By Laura Caldwell
A fresh Slate chronicles the times of Kelly McGraw, a Chicago girl who by surprise cannot bear in mind the final 5 months of her lifestyles, a time whilst she used to be dumped by way of her soon-to-be fiance and laid off by way of the corporate she idea may make her associate. crushed and pressured yet in a different way feeling terrific, she starts to gain that she has a fresh slate in existence. she will do something she desires, move at any place she desires, be something she wishes. yet what, precisely, does she wish?
Follow Kelly on a trip that comes with her seek to find what triggered her reminiscence loss, an internship with a bad-boy British photographer, a Caribbean photograph shoot, her boyfriend's wish to come crawling again and, finally, a brutal discovery that might reason her to reevaluate either her outdated and new lives.
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A fresh Slate chronicles the times of Kelly McGraw, a Chicago girl who without notice cannot take note the final 5 months of her lifestyles, a time while she used to be dumped by means of her soon-to-be fiance and laid off by way of the corporate she concept may make her companion. crushed and harassed yet differently feeling outstanding, she starts off to gain that she has a fresh slate in existence.
Extra resources for A Clean Slate (Red Dress Ink)
Well…” She nearly sighed. ” She looked at me for confirmation that I remembered the guitar lessons she took at the Old Town School of Music, and I nodded. ” “You’re writing songs now? ” “Lyrics, too. ” I asked, trying not to giggle at the name, although Laney probably wouldn’t have noticed. She looked positively dreamy. “He told me I was talented. He told me he thought my song was beautiful, and that was about three months ago. ” I was struck by how romantic their meeting was. There was something so Shakespearean about him being drawn by her song.
Was there another bank of mailboxes somewhere? No, that couldn’t be right. This was the only set, the same place I’d been getting my mail for almost a year. And then I figured out what it was. The damned management company. The company to whom I paid two hundred dollars a month so that they could refuse to repaint the garage door or fish a spoon out of my clogged sink. They’d screwed up once more. Muttering again, I strode around the side of the town houses and up the front stairs to my place. The door was tall and painted green to match the trim on the bay windows.
Parents: Sylvie and Ken McGraw, who’d had me while they were married for a very brief period and living in Fort Myers, Florida. My father was a complete shit who took off a year after my birth, and my mom reverted to her maiden name, Sylvie Custer, even though she hated it. It was too close to custard, she always said, and made her sound like some sort of pudding. Childhood: my mom worked her way from being a secretary at a TV station to a production assistant there, and a few years after that, she married Danny Rosati, a local crime boss who was the subject of an exposé she’d helped put together.