Growing Season Read online

  Growing Season

  a novel

  by Melanie Lageschulte

  Growing Season: a novel

  © 2017

  by Melanie Lageschulte

  Fremont Creek Press

  All rights reserved.

  978-0-9988638-0-1 (Kindle)

  978-0-9988638-1-8 (paperback)

  978-0-9988638-7-0 (hardcover)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Kindle cover photo: ImageSource/iStock.com

  Cover design: Melanie Lageschulte

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  Web: fremontcreekpress.com

  Also by Melanie Lageschulte

  Novels

  Harvest Season

  The Peaceful Season

  Waiting Season

  Songbird Season

  The Bright Season

  Turning Season (coming spring 2020)

  Short fiction

  A Tin Train Christmas

  CHAPTER 1

  The bright morning sun burned through Melinda’s eyelids, the air already too hot for early May. She forgot to pull the curtains last night, stumbling home later than she should have after downing too many drinks with her co-workers at the advertising agency.

  Oh no, not my co-workers, she thought, clenching her eyelids and silently willing her bedroom to stop its slow spin. My former co-workers. Because yesterday, along with sixteen of her friends and colleagues, Melinda Foster suddenly found herself out of a job.

  “Great,” she mumbled, her tongue thick and her throat dry. “Not only am I unemployed, but I’m hung over, too.”

  She struggled to sit up, but the twisting drop in her stomach brought her head back to the pillow. “I’m too old for this.” She rubbed her pounding forehead and gritty eyes. “All of it. And what if I’m too old to start over?”

  The only answer was the hum of the box fan in the window, breaking the early-Saturday silence of her Uptown neighborhood in Minneapolis. She tried to breathe deep, to fight off the despair that seemed to be spreading through her body, pushing her down into the bed.

  “I’m only thirty-nine,” she announced to no one, pounding her fist on the sheets. “It’s not too late. I’ll find a way. But I just need ten more minutes. No, maybe twenty.” Bracing herself for the spin, she rolled over and tried to fall back asleep, to block out the fear and shock that had dogged her since yesterday afternoon.

  We have to cut expenses to better meet revenue expectations, they’d said, as Melinda tried to stop her hands from shaking in a nearly empty conference room at WP&S, one of the Twin Cities’ largest advertising firms. Clients had been pulling back on their print campaigns and television spots. In her copywriting department, projects had started to disappear from the white board in the meeting room. Then came whispers last week that one of their largest accounts was about to bail.

  We appreciate all your work and wish you well, they’d said, as one of the three mournful-looking guys from human resources handed her a farewell packet and muttered something about her “fourteen years of service” and “insurance extensions” and “severance package.” She managed to pick up the manila envelope and wander out to the elevators and was standing there, dazed, not sure which button to push, when she saw Patricia from accounting with her hands over her face, hiding behind the towering fake plant in the corner of the atrium. And Bobby, the newest hire in IT, starting to cry as his supervisor gently took his arm and tried to steer him into the room Melinda had just left.

  We’ll need you to not go back out on the floor, they’d also said, as if Melinda could have collected her thoughts long enough to make a scathing speech about the company or steal some paper clips on her way out. Someone pushed her purse into her arms and solemnly asked for her security badge. She’d stood there, her feet unable to move and her heart racing, for a good ten minutes and then found her way outside to the bus stop to catch a too-early ride home.

  At least I never have to go back, she thought now as she stared at the bedroom ceiling, wondering if the small water stain on the plaster would suddenly start to expand, spreading like the tight feeling in her chest.

  But wait, she did.

  Today. At eleven. To clean out her desk.

  Melinda rolled over again and forced herself upright, set her bare feet on the worn hardwood floor. Her two-bedroom flat on Pickard Street, with its multi-paned windows, oak built-ins and little butler’s pantry, still held that air of genteel elegance that made her fall in love with it six years ago. Suddenly affordable after her latest promotion at the agency, the third-floor walkup was unassuming yet filled with vintage charm. Moving into this reviving, hip block had made her feel like she was moving up in the world, too, that life was full of possibilities.

