since it went nicely with dogsitter, model, and floral delivery person.
Not that any of that went with being a banking investment specialist.
She did finally get calls for interviews. She had a Seattle appointment tomorrow morning. The Portland interview was the following day, early, and would be conducted by Skype. This worked out in her favor because this way she wouldn’t miss modeling for Lucille’s class. The budding artists were drawing feet this week, so Grace had no wardrobe worries, at least from her feet up.
She tried to imagine her mother or father modeling their bare feet, but couldn’t. Because they took life much more seriously than that. They were the real deal.
And Grace was a poser.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love Lucky Harbor. She did. It was just that what she could find here in the way of a career wasn’t…big enough. Important enough. She plopped into the back booth next to a waiting Mallory. Amy showed up two minutes later and dropped a shoe box onto the table. She untied her pink apron, tossed it aside, and sank into the booth, propping her feet up by Grace’s hip. “Off duty, thank God.”
“What’s with the shoe box?” Grace asked, nudging it curiously. “New boots or something?”
“Or something,” Amy said. “Somehow, I’m selling like crazy.” She was a sketch artist, and she’d found a niche for herself creating color pencil renditions of the local landscape. Lucille’s gallery was selling out of everything Amy created nearly as fast as she brought it in. “I can’t keep up.”
“Keep up?” Grace asked.
“Yeah. At first, I just took people’s cash or checks and shoved the receipts into my purse or pockets or wherever.”
She was talking about her accounting, Grace realized with horror. She might not be a bean counter anymore, but she still had a healthy respect for the process. “You said at first. What are you doing now?”
“Well, I decided I was being irresponsible,” Amy said, “so I started a file.”
“That’s not a file,” Grace said. “That’s a box.”
“Yeah, whatever. A box worked better.” Amy pushed it toward her. “For you.”
Grace opened the box. It was full of…everything. There were napkins with numbers and dates scrawled on them, little pieces of paper with more numbers and dates, bigger pieces of paper, receipts, some folded, some crumpled, some not. Grace lifted a round cotton pad with a number scratched onto it in what looked like eyeliner and stared at Amy in disbelief.
Amy shrugged. “So bookkeeping isn’t my thing. It’s yours, right?”
“Well, yeah, I suppose.”
“And?” Amy looked at her expectantly.
“And…?”
“You going to help me or what?”
“How?” Grace asked in disbelief. “By getting you a bigger box?”
“No, by keeping track of my shit.” Amy waved her hand. “You know, create a system so I don’t look like just another idiot with a box come tax time.”
Grace looked at Mallory, who laughed. “Better do it,” she told Grace. “Before the IRS takes her away.”
Grace pulled the box near her and sighed. “Fine. I’ll do the damn books. But it’s going to cost you.”
“Big bucks?”
“Chocolate cupcakes. Tara’s cupcakes.” Tara was Grace’s landlord at the B&B, and there was little that compared to the exquisiteness of Tara’s baking. Not that Grace could afford her.
“Done,” Amy said. “But I’m going to pay you as well, so be sure to bill me.”
“On what, a napkin?”
“Funny.”
Over chocolate cupcakes—not Tara’s, unfortunately—they discussed the latest and newest. Amy was moving in with her sexy forest ranger, Matt Bowers. Mallory was planning to elope with Ty, a local flight paramedic, to a beach somewhere in the South Pacific—though she wanted a big reception here in Lucky Harbor when they got back. And Grace told them about dog walking for Josh, laughing a little because dog walking hardly compared to relationships. “I didn’t realize it
Not that any of that went with being a banking investment specialist.
She did finally get calls for interviews. She had a Seattle appointment tomorrow morning. The Portland interview was the following day, early, and would be conducted by Skype. This worked out in her favor because this way she wouldn’t miss modeling for Lucille’s class. The budding artists were drawing feet this week, so Grace had no wardrobe worries, at least from her feet up.
She tried to imagine her mother or father modeling their bare feet, but couldn’t. Because they took life much more seriously than that. They were the real deal.
And Grace was a poser.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love Lucky Harbor. She did. It was just that what she could find here in the way of a career wasn’t…big enough. Important enough. She plopped into the back booth next to a waiting Mallory. Amy showed up two minutes later and dropped a shoe box onto the table. She untied her pink apron, tossed it aside, and sank into the booth, propping her feet up by Grace’s hip. “Off duty, thank God.”
“What’s with the shoe box?” Grace asked, nudging it curiously. “New boots or something?”
“Or something,” Amy said. “Somehow, I’m selling like crazy.” She was a sketch artist, and she’d found a niche for herself creating color pencil renditions of the local landscape. Lucille’s gallery was selling out of everything Amy created nearly as fast as she brought it in. “I can’t keep up.”
“Keep up?” Grace asked.
“Yeah. At first, I just took people’s cash or checks and shoved the receipts into my purse or pockets or wherever.”
She was talking about her accounting, Grace realized with horror. She might not be a bean counter anymore, but she still had a healthy respect for the process. “You said at first. What are you doing now?”
“Well, I decided I was being irresponsible,” Amy said, “so I started a file.”
“That’s not a file,” Grace said. “That’s a box.”
“Yeah, whatever. A box worked better.” Amy pushed it toward her. “For you.”
Grace opened the box. It was full of…everything. There were napkins with numbers and dates scrawled on them, little pieces of paper with more numbers and dates, bigger pieces of paper, receipts, some folded, some crumpled, some not. Grace lifted a round cotton pad with a number scratched onto it in what looked like eyeliner and stared at Amy in disbelief.
Amy shrugged. “So bookkeeping isn’t my thing. It’s yours, right?”
“Well, yeah, I suppose.”
“And?” Amy looked at her expectantly.
“And…?”
“You going to help me or what?”
“How?” Grace asked in disbelief. “By getting you a bigger box?”
“No, by keeping track of my shit.” Amy waved her hand. “You know, create a system so I don’t look like just another idiot with a box come tax time.”
Grace looked at Mallory, who laughed. “Better do it,” she told Grace. “Before the IRS takes her away.”
Grace pulled the box near her and sighed. “Fine. I’ll do the damn books. But it’s going to cost you.”
“Big bucks?”
“Chocolate cupcakes. Tara’s cupcakes.” Tara was Grace’s landlord at the B&B, and there was little that compared to the exquisiteness of Tara’s baking. Not that Grace could afford her.
“Done,” Amy said. “But I’m going to pay you as well, so be sure to bill me.”
“On what, a napkin?”
“Funny.”
Over chocolate cupcakes—not Tara’s, unfortunately—they discussed the latest and newest. Amy was moving in with her sexy forest ranger, Matt Bowers. Mallory was planning to elope with Ty, a local flight paramedic, to a beach somewhere in the South Pacific—though she wanted a big reception here in Lucky Harbor when they got back. And Grace told them about dog walking for Josh, laughing a little because dog walking hardly compared to relationships. “I didn’t realize it
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