Thomas’s grandmother chose a different method. “Cook me a meal,” she’d say, and that’s how she judged a cook for the hotel.
He couldn’t do that with the ones coming to the job fair who would be interviewed in the church basement. But just listening told you a lot.
He turned when Gloria said, “Finished.”
seventeen
Gloria handed the résumé to Thomas. While filling it out she thought about his saying that if others were more qualified than she they’d get the job. She would print copies of her own résumé and give them to some of the reps but not take up personal interview time. She’d already applied at bookstores with no results. Now it was time to try for employment with other businesses. Prospective employers would be right here at the church instead of her having to traipse all over DC to meet them.
And, too, she was being ridiculous with that attitude about Thomas. He seemed to like. . .everyone, and he hadn’t given her any reason, as Greg had, to be distant with him. No, her reticence around him had to be because she’d been badly burned and didn’t want to chance anything. But he hadn’t given any indication he wanted to pursue her. Nope.
That bearded, pony-tailed fellow, looking like a lean athlete in worn jeans, set the folding chair in front of Jim’s desk. As if he were an employer, he sat in Jim’s chair. “Please have a seat, Miss Seely.”
The situation was really so ridiculous, she laughed. His eyes danced for a moment, and then he cleared his throat and perused the résumé as if serious.
She expected him to say what she’d heard numerous times and ask why she left her job, and she would say personal reasons. But he surprised her by saying, “Are you working anywhere now, Miss Seely?”
“A homeless shelter.”
“I don’t see it listed here.”
“It doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a charity place not a business. It wouldn’t be an im-pressive part of my experience.”
“It impresses me,” Thomas said seriously.
She stared. Felt warm. Why would she want to impress him? What difference did it make? He was a homeless man. Anyone who has any kind of job probably impresses a person without one.
And. . .why was she letting a homeless man interview her, even if this was just pretending?
She’d lost her man, her job, her apartment, most of her savings, and now she was losing her senses! Slightly miffed, she said, “Are you going to put on your résumé that you worked as an executive, interviewing people for placement in jobs?”
He lowered his eyes to the desk and the paper in front of him. She’d meant that to be clever or amusing, but it sounded so. . .condescending.
Did he feel embarrassed or intimidated?
Maybe he was trying to think of something to say, as was she. He was the first to speak. “You’re working as an assistant to the director of this center, and I assume getting paid for it. As part of your job, you’ll be assisting others in preparing for interviews. This wouldn’t count for me, but it would for you.”
She felt like a heel. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She knew, and had even been told, that staff and volunteers never talk down to a homeless person or one of the residents. And of course one shouldn’t do it to anyone, anyway.
“For what?” he asked seriously.
“I. . .offended you.”
Thomas scoffed. “That sounds like a politically correct kind of word.” He shook his head. “I can take the truth. Sometimes we need others to, um, put us in our place, so to speak.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. To what place had she relegated him? The place of a homeless and jobless man? But wasn’t that exactly what he was?
“I’m just—” She started to stand. “I’m not cut out for this.”
“No,” he said. “That was perfect.”
Stunned, she kept sitting there.
“What a really good interviewer does is find a touchy spot in the one applying for the job. Find the vulnerability. Don’t ask the expected questions. That’s the main thing you need to tell those coming to be prepared. They will already have the right information and recommendations on their résumé. The employer wants to know what makes them tick. Prepare the interviewee for the unexpected.”
“Fortunately,” she admitted, “you’re not a real employer or you would have summarily dismissed me right away.”
He seemed to think that was as funny as having water thrown on his beard. However, she did learn a valuable lesson about herself and what she could tell others.
“Just a little more,” he said.
She nodded. Maybe he had some more little tricks up his T-shirt sleeve.
“All right,” he began. “You didn’t include a recommen-dation letter with your résumé. I assume you can get—”
“Oh, believe me. Mine is a model recommendation letter.”
She regretted the way she said that, but only an eyebrow lifted a fraction. He went on to his next question. “The Walkway stores are nationwide. Would you be willing to relocate?”
“No.” She’d starve before she’d work for that chain. Oh boy, she was learning lessons. About herself. She could honestly say, “Clara and Jim are my only relatives, except a sister in another state, and she’s busy with family.” She figured he’d heard the conversations in the car. “My parents come here on furlough.”
“Would you consider working anywhere other than a bookstore?”
“I have no other experience.”
“Sure you do,” he contradicted. “Despite your opinion of it, your working here qualifies you to at least do desk or clerical work at a bed-and-breakfast, hotel, motel, resort, conference center. Would that kind of work be too menial?”
Her mouth dropped open. Had she given the impression she thought working here was menial? “No. No kind of work is too menial. But I doubt I’d make any more money at those places than here. I have education and experience. And I need to support myself instead of Jim and Clara doing it.”
Oh dear. She’d done it again. He was living in a homeless shelter and being supported by charity.
