Surviving San Francisco

  “No, Stacy’s still out. Family emergency.”

  Leah doesn’t know what to do with this information.

  “Your cat’s doing better today. Want to her see her?” Everitt pushes the door open that leads back to the exam rooms.

  Leah hesitates, but then she walks through. “I…” She stops herself. How many times does she have to tell him it’s not her cat?

  Everitt disappears inside a door. Leah follows. She sees Everitt gently lift the feline from its kennel.

  “I want to apologize for being short with you yesterday. Things have been kind of…” he searches for the right word, “hectic. My office manager’s daughter is sick. How can I say no to that, right? Anyway…”

  Everitt stands up with the cat. Her back leg is bandaged, and she appears to be sleepy.

  Everitt nuzzles against the cat’s ear while cradling it like a baby. “So I’m sorry.”

  He gestures toward the feline. “She’s not out of the woods yet, but I’m hopeful she’ll make a full recovery.”

  “Did I do that?” Leah asks. She cringes at the sight of the wrapped leg.

  “Technically your car did, but yeah. Want to hold her?”

  Leah takes a step back. “No. I mean,” she clears her throat, “I only came to pay.” She reaches into her bag and draws out her credit card.

  “Um.” Everitt rests the cat back in the cage. “Honestly, I haven’t a clue how to operate the credit card machine.” He puts his hands up.

  “Is Mary here?” Leah looks around. “Maybe she could do it?”

  “She doesn’t come in until 9:00.”

  “That seems inefficient.”

  “I…” Everitt’s eyes meet Leah’s. “Yeah.”

  “Okay then.” She fishes a pen and a notepad from her purse and writes while she speaks. “When someone is here who actually knows how to process my payment,” she tears off a sheet with her address scrawled on it, “then send me the bill.”

  Everitt squints at Leah and assesses her for a moment. “You really don’t like animals, do you?”

  The cat meows from its cage, which draws Leah’s attention to her.

  “Come on,” he says, kneeling down beside the kennel and scratching the cat’s ear through the wire door. “She’s really sweet.”

  Leah’s vision seesaws between the cat and the exit. After a moment, Leah pads over to Everitt and the kennel and hesitates before kneeling down.

  Leah eases her hand toward the cage and pets the cat with her finger.

  “She’s soft.”

  Leah relaxes and continues to stroke the cat’s ear. The animal meows.

  “She likes you.” His eyes shift to hers and linger for a moment.

  “I thought this wasn’t an animal hospital.”

  “It’s not.”

  Leah studies Everitt’s expression, his disheveled appearance.

  Everitt shrugs. “I live down the street and stopped by to check on her a few times.” He messes up his hair in what seems to be an attempt to fix it. “Actually, I fell asleep on the exam table.”

  “You did?”

  Leah studies him, softens.

  “How long until she’s better?”

  “Until she can go home?” Everitt searches the room. “Few days.” He scrutinizes her. “Not much time to find her a home.”

  “No,” Leah says.

  “You better get busy.”

  Everitt stands back up, followed by Leah.

  “Why don’t you take her?” Leah asks.

  Everitt opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it.

  “You’re a vet. You love animals.”

  “I do, but…” He tugs on his shirt collar. “It’s complicated for me right now.”

  “Allergic wife?”

  Everitt’s laugh is nervous. “No.”

  When she realizes that’s all the information she’s going to get, she gathers her purse closer to her. Before heading to the door, Leah steps back toward the kennel and puts her fingers against the cage.

  “What did you mean when you said my marketing plan sucks?”

  Leah pinks up. “Oh, well. I was just angry.”

  “Hmm.” He doesn’t believe her.

  “In the meantime,” Everitt says as he takes a business card from the counter and hands it to her, “take this in case you need it.”

  Leah glances at the card. She twists her face at the dog-only picture on it. She opens her mouth to say something, but all that comes out is thanks.

  Chapter Eight

  Leah’s hair lacks style. She looks down and cringes at her wrinkled Donna Karan. Both her hair dryer and iron were stolen from her car.

