Tumbling Down: Amanda J. Wilde, #1

By Savanna Redman

Amanda's a survivor. She's stepped around the darkest shadows where the demons of a traumatic childhood lurk, where nightmares and premonitions of brutal and unstoppable events hide. She is living the life she has always wanted; satisfying career, married, owns a comfortable home with a backyard just big enough to throw a Frisbee.

 

Until, on a routine morning run, the scent of honeysuckle blooming in the neighbor's yard hits like a time stamp on a premonition dream.

Everything turns upside down within a matter of days, and a tsunami of tragic events causes the thin walls between reality and imagination to blur with sadistic twists. She heads down a dangerous path, her mind dangling from a damaged thread. Forcing her to reevaluate everything as she fights to survive.

 

She can no longer ignore the dream.

 

The clock is ticking on the year of her death.

 

 

The Amanda J. Wilde series in reading order.

#1  Disruption (short read - prequel)

#2  Tumbling Down (novel)

#3  Refuge (novel)

#4  Asylum (novel)

#5  gifts from the gods (a short read)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nereid Press
• Release date: Feb 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781945517143

Book preview

Part One

"Normality is a paved road:

It’s comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it."

Vincent van Gogh

Chapter One

The Premonition Dream — Year of My Death

Butterfly and Ouroboros - Amanda J. Wilde Series by Savanna Redman

I’m lying over there, dressed in white; a dress with light blue trim and an itchy lace collar, in a brass bed made up with the good sheets and set out under the old oak in The Reverend’s front yard.

Flames from candles quiver in the breeze, casting an undulating milky light from their tall ornate stands like sentries guarding the bed.

The cicadas sing to me from the trees, their song building to a near-deafening crescendo, ending with a grand pause; their sudden silence chills me as if a heart has stopped beating.

It’s unsettling seeing myself lying there, cold and still. Quiet.

I’m never wordless.

I watch the eerie scene from across the lawn. Squatting down in the thick weeds, between the collapsing arbor covered in a mountain of honeysuckle and the overgrown hydrangeas, with my fingers crossed to ward off any copperheads or poison ivy.

The neighbor’s black lab, Joey, walks straight up to me, sniffs, smiles and wags his tail. I pat the ground for him to lie down beside me.

It seems no human can see this me. Neighbors walk right past on their way to the bed, whispering, So tragic, to die so young... only thirty-two... her life was just beginning... thirty-two... such a shame...

Moths, attracted to the candles, flit around the bed as my foster mother, Mrs. Jones, smoothes and drapes my hair across the pillow for the tenth-time, to look perfect for the viewing.

The Reverend Jones stands beside the bed, holding his bible in both hands, fidgeting, waiting to deliver his tragedy-inspired message with his most practiced televangelist’s tears.

My foster sisters, Drusilla and Bethany, stand together at a safe distance, a good foot or so away. I renamed them Little Mean and Meaner long ago. Dru is a year younger than me, and Bethany two years older. I can almost smell their fear, staring at me lying there, Dru hugging Bethany’s arm tight.

They know.

A curl of hair near my face and the lace collar lift in the breeze, Mrs. Jones nervously smoothes them down, Dru steps back a little. The dress I’m wearing is too big and ruffles like a plastic bag in the wind. It’s one of Bethany’s good dresses; she wore it to church on Easter. I can only guess what she’s thinking.

It seems I’m not a mind reader even now, but I know her; she’s not happy with it.

Dru squeezes her big sister’s arm and keeps asking in a whisper, She’s not really dead? Is she, Bethany? Like forever dead? Not really. Right? Not going to Heaven dead?

Bethany stays quiet and stares; an earthquake-size tremor passes through her.

Austin, my older foster brother, is nowhere in sight, no doubt he’s up to no good, but this once I don’t care. I have bigger things to worry myself about.

Joey leaves my side, walks up to the bed, putting a paw up, as if he wants to jump into bed and curl up beside me. Mrs. Jones runs him off, viciously hissing and waving her arms. The sweet katydids hear her, and tentatively sing, kay-tee-did, kay-tee-did — the humongous Tabernacle Choir of Cicadas answers with a renewed purpose. The Reverend glares at her as if she caused the ear-splitting hullabaloo.

