by Ellen Dye
Olivia raised a brow.
“Hundred miles or so,” Sam clarified.
“You’re on. Be right back.” Olivia flew up the stairs, her bare feet kicking up dust as she took them two at a time.
“You’re a real lifesaver.” I patted Sam’s arm. “How bad is it this time?” I gave a nod toward the wreckage.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” Sam took another glance out the door. “At least there aren’t any feathers to deal with.”
I nodded, remembering the total annihilation of the chicken coop during my senior year of high school.
“I cleaned up feathers for nearly a month, that time,” Sam added.
I nodded in sympathy. Even now the sight of a stray feather caught in the breeze made me slightly queasy.
I glanced at my watch. Shoot, I should have been gone fifteen minutes ago. I turned toward the kitchen as Olivia bounded down the stairs dressed in her favorite jeans, a modest pink crop top, and sneakers. She’d tied her long chestnut hair into a floppy ponytail and held two thick books in her hands.
“Ready?” she asked Sam breathlessly while glancing back and forth between him and myself.
I grabbed my purse, bid a hasty farewell, and followed Sam and Olivia out the door, stepping carefully over the rubble.
“Good luck, Mom.” Olivia gave me a quick hug before scampering into Sam’s truck.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked, knowing that even though Sam had hit it off with Olivia, he was still an untried hand with teenaged girls.
“Yeah. It’ll be fun having some company for a change.” Sam smiled and his brown eyes warmed.
“Thanks.” I patted his arm again and began teetering my way across the gravel toward my Lexus.
“Wanda Jo,” Sam called.
I turned.
“You’re going to do great.” He gave a hearty thumbs up.
I smiled. God, I hoped he was right.
****
In less than four hours Sam’s optimism was proven completely unfounded.
I turned the key and cranked up the air conditioning to Full Arctic Blast and then quickly turned the vent toward my face.
Lord, I’d forgotten how humid July was in these parts.
I took a look at the now smudged and rumpled list I’d compiled last night. One left. Not a good sign.
Turned out I was completely wrong about computer skills not being as important here as they seemed to be in San Francisco. Those vile machines were everywhere; they controlled everything. Somehow, when I hadn’t been looking, Microsoft had taken over the world. Soon they’d be crowning Bill Gates as the King of the Known Universe.
I turned the visor down and checked my makeup in the mirror. Over the course of the morning’s humidity I’d gone from elegant to melted. Swinging the visor slightly, I noted my raw silk suit with its graceful lines was now decidedly rumpled. It had been hotter than a bakery oven in the last office.
I pulled my emergency cosmetics bag out and did a few repairs. I finished up by running a comb through my less than sleek bob and indulged in a small spritz of perfume.
With one last, mostly despairing, glance in the mirror, I resigned myself to go in.
Making my way to the door, I gave myself a stern mental pep talk. You can do this. There is a job waiting for you that in no way involves questionable food groups or perm rods. You can do this, I repeated more firmly. Head up, shoulders back, I made my way through the sweltering humidity with my confidence and determination increasing with each step.
Funny thing, confidence. If you concentrate hard enough it grows outward, something like a wonderful balloon. It’s a fabulous feeling of bobbing around above the world. Or at least it is until you run into one of life’s pin-holding sadists.
Mine was currently seated across a large, gunmetal gray desk behind a nameplate reading simply Kirsten. A pale waif of a girl dressed in a shapeless black outfit with chunky shoes that resembled Herman Munster’s choice of footwear. She sported a jet-black, Raggedy Ann-ish haircut which had been moussed and styled in the popular bed-head look. The only color she possessed was the brilliant pink wad of bubble gum she so obnoxiously chewed and then forced into a bubble.
Her gum chewing took on a sort of pattern as I watched from the unpadded metal chair. After two deliberate chomps, a reasonably large bubble would emerge, and then the whole would be hastily sucked back into her mouth.
