by Judith Rolfs
Blaine flinched. Time for truth and rejection. “A few local op editorials and two published poems. Zero actual journalistic experience but lots of personal journaling.” She humbly, but forthrightly, described her interest and skills, ending with the pitch line she’d practiced. “Although I’ve never done newspaper writing, I’m certain I could handle the freelance work described in your ad.”
Whitney smiled. “Let me take a minute to look this over.”
Blaine fidgeted in silence while Whitney skimmed her writing samples and credentials.
“Impressive academic record. What I’m looking for is someone who can handle the English language well. An employee I can depend on for regular features and one who is available as soon as yesterday, a necessity with the holidays approaching. I’ve already tried two college grads only to find I had writers who couldn’t put together coherent articles. I don’t blame them entirely. Many schools have dumbed down the curriculum to the lowest common denominator, which hurts both students and employers.” Whitney shuffled Blaine’s papers together. “Not only are these quite good, you have a humorous touch. I like that. Humor is an asset.”
“I’m surprised it shows.”
“Why’s that?” Whitney looked up sharply.
“Oh, nothing. I’ve been buried under some personal stuff.” Why had she blurted that out? Blaine’s heart pulsed hard.
“Like?”
Blaine pulled back. “You really want to know?”
“I don’t mean to pry. Only if you want to tell me.”
Blaine briefly described Cindy’s illness, her recent divorce, and her need for additional income. “The one thing I have left of value is an original Pinot painting called Mother and Daughter, depicting a tea party in a lovely garden. It reminds me of the carefree life I’d hoped to share with my daughter.” Blaine shook her head slightly as if to be rid of the thought. “I’ve recently decided to sell it and have an agent, Carla Madsen, working on it.”
“I’m very sorry.”
Blaine liked this gentle woman with her kind eyes. “Strangely, both my divorce and Cindy’s death have made me stronger. That’s the spiritual blessing I try to think about when I’m—” Blaine stopped abruptly. “I can’t believe I’m discussing this during a job interview.” She pinned her gaze to the floor.
“I asked, remember? I strongly believe that faith is relevant to every part of life. It’s important to me to have a writer with compassion. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t hire a skillful non-Christian.”
Blaine bit her tongue to keep from saying her therapist suggested she pursue this job. “I appreciate your giving me an interview.”
Whitney pressed her hands together beneath her chin and remained silent a few moments. “I’ve learned to trust my intuition. I’m going to hire you on a trial basis, but you’ll have to prove your ability to deliver on deadline.”
“You won’t be sorry.” Blaine was barely able to control her excitement.
“When can you start?”
“Monday?”
“Great. Any questions?”
“Will I select my own topics?”
“You can submit suggestions subject to my approval.” Whitney picked up her notepad. “Keep the stories somewhat upbeat and end on a positive note. Think about topics you feel passionate about, and run them past me by e-mail before you start writing. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely.”
“I have plenty of ideas to get you started.” Whitney leafed through a stack of papers on her desk, selected several, and handed them to Blaine. “Here are recent features we’ve done. Look them over and follow the same format regarding length, number of interviews, and so forth.”
Blaine accepted them reverently. “I won’t disappoint you.”
“The writing should be easy for someone with your background. I want your first feature to run three weeks from today. We’re already set for the next two weeks.”
“Drafts first to be sure you like them?”
“Of course. As I said, it’s critical that you meet deadline, which is twice monthly. If that time frame isn’t workable for you...well...there’s no flexibility. You have to be able to produce on schedule.” Whitney stood, indicating the interview was over.
“No problem.” Blaine spoke more confidently than she felt. “Ms. Barnes, I really appreciate this.” She reached for her purse and pulled her wool jacket tighter.
“Welcome to our staff.” She scribbled a note on a legal pad. “Give this to my office manager, Don, who directed you to me. Fill out the personnel forms he gives you.”
“I’m very grateful for the opportunity.”
