Chasing Rainbows A Novel - By Long, Kathleen Page 0,40

it all together, I was forced to realize I was, in fact, hopeless.

The trill of the telephone gave me a welcome excuse to crawl across the bathroom floor toward my bedroom.

The shock of my new weight, the sugar crash from the night before, and the look of sheer terror on Number Thirty-Six’s face combined to trigger a sharp pain above my left eyebrow.

I reached for the phone just as the machine prepared to click into action.

“Yes.”

Granted, the sharp bark was not my typical greeting, nor was it particularly appropriate for the impending holiday season, but it summed up exactly how I felt--mortified, overweight and in no mood for sales calls or conversation.

“May I please speak with Bernadette Murphy?” Try as I might, I couldn’t place the deep male voice on the other end of the phone.

I frowned, automatically expecting the worst.

A bill collector.

Neighborhood trash police.

Indecent exposure investigator.

I steeled myself. “Speaking.”

“Ms. Murphy, this is Jim Barnes, the Op Ed Editor for the Courier Post. I received your Letter to the Editor and I’d like to run it, with your permission.”

“Run it?”

I winced as soon as the words slipped between my lips. My voice had grown so tight with surprise I sounded like a startled parrot.

“Yes,” he answered, his patience palpable across the line.

“In the paper?”

Parrot.

Startled.

Asinine.

Mr. Barnes’s soft chuckle was unmistakable. “Yes. In the paper.”

“No shit.”

This time I squeezed my eyes tight and cringed. “Excuse me. I’m just a bit...”

“I apologize. I shouldn’t have called you this early.”

I waved one hand, as if he could see the gesture through the phone. “Not a problem. I guess you get this reaction all the time?”

“Not really.” I could hear the kind smile on his face. I’d never met Mr. Barnes, but I liked him instantly. “I was impressed with not only the content of your letter, but your style. We’ll be giving the article a byline.”

I pressed my lips together so tightly I no doubt resembled a mouthless Keanu Reeves from The Matrix. I made a noise without opening my mouth, afraid of what I might actually say.

“May I take that as a yes?”

Another noise.

“Very well then. We’d like to run this on Sunday as part of our special holiday issue.”

My letter.

In the paper.

Sunday.

With a byline.

I nodded, incapable of doing anything else.

“Ms. Murphy?”

“Yes.” I shook myself out of my stunned silence. “Thank you. Yes. I’d be honored.”

I pulled an oversized sweatshirt over my head before I headed back to the bathroom. I stared down at the pile of trash I’d once thought necessary pieces of my life.

Number Thirty-Six was nowhere in sight, but a pair of early morning walkers had paused to shake their heads at the mess I’d made.

Oddly, I felt nothing but happy amazement.

Maybe sometimes you had to clear out the old before you could make space for the new. And maybe once you did, the new was like nothing you’d ever imagined.

Maybe, it was even better.

o0o

“A ship in a harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”

-Unknown

TWELVE

“MWVFAOBS NE OAB HSVEA OAWO ERBBQE WRWZ OAB DCHRBHE CX OAB ABWSO.”

-WKCKZLCVE

I never imagined the resolution of my disagreement with Diane would take place over a sale rack of Dooney & Burke hobo bags, but there we were.

She’d ignored me for weeks, zipping right past Thanksgiving and zeroing in on Christmas and New Year’s.

When I hung up the phone from Jim Barnes, I realized the person I wanted to tell more than anyone else was Diane. Sure, Ashley would be over the moon with excitement for me, but there are some things a woman needs to share with her best friend.

This was one of them.

David helped me track his wife to Macy’s by analyzing the recent pattern of spending on their credit cards. Diane might be a genius when it came to sniffing out a bargain, but she apparently had a lot to learn about subterfuge.

I hesitated when I saw the size of Diane’s abdomen. She’d popped since our last encounter, and I instantly regretted the time we’d lost over an inability to air our grievances.

She acknowledged me over a brown suede hobo, but just as quickly returned her focus to the rack in front of her.

I thought about turning away, moving on, ignoring the pang of sadness I’d felt every time I reached for the phone to call her before I remembered we weren’t speaking. Maybe learning to face life included learning to face your own weaknesses and mistakes.

“I was wrong,” I said softly.

She squinted at me and frowned. I