Color the Sidewalk for Me Read Online Free Page A

leaning back in his chair with a make-my-day expression, his suit coat unbuttoned to reveal a middle-aged paunch. His face was round, the corners of his mouth turned down. As he spoke, he hit pudgy knuckles together for emphasis.
    I smiled indulgently. Catchy. How many times had I heard that term? What did our clients think, that Sammons prided itself on being dull? The catch was, catchy meant different things to different people. Over the years I had honed my observation skills until I was adroit at discerning what clients would and would not like. I listened to Gary Stelt’s lengthy explanation of how efficiently his company managed its clients’ money, putting them on a budget, paying bills, helping them save. “We take care of their personal business so they can concentrate on building their new companies,” he continued. “Without us a lot of them would go under.”
    Unobtrusively I glanced at my watch. My Cellway meeting was scheduled for 3:45. For the next ten minutes I spoke softly but decisively to Gary Stelt, soothing his frustrated feathers, complimenting him on adhering to his vision for his company’s image, assuring him that Matt and I would come up with the right words to summarize the essence of his business—a catchy, memorable phrase. He was, for the moment, placated as Matt ushered him out. Feeling drained, I returned to my office to gather the Cellway files, my mind on Daddy.

    I By 7:00 p.m. my head was pounding and my back muscles tight. I was gathering some files to stuff into my briefcase for work at home when Quentin Sammons appeared in my doorway. Inwardly I braced myself. He was my boss, but he and his wife, Edna, were also parental figures, and I’d known that sooner or later he’d want to talk about the phone call that had stalled our rare office party.
    â€œCongratulations again on ten years,” he said, gracefully lowering his angular frame into a leather chair across from my desk.
    â€œThanks. They’ve been good ones.”
    Fleetingly I thought of what my career could have been like had I remained at Grayland Advertising, which offered me my first job after I’d earned a degree in graphic arts through the University of Arkansas. Grayland Advertising had been a flailing mom-and-pop affair that could not keep its clients, due to Ed Grayland’s ineptitude and Dorris Grayland’s constantly simmering argument with life. But it was work, and I gained experience that year until Quentin “discovered” me, as he liked to say. Alvin Kepler, the owner of Kepler Electronics, a chain of local computer stores, made good on threats to pull his account from Grayland and huffed over to the offices of Quentin Sammons’ agency. Kepler didn’t have enough derogatory words to describe Grayland, making exception only for “the lovely young blond gal” that created their logo and newspaper ad copy. “She’s sure wasting her time with that pair!” he’d declared to Quentin, who promptly called me for an interview after ushering his new client out the double mahogany doors.
    Quentin Sammons was fifty when I met him, a tall, lanky figure with the most graceful, spindly fingers I’d ever seen on a man. He’d steepled them above the stacks of paper on his desk as we talked. Obviously impressed with my portfolio, he’d questioned me about my goals in “the business.” His thick hair was beginning to gray. I was struck by the aura of his agency—an insistent hum of associates hurrying to meetings, sketch pads and draft copy thrust under their arms.
    â€œI’ve never sought out anyone to work for me before,” he’d said. “In fact, I’ve turned down many. But you show promise. If you stay at Grayland, you’ll soon be out of a job. Work here and you’ll earn a higher salary, plus I’ll be around to help you really learn the ropes. That’s my part of the bargain.