Good Deed Bad Deed, Marcia Morgan [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

table in her favorite coffee bar, fully engrossed in daydreaming. Regardless of her momentary disinterest in the news, and in spite of her relative youth, she regularly made herself aware of national and world events. She was certainly not politically motivated in the regular sense, believing that all politicians were talking heads who could not inherently speak truth on any subject. Asked by her parents about her interest in the news, she explained that the interest was primarily an effort to stay current with how badly those in charge were messing things up. In spite of reaching age twenty-seven, she had not quite advanced beyond the age of youthful idealism. Yet her parents took comfort in the fact that her opinions had not as yet translated into activism. Olivia’s most serious concerns usually involved wardrobe. She wondered on a daily basis whether or not she had attained the right look for whatever was in store.

She occupied a tiny flat in Soho, much to her parents’ regret. They worried that the neighborhood might not be safe enough for a young woman who had been raised in the protected environment of the countryside. Her rebellions were subtle, but effective. Long after any parental thoughts of childbearing had been abandoned, they had been blessed with Olivia. She became somewhat an object of worship, both to them and to her big brother. Ben had been her protector, the hero of her fairytale games, the one person whom she could not disappoint. Or at least she had tried to make him proud. She suspected it hadn’t happened yet, but she was trying—would try harder perhaps. Olivia looked away from the news and gazed out of the floor to ceiling windows at the neighborhood residents busying themselves with daily life. Her thoughts drifted to the memory of years spent daydreaming under the giant English oak that graced the lawn and garden of her parents’ home—her home.

Having come down with a slight case of summer lethargy, Olivia had left her job early and made the urge for coffee her first priority. She had taken a shortcut through the neighborhood park and noticed that summer was in full bloom. Bursts of color delighted the eyes of those who chose that route toward their destinations, and she was glad to have done the same. Her leisurely walk had prompted a few ideas regarding the color pallet she would recommend to the new client. The dream of having her own design business seemed as far away as ever, but she did enjoy her job. Paris McKinnon, a doting yet practical mother, had told her that in order to be taken seriously, she would need to soften her look, stop going for the outlandish, and find her self-expression in a less unconventional way. Not yet. Maybe when I turn thirty, she thought, straightening the assorted bangles on her wrists.

Olivia stopped her daydreaming and took the last swig of coffee. She closed out the newspaper and brought up her personal notebook page, where she kept the ideas related to her job. She quickly made notes on possible color schemes and then turned off her tablet. The belongings were ready to go, but she was not. Her mind wandered from thoughts of home and family to the last time she had seen Ben, now almost six months ago. They had met for dinner at a trendy Soho eatery. She had intended to treat, but had found herself a little cash-poor then mortified when informed by the waiter of her maxed out credit card. Ben had laughed and shaken his head, like he wasn’t surprised, and was only too glad to cover the bill. She had felt small, inadequate, and although her reaction wasn’t his fault, she had shut down and ruined the rest of the evening with her petulance. Off and on during the last six months she had thought of getting in touch, but ego had stopped any action. Olivia had wondered from time to time—more often recently—why he hadn’t just contacted her. But finally the realization came that it was up to her to smooth the way.

She tucked the tablet into her large bag and headed out into the afternoon. After a few stops to purchase essentials such as cheese, bread, wine and chocolate, she found herself reluctant to go home. There were days when the walls seemed to close in, when the emptiness of her flat accentuated the perceived emptiness in her life. Olivia had always been told that she was a beautiful woman, and on some level she knew it. Her mother didn’t understand why with such beauty she chose to distract from her gift with tri-colored hair, unnecessary piercings, strange outfits, and enough jewelry to weigh down even a robust pair of arms. She had insisted to her mother that the colors weren’t meant to be permanent, and she had currently opted to leave her hair as nature intended—a glossy dark copper, prone to rogue waves. Her eyes were green as a cat’s, her body lithe. She was tall, like Ben, and contrary to family opinion, she could carry off a variety of styles, from Boho to high fashion. A trip through the second-hand and vintage clothing stores was a favorite way to spend a Sunday, depending on weather. There was no doubt she had a flair for fashion; however, she had chosen to work for an interior designer, where she could exercise her love of color and fabric.

Olivia paused outside her building and sighed, trying one more time to think of somewhere else she could go, something else she could do to pass the evening. As she started up the stairs, her mobile rang. The sound was barely audible, considering the street noise and the phone’s location in the depths of her bag. She answered and was surprised to hear the name of the client to whom she had been introduced a few days prior. She wondered how Mr. Warren had obtained her number, but then realized