Kathleen O'Reilly - Once Upon A Mattress

Take that.

It would require more than a puny drip-drip to poke holes in her future.

She dusted off her hands and sank down in front of the spot where the TV would eventually go. She couldn’t afford a TV yet—Mark had taken theirs in the breakup.

Twenty-seven inches, right there in front of the bay window. Twenty-seven inches in approximately ten days—as soon as she got her first paycheck from MacAllister Beds, thank you very much.

She listened as Dr. Tracy calmly explained to her caller that she was kidding herself about her new boyfriend. That he would never amount to anything and the caller should dump him.

Sage advice. So thrilling to be the dumper rather than the dumpee. So where had Dr. Tracy been when Hilary was in Atlanta?

In Dallas, of course.

That was Hilary’s home now, but it didn’t feel like it. Yet.

She loved her new house, she really did. It was situated in Kessler Park, a small suburb just south of Dallas. The house was small, like Mark’s house back in Atlanta. It had wooden floors that, when polished and disinfected, had a fresh, pine scent. Okay, perhaps it was a lot like Mark’s house, but this new and improved house had three little rooms rather than four. Living room, kitchen and, as soon as she moved all the boxes, she’d even have a bedroom. Of course, it did need a little work. But she was willing to do whatever it took to start over.

A new life, a new house.

Then she took a hard look at the ceiling and sighed. And a new roof.

She thought about calling the roofer, even went and picked up the phone, but then she thought of what repairmen charged these days. Her credit card was in a world of hurt. No, she thought as she put down the phone. She’d wait out the storm, wet spot and all. Again she studied her ceiling. Really, it didn’t look that bad. If she were lucky, the storm would pass soon.

Thunder boomed and she jumped, still a little nervous about being alone. What she needed was company. She went to her would-be bedroom, rummaged through the boxes until she found the old paper box that she had treasured since her childhood. She popped open the lid and at last pulled out her friend, her confidant, her constant. The storms raged around her, and Hilary held tight to her musty, yet still pristinely preserved, stuffed Benjamin Franklin doll.

When your father was in the air force, some guy in a red cape and the likes of Barbie just didn’t cut it. Thomas Jefferson, Betsy Ross, John Wayne—those were the stuff of legends.

She padded back to the living room, feeling a little better with Benjamin at her side. This was the first time she’d truly been on her own, and although she was off to a shaky start, things would work out.

She hoped.

Hilary stared at the wise man sitting in her lap. Of course they will, won’t they, Ben?

If only it would stop raining.

An ominous creaking sounded deep in the bowels of her roof.

She didn’t want to see this.

Crack.

That made her look. One truss jutted right through the middle of her ceiling, drywall drooping like a weeping willow. Above that, there was only the dark gray sky.

And of course, rain.

Her mother had always punished her for cussing—a lady never cusses—but this time Hilary swore up and down in a manner that her father, retired Air Force Colonel Douglas Sinclair, would have approved of.

Just for good measure, she swore again.

Benjamin stared back at her, his blue eyes laughing at her behind his wire-frame spectacles.

“You keep that up, I’ll put you back in the box.”

She found the first water-removal ad in the yellow pages and picked up the phone to dial.

But there was no dial tone.

Unbelievable.

BEN SHUFFLED through the papers on his desk, not that it helped. Nine at night, and he hadn’t made it through the first diagram yet. The internals of a bed. He had been an English major, not an engineer.

The Cowboys game on TV called to him. Ben, you don’t really want to read that, do you? Come watch me.

Why did football have to have such a seductive voice? He groaned and took another sip of his cola.

No, he was not going to accept defeat at the hands of an innerspring. He propped his elbows on his desk and tried to concentrate.

Not that it helped.

MacAllister Beds wasn’t about security, it was about a mattress. And if Ben was going to succeed here, he really needed to understand how a mattress was put together.

He blew out a breath, staring at the springs.

What the hell was a helical anyway?

AFTER A THOROUGH CHECK of her closets for ax murderers, Hilary knew the dead phone line was not a plan to kill her, merely another step to wrecking her new and improved life.

With half a tank of gas, she wasn’t going far, and gas stations open in Kessler this late at night were hard to find. She found a hotel nearby, a by-the-hour establishment, but decided against it.

At two in the morning, she found her way to the familiar confines of MacAllister Beds.

Thank God. Tired and exhausted, she was ready to discover if the company’s advertising claims were true.

The office was dark and gloomy, shadows creeping along the wall. Hilary clutched her herbal-extracts pillow to her chest, letting the scents of lavender and barley soothe her senses. Her backpack was filled with tomorrow’s clothes, toiletry bag, mini-alarm clock, one breakfast bar and a new tin of mints. Only two more days until the weekend. Thank God. Maybe she could spend the time waterproofing her house.

The rain pounded, but there were no drip-drip-whoosh sounds of a roof about to collapse, merely the rather loud whirring of the ancient air-conditioning system.

The Future Products and Research Testing area was on the third floor, and she was relieved to see the old metal elevator waiting for her. They had said she could have after-hours access—anything to keep their workers happy and productive. Right now, Hilary was too exhausted to think about work. Just a few hours of sleep was all she needed, and the research testing area was the perfect place.

The elevator shuddered to a halt, and she slid back the iron gate. First she looked to make sure the hallway was empty, and then she crept toward the open glass doorway that housed the next generation of MacAllister Beds.

At last.

Inside was another long hallway lined with eight doors. Each room housed a bed, a small television set, a nightstand, and a small hospital-style bathroom. Not quite the comforts of home, but there were no leaks, no standing water, and best of all, no room charges.

Hilary wandered from room to room, examining each bed closely. Over the years, she’d learned the power of a good mattress.

Five years ago she had graduated from the University of Tampa with a degree in industrial engineering. First job out, and she started in the sleep products industry. Twelve months later, she’d discovered she loved it, even with the uninvited remarks from the occasional yuckster: sleeping on the job, or sleeping with her boss. Everyone thought they were comedians.

She finally settled on the last room at the end of the hallway, number eight. First, she set her alarm for five o’clock—didn’t want to get caught. Next, she bounced on the mattress for a moment, then kicked off her shoes and sank onto the bed.

Ah. Bliss.

For a long time, she stared at the ceiling, wondering about her roof, wondering about her job, wondering about her $9,337 Visa balance, but gradually the lavender did its job, the barley cleared her worries away, and Hilary fell into a deep sleep.

BEN LIFTED HIS HEAD off his desk and opened one eye, the morning light way too bright in his office. Immediately the hammer in his head pounded with a vengeance. Ouch. Why in a building full of beds had he chosen to fall asleep at his desk?