~2~
After wandering through the rest of the empty rooms in shock, I inched my bedroom door open while offering up a silent prayer that everything was still there.
Fat chance! The mattress and box spring sat flat on the floor, the frame missing. One lamp stood next to the mattress. Everything else was gone—the huge dresser, nightstands, the other lamp—nowhere in sight. The overflowing multicolored heap under the bay window contained all of my clothes and other contents from the dresser drawers. Ryan’s closet door stood open making it easy to see everything was gone. Where was he, anyway?
For a few minutes fright and fury battled for control. I needed a cup of tea to calm my nerves. Under other circumstances, what greeted me when I entered the kitchen would have been funny. A Mickey Mouse magnet pinned to the refrigerator door held a note written in Ryan’s big childish scrawl.
It’s been fun, but decided to get my own place while you were gone. I took some of your stuff plus a little spending money. You did say you wanted to refurnish the condo—now you have an excuse.
Love ya always, Ryan.
He put the note up with a friggin’ Mickey Mouse? Rips me off, then has the nerve to say “love you always?” What next?
My car! I charged down the garage stairs two at a time. Well, he hadn’t managed to take my car. But then, I did have the keys with me and the Mercedes had a state-of-the-art security system including Lojack. I guess he couldn’t figure out how to snatch it. This had to be the worst day of my life.
I staggered up the stairs to my bedroom, fell onto the mattress and pulled the covers over my face. Gigantic sobs wracked my body.
How had my wonderful life turned to shit in just a few hours? Only yesterday I’d been named Woman of the Year, God damn it. Today I was an unemployed, broken mess.
Maybe every silver lining did have a cloud after all, because mine had burst and released buckets of bad luck.
The tears and shaking finally stopped. I reached for the phone and called my best friend Tree—her name is Therese but I’ve called her Tree for as long as I can remember. She let me pour out my sad tale uninterrupted. Silence filled the space for a heartbeat. Then she said, “You know you need to call the police and report the theft, even if it was Ryan.”
I shouted, “No, Tree. I can’t do that. Not the police.”
“Settle down, Girlfriend. The fool ripped you off and I think you do have to.”
To this day, I don’t know why I was so determined not to report the theft. Maybe I couldn’t handle admitting his betrayal.
“Look, maybe if you have something to eat, you’ll come to your senses. I’ll bet with everything that’s happened today, you haven’t eaten much. I’d suggest going out, but with all that crying your face must be blown up as big as a balloon. Dr. Tree prescribes a good mushroom pepperoni pizza and something chocolate. I’ll pick up dinner and we’ll figure this out together.”
Before I could protest, she hung up. I ran cold water in the bathroom sink and splashed my face again and again. It didn’t help. Red, swollen eyes looked back at me from the vanity mirror. Like Tree said, I really needed that junk food. I wanted my life back.
She arrived with bags of food in both hands. I spread a tablecloth on the floor and we sat there pigging out on pizza until we couldn’t stuff another bite into our mouths. She made me promise not to talk about what happened until we’d done some serious eating. She really is a wonderful friend.
“How could he do this to me?”
“I don’t know, Girlfriend.” She gave me a hug. “He always seemed okay, though I thought he was a little into himself.” She reached for her third piece of pizza. “But to do this…”
“Yeah. It sucks, doesn’t it?”
Tree lifted a cake box from her other shopping bag. The tantalizing aroma of chocolate made my mouth water. She cut two generous slices of something that looked like it was so rich it should be outlawed and handed me a paper plate. “Here, eat up. Rumor has it this stuff is better than booze for lifting the spirits. Of course, on the downside it has an outrageous number of calories, but tonight who cares, right?”
The label on the box read Devil’s Decadent Delight. After devouring the first slice, I forgot about trying to justify second helpings and just dug in.
Rain tapped at the windows like a bad omen. What else was in store for me?
