Faking Grace, page 28
He gives a little rumble.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
A quarter hour later, I answer a knock at the door, and there stands Tessie with a cardboard box. She eyes me over the splayed flaps. “Ray had your desk cleaned out. I offered to bring you the contents.”
I have no reason to wince, as this was to be expected, but knowing it doesn’t make it any easier. “Thank you.” I reach for the box.
“I’ve got it.” She strides forward and sets it on the sofa table. “So?” She turns to me as I close the door against bugs in search of light. “Did you spill the beans to your boss at Steeple Side?”
“I did.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Fired you on the spot, I’ll bet.”
“No.”
Her tough stance falters. “No?”
“Linda is giving me another chance.”
She looks momentarily away, then shakes her head as if to clear her confusion. “What about Jack?”
“He was there when I told Linda everything.”
“And he agreed to give you a second chance?”
“Not exactly, but the decision wasn’t his.”
She frowns. “You said you told Linda everything? How much of everything?”
“Everything that should have gotten me fired. And she knows the paper may still publish the story.” I step toward her. “Will they? Has Ray asked you to write it?”
“He has.”
“Will you?” Please, God.
“It’s a strong consideration.”
I bolster my sinking insides by latching onto the word consideration. Maybe she won’t write the article. Of course, another of Ray’s writers might. “Was Ray angry?”
She gives a short laugh. “You got that right.”
“He took it out on you?”
She hitches an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, I can handle him.” She heaves a “discussion closed” sigh, then looks around. “Are you still planning on moving?”
I nearly groan at the thought of packing my belongings. Fortunately the furnishings are Tessie’s, so I won’t have to move them. “Yes. Until I can find another part-time job, it’s going to be tighter than ever.”
“Wise decision.” She glances at her watch. “My column’s due tomorrow, so I’d better get on it.”
I return to the door and open it. “Thank you for bringing my stuff.”
She crosses the threshold.
“Tessie?”
She turns to face me.
“I really am grateful for all that you did for me. And I’m sorry for disappointing you. I just … couldn’t do it.”
After a long moment, she says, “It’s not as if you didn’t give me adequate warning. Good night.”
I watch her walk all the way to her back door. When it closes behind her, I close my own door and cross to the box. It contains the usual personal items found in or on one’s desk: coffee cup, comb, dental floss, spare sweater, pack of chewing gum, lipstick, framed picture, knickknacks, and name plaque. I hold up the latter and eye the letters that spell out “Maizy Stewart.”
“This ought to set everyone at Steeple Side right,” I murmur, then roll my eyes at the thought of the questions to come.
I certainly have my punishment cut out for me.
TWENTY-FOUR
Still nothing on Steeple Side. Nothing snide, speculative, or remotely scandalous. As I’ve done nearly every day for the past seven months, I send up a silent prayer of thanks, then close the Middle Tennessee Review and reach for a stack of unopened mail.
“Let me guess …” My roommate’s pert voice makes the rounds of the kitchen. “No article.” Jem stands in the doorway wearing a plump old bathrobe marked by a wayward splash of bleach. Tucked beneath her arm is her baby, formerly known as my baby. It’s a good thing I’m over Woofer.
I nod. “Good guess.”
Jem pads forward, lowers Woofer to the floor, and drops into a chair. “That’ll be your New Year’s resolution, won’t it? To stop worrying about a nonexistent article?”
Dare I believe it would have happened by now if it was going to happen at all?
“Well?”
I look to Woofer as he rolls over near her feet and offers up his belly. “Yeah, but you know how resolutions are—hard to keep.”
She lifts her foot and scratches Woofer’s belly with painted toes. “I know, but if I can do it, you can.”
Jem has done it and looks better for all of her struggle to overcome anorexia. Though still tiny, she’s fuller and has a glow about her. She credits me for much of her success, but she’s just being kind. After all, I needed an affordable place to live, and her offer of a room in her apartment helped me more than it helped her. Too, there’s Fly-boy—the same guy who knocked me down months ago in his flight from Todd. Jem has been dating him for a couple of months, and he might just be a “keeper.”
