Chasing Rainbows A Novel - By Long, Kathleen Page 0,4

towel around myself and hustled the poor dog toward the back door.

I’d no sooner let him into the back yard than I heard a familiar noise--the low drone of an approaching airplane. Sure enough, Poindexter’s ears perked up. He froze in the middle of the yard, tipping his head. As soon as the massive plane cleared the treetops beyond our fence, he was off, racing from one side of the yard to the other, barking frantically.

Some people had dogs that chased cars. I had a dog that chased airplanes. Considering my house sat directly below the landing pattern for the Philadelphia International Airport, I had one busy dog. At least no one could ever accuse him of not dreaming big.

The phone rang on cue. I opened the door and hollered at Poindexter, but he was so deeply focused on his chase I’m sure he never heard me.

“Hello.”

“Mrs. Murphy?”

I cringed. A card-carrying member of the school of formality, my next-door neighbor refused to address me by anything other than my last name. Granted, she called only to complain about Poindexter, which no doubt played a role in her tone of voice.

“Yes, Mrs. Cooke.” I smiled, having read somewhere that smiling while on the phone could set a positive tone for the conversation.

“Your dog--”

So much for the smile theory. I rubbed my eyes. “I was headed out back to drag him in when you called.”

“It’s quite unacceptable at this time of the morning,” she huffed into the phone.

“I apologize. I forgot to check the flight plan before I let him out.”

“You can do that?” Her voice rose suspiciously.

“Oh, yes.” I fibbed. “The airport makes their schedule available to all dog owners in the region.”

This, apparently, rendered her speechless.

“Have a nice day.” I hung up before she could say anything else.

Poindexter stopped barking, and when I reached the back door, he stood there waiting to come in, all wagging tail and panting joy.

I’ve heard people say dogs don’t smile, but whoever made that statement had never seen Poindexter after a close encounter with a jumbo jet.

o0o

I tried to hang on to Poindexter’s positive mental attitude as I made my way through the employee door at McMann Shipping. I readjusted the waistband of my skirt one last time. Truth was, I hadn’t been able to button the damn thing. Not even close.

I’d called upon a well-kept chubby girl secret, slipping a rubber band around the button, through the buttonhole and back again to give myself the wiggle room I needed. Pathetic, but effective.

My co-workers greeted me in fairly normal tones, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they likened my absence to some sort of bleak vacation.

“How was it?” Jane in the next cubicle over might ask.

“Lovely,” I’d answer. “You should have seen the flowers...and the procession. There must have been forty cars.”

“You don’t say?” She’d reply.

“And did you hear Ryan and I split up a few weeks ago?”

She’d shake her head. “Boy, you really have been busy. Welcome back.”

“Where’s the Cooper file?” The voice of Blaine McMann, our CEO, sliced through my thoughts and signaled the official end of my allotted grieving period.

I swiveled in my chair to look up at him, and I mean up. The man was at least six-foot-six and he loved nothing more than intimidating his employees with his size. If anyone ever tells you family-owned businesses are lovely, warm, fuzzy places to work, run the other way...screaming.

“The file?” He glared down at me, a well-practiced part of his intimidation repertoire.

“It’s in the pending customer files. Where I left it.” I gestured to the black file cabinet against the wall. “I’ll get it for you.”

“Save your energy.” His frown morphed into a smirk. “It’s not there. Do you want to know how I know it’s not there?” He patted his chest. “Because I looked. Then I had every employee in this office help look for that file. Your incompetence cost us valuable time and perhaps the account.”

He stepped away from me, pivoted and began to pace at the opening of my cubicle mid-rant. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like one of those moving targets at the boardwalk arcade. I wondered how many points I’d score for nailing him between the eyes with a rubber band.

I laughed a little bit. I couldn’t help myself.

Maybe the emotions of the past few weeks had finally taken their toll, but I found it completely impossible to hold myself together.

I suddenly imagined all six-foot-six of Blaine McMann with a fuzzy duck head, and