Текст книги "The Art of Stealing Hearts"

Автор книги: Stella London

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The Art of Stealing Hearts

(Love & Art Book One)

By Stella London

Copyright © 2015 Stella London

Cover art/design by: Perfect Pear Creative

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

CHAPTER 1

My mom taught me that art is everywhere; you just have to look. “Keep your eyes open, Grace, and you can always find the beauty,” she said, filling our small apartments with gorgeous paintings and bright colors, pointing out shapes and compositions as we walked city streets. Her love of art inspired mine, but right now my heart and head are pounding under the stress of running late, so it’s hard for me to notice anything pretty about the traffic literally standing between me and the chance of a lifetime.

“Um, excuse me?” I pipe up from the back seat of the immobile taxi cab, anxiously looking at the driver slumped in his seat. He ignores me.

I check my watch again: 8:41 am. Crap! I bite my lip to keep from yelling. Crapcrapcrap. I’m supposed to be at Carringer’s Auction House in nineteen—make that eighteen—minutes. First BART was late, and now I’m spending the last of this week’s tips to be trapped in this smelly cab, sweating under my best business outfit. My only business outfit.

After a year of dropping off resumes and talking up gallery owners and museum directors, I’d nearly given up hope of finding a job in the art world until last week when the best auction house in San Francisco called me. Carringer’s deals in the most sought-after and highly-valued art and antiquities in the world: French Impressionist paintings, Chinese ceramics, Native American head masks, Greek sculptures…I get chills just imagining the masterpieces that flow in and out of those vaults. If I’m late to this interview, the first opportunity I’ve had in months might slip away and I’ll be serving spaghetti and meatballs at my waitress gig until I permanently smell like marinara and am too old to remember the specials.

“Sir?” This time I rap insistently on the plexiglass separating me from the driver. He eyes me in the rearview mirror. “I’m super late. Is there a short cut or something you could use?”

The minute hand on the watch my mother gave me jerks forward again and we’ve gone less than a block. Why aren’t we moving?! As if the obvious answer wasn’t right outside my window, honking and spewing fumes and inching along like snails on their way into the financial district’s high rise office buildings.

The driver just laughs at me. “What do you think?”

I think you smell like someone Febreezed over a cigar shop. But it’s the number one rule of waitressing: rudeness never pays. “How much further is Gold Street?”

The cabbie shrugs. It’s 8:43.

“Is it close enough to walk?” I press him.

“Sure,” he says. “Everywhere is close enough to walk to eventually.”

Screw this. There is no possible way for me to arrive looking cool and collected as planned anyway since my makeup probably already looks like a Jackson Pollock, and I’m not going to let some stupid traffic keep me from my dream. “Here,” I say, tossing a pile of ones onto the front seat and scooting out the door. “I’ll take my chances.”

The cab driver rolls his eyes. “Maybe ten blocks,” he says. I inhale a deep breath of crisp ocean air, steady my purse on my shoulder, and start jogging.

Immediately, my sensible yet stylish heels feel like vice grips on my toes. My feet are used to day-long shifts in sneakers, and it’s hard to run in a skirt, but I can’t give up. My carefully blow-dried hair is getting wind-whipped and frizzy, and my bangs are sticking to the sweat beading on my forehead.

“Sorry! ‘Scuse me! Coming through, please!” It’s like running an obstacle course in heels.

I dodge through the crowd, trying not to think about the frazzled and sloppy impression I’m going to make. In the meantime, I force myself to focus on the beauty of this city: the long shadows of the tallest buildings, the modern architecture, the sunlight reflected and refracted off a thousand windows, the blue sky beyond. I love San Francisco, even though right now it is not loving me back.

One. More. Block. So. Close. I can almost see the brass carvings and scrolled handles on the thick auction house doors as I cross Gold Street and round the corner…and smash right into the muscular chest of a man coming from the crosswalk.

I shriek at the same time he says, “Whoa, there,” like he’s a cowboy, except he’s as posh and polished as can be. He holds his coffee cup out in front of him like a bomb and I see the brown liquid dripping down his blue tie and white shirt.

“Oh my God!” I grab some clean tissues out of my bag. “Here, let me help,” I say, reaching for his tie, but he’s already shaking it out. Luckily, most of the drink seems to be splattered on the concrete.