I swooped some of the frosting stuck to the side of the cardboard box onto my index finger, then licked it off. It tasted a little salty mixed with the tears sliding down my face. At last it was time to have a serious talk.
“You said I should I call the police to report Ryan and the theft. Well, I almost dialed the number while I was waiting for you. Then I realized I gave him the code on the ATM card and foolishly put him on all of my accounts except the CD.”
Another tear escaped. I pulled a tissue from my pocket to wipe my eyes. “Women in lust can be real fools, you know. I haven’t dared look at how much he drained from my accounts yet, but he probably took a healthy chunk. In my present frame of mind, I’m afraid after one look I’ll stick my head in the oven.”
Tree said, “Good luck. Your oven is electric. Look, you really do need to see how bad it is, even if you are afraid.”
I paced around the empty room in ever-widening circles and couldn’t seem to stop myself. Tree grabbed at my sleeve and shouted, “Stop. This isn’t accomplishing anything.” She pointed at the floor. “Sit.”
I sat. After a few deep breaths I said, “The thing is, no matter how much he took, I don’t have a case against him for taking it. The cops and his attorney, if it ever comes to that, would just say he had every right to withdraw the money because he was listed on the accounts. Let’s face it. I’m really screwed.” I sniffled. “I thought he loved me.”
Tree patted my arm sympathetically. “What about him taking all of your furniture? Why don’t you call the cops about that? You can’t let him get away with it. ”
“My furniture?” I sat there in a semi-daze. Okay, I had to admit part of my problem was embarrassment. I simply couldn’t do it. Couldn’t admit a young stud had duped me, a savvy businesswoman. “I can’t, Tree. How can I go public with what a fool I’ve been?”
Even though my pride stood in the way of doing what I knew I should, I added, “But I swear, I will find him someday and definitely figure out how to get even big time. He will be very sorry he tangled with me.”
She nodded. “Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do.”
We hadn’t solved anything, but at least my panic settled down. I’ve always been a survivor, even if I was a totally depressed one at the moment. I cradled my face in my hands, felt very sorry for myself and cursed my stupid ego.
“Hey, want me to stay the night?”
I about to say yes, but where would she sleep? The living room and guest room were empty and my mattress on the bedroom floor was no great shakes. The confidence reflected in my voice had nothing to do with the way I really felt. “No thanks. I’ll be okay. Go home and sleep in your own bed. After all, I’m out of a job and practically broke. I’ve got some planning to do, so I think I’d rather be alone tonight.”
She left around eleven. Both of us swore Ryan wouldn’t get the last laugh. No way.
We hugged and bumped fists at the door. Once she was gone I wanted to hide for at least a week, if not forever, but went into my office instead and plopped onto my desk chair.
Trying to feel optimistic, I forced myself to log onto the bank’s website. How lame is that? How could I possibly have thought he would only take a little? Every account Ryan hit had the same big fat zero. My checks and withdrawal slips were missing. Every credit card I hadn’t taken with me was gone.
At least he wasn’t able to drain my CD, but all that meant was if I cashed it in I’d be able to hang on for maybe another month. When Ryan pulled the rug out from under someone he did a thorough job. I’d fallen flat on my butt with a resounding thump.
I stopped searching long en
ough to make a few calls. All those credit card companies have people on duty 24/7. With any luck he hadn’t charged my cards to the limit, and I had to get his name off every account. Fool! Fool!
The next thing on my mental to-do list was to find employment. I logged on to GetAJob.com and told myself I should be able to land another job way before I was forced to hold up a sign on a street corner saying, “CPA will calculate for food.”
One ad jumped out from the rest and I immediately applied online. God bless modern technology. Imagine applying for a job at 1:30 in the morning.
“THE WORLD’S BEST KEPT SECRET. Make Big Bucks Selling To The Government. Are you a sales executive willing to travel? Forming new national sales team. Positions available for home-based sales executives in 20 national regions. Also interviewing for Seattle-based controller, office manager, and project managers.