Chomp, chomp. “You like forgot to fill this bit out.” She handed me the clipboard, pointing with a chipped acrylic nail to the section marked Previous Employment.
“No. That’s correct.”
Chomp, pause, bubble, retreat. “But that was like twenty years ago.”
I nod.
Chomp, chomp. “But what have you been doing all this time?” Bubble, retreat.
“My husband was an attorney,” I started lamely, but fell silent under Kirsten’s blank stare.
“That’s nice.” Chomp, chomp.
“Actually, that was my last place of employment.” I pointed to the name. “Burn and Wainright. I was an office assistant.”
Bubble, retreat. “Great!” She grabbed the clipboard and picked up a pen. “So, what programs do you use?”
“Programs?”
Chomp, chomp. “Word? Excel? PowerPoint?” Bubble, retreat.
“Sorry?”
“You know, computer programs?”
Bill Gates strikes again. “Not really, no.”
“You have no computer skills?”
“None.”
Her over-kohled eyes widened. She blinked once, very slowly. “I’ve read about people like you.”
“Don’t you have any openings for just general office work?” I asked, feeling very much like a laboratory experiment gone wrong.
“None that don’t require skills.”
“But I have office skills,” I insisted.
Both brows rose as she prepared a bubble.
“I file. I can answer phones and take messages. And I can type thirty-five words per minute on an IBM Selectric.”
Her bubble deflated and hung listlessly, just like my confidence at the moment. She slurped the pink glob back into her mouth. “Perhaps you should consider some further training.” She abruptly stood. “Be right back.”
I sat perfectly still and felt completely dejected as I watched her clomp out of the room. What in the world was I going to do now? I’d written Jamie Sue a check for our share of living expenses last night, and it had bitten deeply into my meager account. This agency was my last hope, and it was turning out to be as hopeless as the previous three.
I was failing miserably at proving myself to be an independent woman. Plan R.R. was exploding on the runway.
Kirsten reappeared carrying a large folder. I had a sinking feeling, very much like the one I’d experienced in Mr. Plower’s office, oh, so many years ago. The folder in her hand bore no resemblance to its predecessor, but I was certain it was nothing more than a slightly refined version of Welcome to Vo-Tech Hell at Buckston High.
After taking a seat, she opened the folder. “There are many options for adult continuing education in the area.” She fanned a number of brochures across the desk. “Basic computer skills, several IT technologies…” She continued speaking, pointing to each in turn while my eyes were riveted in horror to the last of the stack.
Fabulous Career Opportunities In The Amazing Field of Cosmetology the glossy brochure screamed in lime-green script. A rivulet of cold sweat popped out on my neck and snaked an icy trail down my spine.
“And of course, if you’d like something more hands on…” She paused with one finger tapping the vile brochure. “Cosmetology is wonderful.” She eyed me critically from head to toe. “In fact, I’d say you would have a real talent for it.”
Clearly the supernatural was at work here. I’d either managed to die of natural causes in the oppressive mid-day humidity and had gone to Hell, or I’d been possessed. I felt my neck begin to swivel and knew at any moment my h
ead would begin to spin while pea soup spewed from my mouth.
An Exorcist moment, truly.
“Ms. Trews? Are you feeling unwell?” My blank stare urged her on. “We were talking about how perfect you’d be in the field of cosmetology,” she prompted. “Perfect for your abilities.”
Time blurred, and Mr. Plower’s visage melded with that of Kirsten. My lungs squeezed shut. “Oh, shit. I really have died and gone to Hell,” I whispered.
“Sorry?”
I forced in a breath. “Actually, I used to be licensed.”
She brightened immediately, which could only confirm my opinion of her true sadistic nature. “How wonderful!”
Why does everybody keep saying that?
“Only when it’s not your job,” I returned, grateful that I’d gotten out of the business before making the complete transformation to Mama.
Kirsten was staring at me, one pierced brow raised.
I forced a smile to appear in my partially frozen facial muscles. “I haven’t worked in the field for years. I’m not currently licensed.”