  She sits in the waiting area of an executive office lobby. The sign in reception reads Granberry Apparel with its trademark G and A, a sewing needle running through the letters.

  Her phone buzzes.

  She grabs a look at the screen. Her parents. She touches the dismiss button and pushes the phone deep into her purse. Then Leah tucks a strand of hair, runs a finger over recently glossed lips, and straightens her skirt. Things couldn’t get much worse than this: showing up to the first day of a job in just-out-of-the-suitcase clothes and flat hair. Leah catches a whiff of a less-than-pleasant something. She showered.

  God no. Not…

  Leah discreetly drops her nose to an armpit.

  Not her. At least she hopes.

  A buzzer sounds at reception. The woman behind the too-broad desk looks over at Leah. The placard in front says she’s Julie Hooker.

  “Mr. Frazier will see you now.”

  Julie escorts Leah into the office. All the while, the only thing Leah can think of is that she hopes Julie—and anyone else she comes in contact with at Granberry—doesn’t notice her unpolished appearance.

  Leah’s attention turns to a thin man in a debonair suit.

  “Ken, this is Leah Newman,” Julie says, directing Leah forward for the requisite handshake.

  “It’s Newland,” Leah says.

  Julie shoots Leah a dirty look. “That’s what I said.”

  Ken winks at Julie as she slinks out. He watches her a little too long. Then Ken gestures toward the open seat across the desk from him.

  Leah perches on the edge of the chair while Ken examines a file in front of him.

  “First day as a buyer in the junior's department.”

  Leah nods.

  “Hmm,” is all Ken says.

  Leah sits forward. “If it's the transfer paperwork—”

  Leah digs through her purse.

  “No,” he says, his voice a singsong. “It’s not that.”

  He sets her file down. “Thing is, there’s been a mistake.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The position’s been filled.”

  “But Mr. Jamison—”

  “No longer works here.” Ken leans back in his chair as if he only described the weather outside rather than deliver what Leah hears as ominous news.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” She looks around for something. Maybe a hidden group of people who will break out in laughter and then show her to her desk.

  “I never joke about business, Miss Newman.”

  “Newland.”

  This can’t be happening.

  Leah fends off a burgeoning anxiety attack. Struggling to catch her breath, she claws through her purse for a rescue. Where is her pill? The rectangular white one? Where are the calming breaths when she needs them? Instead, her lungs labor under shallow puffs of air.

  Either Ken doesn’t notice or he ignores her physical reaction altogether. In fact, he stands and extends his hand. “I apologize you came all the way over here.”

  “I came from Illinois!”

  Again, he doesn't hear. He strides over to the door and directs Leah toward the lobby. “If you can handle an eight-line phone, a receptionist position is available.”

  Leah’s too stunned to say anything.

  “Miss Newman?”
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  She’s too shocked to correct him. Leah turns and gapes at Ken.

  For the first time, he studies her. “You know, you really ought to get some sleep.”

  On the way back through reception, Leah yanks the bottle of Xanax from her purse, not caring when she last took a tablet.

  Chapter Nine

  Leah sulks up the stairs toward her apartment, paying no attention to her surroundings. A woman rushes down from the second floor and crashes into Leah. She’s Bohemian-looking: flowing skirt, headband, and she smells like weed.

  “Oops. Apologies.” She gives Leah the peace sign and takes off.

  Leah re-gathers herself and lumbers upward.

  Somber music resonates through the door of apartment 3B as Leah steps onto the third floor landing, fumbling with the key to her own apartment when the door to 3B opens. A relatively good-looking guy drags a 36x48 canvas into the hall, but halts when he spies Leah watching him. A Red Vine dangles from his lips like a cigarette.

  Leah gives him a quick smile.

  He removes the licorice and points to her, pistol-style. “New girl from Idaho.”

  “Illinois,” Leah says with her key poised in mid air.

  “Sorry about the music.” He rushes back inside to turn down the volume. A chair holds the door halfway open.

  Leah tilts her head and studies the painting: a perspective of poppies blowing in the wind along a fence. It’s unfinished.