Details at www.FACR.gov/getjob.”
If they were offering “big bucks” to the sales executives, maybe that would be the case for the controller as well. Their opening statement intrigued me: “The World’s Best Kept Secret.” What was that about?
~3~
Whatever you’ve heard about the wheels of the government moving like molasses definitely didn’t apply in this case. Early the following morning I received an email reply.
Miss Martin,
I’m enthused that you live in Seattle and have such impressive credentials. Please confirm an appointment for a personal interview tomorrow at 2:00 p.m. Federal Association of Correctional Reform, 527 South 1st Avenue, Suite 600.
Julia Harris, Director,
Consulting Resource Services.
Federal Association Correctional Reform
Could salvation possibly be mine this fast? What if Federal Association of Correctional Reform turned out to be what it sounded like—part of the federal prison system? My elation ebbed just a bit, but at this point a job was a job, and I needed one desperately.
At two o’clock the next afternoon I entered the Consulting Resource Services executive offices, definitely surprised to see expensive-looking artwork and a granite reception station. At first I thought I was in the wrong suite.
Maybe the horror story awhile back about our government paying $8,000 apiece for toilet seats was actually true. I checked out the rest of the luxurious lobby.
Most of the chairs were already taken by attractive, well-dressed women and men, but I spotted a vacant one at the far end of the room. The whole scene looked like a theatrical cattle call. At least, I think that’s what they call it when hundreds of wannabe actors show up to audition for one available part. I selected a magazine from a wall rack and scanned it, trying to look like I was really interested. About fifteen minutes later, a pretty but somewhat hefty woman came into the room.
She stood by the reception desk and called softly, “Miss Martin, Kimberly Martin?” My hand automatically flew into the air as though a teacher had just called upon me. How dumb is that?
She motioned me to approach. “Kimberly, I’m Julia Harris.” I caught a whiff of lilac. She guided me through a hall lined with more expensive-looking artwork. About halfway down the corridor we approached a set of rich paneled doors. “JULIA HARRIS, DIRECTOR,” was spelled out in tasteful brass letters.
Mahogany paneling with inserts of real leather covered the walls of her cavernous office. The room had that unmistakable scent of buttery leather seats in a new luxury car. She motioned me a navy blue leather chair across from her. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a magnificent view of Elliott Bay. An elegant mahogany desk and credenza made her office every bit as lavish as the fantastic one I had called home before disaster day. Correction. Her view of Elliott Bay made this office better, definitely a notch above mine.
Fortunately, I caught myself before I blurted out, “No wonder our government is in the red.”
“Kimberly, we’re putting together a national marketing team for the Furniture Manufacturing Division of Federal Association of Correctional Reform. We call it FACR for short.”
Okay, she’d said the letters individually but if you wanted to pronounce it as an acronym it sounded a lot like faker. I wondered if they realized that.
She shuffled papers until she plucked one from the pile. She waved my resume back and forth reminding me of a flag in a holiday parade.
“I see you have a very impressive background. Tell me, why did you apply for this job?” Her eyes were such a striking emerald-green I figured she had to be wearing green contact lenses. To tell the truth, those eyes really creeped me out. They reminded me of twin laser beams looking right into my soul.”
I stared back at her and said the first thing that popped into my head. “Um, because I decided I want the security of working for the government.” A nervous laugh escaped. “Federal Association of Correctional Reform. Is this part of the federal prison system?”
I guess my question broke the ice, because she actually laughed—a fairly harsh but gleeful sound.
“Don’t sound so alarmed. Yes, this division is part of the prison system and we intend to hire twenty sales representatives, project management support staff and, of course, a controller by the end of the week. The entire new team will be trained at our prison factory in Paradise Hills, Washington. It’s about forty miles off the main highway. You’re in for a big surprise, Kimberly. Most people think the only things made in prison are license plates. We actually manufacture over 150 products, including office furniture and cubicles.”
