Be My Neat-Heart Read Free

nodded sagely. “Couldn’t get her to throw anything out, huh?”
    â€œShe grew up with nothing, and is determined either consciously or subconsciously not to let that happen again. People like Mrs. Fulbright fight scarcity piece by piece, container by container. She’s saved everything. I have to be gentle.”
    Ben leaned forward and chucked me under the chin like Iwas his favorite Irish setter. “You can’t be anything but gentle, Sammi. You don’t know how.”
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    Maybe I don’t know how to be anything but gentle, but by the time I got to Carver Advertising through downtown traffic, two full parking garages, ten miles of skyway, a maze of gate-keepers, a handful of low-level minions and a bossy executive secretary, I was willing to learn.
    What made it even worse was the handsome but fuming, ill-tempered man I rode up with in the elevator. He repeatedly punched the already lit button to the 23rd floor and tapped his toe at what he obviously viewed as an extraordinarily slow closing door. The elevator stopped at several floors, and at each one he scowled ferociously at those who entered. Everyone was able to escape his apparent temper by the 21st floor except me, so he glowered at me as if the entire leisurely elevator ride were my fault.
    Too bad he was such a grouch. He would have been downright gorgeous without the scowl. He had dark hair, a nicely tanned complexion and eyes the color of a violet-blue sea. I didn’t see his smile, of course, but unless he was a real Snagglepuss, he was first rate in the looks department.
    He darted out of the elevator and down the hall even before I got a chance to look at the building directory listing the office number for Carver Advertising.
    Lord, here we are. As always, I ask that I be Your representative as I meet new clients. Let Your light shine in me. Amen.
    I’ve discovered that business is always better with God as a consultant. His services come free of charge, and He’s never wrong. What better advisor could I have than that?
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    After a trip to the powder room to spruce up, I entered Suite 2307. A secretary looked me up and down skeptically, clearlywondering what purpose I could serve. People sometimes respond to me that way. It’s probably because I’m blond. Really blond. So blond that others assume those blond jokes were actually written about me. I smiled reassuringly at the receptionist and took a seat.
    When I was a child my hair was nearly white. I was so fair that my parents insist they were forced to spend my inheritance on sunscreen and umbrellas. I blame my Nordic roots, the ones that also gave me rosy cheeks and wintry blue eyes. Much as I hate to admit it, I do look a little…well…Barbie-like, all fluff, no substance. I’ve spent much of my life dispelling that notion.
    The other gift from my ancestors is more useful. I’m tall, long-legged and athletic. I work out a little and look like I work out a lot. And I’ve been skiing since I was five, when my father took me to Buck Hill and got me hooked. Skiing is great for every muscle group I own.
    I sat back in my chair and looked around. Nice digs. A good gig if you could get it. Original artwork on the walls, carpet with a variety of colors cut into it to make the swooping design CA, for Carver Advertising, on the floor.
    There wasn’t a tired, out-of-date magazine, a stray dust mote or a streak on the bank of windows overlooking the city. There was nothing on the secretary’s polished mahogany desk but the mandatory telephone and computer equipment, a few sheets of paper and a fountain pen. I couldn’t begin to imagine what it was these people wanted organized.
    It had been a long day, I realized as I waited for my summons into the inner sanctum of Carver Advertising. I rarely have the opportunity to sit down in a clutter-free environment that’s not of my own making. It’s very relaxing for a person who