by Francis Ray
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Life Takes a Turn
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
Reading Group Guide
Also by Francis Ray
Copyright
LIFE TAKES A TURN
Life brings on changes from time to time
Things once before no longer mine.
We often have no choice in what lies ahead
The turns of our lives, we often dread.
Although, life is not promised to you or me
For just this moment God, let it be.
Each day that goes by
Each month I didn’t cry.
A year has come and now I see
God allowed The Turning Point of my life to satisfy me.
Each day a little longer
Each moment a bit stronger.
Time passes by you see
God allows me, to be set free.
Joy comes within to mend
Faith becomes my true friend.
I will reclaim like before what’s mine
It will be better—Like the First Time.
—Valerie Thomas Nesmith
Founder of Read! Write! Celebrate!
In honor of Francis Ray
Poem created: October 28, 2003 & November 1, 2003
CHAPTER ONE
The casualities were running high.
With one eye on the phone on her desk, Claire Bennett sat hunched in her cubicle on the second floor of Middleton Corporation running a diagnostic on the PC she’d just repaired. Helping troubleshoot and repair the thirteen hundred and fifty-two computers at Middleton meant she was always busy, but it also meant she had job security in her hometown of Charleston, South Carolina.
At least it had in the past.
Her fingers stumbled, hitting the wrong key. She clenched her hands in an effort to still the sudden tremor. Surrounding her was an eerie quietness instead of the usual lively debate about the airheads who perpetually screwed up the computers—the otherwise intelligent people who used their CD holders as coasters or spilled soft drinks or coffee onto the keyboards—the muted sounds of no less than three different radio stations, the clatter of computer keys. None of that was happening today. It was as if the entire floor that housed the technical support team of Middleton held its collective breath. Waiting.
Waiting to see who would be next.
Claire’s stomach muscles clenched. Please, not again, she silently prayed. But she had prayed the last time, to no avail. She put her head down as anguish swept through her. She couldn’t lose this job. She couldn’t. Not when she was finally seeing her way out of the financial hole she’d dug for herself. But, no matter what, she’d never regret the decisions she’d made to make her parents’ life easier. They’d never stopped encouraging her, believing in her, loving her. Helping her older brother, Derek, was another matter entirely.
Just last week Derek had called from Orlando to say he needed a loan to get his car repaired so he could get to work. Even as she wired him the three hundred dollars she could ill afford, she knew she’d never see a penny of it, just as she’d never seen any of the other money she’d “loaned” him over the years. She just hoped and prayed he’d finally grow up and learn to be self-sufficient. Their parents were gone and it was just the two of them. He was her brother and she loved him in spite of his faults.
The shrill ring of the phone startled her, snapping her head up. Her heart thudded. Her mouth dried. She thought of her mother’s enormous medical bills that she was still trying to pay off, the gutters that needed replacing on the house, and all the other things she never seemed to have enough money for. She continued to stare at the receiver, debating whether she should pick it up, before realizing it would do little good to ignore the call.
Rubbing her sweaty palm on her khaki slacks, she inched her hand forward. “Tech service, Claire Bennett speaking.”
“Claire, please come into my office.”
Her breath caught in her throat when she heard her immediate supervisor’s tired voice. It remained that way long after the annoying drone in her ear indicated he’d hung up.
For a moment she couldn’t move. Then, as if every movement was an effort, she replaced the receiver and stood on legs that refused to stop shaking.
She left her cubicle by rote, her steps slow and deliberate, her gaze fixed on the door at the end of the room as she passed the shell of empty cubicles in her department—the work area of terminated employees who had already fallen to the company’s cutback as it tried to save itself from bankruptcy. Desperate to survive, Middleton was cutting its work force by twenty-five percent over the next four months.
She’d worked in this department for two years, had been to coworkers’ weddings and baby showers, yet no one spoke as she passed. She could feel their eyes on her and well imagine their thoughts. They felt sorry for her; all were glad it wasn’t them. She had been one of the thankful ones yesterday, and thirteen days before. Now, her luck might have run out.
Since Samuel’s office was only two doors down, it didn’t take long for her to reach her destination. Swallowing the growing knot in her throat, she knocked softly.
“Come in.”
The brass knob felt cold against her sweaty palm as she twisted it and entered. Samuel, big, burly and badly in need of a shave and haircut, sat with his arms on his desk. An inch from his clasped hands was a thick white envelope, easily seen since his usually cluttered desk was bare. Lord, how she wished she could turn back the clock so that the hardwood surface would be that way again.
“Cla—” he began.
“I work hard,” she blurted, as if that would stall the inevitable. Her hands outstretched, she hurried toward him, determined to make him listen. “Please, Samuel, I need this job.”