The honeysuckle and hydrangea’s flowers form a thick syrupy cloud of perfume. One drop of honeysuckle nectar on the tongue is a sweet summer treat. But this is too big, too close, forcing me to snort invisible pounds of sugar, tickling my brain, making my nose itch. My head and stomach complain like I’ve eaten bags of candy.

Or — that’s the way being dead feels.

Still, no ravens plucking at my eyes — no one is dragging me through Hell’s fiery gates.

See old man, you were wrong.

I’m seven. I’m thirty-two.

Over there, I’m supposed to be thirty-two, they’ve all said it. But to me — that me lying in the brass bed, still looks seven.

Could be, I don’t know how to look thirty-two.

I rub my face with frustration. It is troubling to be both.

To be watching my own funeral.

My long blonde hair reflects the wiggling glow of candlelight. Mrs. Jones has brushed the ends of my hair into finger-length ringlets.

Which she damn well knows I hate.

God knows, she tries. But ringlets — for all eternity?

For fuck’s sake!

I sigh louder than intended and glance around. It seems no one heard me. She’s used her make-up on me again; dabbed her lightest cover-it-up-stick on bruises around my eyes and on my cheek. In the flickering candlelight, no one else will notice the color doesn’t match. It’s definitely a special occasion for her to use her good powder and a touch of her favorite pink lipstick on my lips. When I last looked in a mirror, the bottom one was puffy blue and purple. The light Caribbean Pearl Pink is an improvement.

The Reverend clears his throat and starts talking too loud for the night.

The crickets, cicadas, and katydids stop mid-song with stunned silence — like asking, ‘What the hell’s that? It’s awful’. After a beat, they turn the volume up, like it’s a choir competition, and easily drowned him out.

I smile to myself. I do prefer listening to bugs, and the oak leaves rattling and whispering in the breeze; they win, hands down over preachers.

I sit crouched on my haunches. Watching the candle’s flames dance in their glass hurricane globes, listening to the insects singing far off in the woods, in the fallow fields behind the house and barn, and flower-bush next to me. Joey returns, crashing into our honeysuckle cloud, smiling, bringing me a good-size stick to throw. I like that he looks directly into my eyes.

He knows and doesn’t care.

He gently places it at my feet, backs up, sits and barks; I’m ready.

I always know exactly what he’s saying. ‘This party is dull. Throw the stick!’

I reach down to pick it up, and my fingers pass through it. A deep ache of sadness washes over me for the first time tonight.

He gives me a look of, damn, that sucks.

I nod. True. If I can’t play fetch with a dog... being dead isn’t going to be as much fun as I’d hoped.

How many times have I wished for this?

And now I can’t even throw a damn stick!

Life’s been a bitch!

And fuck — dead is going to be worse.

I bite my inner lip hard enough to make it bleed — but I don’t taste my blood.

I mimic a cicada and join the choir to keep myself from tumbling down farther, humming a high buzzy cicada song. Candle light flickers and reflects off the brass bedposts, shimmers across the white sheets and sparkles like lightning bugs on my hair.

The candles, the summer air, and cicadas singing; it’s all pretty, but sad.

I’m seven. I’m thirty-two. I’m dead.

Joey lies down beside me, with the plan of putting his head on my lap, for me to rub his ears the way he likes. His head thumps the ground. He looks up to me, confused. I laugh; his expression is so clear.

There’s a loud whoosh. We jump to see tall blue flames rise and dance around the bed.

Snow starts falling. Fat flakes eddy around us and drift across the freshly cut summer lawn. I stick out my tongue to catch a snowflake. It’s bitter. I hold out my hand. Flakes drift onto my open palm. They’re not cold. I rub my fingers across them; they smear gray across my skin.

The Reverend looks up to the night sky and shouts, Ashes to Ashes!

Chapter Two

Twenty-Five Years Later

Butterfly and Ouroboros - Amanda J. Wilde Series by Savanna Redman

The scent of honeysuckle from my backyard coats my throat and tugs at me.

Amanda. I brush off his plea to wake, willing the dream to pull me back into its tropical warmth.

Go away, I want to stay here in the forest.

Amanda. Ghost’s voice again.

I’m not in danger, please leave.

