“Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.”
Benjamin Franklin
THE PLANNER
Alexandra Swann
Cover Design: Stefan Swann
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole
or in part in any form without written permission from the publisher.
The Planner copyright ©2012 Alexandra Swann and Joyce Swann.
Published in the USA by Frontier 2000 Media Group Inc., Dallas, Texas.
Chapter 1
Kris Mitchell carefully pulled her Crystal Red Cadillac CTS Sedan into one of the open parking spaces in the farthest lot from the entrance at the Scottsdale New Life Church. She was late for the service, as usual, but she could not afford to park in a tighter space and take the chance that someone might carelessly scratch or dent the door of her car while opening or closing the door of theirs. That car was one of the last reminders of Kris’ good days in real estate—before the market began crashing in 2008, before the recession, before the housing regulations. She took care of the car and kept its cream-colored leather interior polished and cleaned to perfection, but she no longer had the money for any body work, so that meant parking a long distance away and trotting briskly up to the doors of the mega church she attended several Sundays a month.
Grabbing her Bible from the glove compartment, Kris shut the door and hurried through the parking lot and up the three flights of concrete steps. As an usher helped her find a seat at the top of the stadium-style sanctuary, Kris saw that the praise and worship team was already finished and announcements were blaring from the speakers. That was too bad—the praise and worship team at New Life was one of the best in the Phoenix-Scottsdale area, and they had an outstanding combination of musicians and vocalists. Sometimes their renditions of Christian contemporary music sounded better than the original artists’.
As Kris took her seat, the announcements were ending, and the senior pastor of New Life took the microphone. “Alright everyone,” Marco Goolsby was rallying the congregation. “You know what time it is?”
“YES!” tens of thousands of voices shouted back in unison.
“What time is it?” Marco called back.
“Time to get Victory!”
“Do you want Victory in your life?”
“YES!”
“Do you believe Victory is possible in your life?”
“YES!”
“Then stand to your feet with me, and let’s claim the Victory. Hold your Bibles up high.” Marco demonstrated by lifting his Bible high above his head. “Say the Victory Chant with me.”
Within seconds the entire room was standing as tens of thousands of excited congregants held their Bibles high above their heads.
“This is my Bible!” Marco’s booming voice reverberated through the sanctuary. Kris and the rest of the congregation matched his volume as they echoed his words. “I am who it says I am! I have what it says I have! I can do what it says I can do! I am a child of God, and He loves me just the way I am! I will not let other people’s negative thoughts, words, attitudes, and actions infect my thoughts, words, attitudes, and actions! I have chosen to use all of my abilities to reach my fullest potential as a child of God! I will trust in God and in the abilities, gifts, and talents He has given me, and I will choose today and every day to live a life with no boundaries!”
As the Believer’s Victory Chant ended, thunderous applause punctuated by loud shouts of “Amen” echoed throughout the sanctuary. At last, the congregation was seated, and Marco began part four of his series, “No Boundaries.”
An hour and a half later, Kris was back in her car, driving down Camelback Road scanning the gas stations for the lowest-priced gas. The station on the corner had gas for $13.00 a gallon, but a half mile further the Sunny Mart offered gas for just $12.50 per gallon. Kris parked and called the automated service line for her credit card to verify that she had enough credit left to fill up the car. She could afford half a tank, and that would be enough to get her through the next few days.
Half a tank did not give her much room for joy riding, but Kris was now back in her old neighborhood. As she pulled out of the station, she mentally argued with herself about whether she should drive past her old home. Every time she went past the house, she told herself that this had to be the last time; nothing good came from tormenting herself about the past or mentally reliving it. Still, she could not help herself—she had so many memories of that house, and it had hurt so much the day she finally had to lock the door for the final time and leave the keys in the mailbox. The house had remained empty, and after 2013 Arizona state law had been changed to allow rights of redemption to homeowners. Maybe one day soon everything would change, and she would be able to redeem the house.
As she turned onto the street where she had lived for ten years, she felt a sharp pang go through her heart. In the circular driveway of the Tuscan-style home sat a moving van. Not far away, a little girl of three was peddling a tricycle as fast as she could—she must belong to the new owners. So the bank had finally sold the house—it was really gone. The semi-custom home that Kris and Ben had bought directly from the builder now belonged to a new family. The movers were unloading an unsightly, though expensive, fuchsia sectional from the van and carrying it in. Kris cringed—the house was decorated in warm, Mediterranean earth tones. Fuchsia would look awful. What sort of a person would put a fuchsia couch in her home?
