give up on her legal career? Would they hire her without any experience, recommendation from Sam notwithstanding? Moreover, could she live in New York?
Looking around her cozy, comfortable home, she didn’t think she could give it up for a postage-stamp-sized apartment that would likely cost more than her monthly salary.
No. There had to be something she could do and still stay put.
She couldn’t sleep. Looking at the clock for the umpteenth time, Sarah finally got up to explore the thing that kept nudging her, like a persistent, nagging voice foiling her attempts to sleep.
She woke up at two a.m. thinking about her old manuscript. Wondering where it was, wondering if she still had it, and wondering if it was any good. After all, she’d written it almost eighteen years ago.
Now, two hours later and still in her pajamas, she pulled down the attic steps, hoping not to hear any scurrying in her wake.
After yanking the cord, the fluorescent lights flickered and slowly came to life, revealing stacks of dusty boxes, some labeled, some not. At least no unwelcome critters were there to greet her. She shivered as she thought of that possibility.
Heaving a sigh, Sarah’s first thought was that it was hopeless. It could take a month of Sundays searching through the multitude of boxes, and she could still come up empty-handed. She didn’t even know if she still had it.
But, she had nothing but time on her hands, and clearly her bout of busy-brain-syndrome wasn’t going to let her get back to sleep, so she might as well get started.
She needed a plan of attack. Dividing the attic into three sections, she would systematically go through the boxes.
She already knew that many of the boxes stacked to her right were Christmas decorations, so those were quickly eliminated. The boxes to her left mostly contained old household items she’d been meaning to donate to the local charity thrift store, but hadn’t gotten around to it.
It was the third stack, directly in front of her that posed the greatest challenge. Unlabeled, she had no idea what they might contain.
Dragging up an old chair with a missing rung, she pulled the first box off the stack and sat down. Dust floated up to tickle her nose and the smell of musty old books assaulted her, making her sneeze.
The box contained her high school yearbooks, some old, worn paperbacks from her childhood, and even some term papers from her high school days. She thumbed through a yearbook before reminding herself that this wasn’t a walk down memory lane, but a quest for treasure.
Discarding the box, she wished she’d thought to bring a marker up to not only label the boxes, but also to mark them as searched.
The next box revealed old photos, and the one after that, old tax returns. When she opened a box containing some of her college textbooks and papers, her pulse quickened. At least she was getting warmer, but no manuscript.
It was nearly six a.m. when she opened a box that held no promise whatsoever that it would contain a manuscript. Digging through old athletic uniforms, trophies, awards, and other miscellaneous and sundry items from her days on her college crew team, she found it.
At the bottom of the box, bound in rubber bands that had long since lost their elasticity, she lifted the bulky stack of yellowed pages. The cover page read: The American Heiress by Sarah Anne Edwards. Holding it to her chest like a long-lost friend, she nearly wept with relief. And fear. What if it really sucked?
Chapter 7
“Any luck with the job search?” Ann asked. “Way to go, Lily!”
They sat on bleachers in the scorching summer sun watching Ann’s daughter’s soccer match. Lily ran down the field after scoring a goal, arms raised in triumph. The goal put her team up one-nothing.
Rob, Ann’s husband, let out a shrill whistle, followed by a loud woohoo !
“Nothing terribly promising.” Sarah shielded her eyes from the sun as she followed Lily’s progress down the field.
Looking around her cozy, comfortable home, she didn’t think she could give it up for a postage-stamp-sized apartment that would likely cost more than her monthly salary.
No. There had to be something she could do and still stay put.
She couldn’t sleep. Looking at the clock for the umpteenth time, Sarah finally got up to explore the thing that kept nudging her, like a persistent, nagging voice foiling her attempts to sleep.
She woke up at two a.m. thinking about her old manuscript. Wondering where it was, wondering if she still had it, and wondering if it was any good. After all, she’d written it almost eighteen years ago.
Now, two hours later and still in her pajamas, she pulled down the attic steps, hoping not to hear any scurrying in her wake.
After yanking the cord, the fluorescent lights flickered and slowly came to life, revealing stacks of dusty boxes, some labeled, some not. At least no unwelcome critters were there to greet her. She shivered as she thought of that possibility.
Heaving a sigh, Sarah’s first thought was that it was hopeless. It could take a month of Sundays searching through the multitude of boxes, and she could still come up empty-handed. She didn’t even know if she still had it.
But, she had nothing but time on her hands, and clearly her bout of busy-brain-syndrome wasn’t going to let her get back to sleep, so she might as well get started.
She needed a plan of attack. Dividing the attic into three sections, she would systematically go through the boxes.
She already knew that many of the boxes stacked to her right were Christmas decorations, so those were quickly eliminated. The boxes to her left mostly contained old household items she’d been meaning to donate to the local charity thrift store, but hadn’t gotten around to it.
It was the third stack, directly in front of her that posed the greatest challenge. Unlabeled, she had no idea what they might contain.
Dragging up an old chair with a missing rung, she pulled the first box off the stack and sat down. Dust floated up to tickle her nose and the smell of musty old books assaulted her, making her sneeze.
The box contained her high school yearbooks, some old, worn paperbacks from her childhood, and even some term papers from her high school days. She thumbed through a yearbook before reminding herself that this wasn’t a walk down memory lane, but a quest for treasure.
Discarding the box, she wished she’d thought to bring a marker up to not only label the boxes, but also to mark them as searched.
The next box revealed old photos, and the one after that, old tax returns. When she opened a box containing some of her college textbooks and papers, her pulse quickened. At least she was getting warmer, but no manuscript.
It was nearly six a.m. when she opened a box that held no promise whatsoever that it would contain a manuscript. Digging through old athletic uniforms, trophies, awards, and other miscellaneous and sundry items from her days on her college crew team, she found it.
At the bottom of the box, bound in rubber bands that had long since lost their elasticity, she lifted the bulky stack of yellowed pages. The cover page read: The American Heiress by Sarah Anne Edwards. Holding it to her chest like a long-lost friend, she nearly wept with relief. And fear. What if it really sucked?
Chapter 7
“Any luck with the job search?” Ann asked. “Way to go, Lily!”
They sat on bleachers in the scorching summer sun watching Ann’s daughter’s soccer match. Lily ran down the field after scoring a goal, arms raised in triumph. The goal put her team up one-nothing.
Rob, Ann’s husband, let out a shrill whistle, followed by a loud woohoo !
“Nothing terribly promising.” Sarah shielded her eyes from the sun as she followed Lily’s progress down the field.
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