move on to criticize one of my coworkers.
Shaking his head, he points to his office. “Let’s chat.”
“Shit,” I mumble under my breath. “I told him I’d have it done.”
Grabbing a nearby pencil and tucking it back into my bun, I stand and run my hands over my beige skirt and blush pink satin blouse. I can do this.
I’ve been atNickel Travel Timesfor six months, and I like to think I’ve turned in solid work for the budget magazine that’s only one notch underBudget Travelin circulation numbers. In the current economy, people are eager to travel on a shoestring. Big hotel chains with every amenity under the sun is only for the rich, and they don’t need a travel magazine to get them where they’re going. Business is surprisingly good, and I write interesting articles about interesting places.
At least, I hope Mr. Gosnell sees it that way.
“Take a seat, Ava,” Mr. Gosnell says, pointing to a brown leather chair as soon as I’m through the door. I slink into the chair and cross my legs at the ankle like my mother taught me, careful to look like a lady at tea. “You’ve been here for six months now. Are you struggling?”
“Struggling, sir?”
He holds his hands up like he’s soothing a wild stallion before running a hand through the hair that’s left on his head. “You meet your deadlines. I’ll give you that. It’s just that…well, you meet your deadlines with about twenty seconds to spare. You’re stressed, you burn the midnight oil, and you drink more coffee than I’ve ever seen anyone consume. I worked the Iran-Contra hearings back in the eighties. I’ve seen coffee consumption.”
I cringe a little in my seat and switch my legs around. “Nothing wrong with a morning cup.”
“The barista downstairs is worried about your heart health.”
“That’s unusual and mildly creepy.”
“I’d say it’s not good when the barista worries about your heart function and suggests more water. What’s going on? I’d have thought you’d be settling in now. Do you ever take a day off?”
“Sure,” I shrug and look everywhere but at the kindly older gentleman across from me. With his graying temples, he reminds me of my father, and my heart clenches whenever he scolds me. It makes me miss home and being told to pick up my socks and turn the music down.
“When was the last time you had a day off? Tell me about it. What’d you do?” he asks, leaning back in his chair. The chair groans under his weight, and he steeples his fingers and looks at the ceiling like I’m going to tell him a bedtime story.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think of my last day off. “I went to Lake Michigan on a beautiful day and ate a loaded hotdog with my neighbor, Vanessa. All the sailboats were out. We watched some oiled men play volleyball.” I stop and open my eyes, remembering who I’m talking to. “Uh, they were oiled with sunscreen. Got to watch for skin cancer.”
“Calvert?”
“Yes, Mr. Gosnell?”
“What month was that?”
“Well, I guess it would have been August,” I bite my lip, trying to remember. “August-ish. Maybe July.”
“It’s February.”
“Shit,” I whisper. How did time get away from me? I guess my mother was right when she said everything after thirty is like a roll of toilet paper. She said that the closer you get to the end, the faster it goes.
Mr. Gosnell clears his throat and opens a nearby drawer. “How much travel would you say you’ve done, Ava?”
I look out his window and think, admiring the view of Navy Pier in the distance. “Well, sir, I grew up by St. Louis in a small town called Alton and then went to college in Alabama. I’m quite familiar with the Gulf Shores and Florida Panhandle area. I stayed in Alabama after graduation, managing the college paper and writing pieces for the local news in Birmingham.”