I open my eyes to see my Great Dane’s chin filling my view. Hello, Bo. I rub his ear. Nice to see you. He huffs in my face and moves aside. Above me, the thick black limbs of the old oak tree frame a piece of violet sky.

This can’t be happening again.

I stare up through the tree’s summer canopy as the moon plays hide-and-seek behind a tall cumulus cloud. I sit up, Bo huffs, and nudges my arm.

My ghosts only wake me when my life is in danger.

Logically, I know he and his cat are some subconscious trigger, created eons ago, a shadowy safety catch in tune with my life, and surrounding me even when I’m unaware. But against all reason, when he calls my name to wake me, his voice is steady and clear, his presence is real.

I press my necklace to my chest and squeeze my eyes shut. I only sleepwalk when my life is in pieces — and it’s not — or at least it wasn’t when I went to bed.

But now?

A sick dread of premonition washes over me, prickling my skin with a chill.

It has been years since he’s called my name, why now?

Jake whines from his dog-run, bouncing happily at seeing us stir. I pick up my pillow and hurry barefoot across the lawn to let him out before he wakes the neighbors. The dew is thick and cold.

Feet never forget.

Fat goosebumps of premonition shiver up my spine — it’s happening again.

Jake yips, whimpers, and wiggles as if he’s going to break himself in half.

You’re such a puppy-brain. Shush. I open the gate and glance up to our elderly neighbor’s second-story window. The curtains are closed. We hate this stupid dog-run. Don’t we? He bounces and licks my hand.

My silk cami and shorts cling cold and damp as we sprint across the lawn to the sun porch. The French doors to the kitchen are always open a little for Bo to come and go.

Jake takes off at a run through the house.

Please don’t wake Brad.

Bo crowds and bumps against me as I stop to drop the damp grassy pillow on the old iron glider. You’re herding me now? Where were you last night? He lowers his head and looks me in the eye. Sorry. I’m sure you tried.

I need a cup of coffee and a run to push the premonitions down where they belong.

The kitchen is eerily lit by the glow of clocks on the stove, microwave, coffee machine, and the icemaker’s light on the fridge door. The clock on the stove reads four thirty-five. Sunrise isn’t until six, it’s too early for a run on the trails.

Why has his voice returned? Why now? Life is normal, so don’t panic.

I catch myself gnawing the inside of my lip and stop, not wanting that old habit to return. My teeth chatter as I head up the stairs.

They always come true, one way or another. Avoiding it won’t make a damn bit of difference.

Jake tries to push past me as he runs down the stairs with one of my good black heels in his mouth. Did I say the word, run? I grab his collar. Oh, sorry, I did. Dog-run. That’s what this rush is about. Good boy. We will go. But it’s still dark. I gently extract my shoe from his mouth. It’s too early, let’s go back to bed for a while. I don’t care that he only catches a few scattered words in our conversations, he listens and searches for meaning in every sound I make.

The curtains in the bedroom are closed, and it’s too early to flip on the light. Hearing Brad’s light snore, I try to tiptoe through but trip over his jeans on the floor. I slip into the bathroom to pee. As I wash my face a sick quiver churns through my gut, I push it down, dress in dry clothes, and quietly crawl into bed.

Don’t panic.

The dogs settle down on Bo’s big old dog-pillow. I close my eyes, and within a few breaths, I’m back in the dream, in a warm jungle, smiling and near euphoric, listening to insects and birds in the ancient trees as I paint.

Brad places his hand lightly on my shoulder and snuggles against my back. I open my eyes, knowing something’s wrong. Twilight filters through the bedroom curtains. It’s getting close to six. The dream’s enticing me, inviting me back in, I close my eyes.

His shoulders shake. Now I’m concerned. Thinking about your dad? Or the Cubs?

He turns away, pulling the sheet with him, punches his pillow, and flops on his back with a heavy sigh. My team, his voice catches. I hear him swallow and take a shaky breath. The game this week. I’d do anything, I swear... I’d sell my soul to be there. I don’t say anything, we’ve been down this road, had this conversation so many times over the last eight months, there’s nothing new to say. Do you believe in reincarnation?

That’s a curveball I didn’t see coming, and it hits me hard.