“I believe you already said that. No redundancy.” Whitney smiled. “I need somebody I can count on.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later Whitney glanced out the window, spotting Blaine getting into her beater of a car.
God, let this work out. I don’t want to add another disappointment to this poor woman’s life.
FOURTEEN
Jillian Langley was not an angry person by nature, but that’s how she awoke Wednesday. She slammed the shut-off on her alarm. This past year after her surprise divorce, her disposition had changed. Circumstances pushed her into a pit of rage often.
How she wished for an entire day in bed, a luxury long gone from her life. Only knowing her two children depended on her energized her enough to drag her bare feet across the cold wood floor to the kitchen.
Jillian sighed as she passed the open doors of her children’s bedrooms. Her son and daughter had spent the night at their dad’s. She picked up the kitchen phone and called the traitor, her ex.
“Edward, are the kids up and getting ready for school?”
He spoke in a harsh whisper. “I don’t need a reminder.”
“I promised them I’d call you. Last week they got detentions twice for being tardy.”
“I’m perfectly capable of delivering them to the bus on time if you stop pestering me.”
“They’d better not be late again. And while I have you on the phone, can you drop them off here tomorrow night or do I have to pick them up? I’d like to take advantage of an opportunity to work overtime for a special event.”
“Must you call me in the morning to discuss these things?”
“Believe me, I wish I didn’t have to contact you at all.”
It pained Jillian every time she had to deal with Edward or his new wife, Tara, so she talked to them as little as possible. Juggling schedules and visitation arrangements was enough to make Jillian grind her teeth—literally. Her dentist wanted her to wear a sleeping device because her molars were disappearing. Where was that in the budget?
“I suppose I could drop the kids off, if you want to go to work.”
She hated the petulance in his tone. “Want? Like it’s a luxury? Must work! If you’d declared your real income instead of sheltering it, I wouldn’t be in this position. For that I can thank the services of our family lawyer who abandoned me in favor of your money.”
“Let’s not go down that road again. By the way, I don’t appreciate the fact that the children act less than happy to be here. Stop bad-mouthing me. Try to keep your opinions about me to yourself.”
“I never bad-mouth you to the children, tempting as it is and well-deserved, I might add. It’s the way you treat them when they’re with you that rouses their antagonism.”
“I spoil them rotten.”
She bit her lip to avoid saying that’s not what she heard and hung up with a measure of cordiality, the minimum she could muster.
Jillian couldn’t help that the children never wanted to stay at Edward’s and his new wife’s. Both Alyssa and Tad still loved their father, but they both returned home sad because things weren’t the way they used to be. The truth was she suspected the kids worked hard to put on happy faces during their time with Dad. She sensed the poor children feared losing all contact with him if they grumbled too much. They worried about her too, because they were always
asking what she was going to do while they were gone. Her assurance she’d be fine didn’t seem to reassure them much.
She dumped water and grounds into the coffee maker. Its slow dripping and the clatter of dishes she removed from the dishwasher broke the stillness of her huge kitchen. This was all the noise she could tolerate while waiting to sip the liquid she depended on every morning to co-ordinate her body and brain—after the first two cups took effect.
She downed her coffee standing at the kitchen island and skimmed the Cortland Courier. She made herself read it daily, even though she had no interest in the world outside. Was this part of the malaise that came from feeling like a human race dropout? Counseling was supposed to help. So far Dr. Karen Trindle’s group for divorced women hadn’t.
Since Edward left her, Jillian worked two jobs. Days, she sold jewelry on salary and commission in Sandstorm’s, a large department store in the mall located eight miles north of town. Three nights a week, she waitressed from five to ten p.m. at Jonny Z’s—an upscale restaurant—serving diners with patience and cheerfulness. Her children’s financial well-being and hers depended upon good tips.