  Now she looked around the bedroom. It was fairly clean, but she must have missed that cobweb in the corner by the window. And that near-tumbling stack of books needed to be sorted. She had so many, they never seemed to fit into the built-in bookcases in the dining room. Dirty laundry, stale and forgotten, was piling up in the basket at the foot of the bed.

  Suddenly, Melinda saw her apartment, and herself, in a new, dimmer light. Would she still be here in ten or fifteen years, shuffling around in a ratty robe among piles of books and laundry, the dust drifting on the built-in buffet, struggling to keep the lights on as she toiled away at some low-paying receptionist job?

  No, she decided, that wouldn’t happen. Because if she didn’t find something good, and soon, she wouldn’t be able to afford the rent much longer. Vintage, pre-war charm would have to be exchanged for some dull, suburban, beige-walled rental complex where the cheap window blinds were always broken and the trash was always overflowing out of the Dumpster.

  “I’m sorry.” She sighed and looked around at her home. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay here.”

  Thirsty and in need of an aspirin, she wandered into the kitchen and wrenched open the tiny wood-framed window over the sink, letting in the warm breeze. The cold, sweet water helped, but there would need to be coffee. Lots of coffee. Before, Melinda would have simply changed out of her sleep shirt into some yoga pants and a tee and walked down to the corner coffee shop, which was as charming as it was expensive.

  “There’ll be no more of that.” She set her jaw as she wistfully recalled the concoctions created by the baristas down the street. There was an aging canister of coffee grounds in one of the top cabinets, behind the cereal, and a thrift-store coffee maker under the sink that she only used when her parents drove up from Iowa to visit. She crouched on the blue-and-green rag rug, the white-painted cabinet door giving a surprised squeak as she jerked it open and peered into the shadows. She reached around the dish soap and assorted household cleaners, feeling for the back. There was some sort of pile on the floor of the cabinet, wedged behind the box of trash bags. Small things. Melinda grasped them and pulled out her hand.

  Two pouches of cat treats, mostly gone. And a little blue collar, the brass tag etched with “Oreo.” And then, for the first time since yesterday, the tears came.

  She had been trying not to think about him, the shy black-and-white kitten she’d found wandering behind the building right after she’d moved in. Oreo had quickly become her best friend, winning her over with his joyful outlook and knack for tricks and games.

  And then, so quickly, too soon, he was gone. She came home from work one night two months ago to find her precious boy having a seizure on the kitchen floor.

  We’re so sorry for your loss, they�
�d said at the emergency veterinary clinic as Melinda, her hands shaking, removed Oreo’s collar. But there was nothing we could do.

  That first day after Oreo had slipped away from this life, the apartment had been a too-quiet shell of grief. Melinda called in to work and spent the afternoon curled up on the couch, staring out the paned windows as yet another round of snow blanketed the city. The second morning, she was trying to eat her cereal when suddenly there was the unmistakable feeling of a cat brushing against her leg under the table. The third night she’d gotten up to go to the bathroom and saw Oreo at the end of the hall, sitting next to his dishes in the kitchen. Half asleep, she’d just looked at him, and he at her. He was shadowy somehow, but it was her Oreo. She glanced his way again, but he was gone.

  The fourth day, she woke up heavy-hearted yet with a sense of peace. She found the courage to box up Oreo’s toys and dishes and take them, with the bag of kibble she’d just opened the week before, to the animal shelter across town.

  Now, leaning back against the refrigerator, she held the nylon-knit collar up in her hand as the tears slid down her face. The brass tag danced back and forth, a small sunbeam catching its edge. Two losses in two months. She closed her eyes with a shaky breath.

  “I have to get up,” she said, quiet, dejected. “I have to find a way to face this day.”