“It’s fine,” he says, catching my hand. “There was too much sugar in that latte anyway.” He looks at me as our fingers touch, his eyes flecked with shifting shades of blue like Van Gogh’s night sky and just as mesmerizing. I want to paint them, but then I remember my priorities.

“I’m sorry about the spill, but I really have to go.” I check my watch. “I’m running late for an important meeting.” I start to turn away, feeling guilty, but his voice stops me.

“So this is a run-by coffee-ing, then?” He has an accent. British. Sexy.

I turn back, unable to keep from checking him out again. He has a mouth that looks like it was carved by Michelangelo, perfectly shaped lips that smile at me and highlight the sharp cheekbones as sculpted as the famous David’s. It’s like his face belongs in a museum. Whoa, there. “Should I call the police?” he asks.

I smile despite my hurry, sure that my face is turning strawberry red. I’d love to stay and flirt with this gorgeous man, but there’s no time. “Look,” I say, backing away. “If you give me your card, I’ll happily pay for the cleaning bill, but I really do have to run.”

He falls in step beside me like we’re old friends. “Oh, no,” he says, loosening his tie as he easily matches my sprint. “Don’t you worry about this old thing. I’ve been meaning to donate it.” He tosses it in a trash can as we speed down the sidewalk and I can’t help but notice the triangle of smooth chest showing now that he’s unbuttoned his collar.

“It mostly missed my shirt, which is good because the public tends to frown on shirtless businessmen.”

I imagine him shirtless and almost walk into a mailbox.

“That was a joke,” he says, smiling.

Over the smell of salty sea air and car exhaust I catch the fresh, soapy clean scent of him. “Oh,” I say, avoiding a pothole, and thinking that no one would frown at that body. “Funny.”

“This meeting must be a big deal,” he says. “If you’re too distracted to converse with a handsome man.”

“It really is,” I say, separating from him just long enough to weave around a woman walking a poodle. “Life-changing actually. It’s a job interview at Carringer’s.”

“Ouch,” he says, putting a hand on his heart in mock anguish. “Not going to bite on the handsome line?”

“Oh!” Flushed, party of one, please. Thank God for the cool air. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just—”

“So you’re admitting you do think I’m handsome?”

“I admit nothing,” I say, laughing.

He grins. “My kind of girl.”

I stop to catch my breath as we arrive at the gorgeous façade of the Carringer’s Auction House building. Time to bid farewell to Mr. Charming. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed to see him go.

He smiles at me face-to-face and oh dear God, he has actual dimples. “Good luck with the interview.”

“Thanks,” I say, my gaze flicking to my watch one last time. It’s 8:54.

“You’ll knock ‘em dead,” he says. I nod, trying to paste a confident smile on my face.

I face the doors I’ve been dreaming about opening for the last week—well really, for the last twenty years—and feel hopeful again. I have five minutes to get inside and pull my shit together so I can show these people what I’m made of.

One last thing first. “Are you sure I can’t replace that tie I ruined?”

“Tell you what,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll swing by here next week and if you’re working, you can buy me a coffee.”

Because he’s gorgeous and he made me feel better and I’ll probably never see him again, I’m suddenly brave. I say, “Off the record, I would definitely call you handsome.” I wink at him and enjoy the surprise on his so-totally-more-than-handsome face as I stride away from him and toward my waiting future.

Inside, my bravery falters: this place is seriously impressive. A huge lobby with a polished marble floor, white marble columns reaching to the ceiling, and holy crap, an actual Rodin sculpture in the middle of the room. I stare at it, awed, until I notice a short, brisk-looking woman holding a clipboard. I nervously approach. “Hi, I’m Grace—”

“Bennett? You’re the last to arrive.” She guides me out of the lobby and pulls me toward the main auction hall as I fiddle with my skirt and make sure my blazer is on straight.

“Do I look okay?” I ask but she ignores me and opens the doors.

She shoos me inside where a woman in a sharp black two-piece business suit is speaking to the dozens of men and women my age already standing behind tables stacked with papers and glossy photo spreads. She stops and glares at me as I make my way to the only empty table, closest to her.