I take a slow breath before fielding that one. It would be nice to believe in it. But I have more doubts than faith. It’s probably better to take your best shot this round and make the most of it — just in case.

Jake’s tail drums the wooden floor at hearing our voices.

I was thinking, if I could come back in twenty years, I might have a second shot at it with a new arm, and I’d know not to use it up too early in my career; lesson learned.

For Pete’s sake. I rub my eyes, warning myself not to argue or overreact at the implications. I take a deep breath and push the premonition dream out of my mind. "You’re assuming a lot there. You’d need to come back right away, and as a human, that might be iffy, and a male one with the right physical size, strength, and mental desire to be a star pitcher. He turns and flops again like a fish on a dry riverbank. The cosmic wheel might want you to learn a different lesson next trip around. You could come back as a five-foot-nothing woman living in Iceland or a Chihuahua in Tijuana."

My luck. He snorts. You’re a buzz kill.

Good. I’ve had enough experience — too much of it.

When someone even hints at suicide, I take them seriously. He flips over with a huff, throws the sheet off toward me, and rolls out of bed. For the hundredth time, Bradley, You need to talk to someone about this. This isn’t healthy.

Who? God? Coz no one else can fix my arm.

It’s not the physical, it’s the mental you need help with, and you know it. I watch as he pulls on his jeans and yesterday’s T-shirt. At least give Oliver a call.

Talking won’t fucking fix anything.

Perspective is a powerful thing.

Can’t see it. I can’t sleep, I’m going to watch TV and change this channel in my head.

Your internal remote is broken.

He shrugs and walks out.

Reincarnation? Shit.

He’s talked with every specialist on the planet, and they all agree, he can’t grow a new arm like a starfish; game over. I close my eyes, take three deep breaths, and crack open the door to the night-world, allowing the dream to return.

When I wake up, I’m even more confused by the dream and tired. Premonitions are as real as any memory, it’s an event I’ve experienced in another place, another time.

But this one is different and unsettling.

The dogs prance around me as I get up, splash water on my face, brush my teeth, and pull on my running gear. They race each other down the stairs, sounding like a herd of elephants on the old hardwood steps.

I’m a time traveler with jet lag.

The doors to the den are closed, and the volume is low, but I hear the sports announcers excitedly talking. I can’t make out the conversation, but I have a gut feeling he’s watching one of his games.

An amber warning light flashes on the coffee machine, and I ignore it. Jake scoots his stainless food dish across the tile floor, making a racket. I’m tired, and on autopilot, I scoop beans, brush a clinging grass clipping off my arm, look for drips of white paint on my hands, scoop kibble, and dial the caffeine brew a bit stronger to remove the sticky dream residue.

As I set my mug in the brew monster’s portal, Bo huffs at me. I click a button with a symbol for one-quarter-cup and wait as the chrome machine gurgles and spits into the mug, and Jake barks. I glance over at him. He tries unsuccessfully to flip his food-bowl and barks again. Bo sits by his dish with his head held low, his brown eyes fixed on me, and for a moment, Sunny’s giving me the same worried stare. It’s lovely to see you, but... I watch the three of them as I blow on my coffee. The look in Bo’s eyes is odd — as if he’s searching my mind.

I take a sip and gag. It coats my tongue and causes my mouth to pucker like biting into a green persimmon. I spew it into the sink and stare into my mug. Brown, grassy bits float on the surface of something looking more like a mud puddle than coffee.

Bo woofs louder. I sputter and spit the slime and grit, rinse my mouth with a handful of tap water, dump my cup in the sink and click the coffee monster off.

Jake barks again. That’s not your inside voice. He looks down at his bowl and barks. I step over to see why my boy is acting up. His bowl is full of coffee beans.

Shit, between Brad and the weird, sweet-dream, I am losing it.

I toss the Kona beans in the trash and refill with kibble. My heart races as I rinse my mouth and lean against the sink, feeling ill. The sense of premonition is cutting deep with a razor’s edge. I inspect my hands again for drips of paint. It was a dream, it wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real yet.

I dump the kibble from the fancy coffee maker’s filter, rinse it, pour in fresh coffee beans, and wait for it to brew a fresh, dog-food-free cup of coffee.

