Finding Mr. Write (Business of Love #5) - Ali Parker Page 0,11
three people there eating breakfast. One was a businessman reading the paper, another was an older gentleman doing crosswords, and the third was a mousy-looking middle-aged woman in baggy clothes. Her eyes flicked constantly around the room and I could feel her watching me as I approached the tables on the back wall of the room to scope out the food options.
Unsurprisingly, there was a conveyor belt toaster alongside loaves of white bread. Farther down the line were cups of yogurt sitting in bowls of ice, two kinds of granola, some cut-up cantaloupe and honeydew, scrambled eggs that looked runny and lukewarm, and some bacon.
“Not too shabby,” I muttered to myself as I pulled a piece of bread out of the bag and set it through the toaster. While it ran through the belt, I filled my plate with some other goodies. When the toast came out, I buttered it, grabbed a small package of raspberry jam, and found a place to sit with my back to the woman who was still watching me.
I suspected she was on the run from something or someone. A bad husband perhaps. I didn’t blame her for her need to watch everyone but I didn’t want to have to make eye contact while I ate.
The food was as mediocre as I expected but more filling than anything I’d be able to buy. When I finished, I put my dishes in the gray bucket labeled “Dirty Dishes” and made my way out of the motel feeling ready to take on whatever the day threw at me.
“It’s time to start your new life,” I breathed when I pushed out of the motel doors into the cool morning air. I breathed in deeply and closed my eyes. It smelled cold and crisp. Cars rushed by on the road and I made my way to the corner so I could cross. Within seconds of hitting the pedestrian-crossing button, about thirty more people showed up on my street corner. We crossed together like a herd of gazelles, and everyone went their own ways once they reached the other side.
I clutched my phone in one hand and used it as a map as I wandered the unfamiliar streets of the city. The motel I’d booked for the first week of my stay was more central than I’d expected, just pretty rundown. It was the perfect location for me to go about on foot looking for work. About a fifteen-minute walk down the street was a busy and thriving district of shopping and restaurants.
As I passed shop windows, it became infinitely more difficult to stay focused on my task. The clothes were glamorous and chic, where in Waynesville they were common. Strut had some unique stuff but nothing like the items I spied in the windows of New York’s boutiques. I spied winter coats to die for with faux-fur trims and glistening gold buttons. I saw over-the-knee boots in rich black suede and six-thousand-dollar earrings nestled on blue velvet displays under brilliant lights.
Each and every shop held something new and special and I found myself drawn inside. I dropped off resumes and made small talk with sales associates who were all pleasantly friendly enough but definitely more sophisticated than me. I felt out of place in those shops, like a rose on a stem that wasn’t quite as big or full as the other roses. My petals weren’t as well cared for, either.
I started to feel self-conscious after the fourth store and decided to avoid fashion shops after that. I doubted I’d be taken seriously in any of them and the ladies were just being nice. I had to find something else.
Using my experience, I started popping into restaurants instead. That immediately felt like more of my element, even though the overall level of busy was infinitely more extreme than what I was used to in Waynesville.
The tips must be incredible, I thought as I waited for a manager to come take my resume and ask me a couple questions at a casual soup and sandwich place with exposed white brick walls and black grout and plants hanging from the ceiling.
The manager, a lean bean pole of a man with a combover and a black waiter’s apron on, plucked my resume from my hand as soon as he walked over. His eyes flicked to my name. “Briar Sommerfield…” He trailed off and read my qualifications. “Your only work experience is in North Carolina?”