She stood and folded the chair. “Thank you. I’ve learned a lot.” About herself, that is. She leaned the chair against the wall and returned to the chair behind her desk. He still sat at Jim’s desk, watching her. “I know I have sounded cynical,” she said. “That’s because I am, and not because of anything you said or did.”
He looked at her kindly as if he were Jim sitting there. She felt inclined to go a little further. “Maybe I’m not ready to apply for a job just yet.”
“I agree,” he said. “I recommend you stay right where you are for the time being.”
“Well,” she said, feeling embarrassed, “you just helped one unemployed person know how to lose a job.”
Trying to control her tongue, she clicked into her e-mails and found one from the church. She saw him get up and move her way, but she gazed at the computer. “The church secretary sent the list of members who will attend the interview preparation meeting.”
He stood over her computer. “Gloria.”
She mustn’t let an unemployed man unnerve her. After all, she was making only minimum wage. Her education and experience wasn’t doing much for her. She forced her gaze to his eyes.
“You have finer qualities than you know. I’d hire you in a moment.”
That just made things worse. For some strange reason she couldn’t look away from his serious brown eyes. She wished he’d laugh or something. But he didn’t. He just said seriously. “See you in the morning.”
As he walked out she watched his confident stride and well-groomed ponytail. What would he hire her for? To groom his ponytail? She couldn’t even keep her own in place. She shoved her wisp of hair away from her face with a little more force than she’d intended.
She’d tried to joke with herself, hoping she’d laugh.
She didn’t.
eighteen
Keeping her mind on her job, G
loria sent a copy of the résumé form to the church secretary to send to all the unemployed members along with a schedule for those wanting instruction on being interviewed. She would take the six females, and Thomas would have the seven males.
By lunchtime she felt like she’d accomplished more in a couple hours than she normally did during an entire day. But she’d been determined to think about nothing but work. She called to tell Clara she would come home for lunch instead of eating at the shelter.
She’d planned to have a pleasant conversation about their respective mornings but by the time she arrived in Clara’s kitchen, the guilt had returned. “The questions he asked about the bookstore, why I left, just brought all the emotional baggage to the surface, Aunt Clara. I understand that, but I was rude to him. And condescending. He’s helpful in many ways at the center, and he’s helping me. But. . .he’s homeless, and I should be helping him.”
Clara set sandwiches on the table. “Honey, a lot of the homeless help others. At the center, mowing the grass for us and some of the neighbors. Some have jobs. When the pipes get stopped up, Sam is the one we call on.”
“I know. I guess having to think about what I want to forget about just upset me. And I said things to Thomas that I shouldn’t when he’s just trying to help.”
“Remember the day that red light came on in your car and one of the men checked it out and said you were low on oil? Did that upset you?”
“Of course not. I appreciated it.”
Clara nodded. “Do you say condescending things to the other residents?”
The line of this questioning made Gloria feel she might lose this job, too, no matter how much Clara and Jim loved her. “No,” she said honestly. “I would never do that.” She sighed, trying to make sense of it to herself. “Thomas seems different. It’s like. . .we all need him instead of him needing us.”
Clara’s eyebrows lifted, and she bit into her sandwich. Gloria felt the need to try to explain. “Really, Aunt Clara, I’ve never been rude to any of the residents, or the volunteers or workers. I’m sorry.”
Clara nodded as she chewed then swallowed. “Honey, Jim has told us both, probably me more than you, how kind and sweet you are. The residents and the volunteers all love you.”
Hot tears smarted in Gloria’s eyes. Before she could find the right words to say, Clara spoke again. “Think about it. Maybe you can answer why you react to him that way.”
Gloria felt warm under Clara’s studied scrutiny. But she needed help. And she didn’t want to be around the residents if she was a hindrance. She wouldn’t want to diminish Thomas’s confidence.
Gloria sighed. “It’s just my insecurity acting up. He’s content with where he is. And I’m fearful. I should be the one who’s content and helping him. It’s. . .unsettling.”
Clara nodded, lifted her mug, and eyed Gloria over the top of it. “That might be it. Or. . .”
“Or? What?” Gloria held her emotional breath.
Clara returned her mug to the table. “Jim talks to Thomas like he’s a son. He would never say things to the other residents that he does to Thomas. You’ve heard those two go at it. Thomas is more like family. Or a friend.” Clara paused. “You’ve told me that occasionally a resident has spoken harshly, if not directly to you, around you.”
“Well yes, but I knew it wasn’t directed at me. It’s their situation or emotional state or even mental condition. None of us take it personally.”
As soon as she said that word her eyes locked with Clara’s. Slowly Clara lowered her gaze to her cup and traced a finger around the rim, silent, making Gloria feel the impact of her words as if they were a hyena tripping over her mind, laughing.
Personally?
She was taking Thomas personally?
“Well,” Gloria said quickly. “I will not take him personally. He’s a homeless man like the rest of the residents. Just because he acts superior doesn’t mean he is. It’s just my sense of inferiority acting up.” She stood. “Thanks for the advice.”