“Claire—”
“I come in early and take the calls for the weekend no one wants.” It didn’t matter that she had nothing to do on weekends and no one special in her life. It only mattered that she needed every penny to stay afloat financially. “You know you can depend on me to work any shift. I don’t have—”
“Don’t you think the others who stood where you’re standing have said the same?” he asked her, his usually laughing blue eyes tired. “Don’t make this harder on either of us. It�
�s not my call. Your work is exemplary and it says so in here.” Picking up the envelope he handed it to her. “Due to realignment your position had been designated as one that is expendable.”
“I’ll take a cut in salary, a lesser job, anything,” she said, her voice frantic.
“They all would.” The envelope didn’t waver.
Her stomach churning, Claire’s fingers closed around the envelope. This couldn’t be happening to her. Not again. It wasn’t fair. But as she listened to Samuel tell her to clear out her desk by the end of the day, to leave her company-issued cell phone, and continued with the list of items that identified her as an employee of Middleton Corporation, she was forced to admit that she was wrong. It was happening.
There was a roaring in her head. She saw his mouth move, but could no longer distinguish the words. All she could think of was that she stood to lose everything. After two years with Middleton she was once again caught in the downsize crunch that had left her jobless almost three years ago.
For the second time in her life she was being fired.
* * *
On the third floor of Middleton Corporation, Brooke Dunlap sat behind her sleek desk of chrome and glass playfully flicking the heart on the eighteen-karat gold bracelet encircling her left wrist. A winsome smile curved her sensual lips and lit her beautiful face as she thought of her future husband, Randolph Peterson III. The list of prospective clients she was scheduled to call that day was the furthest thing from her mind.
Randolph was the man she had been looking for. She’d always said she’d marry a rich man and Randolph was certainly that. Third generation banker, his family was loaded and connected all the way to the governor’s mansion in her hometown of Columbia.
Her perfectly French-manicured nail circled the gold heart. The bracelet proved he hadn’t forgotten her while on a banking assignment in London for the past five months. She had to admit she had begun to have a few doubts because he hadn’t flown home to see her. The arrival of the bracelet by special delivery yesterday quieted any fears she might have had. He cared about her. When they’d talked on the phone last night he’d indicated he would be coming home in a month or so and that he had a surprise for her.
Leaning back in the leather chair that conformed perfectly to her petite body, Brooke extended her slim fingers and imagined a flawless five-karat A-1 diamond on the third finger instead of the peridot birthstone ring her parents had given her on her sixteenth birthday. Randolph’s surprise had to be an engagement ring.
Of course, she’d tender her resignation immediately and plan the fabulous society wedding she’d dreamed about since she was seven years old. She wouldn’t miss her job or most of the people one iota. There was too much fighting and crap in the corporate world. If she hadn’t been so certain she’d find a successful man to marry, she’d have given up and gone back home long ago.
One person in particular she’d be happy to see the last of was her snippy supervisor, Opal Severs. The old biddy was forever on Brooke’s case about some nonsense. Then there was all the extra work because of the layoffs. Her parents were concerned about her job, but Brooke had reassured them. She was the manager of her department and brilliant in what she did. No way were the big guys going to fire her.
The phone on her neat desk rang and she picked it up. “Brooke Dunlap.”
“Brooke, come into my office immediately.”
Brooke’s lips thinned with irritation on hearing Opal’s crisp voice. Not even eleven o’clock and the old crone was already on her case. “Certainly.”
Standing, Brooke picked up her alligator-bound notebook and gold pen. Each time Opal had called Brooke into her office since the layoffs began, the reason had been to assign Brooke more work.
Leaving her office, Brooke smoothed her hand over the side of her rose and navy St. John knit. She could just imagine the jealousy on Opal’s austere face when she saw the new couture dress. Opal’s problem. Brooke enjoyed having the best her straining credit cards could afford.
Stopping before the door with Opal’s name and position engraved on a gold plate at eye level, Brooke toyed with the idea of staying and taking the spiteful woman’s job, then just as quickly dismissed it. Being Mrs. Randolph Peterson III was the only position Brooke wanted. She rapped softly on the door.
“Come in.”
Brooke blinked. Opal actually sounded happy. She usually wore a perpetually sour expression as if she found no joy in life and wanted everyone around her to feel the same. Opening the door, Brooke was even more surprised to see Opal, legs crossed and arms folded, leaning against the front of her desk instead of sitting behind it in a position of authority, as was her practice. She wore one of the mannish suits she favored, this one a dull gray with a cream-colored blouse that did nothing to complement the older woman’s dark complexion or her thin frame.
“Yes?” Brooke inquired.
