Page 2 of Wild Valentine
He looks like he really means it and I feel bad for the man, trying to do his job around so much grief.
“Just pay for the next two weeks, and we’ll take it from there.”
His kindness brings a fresh wave of tears, and he looks alarmed as I blow my nose a little too loudly into the tissues. I hand over the credit card, and despite the tears, hold my breath until it goes through.
My parents lived in the moment and didn’t think much about the future. Since Dad passed, we’ve been living hand to mouth. The little money he did leave has been sucked up by Mom’s treatment. At least I convinced her to see a proper doctor and managed to get her the full time care she needed.
The man taps at the computer, updating his file and probably relieved he won’t need to speak to me again for two weeks.
“I hear your mother is in good spirits, always making the staff laugh, so that’s something.”
It’s amazing to me how Mom can keep up her good mood, which makes me dry my eyes. If she can face this with equanimity and laughter, then I can too.
“Thank you for your kindness.”
As I stand up to leave his office, the wall calendar catches my eye. He’s circled February 14thwith a red marker in the shape of a heart.
Great. Everyone else looks forward to Valentine’s Day, but my sense of dread returns as I leave the accountant’s office.
I don’t want Mom to see me with red eyes, and so I send her a quick text as I head outside. There’s a missed call from Scott, my boss, and I call him back.
He’s not as cool as he should be with the time I take off to spend with my dying mother, but he can’t deny that my job is flexible. When you write for a magazine you can write on your own schedule, which is usually late at night for me. That’s when inspiration hits.
“Hazel,” he barks as soon as I pick up my phone. “Where the hell have you been?”
I had my phone turned off for like, twenty minutes while I was visiting Mom on my lunch break, but Scott believes we should always be available.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Mom had a bad night and…”
“I’ve got an assignment for you. It could be big.”
I swallow the annoyance at being cut off. I’m used to that from Scott by now. As the arts editor ofCulture Slammagazine, art is his world. No matter how annoying he is, there’s no denying that his focus and dedication has turned the magazine into New York’s most prestigious arts magazine.
Despite my annoyance, my interest is piqued. I’ve been stuck on the small gallery scene since I started the job eighteen months ago, and I’m better than that. With an MA from Columbia, I’m itching to get into a proper story rather thancovering yet another gallery opening. Also, there’s an opening coming up. The senior arts journalist is leaving next month, and I want the position. Ineedthe position. It comes with a substantial pay raise, and I’m counting on it to cover the credit card bills I’ve racked up paying for Mom’s care.
“We were in this quaint little mountain town over the weekend.” Scott’s husband is a travel writer, and they’re always going on mini breaks around the country.
“One side of the mountain is beautiful; the other is a shit hole. No cell reception, the local industry is a sawmill, but tucked away on the mountain side is the most extraordinary restaurant and brewery…”
Scott has no problem talking when it’s his life that’s being talked about. I listen to him describe a craft brewery that’s run by some motorcycle club and the art gallery they had out back. It sounds weird to me and dangerous. A bunch of hairy bikers into craft beer and art. It’s probably a front for money laundering.
If that’s the story he wants me to write, I’m not sure I’m up for it. It sounds dangerous and not in line with the magazine. I’m more into human interest stories than uncovering nefarious activities.
Scott gushes about the wood pieces they bought from a local artist, an ex-military guy who’s gotten into wood carving.
“I want you to do a piece on the artist.”
My breath hitches. It’s the type of story I’ve been longing for. It’s what I trained for. It’s what I was born to do, uncovering the person behind the art, their inspiration and the reason why they create.
“I’ll do it,” I say without thinking.
“Good. I knew you’d be the woman for the job.”
Pride makes my chest swell. Even though Scott’s a dick, I still crave his praise. It would be stupid not to. He has the power to make or break my career.
“The artist is ex-military, so there’s the angle. A bunch of veteran bikers making art on the side of a mountain.”
My skin prickles at his words, and I know he’s on to something. There’s definitely a story here.