  “What’d ya say your name was?” the guy asks from the innards of his place, eventually finding his way back to the hallway.

  “I didn’t, but it’s Leah.”

  “Hey Leah, you want to help me with something?” Not waiting for an answer, he pulls her inside. He shoves the uneaten licorice into his back pocket, catching Leah’s watchful eye. “Just gave up smoking. I’m Clint, by the way.”

  Clint wipes his hand on his painter’s pants, and the two shake.

  The inside of the apartment is laid out like Leah’s, except Clint’s has wood flooring and there are painting canvases propped around the room. Palettes and paint cans line the base of an easel like soldiers. Clint’s furniture situation is sparse, which makes the apartment look vastly larger than Leah’s own. She’s pretty sure there’s a sofa buried beneath heaps of magazines and clothes.

  Elsewhere, drop cloths cover the floor in lieu of rugs, each one decorated with colorful spatters in abstract patterns. If they were purposeful, they might just be considered art. The ugliest chair she’s ever seen—an orange tub—appears to be the centerpiece of the room.

  Leah stops in front of Clint’s work-in-progress.

  Clint pushes on the orange tub chair. “Do you mind helping me move this out of here?”

  Leah moves toward it, reaches for it.

  “No, silly. Not that. This.” He lifts one end of a completed painting. It’s a finished work in a tapestry of pastels. Another perspective, but of a fork in the road with an apartment building in the middle. One side leads to a lush side of town, the other to graffiti-ed and dilapidated buildings.

  Leah holds one end, and Clint twists it out the door.

  “Are you taking it to an art show or something?”

  “No. Trashing it.”

  “What? You…you can’t do that.” She absorbs the painting with sudden sentimentality.

  “I can, and I will.”

  “But why?”

  “I’m through. I breathe my everything into these paintings, and what do I get in return?” He doesn’t wait for an answer because the question is rhetorical. “I’ll tell you what. Nothing. I can’t sell one of these to save my life. Or feed my addiction.” He picks up the abandoned Red Vine from a nearby table.

  They wobble into the hall. Leah sets her end down; Clint dumps his. He faux dusts off his hands and closes the door.

  Leah seems to look through the wall toward the abandoned pieces of art outside.

  “What are you doing to promote your work? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “I sell some stuff on websites. I’ve given some things away for exposure. I don’t know.”

  “Business cards?”

  “Don’t have those. Don’t have a business.”

  Leah assesses the place. “But you do.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Clint says with a sigh. “I’m done with it all. I really am.”

  Clint pushes his hands into his pockets and pulls out a licorice piece. He looks satisfied with the state of his near-empty easels now.

  “That’s too bad.” Leah stoops over and picks up her purse. “So I was wondering, could I borrow a few things?”

  Clint shakes himself free of his somber thoughts. “Sure. What do you need? Cup of sugar?” He smiles.

  “Blanket?”

  Clint removes a throw from the couch and hands it to her. “This okay?”

  Leah takes it. “A pillow, maybe a towel.” She hesitates for a moment. “Shampoo. Really any toiletry-type items you can spare.”

  Clint quirks an eyebrow.

  “Someone stole a few things out of my car.”

  Clint goes about gathering items while Leah looks around.

  “Broke the window, huh?”

  Leah falters as Clint searches. “Not exactly.” Leah glances around the apartment as she waits.

  Clint’s in the bedroom now, rummaging. “Must have jimmied the lock then,” he calls out.

  “If that means they opened it because it was unlocked, then yes.”

  Clint reemerges.

  Leah shuffles. “Listen, I have to drop something off. Can you point me in the right direction?”

  Clint studies Leah.

  “They stole my map, too.”

  She pulls a sheet of paper from her purse and shows Clint the address.

  “That’s right around the corner,” he says.

  He hands over a towel and some toiletry bottles.

  “Thanks,” Leah says. Then she heaves the items up. “For everything.”

  Leah heads for the door, but then turns back. “You know, you really should consider getting business cards.”