“I really didn’t give you any. You came up with your own conclusions.” Clara grinned.
Gloria exhaled heavily. “That’s what psychiatrists do, isn’t it? Make the patients answer their own questions?”
Clara’s eyes met hers, and her eyebrows lifted slightly.
Gloria closed her eyes for a moment. “Like you’ve told me so many times, I just need to stop feeling rejected, dejected, down on myself.” She held up her hands. “Okay, I’m done with that. Thanks for lunch. I’d better be getting back.”
On the way back she thought about that again. She wasn’t taking Thomas personally. She’d heard of strange attractions happening when a person had been hurt or jilted and turned to another on the rebound. But she hadn’t turned to anybody. And if she were on the rebound she’d settle for Greg, who was secure in his job and made it clear he was available.
Clara and Jim and she had talked about this being an emotional time for her and that it would take time to heal. That’s what it was.
No way would she even consider taking a mysterious, volunteer, homeless, unemployed man. . .personally.
nineteen
Thomas jogged and walked the ten miles from Wildwood to the hotel. Soon after he went inside and raced up the stairs, he took his personal items from his backpack and put them in the studio bathroom. While he was taking his sketch pad out, he saw the electric company vehicle turn into the driveway, and he hurried to the front door.
After the electricity was on and everything checked out, he went into the living room where he’d left the lamps on. It was a room cozy enough to enjoy alone. Now that he’d be staying in the hotel at night he might sit in there in the evenings, take a little time off from sketching and painting, lounge in an easy chair, and read a book by the light of a lamp on an end table.
He thought of how easily one could take for granted what seemed like a simple activity. But after being on the streets so long, and in shelters, he knew even the simplest of things were luxuries. Now that he would no longer be staying at the center, he would eat his evening meals here, except for the one night of the week he’d continue cooking for the residents.
Now that most of his sketching was finished, he’d try to have his work done before Christmas. When he’d taken a course in pastels, the instructor said to put the bones in first. They wouldn’t show after you get the flesh on, but without the bones the painting would be flat and lifeless, just like the human body couldn’t stand without the skeleton.
The bones were his sketches. By the end of the year he should know if all he had were skeletons, or if his paintings were not only flesh and blood but spirit and soul. In the studio he took out the paintings of the first homeless man and first volunteer he’d painted. He set them on easels, and if they never came alive for anyone else, they did for him.
His mind wandered back to that day almost three years ago, when Frank, his agent, left the hotel, and Thomas thought about what he could do. Frank had just shattered his dream of an exhibit. He then made a choice. Now Thomas wondered if he’d sold his birthright for a bowl of soup.
When he and James discussed their dad’s will that gave the two of them equal share in anything left, James said they should let the hotel stand vacant until it could be sold, and they’d divide the profit. In the meantime, they’d share the worth of the house in Takoma Park. James wanted it, and if Thomas didn’t, James would pay Thomas half of what it was worth, even though it would be in payments. Their dad had two cars, and they each should take one.
Thomas didn’t want the house or another car. He had his black sports car, even though it was a few years old. James said that wasn’t fair to Thomas. “It’s your birthright, Thomas,” James said. But Thomas was willing to give up his birthright for the hotel and his grandmother’s Bible in which she kept the recipe for her famous soup with the secret ingredient.
Thomas said they had to make it legal, so they did. After they’d signed the papers Thomas wondered what in the world h
e’d done. He’d kept his studio. He had a small amount of money in his checking account but not enough to pay the heating bill for the hotel. He did have the two fireplaces and could afford wood for the rest of the winter. Without electric or gas he couldn’t cook, but he could eat food that didn’t need to be cooked. But for how long without money coming in?
Any royalties from reproductions wouldn’t be available for months, if he earned any. He couldn’t sell the hotel because that was his home and his studio, and he wouldn’t want James to think he’d had that in mind all along so he’d get all the money from the sale.
He knew his grandmother would trade that recipe any day if it meant the welfare of her family. So he called around to hotels that had wanted to know about the soup that was advertised as the best anywhere. They weren’t interested now because of their own financial difficulties. He called a major restaurant chain and was offered such a meager price he hung up on them.
With his education and experience he could get some kind of job. But he’d wanted the hotel for his painting. Why did God give him that talent if he couldn’t use it? God? Well, sure. He’d believed in God all his life. He’d asked Jesus into his heart at an early age. So he’d do what Grandmother would say. He bowed his head and asked that God lead him. He knew he could exist, but did God have a plan? A reason to give him the ability and desire to paint?
So he went for a walk. Instead of fighting the Beltway traffic congestion he took the Metro subway into DC. He walked, looking at his surroundings, thinking about the paintings he’d done that were good. There was nothing wrong with that. The reproductions would bring pleasure to tourists, help them have fond memories of their visits to the area. Was that his purpose? If so, he’d try to accept it and be grateful. But he wasn’t elated about it.
A Knight to Remember Page 8