Chapter Two

I unusually enjoy about two days of emotional freedom after a session with Jeremiah. Then the nagging agitation returns. I recognize it first as a tickle in my stomach, something pleasant that soon festers into a disturbance I can’t ignore.

Until that time, my body rests easier, and the impatient ache I often nurture seems to be a thing of the past. I can always hope. I do my work like a pro, smiling easily, while the world around me reflects back a light-hearted friendliness. Obviously, nothing has changed but my own attitude.

Since getting my degree in finance, I’ve had dozens of jobs from stockbroker—which is what I’m trained for—to library assistant, legal secretary and cocktail waitress. Currently, I manage a Retro Furniture Warehouse. It is a dumpy, dusty, scrambled mess of cast-off junk, now back in fashion as an affectionate flashback to the mid-20th century. Some look at my life as a downward spiral since Danny Mulray. It only made sense that my career as a stockbroker would be short-lived without his family portfolio and a long list of his friends to sell to. In some senses, my detractors are correct, but more to the point, without Danny Mulray, the world of high finance and stock trades is just money, greed and anxiety, all of which I can do without. As my career descended the scale of good-paying jobs to where I’ve landed now, I considered the trip one well-worth taking. I have enough to keep me on edge without making my life’s work a major stress. Here at the Good Times Furniture Emporium, I’m happy among these worn out treasures. Since Arthur’s finds have turned into designer gems, I like to think I’ve turned the rundown place into something chic. I keep the stock dusted, the floor swept and the items cataloged as best I can for condition, year and maker. Local designers have come to rely on my growing expertise in this new arena of stylish design. I connect my customers with local upholsterers, cabinetmakers and furniture refinishers who turn these rough finds into valuable pieces worth ten times their original value.

I still get the riffraff and bargain-hunters looking in my shop for a few cheap finds to furnish a rundown apartment. Within hours, my treasures will turn back into junk. But I treat even these customers with respect. After all, I’ve walked in their shoes more days than I’d like to recall.

I met my friend Rocco while he was in the shop looking for a lamp for his back porch. I sold him a ceramic gold-stripped 60’s table lamp that was nearly as tall as the 5’2” mechanic. I hadn’t yet cleaned it up for the showroom. When Rocco wandered into my back room and spotted the lamp, it put such a smile on his face that I couldn’t have been happier if I’d sold