  “Noted. See ya.”

  Leah goes into her apartment and unloads her things. But then she comes back out and lingers over the paintings. She stares at Clint’s door, waiting for it to open. When it doesn’t, she drags the fork-in-the-road painting toward her place and takes it inside.

  Chapter Ten

  A stack of classified ads lays crumbled on Leah’s apartment floor. Leah pinches the space between her eyebrows, trying to will away the intensifying headache.

  She grabs hold of another newspaper page, scans the ads once again, and then cinches it in her fist. She tosses the wrinkled page, and it lands near the business card Everitt gave to her. Leah tries to ignore it, but her eyes keep reaching back toward it. Finally she crawls across the floor and picks the card up.

  “This is all wrong,” she says, studying the picture of the dog beside Pacific Coast Veterinary Clinic’s name and information. “All wrong.”

  Her cell phone rings, and she wonders if it’s her parents again. She knows she has to return their calls sooner than later.

  Local number.

  “Hello?” The lilt to her voice is a little too prominent.

  “Leah Newland?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Desmond Stanislovski, Merchandise Manager at Mraz Department Store. I was wondering if you are available to interview.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Leah exits her apartment building dressed in a black suit with strappy high-heels. Gina's whistle dangles around her neck. Leah slows when she spots the homeless man tucked in the recessed area of a building. She considers, reaches in her purse, and stoops down to slip a few bills beneath his jacket. Then she walks away.

  When she arrives at Mraz, the first thing Leah notices is the splash of emblems everywhere: on the wall, in the picture frames, on coffee mugs. Leah sits before a middle-aged man dressed in an ensemble that’s
worlds away from Leah’s—a flamboyant, pin-striped suit with a fluorescent pink shirt. His hair is spiked, and he wears half glasses. The name placard on his desk reads Desmond Stanislovski, Merchandise Manager.

  “So you've worked for Granberry in Chicago.” Desmond looks at Leah.

  “Well, Zion.”

  Desmond appears extremely confused. “Is that in Switzerland?”

  “Illinois.”

  Desmond peers over his glasses. “Ever worked in New York?”

  Leah sits a little straighter. “Um, no.”

  “Paris?”

  “I know a few words of French. Does that count?” She proceeds to demonstrate. “Bonjour, au revoir…”

  Desmond searches her resume for something to appease him. “Hmm. And you're no longer at Granberry.”

  “Well, I received a job transfer from the store in Zion,” she looks up at him, “which is in Illinois. And then…”

  He raises a hand to silence her.

  “Fired?” he asks, lifting a sculpted eyebrow.

  “They gave my position away.”

  Desmond scans Leah, looks at her shoes, her outfit.

  Leah launches forward. “The manager used nepotism...” she reconsiders with a knit of the brow, “or eroticism to hire his secretary. I think they were..,” she clears her throat to fill in the missing explanation, “you know.”

  Desmond stands. “Thank you for coming in. We'll...”

  Leah slides out of her seat while Desmond melts with disgust.

  “...be in touch.”

  He extends a limp hand.

  “I didn’t get the job, did I?”

  “No.”

  ***

  Leah sits cross-legged in the middle of her living room floor with a laptop opened to a job-search site. When there are no prospects, she sinks back, glancing over the top of her computer to lay eyes on Clint’s painting. She must admit, she’s smitten with it. In fact, she’s convinced Clint’s sorry sales have nothing to do with lack of talent and everything to do with poor marketing.

  She gets up and frames a shot of Clint’s art. She snaps some photos, uploads them to her computer, and gets to work designing a mock-up business card. Just for fun. Nothing more. Then she opens up a Word document and titles it Marketing Plan. She takes notes.

  In the midst of jotting, Leah stops. She fishes in her bag and pulls out the business card Everitt gave to her. She squints at it. Then, after a moment, she opens another design project and gets to work.

  Chapter Twelve

  Leah’s not sure how long she’s been out in the hallway, but the sound of footsteps on the creaky staircase wakes her up. She resituates her oversized bag and straightens.