Her smile widening, Opal reached behind her and picked up a white envelope. “You’ve been terminated. Effective immediately.”
Brooke blinked, too shocked to do anything but stare at her manager.
Opal continued, her voice sickeningly gleeful. “You’re to clear out your desk and turn in your cell phone—which I know you’re using for personal calls—your laptop that is probably loaded with personal e-mail, your pager, your calling card, and bring all your accounts to me. You have two weeks severance pay and insurance for thirty days. Let’s see, there was something else.” She tapped the envelope against her narrow chin as if deep in thought. “Oh, yes. The company’s credit card.”
Terminated. She couldn’t be. Not when she had the best sales record in the firm. She’d brought in more new accounts than anyone.
Rage worked its way through the shock and hurt. Somehow Opal was behind this. Only the smug expression on the other woman’s face allowed Brooke to keep her anger in check. She wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.
Her eyes saying all the things she couldn’t, Brooke crossed the room. Opal’s triumphant expression turned to weariness. Dispassionately, Brooke watched the other woman gulp. It took every ounce of willpower to gently remove the envelope from Opal’s fingers instead of snatching it and cramming it down her scrawny throat.
Going to the door, Brooke opened it, then turned to speak for the first time, “When you dig a ditch for someone, make sure you’re not digging one for yourself. Sales will decline and guess whose head will roll next.” She had the satisfaction of seeing uneasiness cross Opal’s face. “I’ll survive and be happy. You’ll never do either.”
Closing the door, Brooke returned to her office in a daze, the envelope clutched against her chest. Two weeks severance pay wouldn’t put a tiny dent in her bills, pay the rent on her condominium, or on her new silver Jag. She spent money as fast as she made it. There was nothing saved. Her checking account was a holding place for her creditor’s money.
Brooke shuddered, then sank into her chair. A picture filled her mind. Her, clutching a rusty shopping cart filled with her beloved espresso machine and a pile of her designer clothes, as she begged for change on the streets of Charleston.
* * *
There was nothing left to pack.
Claire glanced around her cubicle, as icy fear twisted through her. It was time to leave. She’d already said goodbye to her few friends and turned in everything. She knew she was putting off picking up the box containing her personal belongings as if she expected Samuel to rush back in and say it had all been a mistake. She wasn’t being terminated. She had a job. A life.
Fighting tears, fighting misery, she picked up the box, its weight pitifully light. There were only a couple of family pictures, the radio she’d had since college, a black mug with the name of her college in gold letters she’d used to hold odds and ends. Not much to show for two years. For some reason that made her feel even sadder.
She was thirty-nine years old, had worked since she was thirteen, and all she had to show for it were some odds and ends. All her life she’d
been taught by her parents that if you worked hard, you could accomplish anything. The American dream wasn’t just for the rich or for white people: it was for everyone.
Her parents had been wrong.
Her hands clutched the box closer and she turned to leave. She’d only gone a short distance when her steps faltered and she turned. Every person in the room stood outside their workstation watching her. Tears sparkled in a few of their eyes. They’d been a team, an extended family.
She swallowed repeatedly before she could manage to speak past the lump in her throat. “I’ll miss all of you,” she finally managed.
A chorus of “good luck” and “take care of yourself” came back to her. Nodding, she continued toward the door, very afraid that luck was something she didn’t have.
On the elevator, she punched in three, then avoided the eyes of the two men in business suits. Head still tucked, feeling an odd sense of embarrassment that she hadn’t been able to keep her job, she stepped off the elevator as soon as the door slid open, then headed down the brightly lit hallway. She had one more goodbye. Brooke Dunlap.
They’d met six months ago and Claire had immediately liked Brooke. She hadn’t treated her as subservient as some in upper level management were prone. Brooke hadn’t stopped chatting and joking the entire hour that Claire was there repairing the computer. She was everything Claire wasn’t: petite and beautiful, and she could charm anyone, especially men. They’d had lunch at least once a week in the company’s cafeteria. Claire always brought her lunch from home; Brooke always purchased hers. Not once had Claire ever seen her check a price of anything.
Shifting the box beneath her left arm, Claire knocked on Brooke’s door, then knocked again when there was no answer. She was about to turn away when she heard a barely audible voice tell her to come in. Frowning, because the person hadn’t sounded like Brooke, Claire opened the door cautiously. You could almost smell the magnolia; feel her warmth and charm when you heard Brooke’s deeply accented Southern voice.
“I’m look—” Claire began but her words stumbled to a halt when she saw Brooke, sitting stiffly in her chair, blinking her eyes. Seeing Claire, the other woman leaned forward, propping her elbows on her desk and let her face fall into her cupped palms.