A Winter Dream - By Richard Paul Evans Page 0,45

bagel. “You got your job back?”

“Just like J.J. dreamed,” Bryce said. He turned back to me. “You, my friend, have a gift.”

I was happy for him, but sad for me. At least I was better at hiding it than Leonard, who looked like he’d just been diagnosed with cancer.

“Congratulations,” I said. “When do you leave?”

“The train is at the station,” he said. “After lunch.”

“Just don’t forget your friends out here in Siberia.”

“Never.” He turned to Leonard. “Still think J.J.’s dreams are bogus?”

Leonard didn’t answer. I thought he might throw up.

We shared a celebratory lunch, then sent Bryce and his things off to Park Avenue South in a taxi. Leonard moped around the rest of the afternoon. Just before quitting time he came into my office and collapsed into a chair, his legs spread, his head down. “When does the ax fall?”

I looked up from the coupon I was writing. “What ax?”

“The one over my neck.”

“It was just a dream. You said so yourself.”

“You don’t really believe that,” he said.

“What does it matter what I believe? It’s your life. Besides, all I saw was broken pots. I have no idea what it means. Neither do you.”

“I know what it means,” he said. “Dead man walking.”

I sighed. “Sorry, man. I didn’t want to tell you.”

“You shouldn’t have,” he said. “You should keep things like that to yourself.”

“Yeah, I tried that.”

He looked down at the floor for a minute, then said, “There’s a news station in Reno that needs a copywriter. I put in an application.” He got up and walked out of my office.

Winter settled in, chilling the city to its concrete bones. I felt as dismal as the gray skies that hovered over the island. I supposed I was losing hope. Charlene and Bryce had got out, returning to where they started—something that wasn’t going to happen to Leonard or me. Chicago was barred and a promotion in New York seemed impossible. Career advancement is unlikely when you’re invisible, and that’s what I was. Invisible. I felt as if the world had forgotten I existed.

I considered looking for a new job, but in a market as competitive as New York, that would require superhuman energy, confidence and references. I had none of the above.

Part of me still fantasized about returning to Colorado, back to the days of blissful ignorance—secure in the false belief that my family loved me and that Ashley and I were meant for each other. It was a pleasant fiction but still a lie. And you can’t squeeze happiness from an exposed lie any more than you can drink real water from a mirage.

Most of all, I missed April. Sometimes so much that my chest ached. I missed her and hated myself for not loving her the way she had loved me. In my banishment from Colorado, I had chosen to pay for someone else’s sin. But in my banishment from April, the sin was mine. And that made the pain much, much worse. I had no idea how I could ever get her back.

There was nothing left to do but resign myself to Fate, hoping that she might have some mercy left for me—and that my heart didn’t give out before it came.

When you work with just one person, you either like them, learn to tolerate them, or kill them. Odd as it may sound, the better I got to know Leonard, the more I liked him. He kind of grew on me. Like mold.

In spite of his DayGlo insecurity and complete lack of social skills, he had a good heart. He wasn’t really a bad writer either, though he was inconsistent. Every now and then, Leonard would come up with something surprisingly brilliant, reminding me why he had been hired in the first place. He probably struck out more times than he knocked it out of the park, but so did Babe Ruth.

On Thursday, November 17, I was working on a direct-mail piece for HoneyBaked Hams when the phone rang. It was still just Leonard and me, and Leonard had assigned me the task of answering the phone.

“Leo Burnett,” I said.

“Joseph, it’s Charlene.”

“Charbaby,” I said.

“That’s so un-PC,” she said. “Never stop.”

“Promise. It’s so good to hear your voice. So how’s life at the top?”

“Why don’t you come find out for yourself?”

“I’d be happy to,” I said flippantly. “Just show me the way.”

“I can do more than that. I can open the door for you. Mr. Ferrell would like to meet with you.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Mr. Ferrell