Sometimes he would sit at his desk and recapture his morning fantasy. They worked near each other-Sandy could see Bob’s office from his door-and they attended the same church, yet they’d had only a few interactions over the years. “I’m sure you’ve entered my office just so you can see what the world’s most handsome CEO looks like up close.” That’s the type of thing Bob would say-not that Sandy knew him well. He gave to charity, and he didn’t brag around the office if he traveled on a private jet. Bob was wealthy, but he didn’t flaunt it. He could show friends pictures of himself sitting at Hemingway’s desk in Cuba he could entertain employees with stories about Costa Rica, where the company had planted its own crops to better control the quality of the papayas and pineapples that make the Collin Street Bakery’s fruitcakes so special. Thanks to his successful father, the previous owner of the fruitcake factory, Bob had traveled the world. ![]() But even if he didn’t, people would have held him in high regard. And of course he did, because Bob ran the bakery. “He had zero personality.” He seemed destined to be thought of as that “little ol’ bitty toothpicky” man, as another resident put it, with droopy eyes, a weak chin, and the personality of an aged basset hound.Įver since he’d arrived in town-shoot, probably his whole life-Sandy Jenkins had felt invisible. “His wife was a hoot and a holler,” said one woman in Corsicana. People around town said they just couldn’t get him talking at a party. He knew what they whispered behind his back. Ever since he’d arrived in town-shoot, probably his whole life-Sandy Jenkins had felt invisible. He remembered important anniversaries, he wished them happy birthday, and he was quick to compliment haircuts and new outfits. People were always polite, but they’d never really warmed up to him, despite his attempts. He braced himself for the yeasty scent of baked bread and for small talk with his co-workers. Putting that fantasy on hold, he grabbed his weathered briefcase and entered the front door of the best-known business in Corsicana: the Collin Street Bakery, which, if you didn’t know, is the world’s most renowned purveyor of fruitcakes. He’d spent the full ten-minute commute imagining that he was driving a newer car instead of his five-year-old Lexus. He pulled into his parking space at 7:55 a.m. He was an accountant, just ten years shy of collecting his social security so he could retire, and if he stood in front of his closet any longer, he’d be late for work. It had the most opulent rooms and, anyway, that’s where all the wealthy people went. In Corsicana he liked Corley Funeral Home best. Funeral homes didn’t use chintzy stuff, at least not the good ones. Rather, he coveted the sharp outfits, the rich backdrop, the immaculate black cars, the eloquence and reverent tones. It’s true that he’d often dreamed of becoming the director of a funeral home, but his fixation had little to do with death. He picked out a pair of slacks and then studied his selection of polo shirts from Dillard’s and Foley’s, pondering the same choice he faced just about every day: black or gray.ĭespite his color preferences, he wasn’t macabre, not really. Then he ate breakfast, showered, slipped on his Rolex, surveyed his close-cropped hair for any sign that it was getting too long and kinky, like his father’s, and wandered over to his closet. After returning to bed, he and his wife, Kay, watched Good Morning America (he liked Robin Roberts). One morning in December 2004, he slid his legs out of bed, petted his miniature dachshund, Maggie, and stumbled downstairs to make coffee he preferred it strong and black and poured into a fine china cup. ![]() He’d play those fantasies in his head until, at 6:35, he placed them on pause, for later. Maybe he’d be stepping off a private plane, squinting into the distance at a mountain range maybe he’d be strutting down a street in some exotic locale while people smiled deferentially. He imagined a life filled with travel and prestigious pursuits, scenes set to soaring arias or violins. In those quiet moments, he would lie there and fantasize. This was one of the best parts of his day, a time when life seemed full of possibility. On most days, around 6:30, Sandy Jenkins would wake up without an alarm and linger for just a few minutes in silence.
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