On the outside, Jillian’s divorce settlement probably looked fine. She had the big house, didn’t she? No matter that taxes and upkeep were over 20 thousand a year. Only her closest friends knew the severity of her financial problems. Of course, she could move to an apartment, but Jillian couldn’t bear to uproot two teenagers, pulling seventeen-year-old Alyssa and fourteen-year-old Tad from everything familiar—not this first year at least. Losing their dad was enough of an adjustment.
Her ex was supposed to handle the expenses of college. Unless he managed to find a detour around this responsibility like he shielded enormous chunks of his income to pay minimal support. Jillian already recognized signs of trouble. Tad reported that Edward’s new wife, Tara, kept regaling him with stories about how the two-year local community college was a fine school. Maybe it was, but more than one choice would be nice.
Concern about finances prompted Jillian to grab the phone again. She hadn’t checked with her art agent, Carla Madsen, lately. Bless her! Carla believed in her artistic work and still sold a piece for Jillian from time to time. It was 8:10. She might catch Carla before she left for the office. Jillian punched in her number.
“Helloooo,” a groggy voice answered.
“Carla, it’s Jillian. Any sales this month?”
“Nothing yet, but not to worry. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Just getting a little anxious. I’m sorry. Did I waken you?”
“I needed to get up for an appointment anyway.”
Jillian hoped that was true.
After the divorce, one of the things Jillian hated most was giving up her painting. As a housewife, her watercolors and oils had brought in nice chunks of spare cash. They could never provide enough to live on now. That didn’t matter anyway. Jillian had lost the spark to be creative, along with a thousand other losses, when her husband Edward had stabbed her with the shocking words, “I want a divorce. I’m sorry, but I just don’t love you anymore.”
Jillian sighed again, headed back to the bedroom, and showered. She pulled on a red knit sweater and black skirt. From the time her kids were little, she’d enjoyed relaxing in a hot bath. Lately, she showered—less time to think. Being busy helped. Work therapy, that’s what she called it.
Doing her minimized make-up and simple hairstyle took only ten minutes since she’d quit wearing contacts. In her late fifties, she was still complimented on the beauty of wide hazel eyes contrasting with her reddish-brown hair. No husband to look pretty for anymore, and the thought of looking attractive for other men disgusted her.
As far as she was concerned, most men were jerks and the man she’d married king of them all.
Twenty-five minutes later, after dumping laundry into the washing machine and sanitizing the bathroom, she was ready to leave for her day job. She shut the front door. A chilling wind rustled her thin coat, and she pulled it closer.
At least she didn’t have babies to drop off at day care like some of the women in the Divorce Support Group she’d attended. What a nightmare that experience had been, seeing women from every economic class straggle in wearily. Divorce was a great equalizer—it made all women poor. Jillian had recoiled as one by one each shared their pain. The meetings failed to encourage Jillian. Certainly Dr. Karen Trindle tried, and so did Dr. Stevens the night she filled in when Dr. Trindle was ill. Jillian left the group more depressed each time. Eventually she stopped going.
The traffic on Kindler Street crept along. Jillian slammed on her brakes for a jaywalking pedestrian who appeared out of nowhere clutching a flapping raincoat in the freezing cold. She waited half a minute for him to cross, and so could the honking cars behind her. He cheerily waved a thank-you, and she made an effort to smile back. The man’s erect posture reminded her of her ex-husband and she groaned.
She had to admit Edward saw his children more now than before the divorce. He had custody two days a week and every other weekend. Mostly, the kids told Jillian, they sat alone at his house in front of a TV, watching videos and eating take-out food picked up by Tara, Edward’s new wife, twenty years his junior.
The kids reported they had to sit separately when they went to a show because Tara wanted to snuggle with Dad. Jillian hated the idea of her daughter being around Edward’s harlot, as Jillian privately called Tara. She feared Alyssa might pick up Tara’s casual morality. The more distance the better from a Jezebel who would steal another woman’s husband.
