The Messenger (2011 reformat) Read Free Page A

mail in the South
St. Pete ghettos. Don't worry, I'm not taking things for granted, and I really
am looking forward to this-"
    Jane paused to
look at the small but well-designed building. It's mine, she told herself.
Suddenly her discomfort over the grand opening was displaced by pride. I'm the
boss. This little post office annex is my baby. Cool air swept their faces when
the automatic doors parted. They walked inside, ignoring the continued grand
opening formalities over by the gift shop-where the mayor appeared to be
getting drunk on spiked punch-and turned toward the clerk stations.
    "So much
for punch and cookies," Carlton said.
    Customers were
lining up to buy stamps, send packages, get mail metered.
    "Yeah,"
Jane said, "I guess we better get inside and start taking care of these
customers. Jeez, look at them all."
    Carlton
scratched his beer belly again. "Aw, don't sweat it. I'll bet half of them
are only here for the newest Elvis stamp."
    Jane could
only hope so. No time like the present, she thought. "See ya at the end of
the shift, Carlton, and don't forget to have someone clear all those old
records out of the basement. We don't want the fire department writing us up
for fire hazards the first week we're open." Then she went through the
half door to head into the administrative wing. It was quiet in back, but if
she listened carefully she could hear the trucks pulling up in back at the
loading dock. Her footsteps ticked across the brand-new tile.
    In a lost
moment, she caught herself peering at her reflection in an office window. How
do you like that? She asked herself. Thirty-five years old, and I'm still not
half bad looking. The knee-length navy blue skirt and patched sky-blue tunic notwithstanding,
Jane's looks, if anything, had improved as she'd grown older, as if her
desirability had seasoned and maximized. Boobs not sagging yet, stomach's still
flat, even after two kids. I really can't complain. Noon-blue eyes looked back
at her; the uncertain expression changed with a confident smile. Her hair was
too bright to label her a brunette, but it wasn't auburn either-something more
like cinnamon-a little shorter than shoulder length. The bright shine to her
hair was augmented by a rich nut-brown tan, an overall glow of vitality.
    Body wise,
Jane was happy to see that all the right curves had remained in all the right
places. Her breasts filled the top of her tunic, ghosts of nipples showing
through the light fabric, and when she cocked her hip and grinned, she even
looked sultry. Somehow that look isn't me, she laughed to herself. Vie Hussy
Mail Chick. Instead, she simply looked like a beautiful, self-assured modern
working woman, still in good shape and still at her peak. I've got a lot to
look forward to, and even better than that- She laughed to herself
again-construction workers still whistle at me!
    The good day
had just gotten better, with a positive acknowledgment of herself. It hadn't
always been like that, not since the move ... and the loss of her husband.
Sometimes being a widow with two young children seemed impossible. It was
impossible to do everything right, too many obstacles seemed to have dropped on
her, too many hardships.
    She'd felt
very insecure at times, very doubtful.
    But she'd
persevered, and now things couldn't be better: the promotion, the new post
office, the kids adjusting better to school and their lives without a father.
     
    And now this
...
     
    Jane's eyes roved up the office
window that framed her reflection, to the words stenciled in black letters near
the top:
    jane ryan,
station manager,
    danelleton,
west branch.
     
     
    II
     
    Idyllic wasn't
the word; it didn't suffice. To call the town romantic, picturesque, or quaint
proved trite but at least accurate. Danelleton had grown, yes, but it hadn't
lost any of the traits that made it so unique in this day and age. Once just a
little suburb in central Florida, now it was incorporated, flourishing,
progressing without giving up