I whisper, “Sorry,” but she ignores me. The Armani-clad dude next to me who has enough gel in his hair to grease a wheel rolls his eyes.

“As I was saying,” the woman in charge continues, pausing to glare at me again, “I am Lydia Forbes, head of personnel. As far as you’re concerned, that makes me lady fate herself. For one of you, this internship will change the course of your entire life.” Thanks for the reminder. “The rest of you will continue searching for the elusive pearl to launch your career.” I think I might hyperventilate, but the rest of the candidates in their expensive clothes nod along as cool as robots.

Lydia continues as she paces the room. “In front of you, you’ll find descriptions and photographs of ten objects that represent the types of fine and decorative arts typically auctioned off here at Carringer’s. You have exactly thirty minutes to identify and appraise each piece, and then you will be interviewed.”

My pulse races like I’m still jogging, but there is excitement mixed in with my extreme anxiety. I get to look at beautiful art. And even though I’m nervous, I also know that all those years I spent studying my brains out in order to get my arts degree (while still holding down a full time job) are finally going to pay off.

Lydia stops in front of me, drums her French-tipped nails along the edge of my table. “Each of you has an excellent resume, but only one can be the best.” She gives me a little sneer as she walks away, and I feel like my heart might pound out of my chest, but I know I can do this. Mom would tell me take three deep breaths and then go. I hear her voice in my head: “Everything slows down; you can focus.”

Lydia’s sharp heels sound like cat claws on the floor. “Your time starts now.”

This is your dream, Grace. I take three deep breaths and dive in.

“Last summer I went to Italy for six weeks, but now Rome feels so provincial, you know?” a snooty-looking brunette with perfectly straight, shiny hair sitting next to me says.

I’ve been in the salon—too luxurious to be called a waiting room—outside Lydia’s office for nearly an hour. Art adorns the walls, each piece worth at least a hundred years of my salary. Worry knots in my stomach as I hear more and more of the other candidates talk about their family compounds on Cape Cod, and all their mutual friends from boarding school and Ivy League colleges.

It’s like a window onto a completely different world. They even use the word summer as a verb, as in “Where did you summer?” which is how this conversation next to me got started. The only places I’ve ever “summered” were on the patio with my mom, lemon juice in our hair for highlights, with the occasional trip to the community pool.

“Oh, Chelsea,” girl number two says. “Just because the guy you laid in Florence never called you back doesn’t mean Italy has been ruined.”

“Please, Angelica, you’re only going abroad because your daddy said you couldn’t laze around his Hamptons house again this year.”

“He forced me to apply for this internship too,” Angelica pouts. “Some old buddy of his knew someone here, blah, blah.” Blah blah is how this girl refers to connections I would kill to have. She has no idea how lucky she is. “Daddy thinks my Yale degree makes me a genius, but I know I failed that assessment just now.” She pats her blonde hair-sprayed bun. “I didn’t even know what that rod thingy was! It looked like a broken curling tong to me.”

I try not to think about how unfair it is. The art world is like this everywhere, all about who you know and which circles you run in and how rich your family is. I don’t have a celebrity neighbor or a trust fund so girls like this will never take me seriously, but hopefully that won’t matter in my final interview. I know I aced those test materials. That “rod thingy” was a 17th century German scepter, not a salon accessory, I have to force myself from saying out loud.

Lydia’s assistant with the clipboard appears as the Armani asshole from earlier exits her office. “Grace Bennett?”

I stand up and enter the room. My hands are sweaty, my throat tight. I sit down in one of the chairs across from Lydia’s glass-topped desk. Unlike the rest of the building, this room is all high-tech and glossy-looking, with only a pair of antique Chinese cloisonné vases as decor.

“Ms. Bennett,” Lydia says, leaning back in her white leather chair. Her perfectly coiffed hair doesn’t move as she looks me up and down. “It says here on your resume that you studied at… Montclair Community College.” She drawls the last two words with clear amusement. “I was unaware that one could receive a fine arts degree from a community college.”

“Not all of them offer the program,” I say, my heart sinking at this immediate obstacle. “I was lucky to find Montclair Community College after I had to drop out of Tufts.”

“You got into Tufts?” She looks surprised.

“I attended for a year on a full scholarship before…a family emergency called me back home.”