  She didn’t just need to get up off the floor. She had to move. Forward, up and out, in more ways than one.

  “I have to get up,” she said again, this time in a calm, determined voice. She put a hand back under the sink and dragged the coffeemaker forward, its cord fishtailing around the boxes and bottles. Cradling it in one arm, she reached up to the countertop for balance and stretched to her feet. The coffeemaker wasn’t so dirty after all, she realized, as she scrubbed it with hot, soapy water, wiped down the controls and plugged it in. The coffee grounds passed the sniff test and soon, a comforting smell wafted around the kitchen. Melinda gently placed the crumpled pouches of cat treats in the garbage can, then studied Oreo’s collar, remembering. She couldn’t toss it out, but what to do with it? She carefully tucked the collar into the inside pocket of her purse.

  Gulping a mug of coffee and nibbling a piece of toast made her feel more alert. Wrapped in her favorite robe following a steaming shower, she stood in front of her stacked and packed closet. All these clothes. When would she ever get to wear most of them again? There were no high-end designer labels among the rows and piles, but still an impressive collection she had gathered as her career and net worth soared. Even so, the weekends and evenings were always spent in jeans and sweats. And at least for now, her weekdays would be, too.

  “What does one wear to the death of one’s career, anyway?” Resisting the urge to make a statement by showing up in all black, she wrestled a pair of jeans out of a stack and reached for a blue long-sleeved tee. At least it was warm enough she wouldn’t need a jacket for the two-block walk to the transit stop.

  Yesterday came flooding back again, but this time she was determined not to dwell on it. Cassie and Susan had already texted this morning with plans for the three friends to go out for lunch. Melinda and Susan met during college, at the University of Minnesota, and the women had worked together at various times throughout their careers. Susan was now a junior executive at Collins and Cartwright, another agency in town. Cassie had stepped off her career track a decade ago to raise her family, a move made easier by the fact that her husband, Jim, came from an old-money Minneapolis family and was a successful attorney. Melinda had the dubious honor of being the first of the three friends to ever be laid off. And that, she decided, was probably a significant feat given the instability in the media and marketing world these days.

  Cassie would pick up Susan and drive downtown to shepherd Melinda and her box of work stuff home. And then what? A string of empty days stretched ahead of her and she had no idea how to fill them.

  But first, she had to get dressed. The mirror above the bathroom sink wasn’t very encouraging. The fine lines on her face, the ones that started to appear over the last few years, were more pronounced than ever. Her green eyes were tired and puffy, her skin blotchy. Pulling her wavy brown hair back into a low ponytail, she settled for a swipe of moisturizer and a little mascara. She didn’t have the energy to try too hard, to put on some sort of show for her former colleagues. And it was just as well. The tears nearly returned as Melinda realized she wasn’t likely to see most of these people again, a loss that seemed nearly as painful as her fears about the future.

  She reached for her keys and her purse, a saddle-brown tote that now seemed far too expensive and luxurious. How much had she paid for it last year? Couldn’t remember, didn’t want to. She pressed her lips together at the sight of Oreo’s collar in the bottom of her bag. Under that stab of pain in her heart, she felt an ounce of strength. Oreo was gone, but his collar would remind her that just as she got through that loss, she could make it through this one. She briefly considered snapping Oreo’s collar around the strap of her purse, like a good-luck charm, but decided against it. Cassie and Susan would think she’d lost her marbles.

  Well, maybe I have. But she was going to try to keep up an appearance of sanity.

  The hallway was wonderfully empty, her sneakers nearly silent on the beige runner that protected the original hardwood floors. There was nobody in the stairwell, either. She really didn’t want to see anyone this morning, not even Charlie, the elderly widower whose apartment was right below hers. Charlie always was ready with an encouraging word and a cup of tea, when he wasn’t riding his bike around Lake Calhoun with people half his age. He’d been a kind neighbor all these years, living in his rent-controlled apartment long before this street became fashionable again.