Kirsten eagerly opened the brochure. “That shouldn’t be a problem.” She pointed. “Dixie Beauty School offers a complete refresher course. Only twelve weeks and you’re ready for the state board.”
“I really need a job now. Preferably something behind a desk and not a chair,” I insisted. “Don’t you have any office assignments available?”
“None that don’t require computer skills. Most all offices are digital now.” She dragged an index finger back along the brochures. “If that’s really the sort of work you want, I’d recommend Allied Business.” She handed me the brochure.
I stared at the fresh-faced kids seated before computer screens as a benevolent-looking instructor rested a hand on one’s shoulder.
“It takes about eighteen months to finish.”
I sighed. Far too long. And the cost was much too high. The cosmetology refresher course itself, at only twelve weeks, would almost drain my existing bank account completely.
“This is really your best option.” She tapped the Dixie Beauty School brochure. “Twelve weeks and you could be on your way to earning a good living.”
“It takes a long time to build up a clientele,” I answered, as I remembered the months I’d slaved away behind the chair and taken home next to nothing.
“Not really. My cousin graduated from Dixie, went to work here in town, and within her first month she was making a salary equivalent to mine.”
“And that would be?”
She mentioned a figure that would certainly be more than enough for Olivia and me to manage on. Not the money Reed made, but we would do okay. And that was all I’d need to do until Reed came to his senses and came after us.
“In only two months Katherine had doubled my salary.”
I felt fortunate for my full head of hair, otherwise my brows would have continued rising across my scalp. I’d been out of the field for a number of years, granted. But the figures Kirsten had quoted simply couldn’t be realistic.
Or could they?
I scooped up the brochures. “Thanks for your time. I’ll look into this.”
She shook my hand. “You’re welcome. Best of luck.”
My mind was churning as I left the offices of Dependable Temps. Return to cosmetology? Did I really want to do this?
Well, to be perfectly honest, the answer wasn’t no. It was “Hell, No!” What I really wanted was for Reed to come to his senses so we could talk this whole misunderstanding out. And then I wanted to return to San Francisco and our life there just as it had been.
But what if that didn’t happen? What if Reed didn’t come after us? What if he was serious about our marriage being over?
I fired up the Lexus, tilted the air conditioning toward my face, and mentally reminded myself of the one fact I’d been hanging on to for dear life.
There had been no divorce papers. And so long as that situation remained, I could be sure Reed wasn’t serious.
A plan began to form in my mind. I’d already shown how independent I could be. I’d sold out, packed up, and moved across the country. How much more independent could a person be? Right. Now all I had to do was wait for Reed to come to his senses.
In the meantime, I could get some nice job, maybe something in a boutique or department store. I’d like something like that. Surely it would pay enough to cover our living expenses while we waited for Reed, or at least enough to keep my shark of a cousin at bay.
Certainly this, given our current lack of funds, was much more sensible than practically wiping out what little Olivia and I had on re-training.
I was overcome with relief as I realized I wouldn’t need the Dixie Beauty School brochure. I slid it under the front seat, intending to toss it in the trash at the first available opportunity.
No, sir, we’d manage. Olivia and I would wait this thing out just fine. And I was still looking at a future blissfully free of both questionable food groups and perm rods.
It was on this happy note I turned the Lexus back toward West Virginia.
Chapter Five
Unfortunately, I discovered such happy notes have a shelf life equivalent to most dairy products. And now that three weeks had passed, mine had hit its expiration date.
“Five, four, three, two,” I counted, and then slowly raised my foot from the gas pedal. “One.” I brought the car to a complete stop at the precise moment Uncle Claude, in full camouflage war regalia, leapt from the row of azaleas to land squarely in front of the Lexus.
Without having to think twice, I returned his snappy salute and was on my way before he’d fully retrenched.