Lydia waits for an explanation, but I don’t tell her anything more. Mom getting sick, her death, it still hurts too much to talk about, and soon enough Lydia slides her reading glasses to the tip of her pointed nose and looks at the next paper in her folder. “You did very well on the assessment.”

I let out a breath I’d been holding since entering the auction house. “Oh, that’s so great to hear.” I knew it! “I just love art so much—the Baroque era is my favorite, the movement in the paintings, the energy and life in such dramatic, vivid detail—but any true masterpiece hits me, right here, you know?” I touch my heart. “It’s like a real physical response, and I just want to be around the beauty, the craft, the history of the art you have here.”

Lydia removes her glasses, almost smiles at me. Maybe this isn’t such a long shot after all. “Many of the other applicants also did well,” she says. “Tell me why you deserve this.”

I take another breath. Where do I even begin? “I would work so hard if you give me this opportunity, Ms. Forbes, harder than anyone else. I understand what an opportunity this is, and I don’t take that for granted.” Not like the trust-fund kids outside, I silently add. “Day or night, whatever Carringer’s needs. I want this job, and…honestly, it’s everything I ever wanted. I know I would be really good at it, and if you just let me—”

“Thank you, Miss Bennett,” she says, cutting me off. She stands abruptly, so I stand, too, my skirt sticking to the back of my legs. “That will be all.” She gestures to the door, where I see her assistant has been standing still as a statue during the entire interview. My cheeks burn.

A little flustered, I thank her as I walk across the room. “We’ll be in touch,” Lydia says as I exit and am flung back into the sea of rich kids and their designer duds and college connections, feeling like the biggest fish out of water ever. What just happened?

Chelsea and Angelica still sit in the same place, chatting and laughing. They’re not nervous at all, and I wonder what it must be like to not have to try so hard. To have daddy pull strings for an interview, and have your life served to you on a silver platter. As I walk past, Lydia’s assistant calls a ridiculous name that sounds like “Grandelwile Brandyblerg” and Angelica says, “Oh, he’s supposed to be really good. And his mother is on the Board of Directors here.”

“I’m not worried,” Chelsea says breezily. “You know my dad is one of their biggest clients. My name is already on the paperwork.”

Angelica rolls her eyes. “Why did I even bother?”

Chelsea sees me watching them and smirks. “None of you should have bothered. This whole thing is for appearances.” She looks me up and down and clears her throat loudly. “Speaking of appearances…” Next to her, Angelica giggles.

My heart sinks. Tears begin to burn behind my eyes and I walk away fast, quickening my pace even though my feet are blistered and sore. I have to hope that that spoiled, shiny-haired, smug girl is wrong. That this whole day wasn’t just a formality like she thinks, that I have a chance. Mom, I did my best. I cross my fingers as I head back out into the city streets.

CHAPTER 2

“Order up! Table six!”

The dinner rush at Giovanni’s Restaurant is organized chaos. I was intimidated three years ago when I first started, but now I can maneuver through the twenty-five tables and their red-and-white checkered tablecloths blindfolded and carrying a tray twice as wide as my shoulders. I may still smell like marinara, but I wear a hell of a lot less of it down my shirt now than in those early days.

I grab two steaming plates of Giovanni’s signature dish—classic spaghetti with homemade marinara and meatballs the size of your fist. The head cook Fred’s wide, smiling face appears in the window to the kitchen. “How’d the big interview go today?”

“How do you know about that? I only told Nona.”

“You answered your own question, there, missy,” he says and laughs. “You know her.”

Great. “So everyone knows?”

“Pretty much!”

Lonnie, a line cook, shouts, “You did great for sure, Gracie!” A chorus of encouragement from the kitchen reminds me why I love this place, but also makes me worried about disappointing the people who have become my family.

“It was just an interview,” I say, placing a sprig of parsley on each plate.

“You’re the smartest girl out there, Grace,” Fred says, draining a giant pot of linguine.

“Thanks, but it’s really competitive, and connections matter…”

“You got the best connection there is—to our family here, right?” He puts up a plate of pasta primavera and a meatball sub. “Order up! Table two!” Fred winks at me. “It’s in the bag, kid.”