  Even so, she wasn’t ready to tell Charlie what happened yesterday, how she was out of a job and might not be upstairs much longer. “No, I’m staying,” she muttered as she stepped across the marble-floored lobby to the oak front door, “this is my home.”

  The air was warm but still had that spring freshness to it, that feeling that anything was possible. Melinda could almost imagine she was back home in Iowa, walking down the quiet street in front of her parent’s home in Swanton. The aromas drifting from the crowded coffee shop on the corner beckoned, but she was determined to stay on schedule. She’d just have to look up some recipes online and create her own custom brews. Surely it couldn’t be that hard.

  No one else was at the transit stop and the bus, when it finally rolled up to the corner, only held a handful of riders. She swiped her pass and took a seat by a window, a rare treat. Most weekday mornings she had to stand all the way into downtown, gripping an overhead strap as she balanced her tote and coffee, braced against the packed bus of commuters.

  The skyline loomed ahead through the windshield, the sun glinting off the angled peaks of the skyscrapers. Melinda found she was holding her breath as they reached the city’s core and her heart jumped when the digital screen beeped and “Sixth Avenue” appeared. Her stop was next. Her arm felt weak as she reached up and pulled the cord.

  “Have a good morning,” the driver said with his usual cheerfulness as she exited the bus, disoriented and uneasy. For years she’d stepped off at this corner, secure and confident in her fashionable blouses and not-too-high heels, the sleek tote under her arm, elbowing her way through the crowds to WP&S. Now she paused on the nearly empty sidewalk, not ready for whatever was coming next. She glanced down at her sneakers and felt like a scared little kid on the first day of school.

  More like the last day. She fished in her tote for her phone, checking the time. Ten to eleven; would she have to wait? Why couldn’t this nightmare just end, and fast? When she dropped the phone back inside, she found herself desperately rubbing Oreo’s tag for good luck.

  More alarm bells began to clang in her head as she approached the steel and glass office building where WP&S took up the top eight floors of the twenty-story structure. A small, quiet crowd was gathering in t
he courtyard in front. Melinda counted eight of her former co-workers, all in jeans and tees, scuffing their shoes on the concrete tiles. She couldn’t help but smile as she saw Linda, from the CEO’s administration office, rocking her pink-and-cream Chanel jacket as if this was any other day.

  “Going out in style,” Linda said as she draped an arm around Melinda. The silver streaks in Linda’s glossy black hair were elegant, even today. But Melinda saw the telltale signs of tears around the older woman’s kind brown eyes. Linda lowered her designer sunglasses and tried to offer an encouraging smile.

  “Going to make them wish they’d never tossed me out in the street. We’re locked out, by the way, like a bunch of criminals. Nobody’s key fobs work.”

  The men, by contrast, looked like they’d been up all night. None of them had shaved and a few carried the sharp odor of stale beer. Melinda was surprised to see Tom from retail accounts with a cigarette in his hand.

  “I didn’t know you smoked, Tom,” one of the other men said, then shyly bummed a cigarette.

  “I do now,” Tom retorted. “I quit ten years ago but, what the hell, might as well start up again.” There were murmurs and nods of understanding from the others huddled by the door.

  “Did you guys read that packet?” said a woman with a ball cap pulled low over her face. Melinda realized it was Monica from graphics. “I couldn’t sleep and finally got up about three and started going over it. Then I couldn’t stop going over it. I’ve only been here four years, so only four weeks of severance. Does anyone know how to sign up for unemployment?”

  “Oh, darling,” Linda said, squeezing Monica’s hand. “We’ll figure it out, all of us, together. I can’t look at that horrible envelope. I stuffed mine in the kitchen junk drawer last night and told my husband we’ll have our attorney pick it up Monday.” No one said anything, but Melinda knew what many of the others were thinking: Linda’s husband was an account manager at one of the Twin Cities’ largest brokerage firms. Leisurely days of reading by the pool were in her future.