Free Director's Cut by Alton Gansky

side of the pool, yet I felt dirtier after shaking Franco Zambonelli’s hand.

Chapter 8
    T he hardest part about travel is coming home. No matter how short the trip, say to Sacramento, and no matter how mundane the task, say a mayors’ meeting with the governor, it was always difficult to come back to a desk backed up with work. I strolled into my office at ten minutes to eight. I had been gone over a week, but it felt longer.
    I hesitated at the door between Floyd’s office and my own. On most days, I love my job. Coming to the office was a joy. Like today, I would enter, sit behind a large cherry desk—a gift from my husband—read the Santa Rita Register and the Los Angeles Times to get my brain in gear, then dive into the work.
    This morning I needed an extra moment. From the threshold I could see the number of files demanding my attention was twice what I expected it to be and three times what I wanted it to be. A stack of pink While You Were Out slips rested near the phone.
    Time to get to work.
    I set my purse inside one of the desk drawers and then glanced through the files. The city manager had sent up a file on a possible expansion of a park in the center of the city; the city attorney had forwarded the notification of a lawsuit against the city that had been dropped; Tess Lawrence had typed up and delivered her version of the city council meeting she chaired while I was gone; and the local redevelopment agency filed a report on cost estimates to refurbish the downtown library. There was a memo from our Local Agency Formation Commission; a letter from a citizens group against special city taxes; and a request to speak to the local chamber of commerce.
    The telephone messages were many but none urgent and for that I was thankful.
    I was tired.
    After “Frankie Z.” had left—I still had to laugh at the moniker—Catherine, Nat, Floyd, and I visited a little longer. I broke out some pound cake and anointed the servings with Cool Whip. Catherine declined with a comment about her need to fit into costumes. Several of my “costumes” had stretch waists, so I ate my portion without guilt. I figure swimming while fully dressed allowed me some reward.
    Floyd left soon after, and Catherine went to bed. Nat and I talked for another fifteen minutes before I walked her to the van. At last alone and in bed, I settled in for sleep that wouldn’t come for another hour and a half. My body was ready, but my brain still had hashing to do. I hate nights like that.
    Now I was back in familiar territory ready to take on the day’s challenges.
    â€œCoffee?”
    I looked up and saw Fritzy standing in my door. She held a large cup.
    â€œDid you make it?” I asked.
    â€œOf course.” Her smile threatened to touch her ears.
    â€œIn that case, I’ll take a great big, steaming mug.”
    â€œLucky for you, I just happen to have one here.” She stepped into my office and placed the cup on my desk. “Welcome home, Madam Mayor.”
    I thanked her. Fritzy is an institution at city hall. A gray-haired woman with ever youthful eyes, she had become a dear friend. I had always admired the way she handled the reception desk and the way she made others feel welcome and valued. This past January she endured a horrible tragedy. I was thrown into the mix. I watched her weather the storm with the kind of strength poets wrote about. The dark time forged a new bond between us, one that neither my role as her boss or our age difference could dilute.
    I took the cup and sniffed the rich aroma. The woman knew how to make coffee. “You’re the best, Fritzy. I’m thinking of adopting you.”
    â€œI’m more trouble than I’m worth. Is there anything I can do for you?”
    â€œI don’t think so. I’m just getting my head back in the game. Did Floyd cause you any problems?”
    She laughed. “Oh no. He’s a wonderful boy. He did wander