During one visit, Tara took fourteen-year-old Alyssa shopping and bought her a slinky sweater knit and a skirt that barely covered her pelvis. Jillian threw the outfit in a hot wash on purpose and ruined it. Alyssa never asked about it, sweet kid.
Edward’s infatuation with Tara wouldn’t last. Jillian was sure. She gave Tara three years, tops. Although Jillian doubted her marriage could ever be rebuilt, deep down she knew she’d try again if Edward ever divorced Tara. She wasn’t a quitter and only gave away her heart once. Jillian chided herself. Any hope for reconciliation was foolish at this point.
She shook her head and squeezed the steering wheel tighter. She must not allow herself to ruminate about Edward. Focus on something pleasant, Jillian ordered herself.
Since the kids would be gone through dinner tonight, she’d shop the two hours she had between jobs instead of running home to the emptiness. Her precious children brought deep joy to her otherwise dreary life. And they were enough to keep her soul content. The holidays were coming. She’d hunt for their Christmas gifts. That would be fun.
Finding a spot in the employee parking lot, Jillian braced herself for the cold dash to Sandstrom’s department store. She had her pleasant face pasted on by 9:30 a.m. when the first customer strolled down the aisle.
* * *
Across town Edward Langley helped his son and daughter get ready for school. After finally ushering them out the door, he returned to the bedroom and complained to his wife lying in bed, “I wish you’d help out a little with this morning responsibility.”
Tara rolled over and ignored him. She was nursing one of her convenient migraines, which developed when she chose to sleep in. Other mornings, she was up and out running by 6 a.m.
Edward stomped noisily into the bathroom. He experienced more frustration when he scrutinized his appearance in the mirror and patted after-shave on his cheeks. Gray strands were sneaking in again at his temples. Time for another bottle of hair color, his little secret. He always locked the door when he applied the hair color before his shower. He told Tara locking the door was a carryover habit from having adolescents in the house, barging in without thinking. Still, he suspected she knew what he did, even though he hid the empty box carefully in the garbage.
Edward recalled how he’d insisted his ex-wife, Jillian, color her hair and have her nails done weekly. She’d objected but dutifully complied. Appearances were important to him, stemming from his
fears about growing old. To his chagrin, Jillian had recognized his insecurity and gently pointed it out to him.
Jillian also probably understood his infatuation with his new, young wife. Tara made him forget he was nearing sixty with the bulging belly that he swore he’d never have. Edward combed his hair into place quickly, like he did everything. He despised that his former wife knew him so well.
Jillian had been privy to all his painful family history. His dad had worked for General Motors as a line inspector—a boring job, checking the paint on cars rolling down the assembly line. Every evening his dad returned home to lounge in his recliner with a six-pack. The family knew Dad hated his job but stayed because he was prisoner to the benefit package, a money cage with bars stronger than steel.
As a teenager Edward had vowed never to be stuck in such a boring job or lifestyle. Though a successful investment advisor, he lived in his own emotional cell, albeit decorated by lots of dollars. His emptiness reeked with the same stench as his dad’s life, although Tara had made him forget this for a time.
Ages ago Jillian had wanted Edward to see a counselor for help with his self-esteem and communication issues, but he’d refused. “There’s nothing wrong with me. You’re the problem.” That had been his standard line. He looked into the mirror and tightened his belt a notch.
He never took the time to examine the inner man behind the facade he wore. Introspection was a time drain to be avoided. He wasn’t even sure what kind of food he really liked or what clothes he’d wear if he weren’t trying to be avant-garde and professionally attired. He’d insisted on an interior decorator to select every item of furniture and accessory in their lake estate, except the art, which Jillian handled.
Choosing the safest and most popular options, Edward always assumed the more expensive the better. A concern of being out of sync with what was cool was part of the hidden fear of rejection Edward harbored. No one had ever taught him about riches other than material. To see aesthetic value in a Renoir or Monet painting was unimaginable. He lived for sensual experiences—sexual and financially satisfying. He found beauty in upward arrows next to his stocks.