back down, pulling the blanket up to her chin. She’d sleep with the light on tonight.
What a ghastly dream. She closed her eyes. Why would she dream of David Payne, an earthquake, and that old book?
Houston
Susan Brantley Dodson stiffened and clutched at the mattress, then caught her breath and opened her eyes.
She had fallen asleep on top of the silk comforter, surrounded by fashion magazines. The evening news was no longer playing; the black-and-white images of Robert Duvall and an unfamiliar actress occupied the television screen.
But Susan’s eyes were filled with the image of David Payne and . . . cliffs. A moment ago she was standing near the edge of a red-and-orange rock canyon with David. She often dreamed of him, and in her visions he was always pleasant and loving.
Not tonight.
She swallowed hard and wrapped her arms about herself, then rolled onto her side and stared at the television as a voice-over announced the name of the movie: Tomorrow . A classic from 1972.
She was beginning to feel like a classic herself. An antique, really. Something that should be protected and sheltered and kept out of the sun.
David was haunting her dreams again. The amount on the check she’d written him must not be enough to satisfy her guilty conscience.
She’d double her contribution in the morning. Then, perhaps, David Payne would vacate her dreams and leave her alone.
13
Cocoa Beach
“If you can’t sell a Titan”—Mark narrowed his eyes as he glared at Keith Cardinal, his lowest-performing salesman—“I swear I’ll find someone who can. So get out there and show me what you’re worth. If you can’t sell five of those vehicles by next Friday, I’ll expect to have your resignation on my desk.”
Cardinal, a thin, sallow-faced young man who seemed more comfortable behind his computer than on the sales lot, licked his lower lip. “Five in a week ?”
“The Titan practically sells itself,” Mark snapped as he moved out of the cubicle. “So get busy. You’re not going to sell anything sitting at your desk.”
Cardinal stood and sidled past, cringing as he passed Janice at the reception desk. The young woman caught Mark’s eye. “This a good time to remind you of a couple of things?”
He smiled to demonstrate that none of his ire was meant for her. “Always a good time for you. Come on in my office.”
She followed him, then stood before his desk with her hands behind her back. “First, some of the e-mails in your in-box are a couple of days old—you’d better check those. And these phone messages came in while you were, um, talking to Keith.”
She pulled a stack of pink slips from behind her back, darted forward to drop them on his desk, then retreated to the doorway.
So . . . he might need a little more time to win her over. That was okay; she’d soon learn he was more than reasonable as long as people did their jobs.
He flipped through the messages—a call from his housekeeper, two from his first wife, one from Allison, and one from someone named Julia Lawson.
Nothing that couldn’t wait. He dropped the notes onto his desk and gave Janice a benevolent smile. “Anything else?”
She pressed her lips together. “That’s it. I’d better get back to my desk.”
Mark propped his chin on his hand and watched her go, then blew out a breath and turned to the computer behind him. He hated computers. Machines had taken all the fun out of business; at the corporate office, computers predicted sales curves, trends, and patterns. His supervisors no longer got pumped about an unusually good sales month; instead, they praised the computer that predicted the sales spike. And heaven help the dealer who failed to meet the computer’s expectations . . .
He clicked on his e-mail program, then glanced at the list of names in his in-box. Two messages were routine corporate mailings about sales incentives, at least a dozen were spam, and one bore David Payne’s name.
Mark selected the
What a ghastly dream. She closed her eyes. Why would she dream of David Payne, an earthquake, and that old book?
Houston
Susan Brantley Dodson stiffened and clutched at the mattress, then caught her breath and opened her eyes.
She had fallen asleep on top of the silk comforter, surrounded by fashion magazines. The evening news was no longer playing; the black-and-white images of Robert Duvall and an unfamiliar actress occupied the television screen.
But Susan’s eyes were filled with the image of David Payne and . . . cliffs. A moment ago she was standing near the edge of a red-and-orange rock canyon with David. She often dreamed of him, and in her visions he was always pleasant and loving.
Not tonight.
She swallowed hard and wrapped her arms about herself, then rolled onto her side and stared at the television as a voice-over announced the name of the movie: Tomorrow . A classic from 1972.
She was beginning to feel like a classic herself. An antique, really. Something that should be protected and sheltered and kept out of the sun.
David was haunting her dreams again. The amount on the check she’d written him must not be enough to satisfy her guilty conscience.
She’d double her contribution in the morning. Then, perhaps, David Payne would vacate her dreams and leave her alone.
13
Cocoa Beach
“If you can’t sell a Titan”—Mark narrowed his eyes as he glared at Keith Cardinal, his lowest-performing salesman—“I swear I’ll find someone who can. So get out there and show me what you’re worth. If you can’t sell five of those vehicles by next Friday, I’ll expect to have your resignation on my desk.”
Cardinal, a thin, sallow-faced young man who seemed more comfortable behind his computer than on the sales lot, licked his lower lip. “Five in a week ?”
“The Titan practically sells itself,” Mark snapped as he moved out of the cubicle. “So get busy. You’re not going to sell anything sitting at your desk.”
Cardinal stood and sidled past, cringing as he passed Janice at the reception desk. The young woman caught Mark’s eye. “This a good time to remind you of a couple of things?”
He smiled to demonstrate that none of his ire was meant for her. “Always a good time for you. Come on in my office.”
She followed him, then stood before his desk with her hands behind her back. “First, some of the e-mails in your in-box are a couple of days old—you’d better check those. And these phone messages came in while you were, um, talking to Keith.”
She pulled a stack of pink slips from behind her back, darted forward to drop them on his desk, then retreated to the doorway.
So . . . he might need a little more time to win her over. That was okay; she’d soon learn he was more than reasonable as long as people did their jobs.
He flipped through the messages—a call from his housekeeper, two from his first wife, one from Allison, and one from someone named Julia Lawson.
Nothing that couldn’t wait. He dropped the notes onto his desk and gave Janice a benevolent smile. “Anything else?”
She pressed her lips together. “That’s it. I’d better get back to my desk.”
Mark propped his chin on his hand and watched her go, then blew out a breath and turned to the computer behind him. He hated computers. Machines had taken all the fun out of business; at the corporate office, computers predicted sales curves, trends, and patterns. His supervisors no longer got pumped about an unusually good sales month; instead, they praised the computer that predicted the sales spike. And heaven help the dealer who failed to meet the computer’s expectations . . .
He clicked on his e-mail program, then glanced at the list of names in his in-box. Two messages were routine corporate mailings about sales incentives, at least a dozen were spam, and one bore David Payne’s name.
Mark selected the
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