Be My Neat-Heart Read Free Page A

loves orderliness. I closed my eyes, relishing the tidiness and serenity that cocooned me. Unfortunately it was so relaxing that I nearly dozed off.
    When I heard a man clear his throat and speak my name, I jumped to my full five-foot-nine-inch height—five-eleven if I count the heels—and gave a startled, unfortunately loud squawk.
    Not cool, I thought to myself as I gathered my scattered wits about me.
    â€œOh, ah…sorry…it was so calm and quiet in here…too many Cool Whip containers…never mind….” I thrust out my hand. “Samantha Smith, organizational consultant. Let me help you organize your world.”
    The man, his brown hair prematurely shot with gray, looked at me in bemusement. He was clean shaven in the way of men who use straight-edged razors rather than electric ones, and his well-scrubbed apple cheeks gleamed. He was round in a Has-The-Makings-of-a-Santa-Claus-Someday way, and his light green eyes twinkled.
    â€œMiss Smith, my name is Ethan Carver. Thank you for coming on such short notice.” He eyed me with what was either amusement or indigestion. “I can see that your time must be consumed by many things.”
    Totally embarrassed, I followed him into his office. If I were my dog, Imelda, my tail would have been between my legs. Imelda’s tail is between her legs a lot, mostly because she lives up to her name.
    Imelda, one of those “designer” dogs, a labradoodle, is a cross between a Labrador and a poodle. Imelda loves shoes. Adores them. She will eat as many as she can find. I didn’t discover the depth and breadth of her shoe fetish until I’d had her nearly three months. I simply thought that I was forgetting my heels at the gym after work, and when I went back for them, they’d already walked off. The one place in my house that I do not clean weekly is under my bed. I have moveable storage compartments there, which I move only seasonally when I change my clothes from winter to summerand vice versa. Imagine my shock, then, when I pulled out those containers to discover a horrific shoe cemetery in the space behind my winter clothes.
    It took me days to get over the fact I’d been sleeping over a graveyard—the sad, strange, lonely place my shoes had gone to die.
    Imelda, the heartless fiend, however, was overjoyed to have easier access to the remains of her prey and walked around for the rest of day with an amputated three-and-a-half-inch heel from my one and only pair of Manolo Blahniks in her mouth.
    Once a shoe lover, always a shoe lover, I guess.

Chapter Three
    C arver’s office was pristine—to the naked eye, at least.
    I sat down awkwardly in a contemporary, geometrically designed chair that had nothing to do with the shape of the human body unless, of course, you were the model for Picasso’s Sitting Woman With the Green Scarf.
    â€œNow you know my weakness, Mr. Carver. I work too many hours and sleep on the job. How about you?”
    â€œMy Achilles’ heel may not be quite as visible as yours, Ms. Smith, but present and accounted for nonetheless.”
    â€œI must admit I’m not familiar with Carver Advertising,” I began. Listening is half my job, discovering who people really are and what they’re about.
    â€œWe handle several large sports-related advertising accounts. We’re big into baseball right now.” He studied me carefully. “Now tell me what you do.”
    â€œI empower people to unburden themselves of life’s excess baggage and to live in freedom, simplicity and order.” The elevator speech rolled off my tongue with ease, the result of a thousand repetitions.
    His eyes widened and I added, “Frankly, sir, as my thirteen-year-old neighbor says rather crassly, I help people ‘get their poop in a group.’ I help them prioritize, organize and sanitize. I help them categorize, systematize and standardize….” Oh, oh, I was on a