Oh, God, it really was true. Given enough time and practice, anything can become a habit, no matter how bizarre. I morosely wondered what would come next. An insatiable craving for greens drenched with bacon grease? Or—heaven forbid—would my speech revert to the grammatically incorrect twangy-whine of my childhood?
With those cheery thoughts tumbling through my mind, I parked the Lexus and grabbed my now rumpled and thoroughly crosshatched list of potential jobs, along with a fresh copy of today’s paper. After tossing the disappointing list into the burn barrel—Buckston County’s answer to paper recycling—I continued picking my way across the gravel drive in my best suede Pradas. Just another bizarre maneuver which had now become habit.
A fresh load of new lumber and other assorted building materials sat in a neat pile next to the site of Aunt Nettie’s last fermentation surprise.
The splintered boards, cockeyed posts, and twisted mangle of what had been gingerbread trim had all been cleared away. Goodness, Sam certainly had been busy this afternoon. I was impressed. Even the smell of fermenting apples was nothing more than an unpleasant memory.
I noticed the pink invoice, tucked beneath the bands holding the lumber in tidy bundles, fluttering innocently in the slight summer breeze. Immediately I picked up my pace, hoping to make it to our room before my sadistic, bloodsucking cousin could sink her teeth into my rapidly shrinking checking account yet again.
My hand was mere inches away from the tarnished brass knob when I heard the twig snap. I froze like a deer caught in the headlights, my blood pounding in my ears.
“Afternoon, Wanda Jo.”
My heart slowed to a normal rhythm as I recognized Sam’s slow drawl.
I turned with a smile. “Hi, Sam. Looks like you’ve been busy this afternoon.”
He tucked his big hands into the pockets of his faded jeans and gave a grin. I realized with firm clarity how right Olivia had been. My childhood friend had indeed grown into the very image of Dan Blocker—aka Hoss Cartwright—of Bonanza fame.
“I finished up my run early, so I thought I’d get going over here.” He produced a pocketknife and began slicing the bands holding the lumber together. “Oh, I almost forgot.” Sam paused, turning toward me. “Olivia’s over at my place.”
“Internet or kitchen?”
“Internet.”
I wished for the millionth time this hour Reed would hurry up and get this midlife insanity thing out of his system.
Damn. I was going to have to find a part-time job soon. Olivia couldn’t keep spending every afternoon at Sam’s place because I couldn’t afford Internet access; I couldn’t have her giving up the laptop when she’d so valiantly offered up her cell phone. Double damn. I had to find us a place to live soon, as well. Olivia couldn’t keep riding around Buckston County in Sam’s truck much longer. Considering she’d been with Sam daily for the past three weeks, I was certain her welcome would soon be worn out.
Not that Sam had complained about having her for a traveling companion or about Olivia puttering about his kitchen, using his computer connections. In fact, he seemed to truly enjoy her company. And I had to admit, for a confirmed bachelor with no children of his own he certainly was gifted when it came to dealing with my daughter.
But still.
An odd thought came to me. “Sam, why didn’t you ever get married?”
Sheer shock etched itself on his features. He swallowed hard. “Guess the right woman was never around.” He gave a shrug of one big shoulder and then turned his undivided attention to removing the plastic lumber bands.
“Why do you ask?” he questioned after a lengthy pause.
Clearly I’d opened an entire can of worms with my ill-thought question. Perhaps things had gone worse with Jamie Sue than I’d previously thought. Or maybe some other woman had broken his heart. At any rate, I regretted asking and bringing what clearly were unpleasant memories to the forefront of his mind.
I gave a small shrug of my own. “Just curious,” I responded, as I reminded myself that we were no longer close friends, or children, and to keep my big yap shut in the future.
“Any luck today?”
“A few prospects,” I lied.
During the course of the last three weeks I’d applied to every job listing I could find in the town of Worthington. I’d answered advertisements posted in the newspaper. I’d simply shown up on the doorsteps of any building or store that could in any way be a potential place of employment. After three weeks, I felt I truly understood the phrase “pounding the pavement.”