I’d occasionally seen signs for that town’s turnoff when I drove down to Portland, but never paid much attention. If a town named Paradise Hills located way out in the boonies, its main attraction being a federal prison isn’t an oxymoron, I don’t know what is. For the next 19 minutes she elaborated about the duties of the controller and filled me in on some facts about the new Sales and Marketing Division.
Julia hadn’t mentioned salary up to this point, so I finally said, “This all sounds so interesting. May I ask what the controller position pays?” She threw out a figure that wasn’t at all what I’d hoped for. I’m sure my reaction telegraphed my disappointment, because she added “Oh don’t, worry Kimberly. You can look forward to a huge bonus for performance. That’s only the base salary.”
Get job, keep wolf from door.
A quick calculation told me if I cut out some luxuries, even after paying my bills every month the base salary would still leave enough to make payments on new furniture plus a TV and DVD player. Damn Ryan. I’d have to use the only credit card he hadn’t maxed out.
While Julia kept talking, images of Ryan’s face flashed before my eyes like the chips in a kaleidoscope. I clenched my fists, blinked a few times to clear the unbidden apparition, and replaced it with thoughts of covering bills and getting my mattress off the floor. I’d show him. For a moment delicious thoughts of revenge played in my head.
Julia rose from her chair. A smile lit her face. “Well, I have a few more interviews scheduled for this job, but you’ll definitely hear from me.” She extended her hand for a firm shake. Shoulders squared, I strode into the packed reception room confident I looked professional and chic in my Armani suit, silk blouse and sling-back pumps. I felt pretty sure I’d be offered the job.
On my way out of the still-full reception room I noticed two women who registered eleven on a scale of one to ten; a striking auburn-haired beauty with an air of elegance and a darling perky blond who reminded me of Goldie Hawn playing a female executive role. They looked like orchids among the daisies.
I prayed neither of them was a CPA. I really did need the job.
The next morning the phone rang while I was still asleep on my mattress. Julia Harris’s voice greeted me, light and happy. “I just emailed you a formal offer, Kimberly. I realize with your qualifications you must have many other positions to choose from, so I didn’t want to wait. I’m hoping you’ll decide to join the CRS team.”
A vision of prisoners marching around the exercise yard invaded my mind,
but the good news was I wouldn’t be living in a cardboard box in back of the supermarket any time soon. I hesitated long enough to make it seem like I had to consider her offer. “Thank you so much. I’ll take a look at the offer and get back to you. If everything is what we discussed, I would be delighted to join the team.”
When I hung up, instead of chanting “I’m in the chips again” while doing a victory dance around my empty living room, I put my energy into trying to ignore the fact that I would actually be an employee of the prison system. I pictured part of what she’d said during the interview.
“You may not realize it, Kimberly, but this is big business. FACR had sales of more than $800,000,000 last year.”
I’d let out a low whistle.
“Some of our projects actually reach millions of dollars. We have just under 100 factories on prison grounds around the country, and more are planned. You’ll be a very busy lady.”
The facts and figures she had thrown around floored me. $800,000,000 was staggering. You didn’t need to be a numbers genius to know that was just $200,000,000 short of a billion. Who would ever imagine it was that much?
She’d responded to my shocked silence. “You heard right, Kimberly. However, our mandate only allows us to sell to the federal government. As I told you, we manufacture everything from flak vests to furniture. Our division has responsibility for marketing furniture products. Truthfully, that’s where the big money is. About $600,000,000 last year. When you get to Paradise Prison, you’ll see how the inmates learn to make furniture and operate sophisticated equipment just like a regular business. FACR employs 25 percent of the prison population.”
Later that day I called to accept the job.
We exchanged a few more questions and platitudes—standard stuff any intelligent person would ask upon being hired. I mustered false enthusiasm, “I am so excited about working with a rehab program like this. Julia. I can’t wait to see the factory at Paradise Prison.”
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