Jake gives me his best begging-eyes and waits with his head down. The coffee is too hot to gulp as fast as he’d like me to. I go to the fridge for almond milk and find a note stuck under a smiley-face magnet, scrawled in red marker: I’M OUT OF CLEAN SHIRTS!

Lucky shirts, maybe. I fix my coffee and take a couple quick gulps.

Dawn glows through the oak trees along our narrow street. The old branches arch across the road, touching overhead, forming a lush green tunnel. Pieces of the golden sky slip through the canopy like a scattering of brightly painted canvases hanging in the treetops as we veer off onto our trail.

There’s not a soul around at this hour.

The scent of honeysuckle and hydrangeas drift past as the trail nears back gardens. Painted Ladies and Eastern Tiger Swallowtails flit around the thistle and milkweed near the path. I unclip Jake’s lead and let him run. He flushes quail and the occasional pheasant while listening to my chatter.

I only do this when I’m shattered. And I’m not.

The last time I sleepwalked, my life had truly come apart at the seams, I’d lost the love of my life and my dog. I woke up that night, standing barefoot in the snow in the city park, three blocks from my apartment, wearing yellow-duckie boxers and a long sleeve pajama top, looking for my lost cat, Jazz, a big ginger tom with sparkling emerald-green eyes.

I stared down at my bare blue-white feet in the snow and realized with a shock that I wasn’t dreaming. I quickly turned and looked around, frightened and embarrassed by sleepwalking in public. But not a soul was out, it was past midnight and so miserably cold, everything was closed, there wasn’t even a car on the road. All the bad guys were inside enjoying a warm night’s sleep. Only true crazies roamed the snow-covered ground at three in the morning, barefoot, in yellow-duckie pajamas, looking for a cat they no longer had. We had rescued Jazz when I was five.

I’d never once woken up while sleepwalking. But this one time, my feet must have screamed sense to my head before frostbite could set in.

Last night it was my own back yard, and I took a pillow. I’ve never done that before.

Run. Enjoy the clean morning air. Focus on the rhythm. Breathe.

Run. Don’t think. Right, Jake? That’s the rule.

Jake smiles up at me and wags his tail. His expectant expression makes me laugh. I know he hears Blah blah, run. Blah blah, good boy, Jake! Blah blah, birds!

Life is good, huh, Jake? I get morning runs with you, we have a back yard big enough to throw a Frisbee— He looks around expectantly, bouncing on his toes, Frisbee! Where? An eight-month-old Weimaraner pup’s pleasure is so easily defined. I have a lot to be grateful for. Right, Jake?

So why did I sleepwalk?

Why is my ghost back?

As if on cue, the scents of honeysuckle and hydrangeas drift past again and trigger a chill. The icy premonition of my funeral dream slips through my mind as goosebumps run over my arms. In the dream, I was thirty-two, and the honeysuckle was in bloom. I turned thirty-two on Christmas.

I press my amulet to my chest.

Just a stupid dream. We’re tough, it won’t get us.

Clouds move in and darken the sky. Jake leaps off the trail, over tall wet grass, and straight into a covey of quail. Panicked wings buffet and vibrate through the tranquil morning air.

Forget the dream. Like normal people do. Focus on clients. Put in a solid workout at the gym. Maybe buy a token for the tanning bed. Odds are, in Chicago, I’m more likely to be pancaked by a city bus than die from too many UV rays.

Make a nice dinner for Brad.

Do a load of shirts. The poor man doesn’t know where the washing machine lives.

Everything’s fine.

It starts to rain.

Chapter Three

Butterfly and Ouroboros - Amanda J. Wilde Series by Savanna Redman

I walk into my office, say good morning to my secretary, Jules, and flinch when I see a blue butterfly in a large mayonnaise jar sitting on his desk. The butterfly is so large it barely fits. It struggles and flutters against the glass; the inside of the jar is coated with iridescent dust. A haunting flash from last night’s dream replays in my mind.

Jules laughs at my stunned silence. Girl, it’s just a pretty bug. He adjusts his reading glasses to examine it. My son rushed out the door this morning and forgot it. His show-and-tell for today.

What species is it?

