Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Queenie and I were couch potatoes all day Sunday. We binged new Bridgerton episodes, and by the time we’d finished the whole season, we agreed we might as well start it over again. Queenie was probably happy to have quality time with me; she kept squeezing my shoulder and telling me how grateful she is to have me home. Meanwhile, I wanted any excuse to stay distracted and out of my head. Replaying my date with Sawyer from the night before wasn’t going to help make me feel less guilty.
Today, my hope is that diving into work will prove to be an even better mental diversion. With two lattes in hand from the Coffee Bean on the corner, my mom and I make our way to her office. Except the moment we step inside, I think, This can’t be right.
We’ve gone into the wrong building. This is a travel agency.
Or what used to be one.
Black cursive wall decals say Roam!, Voyage!, Discover! The shabby-chic wooden sign hanging above the front door declares Au revoir. Toy airplanes dangle from the ceiling on clear fishing line. There’s a promotional airline poster with curled-up corners. Half-off flights if you book by August 2002!
“Mom, what is this place?” I sound mildly horrified.
Queenie kicks aside a cardboard box and plops her coffee down on a desk. At least I think it’s a desk. It’s so overloaded with junk I can’t see the surface. It might just be papers under more papers under more papers, all the way to the floor.
She waves away my concern. “I know it’s not perfect, but I haven’t had a moment to fix this place up since the day I moved in. I’ve been busy.”
I point behind me. “The front door still says Luellen’s Travel Agency. Surely that confuses your clients?”
She sticks her nose in the air, too proud to admit she might be wrong. “Everyone who uses me knows where to find me. They just ignore that door. Besides, it’s propped open most every day anyway.”
“But where do you meet with clients?”
“Over there on that couch.”
She says it like I’m dense, but what couch? Does she mean that thing covered in boxes and heinous throw pillows? The person who designed this place must have wiped out an entire Hobby Lobby clearance section.
“Okay, leftover decor aside…it’s seriously a mess in here.”
She purses her lips at me, picks up a pile of papers from her chair, and sets them on the floor. “Don’t come in here and try to change things. This place functions just fine. Now would you look under those magazines to your left to see if you can find a stack of printed invoices? I’ve been looking for them for two weeks.”
“MOM.”
Around ten AM, my mother’s other employee arrives. Cassie might be on maternity leave, but we still have Marge. Marge who is hovering somewhere between 82 and 107. Marge who, despite her hearing having gone sometime in the ’80s, refuses to wear hearing aids so every time you talk to her, you’re met with a loud “Eh?!” or “Huh?!”
“Speak up, dear! And talk slower!”
“I said, GOOD MORNING, MARGE.”
“No sorry, I don’t have the time.” Then she grumbles to herself. “Damn young people need to wear watches if they want to know the time.”
From then on, the phone rings off the hook, and it’s Marge’s responsibility to answer it and take messages. In turn, she hands my mom Post-its and says, “Either Dana wants to change her meeting time tomorrow or that was the phone company saying you hadn’t paid your bill in three months.”
I snatch the note out of Marge’s hand. “Why don’t I take the phones for a while?”
But that leaves me with barely any time to chip away at the mess around the office. Before we tackle the travel agency decor, we have to create some kind of system in here.
I don’t even know where to start. There are piles everywhere: boxes lining the hall to the bathroom, boxes stacked under desks, beside desks, around desks. Boxes of useless receipts from weddings that happened fifteen years ago. Tablecloth samples. Paper samples. Floral samples. Dozens of photo albums with examples of my mom’s past work.
I’m close to having a panic attack. At Evermore Events, I enjoyed my own corner office with my own personal assistant. The company ran like a well-oiled machine. There was an accounting department, interns, a clean break room that was stocked daily with snacks and drinks.
“Have you considered creating a digital filing system, Mom?” I’m trying to maintain my calm. A little while ago, I was digging through a box that I thought might contain vendor contacts when a huge spider crawled over my finger.
Queenie looks at me like I’m asking her to design a spaceship that could take us to Mars. “Digital what’s its?”