Free Mad River Road by Joy Fielding Page B

Rogers was. She lived at the far end of the street, nine houses down, and waved to Emma whenever she saw her. Several times she’d tried to start a conversation, but Emma had always brushed her off and rushed away. “Wait a minute,” Emma called out now, pushing open both sets of doors and searching the street for the misguided mail carrier. But he’d already turned the corner and disappeared down the next street, and she wasn’t about to go chasing after him. She’d return Lily Rogers’s mail to her this afternoon when she went to pick up her son at school. There was no rush. No one was in a big hurry to be rejected.
    Emma lifted up the letter of rejection to glance at the story beneath. “Last Woman Standing,” she read. By Lily Rogers.
    Pauline Brody is thinking of licorice sticks. The long, twisted, red ones that her older sister used to tell her weren’t really licorice at all, but some kind of plastic, full of horrible red dye that would give her cancer when she grew up
.
    Yuck, Emma thought, returning the story to the envelope and dropping Lily’s mail to the floor as she retrievedthe morning paper, then carried it into the kitchen at the rear of the house. The sun poured in through the large window above the sink, spotlighting the smooth Formica counter that ran between the small white refrigerator and the oven. There was no dishwasher, no microwave, no fancy grill, for which Emma was almost grateful. She didn’t need any of those things. She’d had them during her marriage to Dylan’s father. She didn’t miss them. Hell, as long as she had her Mr. Coffee machine, she was happy. She rinsed out her mug and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee from the pot she’d made earlier that morning. Well, maybe not so fresh, she thought, taking a long sip and sitting down at the kitchen table, spreading the want ads out before her. Enough procrastinating. She needed a job.
    Emma groaned, leaning back in her chair and stretching toward the drawer beside the sink. She couldn’t do this alone. She needed fortification. And there it was, at the back of the drawer, hidden among the dishtowels and cleaning rags: a pack of Salems, complete with a half-full book of matches. Talk about things that would give you cancer when you grew up, Emma thought, withdrawing a cigarette from the middle of the pack. She lit it and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. There were only so many things she could worry about, and the truth was that Emma loved smoking. She loved everything about it—the taste of the tobacco on her tongue, the slow burning sensation that traveled up her throat, the exquisite pressure in her lungs as they filled with smoke, the deeply satisfying release of that smoke back into the air. Emma didn’t care what the experts said. Nothing that made you feel this good could possibly be that bad.
    Of course, she’d once felt the same way about men.
    And then there was her promise to Dylan. Yes, I swear I’ll stop smoking. No, I’m not going to die. Yes, that was my last cigarette ever. No, I’ll never have another one. I promise. See? Mommy’s throwing out all her nasty cigarettes. There. All gone. Stop crying. Please, baby, stop crying.
    She’d have to open some windows before he got home and air the room out, brush her teeth. Fifteen strokes, top and bottom, she thought with a sad smile, picturing Dylan going through his nightly ablutions. God, what was she going to do with that child?
    “What am I going to do with me?” she asked, scanning the list of jobs under
General Help Wanted
.
    A BLING BLING DEAL, the first heading began.
    Looking for a cool job? Great atmosphere and pay are waiting for you
.
    “Sounds good to me,” Emma said, reading the rest.
    Fourteen F/T marketing reps needed for expanding marketing co. No telemarketing
.
    “What in the world is an F/T marketing rep?” Emma asked, taking another deep drag of her cigarette and perusing the rest of the page.
    A travel operator position (22 new