I deliver our prize meatballs—voted best in the city for the last five years, a recipe Giovanni himself brought from Italy—to a couple obviously on their first date.

“Fresh parmesan?” I grate the cheese as they watch. “Buon Appetito!”

We’re always busy, and normally the fast pace of this restaurant is enough to distract me, but tonight I can’t get away from Carringer’s or my anxiety. Just after I set down a bread basket for the new family at table ten, Nona’s familiar voice calls me over. “Grace, you get over here and give me a hug!”

Nona and Giovanni are the original owners. They’re in their seventies now, and though technically retired, still spend most nights at the center table drinking grappa and holding court over their own private Little Italy in North Beach, San Francisco: greeting customers, talking up the food (Giovanni) and squeezing cheeks and distributing lollipops (Nona). Everyone loves them almost as much as the food.

Nona puts her arm around my waist and hugs me in. “This,” she says to a table full of her friends, “is my Gracie.”

“Hello, Gracie,” the ladies chorus in unison.

Nona beams like a proud grandmother. “You should see this one’s paintings! A real talent, like her mother.” Nona squeezes my cheeks. “She’s going to be famous someday.”

I fake a smile I hope looks real. “Thanks, Nona,” I say, taking a step back.

“She’s shy,” Nona stage-whispers to the table and the women all laugh loudly.

“Nice to meet you all.” I kiss Nona on the top of her head. “Gotta get back to making your guests happy.”

The weight of all the expectations and cautious hope is starting to get to me, so I take my break and head through the back door to the alley outside. If I smoked, I would totally want a cigarette right now. I know it’s stupid, but I check my phone. No calls, of course. “What am I going to do?” I whisper, looking up at the rolling banks of fog turned yellow by the streetlamps.

“Do about what, dollface?”

“Shit!” I jump and turn around to see Cousin Eddie, a fast-talking wannabe charmer ten years older than me and a lot less focused, unless he’s at the gym or talking to a girl. “I thought I was alone, Eddie.”

He emerges from where he was smoking in the shadows. “You can be alone with me anytime, you know that.” The words are genuine and heartfelt despite his flirting, which is just second nature to him. His leather jacket creaks as he leans closer. “What do you need to fix your little problem?”

“Nothing you can help with, unfortunately.”

He spreads his arms as if he were welcoming me into a hug, and I think about the mysterious, and don’t forget utterly gorgeous, British guy/work of art from the run by coffee-ing this morning. I’d gladly step into his open arms. “Come on,” Eddie says. “Tell Cousin Eddie what’s wrong.”

“Thanks, Eddie, really.” I pat his shoulder in an obviously platonic way. “But I’m fine.”

He smooths the tops of his spiky gelled hair and grins in a Joey Tribiani how-you-doin’ kind of way. “In that case, come dancing with me tonight. You’ll feel better than fine—”

“Eddie, is that you?” Nona walks out and pats him on the back. “Good, you are here. Go inside and help carry those wine cases, yes?”

“If you change your mind, dollface,” Eddie winks as he goes into the restaurant.

“Shoo!” Nona says and turns to me, shaking her head. “That kid…” She looks up at me from under her dyed red bangs. “You doing okay, sweetheart? You know Eddie’s harmless.”

“I know, Nona. It’s not that. I guess I’m just nervous about the internship.” I glance at my phone again.

“They will call, Gracie. They will.”

I say the thing I’ve been thinking since before I even got dressed this morning. “But what if I’m just not good enough? What if I’ll never be good enough?”

“Oh, honey.” She hugs me.

I hold back tears. “I’ve been trying and trying all year and this is my one and only shot. No one else was even interested.”

“You are strong and talented,” Nona says. “But even more than that, you are determined, just like your mom.” She sits on an overturned wooden crate. “I will never forget the first time I saw your mother, and you. You must have been about two years old, and you were throwing a real fit, screaming and thrashing in your stroller. Your mom came in, desperate, and asked for milk. Giovanni took one look at you and told her we had something better. He brought out a plate of cannoli—sweet cream calmed my Carmella when she was a baby—and you shut right up and stuffed your face.” She laughs her rolling guffaw and I can’t help but join in, even though I’ve heard this story a hundred times. It always makes me feel close to my mom.