Sadness and bitterness flooded her as she sat in her car watching. She wiped away a stinging tear as she pulled off the street and headed down to the modest one-bedroom townhouse she had been sharing for the past six months with Nick. Hopefully, Nick was not at home; he usually went to play racquetball with his buddies on Sunday morning and did not return until later in the afternoon.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that Nick’s car was not parked in front of the townhouse. At the beginning of their relationship, his frequent absences had bothered her some. Now, after six months of living with Nick, she was so relieved when he was not at home that she really did not care where he was. Kris had met Nick the same week that the bank had officially foreclosed on her home. He worked for the IT company that fixed the computers in the real estate office where she had just started working after losing her own agency. That week had been one of the worst of her life. To Kris, it seemed as if all the lights had been shut off in the world. But Nick was making a service call, and as soon as he saw her, he started making conversation. Immediately, he asked her to lunch. One week later he asked her to move in with him.
With her long, dark brown hair and deep-set blue eyes framed by long thick lashes and dark brows, Kris was a woman who had been considered very beautiful in her twenties and early thirties. Now forty-one, her looks were fading, but she still took good care of herself. Tall and slim, she went to the gym every day to stay in shape. Still, not a lot of men hit on her. Shy little wallflowers don’t make successful real estate agents; even on her best day Kris’ assertive personality was a turn off to a lot of people. Nick’s ardent pursuit was very flattering, and since Bank of the USA had just recently rendered her homeless, his offer to live together seemed to have great timing. Unfortunately, within a couple of weeks Kris had to acknowledge the truth—Nick was not so much head-over-heels in love as he was head-over-heels in debt, and he was mainly looking for an additional income. Now, just six months later, the man who had briefly convinced her that she was still beautiful and desirable reminded her daily that she was broke.
She inserted the key into the lock of the cheap wooden door and pushed it open. Old pizza and anchovies ming
led with unwashed socks to create a nauseating odor that greeted her as she entered the room. Nick was such a slob, she thought—he never put anything away or cleaned anything up. He could not just order anchovies on the pizza—he had to purchase them in a separate can so that he could layer them over the pizza. Those disgusting canned fish produced such a noxious odor that she could not bear the smell of them. She started moving around the pizza box and the assortment of video game cases looking for the source of the fish odor so that she could dispose of it properly.
“I knew not to go past my old house,” was all she could think as she dug through the mess until she finally retrieved the stinking little can with one rotting fish left inside. The only thing that could possibly make her feel worse than she already did was the reminder that just a couple of years ago life had been sweet, and she had lived in a great house with a guy she was crazy about rather than this dirty little dump with somebody she couldn’t stand.
As she rinsed out the can in the tiny, dismal little kitchen, she heard Nick’s car pull up. His voice echoed through the townhouse as he walked into the kitchen behind her. “What’s this?” he accusingly held up a bag from a department store containing a pair of new black pumps and a matching black handbag.
“It’s a purse and shoes. What did you think it was?” she retorted.
Nick tossed the bag onto the counter. “I thought I was going to see some money this week to cover some expenses, but instead I find this hidden in the back of the closet.”
“I didn’t hide it, Nick. Some of us actually put our shoes in the closet. That’s where shoes go, by the way.”
“How much did you spend on this? You spent the money you were supposed to give me, didn’t you?”
“It has nothing to do with the money I owe you. I put it on my department store card. I have a final job interview tomorrow.”
“So you went out and bought new shoes and a purse?”
“That’s right!” she snapped. “Real estate is an image business. You can’t make money in it unless you look successful.”
“But it’s not a real estate job. It’s a civil service job. You don’t need to look successful for civil service. And I need that money. You move in here and live off me for six months like you’re a queen or something—expecting me to feed you and put a roof over your head like you’re my kid. If you can’t start taking care of yourself like an adult, you need to move back in with your mom and dad.”
Kris was enraged, “I have worked my whole life—since the day I graduated from college, I have been paying my own expenses, and I have never asked anybody for anything. I have sold real estate in this town in one hundred twenty degree temperatures. I have worked weekends, holidays, even Christmas. And I didn’t ask to move in here; you insisted. It’s not my fault that you ‘forgot’ to pay child support on three kids for five years after your wife caught you in bed with some little bimbo, so now all of your pay is going to child support. So don’t you dare talk to me about acting like an adult. I was the top-producing real estate agent in Scottsdale for five years in a row; I was president of the Scottsdale Association of Realtors; I was the chairwoman of the Chamber of Commerce….”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You used to be somebody. Well you know what’s not my fault? It’s not my fault that you wasted a whole year driving around town in that gas-guzzler of yours taking people to see houses they couldn’t afford the doorknobs on. It’s not my fault that you go a couple of months without closing anything, and then when you do, you use the money to pay your credit cards while I pay for everything else. That’s not paying your own way, Kris. Not even close.”
“I’ve been through Hell, you jackass!” She was now yelling. “I’ve worked like a dog, and I’ve lost everything. I’m not about to be talked down to by somebody who can’t even figure out how to put the left-over pizza in the refrigerator. I’ve sent out over five hundred resumes in the last two years. I’ve applied for every job in Arizona—and almost every job every place else. And, yes, when I get commissions, I do pay my credit cards, because having good credit is important. Among other things, it helps you get a job, because it’s a sign that you’re actually responsible. You’re the one who’s never paid for anything—you’re the one who has collectors calling all hours of the day and night. If I just blew off all of my obligations, I’d be doing fine too.”
