Читать книгу Drive Me Wild - Elizabeth Harbison - Страница 9

“You ever had to eat a locust?”

For a moment, Grace Bowes—standing in the blazing-hot sun looking for a mailbox that should have been on the corner of Main and Sycamore but wasn’t—didn’t think the question was directed at her. But when it was repeated with more vehemence, she looked toward the speaker and saw a bent old man perched on a bench in front of the Blue Moon Bay Pharmacy, staring at her so expectantly she couldn’t help but laugh.

“No, I haven’t.” She’d never been one to believe in omens, but when the seventeen-year locusts returned to her hometown the same month she—after a fifteen-year absence—did, she had to rethink her position. On several things. “But I haven’t ruled it out.”

The man laughed heartily, revealing a mouth full of holes plus one or two brown stubs of teeth. “Smart girl.” He thumped a gnarled finger against his temple.

“Have you?” She noticed he had a battered hat at his feet with a handwritten sign that said Thank You in an uncertain hand, and an old dented and rusted Partridge Family lunch box by his side. She immediately regretted asking. Maybe that lunch box was full of locusts right now.

“Had to, during the war. Would’ve starved otherwise.” He looked her over with a sharp blue eye. “What war are you fighting?”

Divorce. Betrayal. Single motherhood. The modern job market as it related to a woman whose only real job had consisted of working as a secretary for her father, the local judge, ten hours a week one summer. A lot of wars. “I’m just looking for a mailbox. I thought there was one on this corner.” She had to mail a car payment on a car that was the main asset she’d won in the divorce after her husband, Michael, had left her a note on the bathroom counter, saying he was sorry but their life together hadn’t worked out and he’d found someone else.

“Used to be one right there.” The old man gestured, then shook his head as if something very sad had happened. “Not there anymore.”

“No, it’s not.” Grace glanced at her watch. In ten minutes she had an appointment at the Bayside Jobs employment agency. First she had to mail this payment, hoping to avoid at least one early-morning call mispronouncing her name and threatening unspeakable actions if she didn’t get the car payment in on time. Along with winning the car, she’d won the car payment, thanks to Michael’s savvy at hiding his financial assets.

Michael Bowes. He’d been the golden boy of Blue Moon Bay, Maryland, the captain of the football team and homecoming king to Grace’s homecoming queen. He’d gone to college in the north and she’d followed a year later. Four years after that, they were married and Michael, then a commercial real-estate developer, had ridden a ride of prosperity right into a lovely upper-middle-class lifestyle. When the bottom had dropped out of that market, he didn’t bother to mention to Grace that they were living on credit cards and line of credit advances and a host of bad gambles.

By the time he left—no doubt because thugs with stub noses and barrel chests were threatening to break his kneecaps—he’d accrued hundreds of thousands of dollars in liability. He and Grace had had to sell the house and her jewelry and even her clothes. Her yard sales were legendary. And exhausting. When it was all over, she had nothing except bad memories of a man who had once seemed like the Catch of Blue Moon Bay.

She wasn’t sorry the marriage was over. Often she’d felt as if in their life together they’d lacked understanding of each other, and even real interest in each other. Perhaps if Michael hadn’t made the first move, she would have suggested it herself after Jimmy was grown. She’d never know, because Michael had beaten her to the punch.

So she’d packed up their ten-year-old son, Jimmy, and moved back to her hometown to live with her widowed mother in the house she’d grown up in. It was only for a year, she told herself. She’d save enough money to move back north, so Jimmy could be near his friends again, in the town that was his home. And she could be far away from this claustrophobic hamlet.

In the meantime, she’d just get a job here in Blue Moon Bay. Granted, at thirty-three, she should be heading her own household, not lying on the same bed she had as a teenager, counting the same fading roses on the wallpaper, but here she was. She was lucky to have the benefit of her mother’s generosity.

With any luck it would keep her from having to eat locusts.

“You have something to mail?” the old man asked, holding out a shaking hand.

Grace automatically pulled her purse in closer to her body. Too many years in the city. “No, thanks. I was just trying to orient myself.”

“Used to be a mailbox there.” He dissolved into a long, sputtering cough. “Gone now.”

She tried to smile and took out one of the only two dollars she had in her purse. “Thanks so much for your help,” she said, dropping the bill into the hat. She noticed there were only three pennies and a nickel in there and, with a pang of pity for the old man, dropped her other dollar in too. “I really appreciate it.”