Jem stands up, causing Woofer to startle. “Stop taking the paper, Maizy.” She scoops up the scattered sections and tosses them in the garbage can. “You’re in the clear.”
“I know, but every time I start to relax, I have this urge to look over my shoulder.”
She resumes her seat, and once more everything is right in Woofer’s world. “Look, you are where you’re meant to be, and you’re doing a fantastic job.” She gives a little laugh. “Once Fiala is promoted—likely at the beginning of the New Year—the junior staff writer position is yours.”
It’s what I’m hoping for and what Linda alluded to last week when I turned in another editorial piece. She said my writing was exceptional and, as I started for the door, added that it was time she did something about my overqualification. I turned my head, but Linda merely winked before returning to her computer screen.
I smile at Jem. “It looks that way.”
“It is. And if that’s not enough, everyone likes you.”
I arch an eyebrow.
“Well, maybe not everyone, but you’re accepted.”
I can’t argue that. Not that it was easy. Within hours of placing my name plaque on my desk, everyone knew I had been a staff writer for the Lifestyle section of the Middle Tennessee Review. I quickly became the talk and speculation of Steeple Side.
Q: Why didn’t you tell us you were Maizy Stewart?
A: I didn’t think I’d be hired if it were known that I also worked at the paper.
Q: Are you still working at the paper?
A: No, I quit.
Q: Why?
A: I didn’t like the direction my career was heading.
Q: And you like the direction it’s heading now as a part-time editorial assistant?
A: I like working for Linda. Hopefully the job will work into full time and I’ll be writing articles again.
I didn’t lie. I just didn’t elaborate. Not surprisingly, that first month was rough as many of my co-workers viewed me with suspicion, Fiala being foremost among them. But it’s tapered off, and even Fiala has let down her guard. However, if that story ever appears—
Jem’s right. I have to believe it won’t. Have to believe that Tessie, despite her aloofness those last weeks I resided over her garage, tossed out the copies of my notes. Have to believe, because she isn’t going to confirm it. Despite my attempts to maintain contact, she hasn’t returned my calls or acknowledged my e-mails or notes. It’s made me question if our friendship ever existed, but I always conclude it did. Which means there’s hope for healing. When she’s ready.
“You’re thinking about Jack, aren’t you?”
Though Jack figured nowhere in my thoughts, heat invades my cheeks. “No, not Jack.” Not that I don’t think about him, especially lately as he doesn’t seem as intent on avoiding me. Still, it can only be because he’s learned to tolerate me. From time to time we even exchange a word or two—entirely work related but better than the tense silence between us those first few months.
“I saw him looking at you today while we were having lunch.” Jem smiles as I open my eyes wide. “Meant to mention it, but you were so fixed on my anorexia and your piece on eating disorders.” She’s referring to the article Linda gave me permission to write, which will be my fourth for the women’s magazine.
I wish I didn’t tingle at the possibility that Jack voluntarily looked my way. “Stop encouraging me. I’m sure he was only making certain I wasn’t eavesdropping on anyone.”
“No, I’ve seen that look. This was not it. Then when he saw that I was watching him watching you, he started pretending that whatever Todd was droning on about was interesting.”
I shake my head. “You’re wrong. Jack doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
“Then why is he still not dating?”
She has a point—no, she doesn’t. No point. No pain. “Maybe he is dating. And even if he isn’t, that doesn’t mean I figure into his life in any way other than as a thorn in his side.”
Jem opens her mouth to argue, but a glance at the clock makes her jump up and Woofer scramble to his peg legs. “It’s after six. If you don’t want to be really late, we’d better get moving.”
Steeple Side’s Christmas party. Though I’ve looked forward to it, I suddenly feel uneasy. Because Jack was watching me—or so Jem says? Maybe I should stay put.