“That, right there,” Nick pointed his finger accusingly, “that’s the problem with you. You still think you’re a big, freakin’ deal. I got news for you, babe; women are standing in line for a guy like me. Lots and lots of women would do anything to live in a place like this. So get your stuff and get out. I don’t need any more attitude out of you.”
“Fine! Gladly! I can’t wait to get out of here! I’ll be gone by tomorrow!” Kris wished she could leave right then, but she had no place to go and no money to leave with until she got her real estate commission on Monday for the deal she had closed the previous Friday. Since she had been planning to give Nick some money out of that commission, she could now use that money to rent a cheap motel room for a couple of days until she could see whether she was going to get her new job.
“Great! Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!” Nick went into the bedroom and slammed the door, leaving Kris alone in the kitchen still holding the vile-smelling fish can which was now half-filled with soapy water. She emptied the water into the sink and tossed the can into the trash.
Later that evening Nick went out—he had apparently already lined up Kris’ replacement and was finalizing plans with his new girlfriend/rent check. Kris packed her clothes and the few personal items that she had been able to bring with her when she lost the house. She stood staring at the three cardboard boxes wondering how it is possible to work so hard and end up with so little.
“No,” she told herself. “I’m not going to think about that. Tomorrow is my final interview, and if I get the job, I’ll be an employee of the federal government with a salary and benefits. And if I don’t get it, I’m going to work at night as a hostess at the Greatest Steak in Phoenix. Either way, I’ll be out of this mess. Anything’s got to be better than this.”
Chapter 2
At 7:00 A.M. on Monday Kris pulled up to the gates of the Federal Municipal Planning Division. The instructions for this final interview were that she must arrive for check-in and screening a full hour before her interview actually began. Nineteen years in business had taught Kris to take instructions seriously, and as a frequent volunteer in a leadership position for many civic organizations, she was accustomed to breakfast meetings. Still, Kris was not a terribly punctual person. As she steered the car up to the guard house, she wondered how much of an adjustment a job like this was really going to be.
“Stop,” the unsmiling face at the guard house ordered. “Do you have business in this facility?”
“Yes, I am here for my final interview with…”
“What is your name?” the guard was reviewing a computerized log of expected visitors.
“Kristina Mitchell. I am interviewing with the Planning Division for the Planner I job.”
“I need to see your identification and proof of insurance.” Kris was used to the drill, and she already had these items ready for inspection.
“Proceed through the gates; park in lot C. Enter the building through the entrance on that side.” The face handed back her ID and never changed from his monotone. The heavy iron gate rolled open, and Kris drove through it and found a space in Parking lot C.
On the side of the building that the guard had indicated, Kris could see that a line had formed. She wondered how many applicants were being interviewed this morning. The thought depressed her. She had felt really confident about this job; surely all of these people were not here to interview for the same job for which she had applied.
Quietly she took her place at the back of the line. She had picked up her black suit from the dry cleaners two days earlier. Since this was a government job, she had limited her jewelry
to a simple pair of gold earrings and one ring—a wide gold band which Ben had given her one year as a Christmas present. The ring sort of resembled an avant-garde wedding band, but as there had never been a wedding for Kris, she wore it on her right hand. As she stood in the line, her new black three-inch pointy-toed pumps began to pinch her feet. She shifted her weight from foot to foot trying to make herself a little more comfortable.
She looked at her watch; the time was now 7:35. No wonder the instructions said to get here early—it had taken her thirty minutes to move a few feet into the building. She started thinking that if she had known she was going to have to stand in a line like this she would have worn more comfortable shoes. But at last she was inside, and the metal detector and X-ray equipment offered momentary relief for her feet—she had to take off her shoes before going through the metal detectors. Another unsmiling officer searched her purse before handing it back to her. Kris forced the shoes back onto her feet and tried not to wince as she headed for the elevators with the identification pass she had just been given.
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor and opened to the offices of the Federal Municipal Planning Division. Kris stepped out of the elevator and walked to the reception desk.
“I am Kris Mitchell,” she introduced herself to the twenty-something girl facing her. “I have an 8:00 interview with Leonard Scott and Pat Kilmer.”
“Take a seat over there,” the girl answered without looking up. “Director Scott and Ms. Kilmer will be with you shortly.”
As Kris sat down on the couch in the waiting area, she went over everything she knew about the Federal Municipal Planning Division in her head. She had researched the department on-line, but she had not been able to find out much about this position. She had practiced this interview when she was alone by trying to think of what questions they might ask and how she would answer them. As she tried to calm her nervousness, she thought that she was just really grateful right now that Ben had insisted on having the note to their home just in his name so that the foreclosure did not appear on her credit report. That by itself would have disqualified her from consideration for a federal job….
W: The Planner, The Chosen Page 1