"Blue morpho, according to his library book North American Insects and his Google search. This species is found in Mexico, throughout Central and South America, and doesn’t migrate. He’s hoping it is proof of climate change. He shrugs, watching the butterfly struggle. It could have been released at a wedding or funeral by mistake. Either way, this Lepidoptera’s misdirection is my son’s luck, and he’s excited to show his bug to his class. He worked for hours last night on his five-minute speech, fascinated by the ancient myths that butterflies bring dreams, are messengers, or are the souls of the departed. Would you mind if I run it to him later this morning?"

"Of course not. But punch a few air holes in the lid, or it will soon be departed."

Jules frowns. Um, no, it’s for his bug-collection for science class. It will have a pin through its back by noon.

I rub the antique coin on my necklace, wonder for the millionth time about its symbols and origin, and the odds of my finding it.

Last night’s dream starts to unspool, thousands of butterflies dancing on rays of light, gliding up through a blue hole in the canopy. I press my temples to make it stop.

His new motto is: if it flies, it dies. Not too PC, but he’s eight. I won’t be gone long.

Guess catch and release isn’t a part of the curriculum.

Jules shakes his head and hands me my first client’s file for the day.

I see the name on the folder and moan. Jason Ford. At the last appointment, he threw a chair across the room in a tantrum that would have made any three-year-old glow with admiration.

Jules nods. TGIF. I’ll be back in a-sap.

I should be in this meeting with young Mr. Ford for a half-hour or more. Take your time.

Thanks. I’ll switch the phone over to the message service. I won’t be long.

The struggling butterfly flutters in my mind.

Trapped.

Good morning, Mr. Ford. I smile and extend my hand.

He ignores it, looks past me, and says, Right, let’s get this over. What are the rules this time?

I lead the way into the conference room. He’s just turned twenty-five and inherited the first installment of his portfolio, worth a tad over fourteen million — slightly more than the velvet purse he received for college.

Jason flops down and rocks back on two legs of the chair with his hands laced behind his head. You work for my parents. So let’s keep this short.

I tap his name on the file. I work for you; I’m a fiduciary. There are guidelines with any trust, but inside of those, you’re free to move assets around and manage it any way you please. It’s your money.

Like hell.

From there, the conversation skids sideways into an abyss of self-pity edging on tears and how evil, domineering, untrusting, and stingy his parents are for scattering his trust fund out into five-year installments. When he reaches forty, as an only heir, he will inherit the bulk of the estate.

Most days, I enjoy my job. I’m good at it. But I realize now (a bit late), I should have added a second degree in psychology. Half my fee would be as a mechanic, fine-tuning financial nuts and bolts — the other half adjusting mental screws that aren’t quite set to the manufacturer’s recommended torque.

Mr. Ford, what will it take to make you happy?

Fifty million would be a good start.

And if we could do that, how would you invest it?

Why invest it? With that, I can do anything. He laughs. Or sweet fuck-all.

Is this how kindergarten teachers feel at the end of the day? Hope and dread for what’s to come.

My second client is from money so old it probably has Roman emperors’ faces stamped on it. Yet, he spends a half-hour complaining that he paid five dollars to park three blocks away because he didn’t trust the foreign schmuck operating the booth at the much-closer parking garage where we validate. He believes we should buy the beautiful old brownstone next door, tear it down and put up a multi-story private parking garage with armed guards. My mind spins as I smile and nod as if he is a hundred percent correct.

Do his doctor and dentist have better parking? Did they destroy old landmarks for him?

He grumbles to himself as he signs a few papers, then surprises me with a smile and shakes my hand. Good job, Mrs. Smith, thank you, we’ve done well this quarter despite the market.

I can’t wait for lunch. I slip into my office, shut the door, turn off the lights, close the blinds, sit down at the desk and press my palms to my forehead.

Five minutes of quiet.

Don’t think. Just breathe.

A soft cough behind me makes me slowly turn in my chair. I’m here alone. But the sound was in the room. It takes a moment to notice a large leaf lying on the floor under the potted rubber tree.

You’re a long way from home. Not cut out for office life. You need jungle and natural light, not these killing fluorescents.

I pour what’s left of a bottle of drinking water in its pot. With only two leaves left on a willowy six-foot trunk, the odds of it suddenly thriving are not looking good. I’ve tried everything, and still, it’s dying.