“Come on.” Jem heads out of the kitchen, Woofer on her heels. “I’ll zip you up if you zip me.” Over her shoulder she wrinkles her nose. “I’ll even do your hair.”
Right. I’ve made peace with her Elvira-inspired attempt on my hair, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let her loose on me again, even if it is with only a brush and bobby pins. Having returned to a semblance of natural color—as in over-the-counter (I’m still poor), semipermanent hair color that returned me to the realm of basic brown—I’m not taking any chances.
As I start to follow Jem, my cell phone rings. “Just a minute.” I reach into my purse on the counter. “Hello?”
“Maizy, it’s Tessie.”
“Tessie …” I blink. “Uh, how are you?”
“Good.” Her voice may not be chill, but it has the ring of business. “Ray asked me to give you a call.”
Is this about the salary I drew for the investigation? Though I accepted Grandma’s offer of a loan in order to repay the paper and completely sever any ties, perhaps I miscalculated. Deep breath. “Oh?”
“A full-time position in the Lifestyle department has opened up, and he wants to give you first shot.”
I can only stare at the air at the end of my nose. “Me? Ray wants me back?”
“You may not have the stomach for investigative reporting, but you’re good with the lifestyle stuff.” That last word spoken with derision. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but since you stopped contributing articles, the paper has received numerous inquiries. Apparently you developed something of a following. Are you interested?”
My ego perks up, but the one multisentence scripture I’ve memorized due to its relevance and ability to comfort swats it aside: “Make a careful exploration of who you are and the work you have been given, and then sink yourself into that. Don’t be impressed with yourself. Don’t compare yourself with others. Each of you must take responsibility for doing the creative best you can with your own life.” Galatians something-or-other in The Message.
“It’s full time, Maizy, which means a generous increase in salary.”
Bolstered by a longing for security, my ego snaps back to attention. Full time, meaning far more than what I make at Steeple Side and freelancing, meaning I could make good on Grandma’s loan, meaning I could exceed the minimum payment on my bills, meaning I’d be writing—and not just the occasional editorial piece.
“Of course, if Steeple Side has already put you on full time …”
“Not yet, though it may happen after the New Year.”
She harrumphs. “You can’t bank on possibilities. And why should you when a sure thing is knocking?”
Temptation. And in that moment, I wish I had memorized scripture to help me fight it off. Feeling watched, I glance at the kitchen table, where my unopened mail sits. Mostly bills.
Leave Steeple Side. Leave the friends I’ve made. Leave those who gave me a second chance. Leave Ja—no, leaving Jack would not be a bad thing.
“So?” Tessie prompts.
Yes. So? Financial security working for the paper? Or financial uncertainty in a job that allows God to do His work in you—that means you have to trust in Him, not yourself? As far as I believe my faith has come, the decision isn’t easy.
“Are you still there, Maizy?”
Struggling against the current that urges me back to a semblance of self-reliance, I draw a breath. “It’s been hard, Tessie, but I like it at Steeple Side, and the people care about me. I’m going to stay put.”
Silence ensues, and just as I’m about to ask if she’s still on the line, she says, “I thought that would be your answer. So you’re happy there?”
I’m warmed by what I dare to believe is interest. “I am.”
“What about your faith?”
A thrill goes through me. “Growing. I’m attending Jem’s church, and though it’s small compared to Sovereign and there isn’t much of a singles’ program, I like it.” I give a short laugh. “This will sound cheesy, but I’m starting to see why some people view other church members as family.”
Rather than scorn, my words elicit a long drawn, “Hmm.”
So I push the envelope. “What about your faith?”
Scorn is delivered in the form of laughter. “What faith?”
For fear of losing any ground I might have gained, I decide to keep it light. “Guess I’m not cut out for evangelism.”
“Not where I’m concerned. Well, I have a deadline to make, so I’ll let you go.”
