Claire Voyant Read Online Free PDF Page A

fired. But did I have a temper tantrum or cry for mercy? No. I ran after said boss and yelled, “Wait! Can I trade this job for what’s behind door number two?”
    So you see? I wasn’t really the angry type. More like tired. Tired of people who always assumed their needs were more important than mine. Tired of hearing thoughtless words from insensitive people. Tired of dealing with those who never extended themselves, but who felt entitled to receive the royal treatment.
    Oh God. What if Mr. Fabrikant had decided that after eighty years, he was tired of the same things? What if he looked at me, so self-absorbed and aloof, and said enough was enough? If one person couldn’t even be bothered to say hello to another person anymore, what was the point of living?
    On the other hand, my father would probably tell me to stop dwelling on my mistakes and simply chalk this day up to being a good learning experience. He was a big believer in those life-altering, fall-on-your-sword events that if they didn’t kill you, made you stronger.
    But here was my own personal experience with experience. All it did was help me recognize the same dumb-ass mistakes when I made them again. Which inevitably I always did.

Chapter 3
    I ’LL ADMIT TO HAVING WOUND UP IN A LOT OF STRANGE PLACES UNDER strange circumstances in my time. The as-yet-unexplained morning I woke up in the back of Brad Pitt’s truck wearing only a bedsheet and a Burger King crown. Or the time I went hiking with friends in Jackson Hole, got lost looking for a place to pee, and walked onto some recluse’s property who had a rifle and no interest in hearing how much I liked his flak jacket with the NIXON FOR PRESIDENT buttons.
    Not exactly the sort of skirmish a civilian girl from Long Island had been trained to handle. Frankly, the only battle for which I’d been prepared was fighting over a parking spot at the Roosevelt Field Mall the week before Christmas.
    So I suppose as unexpected excursions went, spending the morning in Jacksonville, Florida, wasn’t the worst detour. In fact, I was sort of getting off on hanging out in a comfortable airport lounge frequented by bonus-happy executots. It was just unfortunate that I hadn’t dressed better for the occasion, as I was the only one in the room wearing flip-flops and shorts.
    Nor had I walked in holding the requisite bag of electronic toys, or tried to close a million-dollar deal on my cell phone. Although if I’d wanted, surely I could have pretended to be in a scene, and acted the role of a corporate ass-kicker taking a much-needed vacation day. “I swear, they had to literally push me out of the office.”
    But who was I kidding? No Palm Pilot or cell phone could mask my unaccomplished past. Compared to all these magazine covers in the flesh, I looked old and obsolete. Dowdy Miss Claire, director of the Sharper Image Nursery School.
    Then, in the middle of my self-pity party, I got this strange vision of two tall men walking in a dark hallway, and they were headed in my direction.
    â€œMs. Greene?”
    â€œYes?” I walked over to the reception desk.
    â€œThe family has left the morgue. They’re on their way up to meet you.”
    The woman made it sound so official, I felt bad for not preparing any welcoming remarks, as if dignitaries were visiting my country. I also wished she’d given me more than thirty seconds’ notice so that I could have put myself together. For just as I reached for my pocketbook, two stunning men entered, and I had to force myself to place my tongue back in my mouth.
    Not even their sullen expressions and hushed tones could detract from their sexual lure. Abe Fabrikant’s next of kin were hot! How did I know that they were related to the deceased? The older of the two men carried the same canvas bag that Mr. Fabrikant had tucked under his seat.
    I guessed the son to be in his late fifties, although his taut abs and