It seems as though Cate and Greg are developing a following, so here's the next round.  I always love to hear comments, either in the blog, the guestbook, or via email--http://www.writinghappyendings.com/contact.html for links!

___________



Greg flipped through the file on his desk, wondering what he was missing.  The previous year’s tax filing for a local business was in front of him, and he could see nothing out of the ordinary.  The deductions were all properly documented, all employees were accounted for, and there were no tricky tax shelters that should have been cause for alarm.  The IRS was auditing, however, and Greg knew his clients were sweating—and more than just the normal audit nerves.  He had yet to put his finger on why, though, so he continued to pour over the file, as well as his email correspondence with the company’s controller.

“Do you ever leave?”  Tamara walked into Greg’s office without knocking.

“I could ask you the same thing.”  Not the wittiest comeback, but looking that good on a Saturday morning had to be at least a misdemeanor.  She had eschewed her usual business suit for well-fitted jeans and a blouse whose ruby-red shade was the perfect foil for her blond hair and blue eyes. 

Suddenly, though, another image entered his mind.  Cate, the manager from the gift shop.   Why, he wasn’t sure.  While not plain, Cate was no match for Tamara’s beauty—her hair was darker and stick straight, her eyes an indescribable shade of hazel.  But there was more to it than coloring—Tamara had a confidence that attracted every eye in the room, and she was a beauty.  Cate had seemed most comfortable with the idea of blending into the woodwork.  She was calm and capable, but thoroughly unspectacular in appearance.

Greg nearly jumped out of his chair when he felt Tamara’s hand on his shoulder as she stood behind him.  He had been in such a daze, staring intently at the file, that he hadn’t noticed her come around his desk.  One hand gently rubbed his shoulder while her other hand caressed his upper arm.  As she leaned close, he caught a whiff of perfume.

“Is that the Reynolds audit?”  He nodded, wondering absently what scent she was wearing.  It was feminine and even appealing, but a tad strong for his taste.  “Found anything odd in it yet?”  She leaned even closer, her jaw against the side of his head as her arms rested on his shoulders.

Without warning, Greg sneezed twice violently.  His head jerked and collided with Tamara’s cheekbone.  She gasped and reeled back, her hand to her face.  He rose to his feet.

“Are you okay?”  He could see her eyes watering as he moved closer to her, gently lowering her hand.  Her cheek and jaw were red where their heads had collided.  “Tamara, I’m sorry.”  His hand brushed against her face gently, and she drew in her breath, moving away from him and out into the hall.  Trailing a few steps behind, he saw her head for the ladies room and returned to his office.

It was several minutes before she returned, her hand fluttering uncertainly toward her face.  “I think I’m going to have a bruise.”

“I’m so sorry.”  Greg came forward, wanting to make sure Tamara was okay.  Instinctively, he reached out and put his hand on her shoulder, turning her toward him.  She moved toward him, reaching her arm out to encircle his waist.  He stiffened immediately, not wanting to take advantage of the situation or be caught in an embrace at the office.

She noticed his hesitance.  “I’m going home to lay down for awhile.  I’ll call you later if I still feel like going out.”  Tamara was out the door and headed to her office before Greg could speak again. 

He didn’t follow her this time, knowing that nothing he could say would improve the situation, and hoping that she would calm down during the next few hours.  She had been right; she was probably going to have a bruise on her cheekbone, judging by the puffy red mark the contact between their heads had left.  Greg tried to concentrate on the case before him, reading through the summary provided by the IRS attorney.  He knew he was missing something—whether the Reynolds Group had misrepresented themselves in the paperwork, or whether the government was to blame for the confusion, he had no idea, but something was not fitting together. 

Sighing, Greg asked himself, not for the first time, why he had joined this firm out of law school.  He knew the answer, though.  Tax law was not something he had enjoyed at all, but it paid well.  He wanted the security the paycheck could bring.  He had a new car, a nice apartment, and enough in the bank that he didn’t worry about paying his bills.

He also had 67 billable hours (and counting) for the week, a date for that night with one of his coworkers  (if she still deigned to speak with him) which he was beginning to dread, and a million-dollar credit card transaction looming over his head because he’d been too frazzled to look at the charge slip before signing it.  The senior partners (all of whom were gone for the weekend, he noticed) would surely have something to say about that as soon as the controller alerted them. 

Then again, the controller was on vacation in the Caymans and had only known about the transaction because the fraud prevention department had his cell phone number.  The senior members of the firm were rarely in the office, the controller included, preferring to let the junior associates take the brunt of the work, then breezing in to take the reins of the more high profile cases when it was obvious their side would win.  Greg knew it was all part of the game in the legal profession and that the goal was for him to be in the same position someday, but it was irritating nonetheless. 

Like most young lawyers, he had toyed going into private practice and hanging a shingle declaring himself ready to sue, but the logistics—especially the finances—had gotten in the way there.  He’d had other offers when he graduated from law school—he’d been fourth in a class of 300—but the offer from Fenton Rogers Baxter and Associates had been the most appealing, and he’d signed on two weeks before graduation, before he’d even passed the bar exam (the contract had provided for that, too—if he’d failed, he would’ve been out on his ear, which made Greg thankful he’d always been good at test-taking). 

That had been over a year ago, and he’d rarely looked back.  The designer suits, silk ties, and BMW in his reserved parking spot told him that he had arrived.  He was looking to buy a condo within the next year or so, but for now, he had a nicely furnished apartment in a secure building in one of the better parts of town.  He shared a secretary with two other associates, though he wasn’t above running errands, such as the ill-fated purchase of thank you cards.  Greg Tanner had done what he’d always set out to do—he’d escaped the lifestyle in which he was raised, and now that was all part of his ancient history. 

He was a self-made man.  No one had handed him a thing, from the day he’d left his parents’ home to scrape through a state college on grants, scholarships, and work-study allowances.  Law school had been on a carefully cobbled loan package and a surprising scholarship offer, along with a lot of ramen noodles and macaroni and cheese.  He was determinedly paying off the loans as quickly has possible—that was his main reason for having not bought a house yet.  Greg had done the work all himself, not letting the death of his mother his senior year of college keep him from his goal.  And now he had it all.

Or did he?  When he finally left his office, 70 hours or more after the beginning of the week, he’d go home to an empty, lifeless apartment—he couldn’t even manage to keep a houseplant alive, and a pet was out of the question.  Tamara wouldn’t call, he was relatively sure—Greg hadn’t had a date in six months, despite his status as a young eligible lawyer for a prominent firm in town.

When have you had time? He asked himself.  Tamara hadn’t been far off in asking if he ever left the office—he’d slept there more than once in the past few weeks, and he kept a spare suit hanging behind his door at all times.  The five hours of sleep he was averaging a night somehow seemed like more when he didn’t have the twenty-minute drive to and from his apartment.

Greg sighed and pushed back away from his desk.  He was short of his normal weekly hours, but who said working 70 hours a week was any kind of normal?  He needed to get away from the office, away from this case, away from the pressure—he just needed to get away, he admitted to himself. 

He decided to take the next day off—he hadn’t been to church in two weeks, for which a guilty feeling niggled in the back of his mind.  Greg hadn’t felt like going to church in weeks.  He remembered a youth camp speaker telling him years before, though, that when he didn’t feel like praying, the first thing he needed to do was pray; when he didn’t feel like reading the Bible, the first thing he needed to do was get that Bible out; and when he didn’t feel like going to church, he needed to make sure he was in that pew the next chance he had.  One of his neighbors had invited him to their church, and Greg decided to take the man up on his invitation.