Just one more thing. “What about the Steeple Side story? Is it—I mean …”
She keeps me hanging, then says, “I should have let you know, but I’ve never been quick to forgive. Ask my exes.”
“So?”
“There isn’t going to be a story, Maizy.”
Oh, thank You, God! “Why?”
“Because a writer needs to know when she’s at a dead end. And Steeple Side is a dead end.”
Hardly, but who am I to argue? “Thank you.”
“For what?”
She knows for what, but no need to press it. “For calling. And will you thank Ray for me for the offer?”
“Sure.”
“I’d love to have lunch with you sometime.”
A long pause. “We’ll see. Good-bye, Maizy.”
“Bye.” I consider the phone a moment before I flip it closed and glance overhead. “You really do have incredible timing, You know.” Of course He does.
We’re a half hour late when we pull into Steeple Side’s parking lot. Approaching the doors, Jem and I gasp over the glittering lobby visible through the enormous glass panes. Though it’s been in the process of transformation for two weeks as Christmas trees, lights, banners, freshly cut garlands, and a life-size crèche have moved in, it’s come together beautifully. And that’s further apparent when we step through the doors. Past the milling employees outfitted in gowns, tuxes, sports jackets, dresses, pantsuits, and even jeans, white-clothed tables stretch left and right. Set with a variety of appetizers, they’re flanked by chattering men and women whose voices are rendered indistinct by the Christmas music that pulses from a band on a dais at the foot of the towering cross.
After we check our coats, Jem grips my arm. “Food or dancing first?”
Easy for her to ask, as she has someone to dance with. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Flyboy steals her away entirely. I nod at the nearest table. “I’m hungry.”
“Okay.” She bounces ahead.
Once more struck by how fairylike she appears with her hair caught up in the high ponytail we fashioned into ringlets that cascade down around her face, a pink chiffon dress, and sparkly heels, I smile. No red or green for Jem. Too predictable, she had pronounced as she zipped up my new evening gown that follows my curves down to my ankles—all in a predictable shade of Christmas tree green. Adjusting my lace and sequined shoulders, I follow her.
Amid chattering, laughter, and an occasional squeal of delight, Jem and I fill our plates with appetizers marked as crab-stuffed mushrooms, sausage puffs, and prosciutto-wrapped asparagus. Then there are the tamer items: shrimp with cocktail sauce and cold cuts. All good.
“So you didn’t come with Jack?”
I’m broadsided by the question asked by a woman whose voice I don’t recognize; however, it’s not directed at me, I discover as I look her way. It’s directed at Dinah, the flirt from Payroll and Avery’s Sunday school class. She and the other woman are loading their plates on the opposite side of the table.
“No.” Dinah’s mouth puckers. “He brought someone else.”
Bette? The ribs in the vicinity of my heart take a pounding.
With a snicker, Dinah nods at a table to her right.
Smarting from pain I do not want to feel, I follow her gesture. But Jack isn’t at the table. I recognize the one man there as someone I’ve seen around Steeple Side, but the three women with whom he shares the table are unfamiliar—two young, one quite old. Not Bette then.
“Which one is she?” Dinah’s companion asks.
Dinah gives a strangely self-satisfied smile, only to drop it when she notices me. “Oh hi, Gr—er, Maizy.” She corrects herself, as some still do, with a measure of suspicion.
“Hi.”
Her companion frowns at me, then turns with Dinah and walks away.
I glance at the table again. Though both women are attractive, I hope it isn’t the redhead, as she’s a knockout. However, an instant later, the brunette leans near the man and lays an intimate hand on his.
Okay, so Jack has himself a redhead. Telling myself I don’t care, I trail Jem to the beverage table. Shortly, we turn away with punch cups in hand.
“This way.” Jem alters course to snag the table being vacated by the same man and two women that Dinah pointed out to her friend. That leaves only the old woman.
