Eleven

Closed in Mia’s office, Nell sweated over facts, figures, reality, and possibilities.

She liked the possibilities best, as they included a secondhand computer with all the capabilities she required, an attractive sales kit, professional business cards, a cozy yet functional home office, and a commercial-grade food processor.

The fact was, she needed all of these things, and several more, in order to create a viable, reasonably profitable business.

Her figures proved she could make this her reality if she settled for a reality without any frills—which included food, drink, and clothing—for approximately twelve months.

As she saw it, her choices were to live like a mole for about a year, or to do without the professional tools that would help her build her business.

Living like a mole wasn’t so bad, she mused. She’d done essentially that for months before she’d come to the island. If she hadn’t weakened and frittered away money on wind chimes and sandals and earrings, she wouldn’t have remembered how much fun it was to fritter away money in the first place.

Now it had to stop.

By her calculations she could, provided Marge at Island Realty was patient enough, scrape up the money for the computer within three weeks. She would need several hundred more, of course, for the printer, the phone line, the business license, the office supplies. Once she was set up, she could design and generate the sales kits and menus right on the desktop.

With a sigh, she sat back, combed her hands through her hair. She’d left out the uniform. She could hardly cater the Macey affair in jeans and a T-shirt, or a sexy little halter. She needed good black slacks, a crisp white shirt, sensible but classy black shoes.

She looked up when Mia walked in.

“Hi. I’ll get out of your way.”

“No need.” Mia waved her back. “I just need to check something in the September catalog.” She plucked it off a shelf, flipped through while watching Nell over the pages. “Financial worries?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Vibes.”

“They’re not worries so much as obstacles of varying heights. I hate admitting I’m taking on too much too fast.”

“And why is that? Not hating it, but why do you say you’re taking on too much?” Mia asked as she sat, stretched out like a cat on a hearth rug.

“A few side jobs, some boxed lunches, one major party, and here I am designing logos and business cards, trying to squeeze out money for a computer when I can easily keep things organized in a spiral notebook. I need to rein myself in.”