“Your mom was so grateful, even though you were covered in sugar and crumbs, because you finally stopped crying. After that, she visited us every time you two came into the city. I learned how strong she was, how hard she worked on her own to give you a good safe home. She did not once give up, and you have that, too.”

Now I can’t help the tears. “I wish she could be here,” I whisper. “I wish—”

Nona reaches up to touch my cheek. “She loved you, Gracie. And love never dies.”

At the end of my shift I give the kitchen staff their share of my tips and leave to another round of “Way to go” and “You’re gonna be a star” and “Don’t forget us when you’re famous” plus a kiss from Nona. “Don’t you worry,” she says as I head home – right up the stairs behind Giovanni’s to the apartment on the top floor.

I live right above the restaurant, which has been my residence for the last year. It smells like Italian food all the time, but the di Fiores offered this place to me at an unbelievably good price when I needed a new place to stay. Just another selfless thing they’ve done for me. Giovanni said it was so I would never have an excuse to be late, but I’ve only ever been late once and I know how much Nona worried every time I had to leave the restaurant past midnight and take the bus home. She really is like an adoptive mother, and I am so fortunate to have been taken in by this loving—if a little interfering and lot boisterous—second family.

I can still hear them laughing below me, a comforting din of voices, and I start getting ready for bed. Nona and Giovanni’s daughter Carmella will have closed up the deli she started next door, joined by her husband Fred and a few other cooks for a late night snack and wine. I have a standing invitation to join them, and when I do, they treat me like one of their own.

I’m lucky. After Mom died, I felt like I had no one. I was so lost and lonely. And then the di Fiores gave me even more than a job, more than a family, they gave me another chance at my dreams. Without the money I made from Giovanni’s, I never could have paid for college—even the community college fancy-pants Lydia scoffed at—and without their support and encouragement, I never would have been able to continue studying and making art.

I brush my teeth and stare at one of my mother’s paintings. A landscape of Oakland’s hills, the rolling green grasses and trees seeming to come alive and move in an invisible breeze. This apartment is small, but it’s homey, just like the apartments I lived in growing up. My dad left when Mom was pregnant with me, so it was just the two of us and her single working mom’s salary, but she never made me feel like we lacked.

I learned tricks from my mom to spread beauty without bucks. I have a few small potted plants near the windows for life, and I used lots of bright colors and fabrics for texture all around the studio. I spit out toothpaste and place the brush back in its holder, which is shaped like an ocean wave. “It’s the little things”—like my mom always said—and it’s something I have taken to heart.

My mom’s love lives on, and I know what Nona said is true, but I miss seeing Mom laugh and her smile, the way she lit up when we visited museums in the city on their free days, how she would stand in front of paintings or sculptures for hours.

“Look at this line, Grace, the way it splits the light into shadow.” She taught me to find the point of energy in the piece, where all the lines seemed to flow from or to. “That’s where the meaning is.”

I slip into my pajamas and admire all the different prints on the walls, pieces I picked up in Chinatown and from street vendors at art fairs. Mom loved art for art’s sake, not because it was famous. She taught me to trust that if I was moved, it was enough.

Most of all, I miss watching my mother work in our living room, an old sheet draped over our thrift store furniture, the look on her face when she painted: concentrated bliss. I like to think that’s the way my face looks, too, when I’m in the zone. It’s been a while since I felt inspired. I haven’t been able to paint since she died, like her leaving stole the joy from my work too.

My phone dings just as I’m getting under the covers. I must have missed a call while I was cleaning up after my shift ended. I grab it off the night stand and peek at the glowing screen.

You have one new message…

I go to my voicemail and press the play button, my heart in my throat as I listen. It’s Lydia’s assistant from the auction house!

“Miss Bennett? Congratulations. Please arrive tomorrow at 9 am to start your new position.”

Yes!

I listen to the message three times in a row, just to be sure I’m not dreaming, smiling so wide my face starts to hurt. I got it! After all the work, all the worry, I finally have my break.

I lay back and let my imagination run riot. First this internship, and then who knows? With this job on my resume, and enough real-life experience, I could become an appraiser or buyer at one of the most prestigious and respected auction houses in the world. No more paycheck to paycheck living. Things are finally looking up for me.