I rest my head back on my chair and stare at the white ceiling and watch floaters drift past.

It’s ridiculous to feel guilty over a potted plant dying and a butterfly trapped in an airless jar.

I close my eyes, brush my fingers across the amulet lying warm against my skin, and let last night’s dream replay.

It’s late afternoon and hot, the air is humid with scents of earth and moss. Cool, soft grass cushions my bare feet as luminous blue butterflies drift around me. I’m laughing with a warm passion burning in my heart, while standing in a natural clearing deep in a rainforest, painting something white. Butterflies are attracted to the scent of the paint and are determined to get into it. I wave a wet brush at them, trying to shoo them away. The white paint drips and strings across my hand and the vibrant green grass.

The dream settles uneasily in the pit of my stomach. I can’t remember the last time I laughed simply for the joy of a moment or have that feeling of being to-the-bones-happy.

I open my eyes and sit up when Jules walks in.

Bad meeting? he asks.

No worse than expected.

You didn’t make him cry again?

Nearly. The limits are lower than he’d like. He needed to vent.

It is amazing how everyone opens up to you. It is your superpower.

Not so much with him... I don’t know, it just has me thinking. Mr. Ford is wealthier than most would ever dream of. Yet he has incredibly low self-esteem, it’s as if he’d be an empty husk without vast amounts of money.

That’s for a shrink to sort, not you.

If he would go, and listen, which he won’t. His parents have tried. Maybe worse, beyond the self-esteem issues, he doesn’t have a passion for anything; there’s a black hole, a void where it should be. Seeing that emptiness in him today has made me consider my choices.

You have passion.

I shrug. Not really. I remember the exact day I chose this direction, and it wasn’t out of passion. I was a troubled teen, sitting in the counselor’s office. She was laughing at the career choice written in my file.

What was it?

I was a kid and thought once we were adults, all things were possible. The counselor assured me they weren’t. Jules pulls a chair up to the front of the desk, crosses his legs, and looks at me like spill it. Don’t laugh. I wanted to be an artist. As a kid, I’d fallen in love with the great masters’ paintings at the museum and felt the creative magic when I’d met a painter working one day at the zoo.

I do not understand why she laughed.

"She said, ‘we have cameras and computers in this century, no one needs painters. It was not a career option. Art is for preschoolers’ or the wealthy. To be a painter, you have these choices.’ She counted them off on her fingers. ‘Be born with a silver spoon in your mouth, marry a rich man who will support your hobby, make a truckload of money — or do it when you retire, after you’ve had a good career and can afford the leisure time to do nothing.’ Laughing, she said, ‘Become a doctor, lawyer or Indian Chief. Then you can retire early and paint.’ That’s how I remember the conversation, but she might have said stockbroker or banker; I doubt she said Indian Chief because I signed up for business classes. What I remember most about that day was the twisted up, feverish gut feeling of another life-size disappointment and saying, ‘Well, shit!’ out loud and having to write, ‘I will not use profanity in school’ two-hundred times on the blackboard."

What a wet blanket. She killed your dream.

I grin at his expression. In her defense, it isn’t a career path that you can stick a solid-gold pin in and estimate your annual income or grand levels of success. And I doubt she was capable of advising on a self-employed career choice that she didn’t understand herself. So I chose door number three: make a shitload of money as fast as possible, then retire and paint.

You’re on track.

I nod with a swishy yes-no-maybe. The tracks are damaged. And honestly, I haven’t painted since I was thirteen, so maybe it was a childish whim.

Fix the tracks, retire, paint — I want this corner office. He motions like to shoo me out.

If only.

He shakes his head. Didn’t anyone teach you to question authority? Listen to your gut? You’re making the dough. Go for it. Find your passion. Follow your dreams.

You sound like one of those corny inspirational posters around here.

"I’ve memorized them all."

In truth, it isn’t about the money. Jules ducks and looks toward the ceiling, holding up a finger for me to wait. Expecting the rulers of gold to hurl lightning bolts? He nods. "Okay. It is always about the money."

Don’t tempt them like that. He stands to leave. But you’re right, having a true passion is more important than gold.

