EXCERPT
“Greg, dinner’s ready.”
Abby had called out to her husband louder than was necessary to be heard in their tiny one bedroom apartment. It was anger, rather than a need to span the distance between them that had her shouting. She’d called him ten minutes ago and he still hadn’t replied.
He entered the kitchen. Greg had the lean build of a ball player. The loose T-shirt he wore over jeans bore the logo of the college they’d both attended. The UCLA letters had faded from the many washes.
“I had a late lunch,” he said. “No dinner for me.”
Abby eyed him and released the plate she’d filled for him. It landed on the table with a clatter. “You could have told me before I went to the trouble of cooking. I would have just made a sandwich for myself.”
Greg arched one eyebrow. “You want this steak eaten. No problem!” He picked up his plate and plopped it onto the linoleum. “Monroe, here boy.” Greg whistled at an ear-splitting pitch. The hound came running. Eyes on her, Greg said, “Bon appetit!”
Greg turned away and strode by her fast enough to kick up a breeze. The sound of his retreating footsteps ended with the slam of the front door.
“Fine! Go then!” she shouted.
She sank onto a chair, then shoved her own plate back from the edge of the table. She braced her elbows on the wooden edge and bowed her head over her hands. Her dark hair fell forward from her shoulders, and across her cheeks.
Another argument. All she and Greg did lately was argue. She pressed her forefinger and thumb to her eyes. If she didn’t land the Sweet Treats Pastry account, and soon, she’d lose her marriage and her business.
Even before the ink had dried on her degree, she’d been dreaming about opening her own advertising agency. Basic start-up costs forced her to put off that dream to “someday”. She’d resigned herself to the wait, and joined a large downtown agency. She and Greg opened a savings account to get them out of this low budget apartment they’d rented as students, and into a house. They’d started to talk about having a baby.
Then across their kitchen table one evening, Greg handed her their bank book. ‘To finance your agency,’ he’d said. ‘We’ll borrow the rest.’
Abby shuddered now, thinking of how much they’d borrowed. They gave up the ideas of house and family for the time. Continued to live like students. And when clients hadn’t swarmed her front door, Greg hadn’t lost his faith in her. He continued to support them and the agency with his earnings from the plastics manufacturer he worked for that included bonuses when his sales department surpassed its quota. Greg worked long hours to make sure it did.
The agency, though, had yet to break even. Sweet Treats would be her first major account.
The phone rang. Her heart picked up its pace. Could it be Sweet Treats? She leaped from the chair and snatched the receiver from the phone mounted on the yellow wall.
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