Chapter One
Jamaican Java Juice hissed and spit and dripped into the mug Tanya had givenme (“World’s Greatest Boss”) with a satisfying final cough. I grabbed it and shuffled my poor, tired old middle-aged body into what passed as a home office.
My leather-bound journal sat on the faux wood desk. I opened it to today’s date and scribbled—a ritual, along with my coffee, before I dressed in the mornings or whenever the urge struck me.
Today was the end of my tenure as mayor, and maybe time to retire. I don’t know. I had enjoyed a successful run in the city as a lawyer, a City Council member, a director on countless boards, and two terms as mayor, quickly drawing to a close. I used the journals to muse on upcoming events for that day and then made my sometimes-accurate predictions. Most of the time my scribbles were snarky. Anyone who had the temerity to pilfer the journal and compare the words with my actual doings would think I was schizophrenic. Thank God no one had ever even known they existed.
Suicidal and schizophrenic. Good name for a rock band.
I was out of a job and soon might be back on the political treadmill. I was considering a run for senate; it felt like a natural next step. What else was I going to do? I’m a fifty-eight-year-old spinster with no prospects, few friends but too many acquaintances, and a small retirement fund who just needs to keep busy