Dangerous perspective. Words no Investment Adviser should ever say.

He grins and closes the door.

I slip the morning’s files into the top drawer to finish when I return from lunch. There’s an old photo taped inside the drawer of a little beach house at some dive location in the Caribbean. It caught my eye one day as my definition of heaven; a simple one-room cabin with a rustic front porch, hammock, bright blue shutters, palm trees, and just feet from the clear turquoise sea. On the side of the house is a clothesline stretched between two palms with a bikini and towel hanging out to dry, and beside the front step, there’s a pair of flip flops lying in the sand.

I usually overlook the photo; it’s dog-eared and has been there, taped in the bottom of the drawer for years. I’d set a goal that day; when my mortgage is paid off, I’ll go searching for this house or one like it. Somewhere in the Caribbean islands, or possibly Mexico. Someplace where my bikini can hang on the clothesline year-round in the tropical sun to dry.

The ink is fading, but somehow it’s more realistic, more fitting the goal, no longer someone’s house and her blue bikini on the line but mine. Years ago, I’d confidently scribbled ‘SOON!’ at the bottom, and as an afterthought added, ‘How do I make Brad happy?’ and circled it. That year his focus was, as always, on the Cubs. I knew he would not throw that career out to become a fisherman on some deserted tropical beach. I’d have to stash away enough money that Brad would want to retire and laze in the shade of a palm tree with an icy beer in his hand.

After a frustrating, near burnout week last year, I started liquidating some of my investments in a slow-growth or holding pattern. I’ve scrimped and auto-deposited cash from every paycheck for ten years into my savings. The mortgage is nearly paid off, but the retirement fund isn’t quite adding up as fast as I’d planned.

Today, I ache for this little house more than ever; I want to play Frisbee with my boys on a beach. I want the simplicity, the total lack of schedules, the season-less sun, and sand on my doorstep. I want to sit in my hammock and paint that blue-horizon view.

Perhaps in January, we can take a vacation, see what areas feel like the dream, and put a down payment on it. I have enough saved to get the ball rolling. Next year when the mortgage is paid off — January, maybe.

We need a break now. Travel agents are boasting Chicago to Cancun, Mexico, for one hundred-ninety-nine dollars, round trip.

Ted pokes his head in my office door. We’re all going to the Adobo Grill for lunch.

Can’t, but thanks. Have plans.

Change them. It’s Justin’s birthday.

Sorry. Meeting old friends.

You really should be a team player. God, I miss our old office manager. You have to admit, I give great prizes to the quarterly winners.

Like the coffee maker on my kitchen counter that can brew dog food. You do, Ted.

Then, get with the game.

All right. I’m with the game.

You’re joining us for lunch?

No. I was saying what you wanted to hear. I have files to complete and friends waiting.

He raises his little hands in surrender and walks off, shaking his head.

I want my bikini on that clothesline, and my shoes kicked off in the sand!

Then stop whining and do it. Add a few hours, take on a few more clients, build the savings up, and buy the damn dream!

I close the drawer to turn off the two voices in my head and pick up my purse. Jules knocks and walks in with an enormous bouquet of red roses. Just delivered. Lord, how bad did he screw up? He sets the roses down on the corner of my desk, pulls the card off the pick, handing it to me with a flourish and chuckles. Just kidding. Happy anniversary.

I drop my purse on the desk and collapse back into my chair. Not only did he remember the date — he signed the card ‘Love Brad’ and drew a little heart.

Warmth spreads through my chest, up my neck, and to my cheeks. The last few months have not been our best. Eight months ago, the Cubs dropped him from the roster because of an injury. Two months later, his dad, Walter, passed away. Now, he has a regular job in retail, and he’s not handling any of it well.

With his dream of being with the Cubs squashed — will he consider the tropical angler options?

I look up the travel agent’s number, verify the price. Then call Billy and ask for a surprise week off; he’s more than happy to allow it for the first week in September. I call the agent back, and in under five minutes, have booked us two tickets to paradise.

I stand, smiling to myself, imagining the warm turquoise sea, a hammock, and piña coladas, loop my purse on my shoulder and smooth the creases out of my linen suit.

We can catch up, laze on the beach, scuba dive, go deep-sea fishing, and