A Bolt from the Blue. Maggie Wells

entry. His ex-wife had hated these offices. She’d begged him to let her update them, but he’d never seen the point. His clients never stepped foot in them. People didn’t wander in off the street looking for an electrician. In the end, he’d lured her away from the thought of redecorating this space in favor of giving their family room a complete overhaul. When they sold the house in Forest Glen and moved to the suburbs, she left every stick of furniture behind, claiming the pieces she’d needed so desperately just a couple years before wouldn’t “go” in the new house. The house she had to have, then walked out of one day and never looked back.

      Not even to see her daughter.

      Tossing the container into the ancient fridge in the kitchen/supply closet, he rid himself of thoughts of his ex by exhaling out a loud, gusty breath. He kept blowing until his lungs were completely empty, then filled them again by inhaling slow and steady through his nose. For the most part, he didn’t think the family counseling he’d forced Kelly to take part in after her mother left had done much to give his daughter clarity or comfort, but he had to admit the breathing tricks the shrink suggested kept him from going off the deep end a number of times. These days, he did them almost reflexively.

      Stress was bad for the health, right?

      Logically, Mick knew at the half-century mark that he wasn’t anywhere near being old, but the mailings from retirement associations were hard to ignore. There was nothing like the news of a classmate’s a heart attack to bring a guy’s mortality into sharp focus. He might not be old, but he sure as shit wasn’t young. And dating and all the B.S. surrounding it—those were games best left to those with fewer clicks on the meter. His daughter might like to play with fire, but he’d spent his life trying to contain the sparks he generated.

      Paperwork proved to be the ticket. Updating accounting software and gathering receipts proved to be mind-numbing enough to make the morning fly by. Hiring Stevie and Pete had been Kelly’s idea, and he had to admit, the move had been a good one. Until they came on, he hadn’t realized how far in over his head he was on the business end. Though technically his second cousins, or something, the boys had called him Uncle Mick their whole lives. Stevie was a year older than Kelly and Pete a year younger, but both boys had been drifting along in dead-end jobs before his daughter stepped in and set the three of them on course.

      Getting the Tweedle Brothers, as he liked to call them, through apprenticeship had been fairly arduous. In truth, the process consumed what patience parenthood hadn’t claimed, but they were certified now and gaining confidence all the time. As a matter of fact, the boys got through the morning appointments with only four phone calls between them. This was progress. At this rate, he might be able to take a full week of vacation in a year or five. And who knows, maybe in another decade or three, he’d actually think of retiring. The sky was the limit.