Chasing Rainbows A Novel - By Long, Kathleen Page 0,6

I had just done.

TWO

“NTC RJBC MX EFXC FY PMN YM BIAT FP TMEQFPR J RMMQ TJPQ JY LEJZFPR J LMMH TJPQ DCEE.”

-T.N. ECYEFC

Poindexter and I had eaten every carbohydrate in the house by the next afternoon.

There are those who might think the massive upheaval of my life combined with empty cupboards presented the chance to fully reinvent myself, starting with my grocery shopping and eating habits.

I could work up a week-long menu balancing each day’s consumption in an effort to increase energy, improve health, and decrease thigh girth.

I could shop smart, eat smart and reap the benefits. Or, I could eat junk food.

Five minutes later, I pulled into the Walgreen’s parking lot. After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day.

I didn’t notice my footwear faux pas--one spotted slipper and one clog--until I’d shuffled halfway down the cosmetic aisle.

Was my life in such disarray I could no longer select matching footwear?

Apparently, yes.

I lifted my focus from my fashion-challenged footwear to the activity buzzing around me. Fellow shoppers chattered and browsed, scanned and purchased. They walked and talked at hyper-speed, self-contained bursts of energy and purpose.

The blur of faces and voices dizzied me, and I fought the urge to tap someone on the shoulder.

“Yes?” the perfect stranger would reply.

“My father died,” I’d explain.

The stranger’s brows would crumple. She’d cluck her tongue sympathetically and pat my shoulder, nodding to a passerby.

“Her father died,” she’d say, and the new stranger would mutter comforting words, cluck her tongue and stop yet someone else.

I imagined things would continue on this way until clucking and patting strangers surrounded me. For the first time in days, I felt loved and comforted, wrapped in the imaginary embrace of countless Walgreen’s shoppers.

Just imagine what would happen if I tossed in Ryan’s desertion on top of everything else. Hell, the manager would probably make an announcement over the public address system.

Dumped mourner on aisle six. Please stop by on your way to the register to cluck and pat.

“Lady.” An impatient voice interrupted my mental tangent--too close and too real to be part of my fantasy. “You’re blocking the cotton balls.”

I focused long enough for the woman’s annoyed frown to register. So much for my imaginary world of comfort.

“Sorry,” I mumbled as I sidestepped toward facial creams. I grabbed a pore-reducing mask then headed for the candy aisle. After all, I might be in shock, but I wasn’t stupid.

An hour later my face hurt, my stomach hurt and I’d dug my wedding video out of the deep dark recesses of the hall closet.

I’d made another attempt at the first cryptogram in Dad’s journal, giving up after a solid three minutes of concentration. I’d chosen to revisit the past instead. After all, things had seemed so much brighter back then.

I fast-forwarded through the video, freezing the screen at my favorite moment. My waltz with Dad.

I remembered the moment as if it were yesterday. We’d fumbled through our dance, Dad counting off the steps under his breath as I concentrated on smiling up at him instead of looking down at my feet. We’d practiced night after night in my parents’ living room in the weeks before my wedding to Ryan.

I pressed the play button on the remote and tossed back a handful of chocolate as Ryan cut in, beaming down at me as if he’d never love anyone the way he loved me at that moment.

Sometimes the happy moments of your life came in a rush, overwhelming in their lightness and brightness. Sometimes those same moments lingered in the recesses of memory, assurances that no matter how bad things might seem, happier times would come again.

And sometimes...sometimes those happy moments served as a reminder that there were no guarantees in life, in happiness, in anything.

My throat closed up and I choked. Choked on the reality my wedding video no longer meant a thing.

After all, what would I say if someone stumbled across the tape during a party? Assuming I ever gave a party again.

“Community theatre.” I’d wave my hand dismissively. “A little play that ran for a while after college.”

The phone rang and I squeezed my eyes shut, tired of seeing the smiling faces on the video and not wanting to look at the Caller ID on the phone.

“Mrs. Murphy?” A clipped voice spoke as soon as the answering machine’s beep sounded. “It’s Pat Diller from the Canine Academy.”

Dread rolled in my stomach and I glared at Poindexter. He tipped his head from side to side, apparently trying to make sense of the talking