clapped her hands together. “You need a bike, you said?”
Emerson cleared her throat again and nodded. “Yes. That’d be great. I’m really missing mine.”
“Well, come on back here and let’s see if we can’t get you all hooked up.” Mindy waved Emerson around the counter and into the back room, which smelled of equal parts metal and WD-40.
Half an hour later, Emerson exited Wheels with a bicycle slightly nicer than her own back home, and a helmet to boot. Mindy had been extraordinarily helpful and had charged her next to nothing for the rental. Emerson had insisted on buying the helmet and pedal clips, deciding she could just donate them back when she was ready to leave. It was the least she could do to thank Mindy for her help and generosity.
Climbing onto the bike—and loving how perfect it felt, thanks to Mindy’s adjustments during the fitting—Emerson coasted gently down Main Street until she hit the path that circled the lake. Picking up speed a bit, she began a moderate pace, already feeling a thousand times better than she had just an hour ago.
The first lap went by quickly, and Emerson settled into a steady rhythm, letting her mind drift, focus, drift some more. Biking was her favorite. Nothing else helped her organize her thoughts, work through her anger until it dissipated, and maybe come up with a solution to a work problem. When she was young, she ran religiously, but running on a fake knee was a big no-no. Emerson was always amused by the irony; how bad must running be for your actual knees (made of cartilage and bone) that it is forbidden for you to run on your fake knees (made of metal and high-impact plastic) because you could break them?
That thought drifted away, and her mind settled on the work that lay ahead. She needed to decide what to do about the inn. She had to figure out what to do about the rental property. She had started going through her mother’s things, but it was harder than she’d expected. She’d been in Lake Henry for nearly a week, had met with the lawyer (and would meet with him again on Friday), had gone through scads of papers, and felt like she’d made very little progress. She’d be less confused—less torn, at least—if she hadn’t found herself unexpectedly unemployed, but the formal phone call had come yesterday, as promised. It was a “representative of the company,” which Emerson knew to mean “lawyer.” She was given a brief—and useless, in Emerson’s opinion—explanation of what had happened, told her belongings from her cubicle would be boxed up and shipped to her home address, and reminded of the confidentiality clause in her contract with McKinney Carr. She was not to speak to any of her now-former clients, nor was she to speak to anyone from the press, under penalty of legal action. Her work number and work e-mail had been disconnected, which she already knew, and her final paycheck had been deposited into her bank account the day before. That was it. End of conversation. No time for questions. Done. Six years of her life, just finished.
Her savings account had some money, but not much. The cost of living in L.A. was ridiculous, with her rent alone coming in at nearly two grand a month for her small one-bedroom apartment. She wouldn’t be able to pay that for more than a couple more months without finding other employment, and the thought of job hunting on top of everything else she was dealing with made her want to hide under the covers and not come out.
Another thing costing her money was the damn rental car sitting in the parking lot. She needed to return it, but she also needed somebody to come with her and drive her back to Lake Henry. What a pain in the ass.
Shaking away the stressful thoughts, she focused on the trees flying by as she rode, the leaves boasting fiery reds, brilliant oranges, and sunny yellows. There was no denying the beauty of Lake Henry, especially in the fall, which used to be her favorite season when she
Emerson cleared her throat again and nodded. “Yes. That’d be great. I’m really missing mine.”
“Well, come on back here and let’s see if we can’t get you all hooked up.” Mindy waved Emerson around the counter and into the back room, which smelled of equal parts metal and WD-40.
Half an hour later, Emerson exited Wheels with a bicycle slightly nicer than her own back home, and a helmet to boot. Mindy had been extraordinarily helpful and had charged her next to nothing for the rental. Emerson had insisted on buying the helmet and pedal clips, deciding she could just donate them back when she was ready to leave. It was the least she could do to thank Mindy for her help and generosity.
Climbing onto the bike—and loving how perfect it felt, thanks to Mindy’s adjustments during the fitting—Emerson coasted gently down Main Street until she hit the path that circled the lake. Picking up speed a bit, she began a moderate pace, already feeling a thousand times better than she had just an hour ago.
The first lap went by quickly, and Emerson settled into a steady rhythm, letting her mind drift, focus, drift some more. Biking was her favorite. Nothing else helped her organize her thoughts, work through her anger until it dissipated, and maybe come up with a solution to a work problem. When she was young, she ran religiously, but running on a fake knee was a big no-no. Emerson was always amused by the irony; how bad must running be for your actual knees (made of cartilage and bone) that it is forbidden for you to run on your fake knees (made of metal and high-impact plastic) because you could break them?
That thought drifted away, and her mind settled on the work that lay ahead. She needed to decide what to do about the inn. She had to figure out what to do about the rental property. She had started going through her mother’s things, but it was harder than she’d expected. She’d been in Lake Henry for nearly a week, had met with the lawyer (and would meet with him again on Friday), had gone through scads of papers, and felt like she’d made very little progress. She’d be less confused—less torn, at least—if she hadn’t found herself unexpectedly unemployed, but the formal phone call had come yesterday, as promised. It was a “representative of the company,” which Emerson knew to mean “lawyer.” She was given a brief—and useless, in Emerson’s opinion—explanation of what had happened, told her belongings from her cubicle would be boxed up and shipped to her home address, and reminded of the confidentiality clause in her contract with McKinney Carr. She was not to speak to any of her now-former clients, nor was she to speak to anyone from the press, under penalty of legal action. Her work number and work e-mail had been disconnected, which she already knew, and her final paycheck had been deposited into her bank account the day before. That was it. End of conversation. No time for questions. Done. Six years of her life, just finished.
Her savings account had some money, but not much. The cost of living in L.A. was ridiculous, with her rent alone coming in at nearly two grand a month for her small one-bedroom apartment. She wouldn’t be able to pay that for more than a couple more months without finding other employment, and the thought of job hunting on top of everything else she was dealing with made her want to hide under the covers and not come out.
Another thing costing her money was the damn rental car sitting in the parking lot. She needed to return it, but she also needed somebody to come with her and drive her back to Lake Henry. What a pain in the ass.
Shaking away the stressful thoughts, she focused on the trees flying by as she rode, the leaves boasting fiery reds, brilliant oranges, and sunny yellows. There was no denying the beauty of Lake Henry, especially in the fall, which used to be her favorite season when she
Similar Books