“God bless you,” he called as Grace walked away and rounded the corner. “And God bless your family too.”

“I hope so,” she whispered.

She looked at her watch again and quickened her pace, hurrying down the shaded street that ran parallel to the old boardwalk a block up. In fifteen years, almost nothing had changed. The salty smell of the ocean still hung in the air and mingled with sweet taffy and caramel corn, though whether the smell was actually there or just a memory, Grace couldn’t say, since it was early May and most of the shops hadn’t opened for the season yet. The pavement was littered here and there with the familiar old Hasher’s French Fries bags, malt vinegar stains dotting the same logo they’d had for at least three decades. It was one of the only landmarks left, now that the once-charming holiday town had fallen in favor of the more exciting Ocean City forty-five minutes away.

Still, a few dings and whistles of arcade games echoed through narrow alleyways full of shops that only opened during the summer when the tourists came to the beach. Grace fought a feeling of melancholy. Around every kite shop, T-shirt shop, and junk-food joint were ghostly memories of bike spills, melting ice cream on muggy summer nights and first kisses in the shadows of doorways and brightly striped awnings.

She stopped at the address she’d written for Bayside Jobs and looked around. It took her a moment to realize 32 Maple Street was the tiny space that used to sell funnel cakes and, for a couple of years in the seventies, had been a head shop.

She paused outside the door and pulled the fabric of her blouse away from her damp underarms. It was a little tight, she’d noticed, thanks to her Oreo therapy, but it would probably be okay as long as she didn’t raise her arms and split the back. If she stood straight, it looked fine. She hoped.

With a quick breath, she heaved the old glass door open and stepped into the cool, dark, mercifully locust-free office. It still carried the faintest whiff of grease, sugar and marijuana.

An unpleasantly familiar stout woman looked up from the desk a few feet in front of her. “Grace Perigon,” she said flatly, her face pink under her now-white hair.

“Ms. Lindon?” Grace gasped, recognizing the voice that addressed her by her maiden name. Ms. Lindon—she’d always emphasized the Ms., leading to rampant speculation among the students about her sexuality—had been the meanest home ec teacher on the east coast, maybe even the meanest in the whole United States.

Students had called her “the Egg Beater” because she’d always seemed hostile, even when baking a cake.

Grace felt the blood drain from her face and pool in the toes of her new discount-store pumps. “I have an appointment.”

“I don’t have any appointment down here for you.”

“You’re in charge here?” Grace glanced around to make sure, once again, that she’d opened the correct door and not, say, an acupuncturist’s or a martial arts studio. “Bayside Jobs?”

Ms. Lindon’s brow lowered further than was aesthetically pleasing. “I am Bayside Jobs.”

That was it. Grace was done for. Except that she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of being done for. She walked slowly toward the large metal desk. The air conditioner hissed in the corner. “Then I must have an appointment with you,” Grace said, in as warm a voice as she could muster.

For a moment, she toyed with the idea of running back outside to take her chances with the locusts.

The older woman took out a vinyl-covered appointment book and studied it intently. “I don’t see you here.”

“Oh.” This was as very bad start. “When I called, I used my married name. I’ll still be using it now, even though we’ve gotten divorced.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, just the usual, I guess. We grew apart—”

“The name,” Ms. Lindon barked. “What is the name?”

She knew damn well that Grace had married Michael Bowes. Everyone did. There were no secrets in this sardine can of a town. But even if she didn’t know the name, there weren’t enough unemployed people in Blue Moon Bay during the summer to fill two lines of the daybook, much less an entire day, so she could have figured it out. For Pete’s sake, Grace could see it was all right there on the page, with just a little doodle of a dog in the corner and some scribbling around the middle of the page. And her name under 11:00—Grace Bowes.

Ms. Lindon looked too long at the page before tapping the scribbled line in the middle and saying, “There it is. You were supposed to be here at eleven, not ten past. Rule number one, Always be on time. Bayside Girls are always professional.”

Bayside Girls? A pang of dread reverberated in the depths of Grace’s heart. It was still 1952 here in Blue Moon Bay, just as it had always been. This was going to be hard to get used to after all those years up north.

She took a deep breath and remembered Jimmy. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

“Have a seat.” The Egg Beater gestured and waited for Grace to obey, then took out a pen and steno pad that still had the bargain-store price tag stuck to the front. “Now, tell me about your skills.”

Grace thought she was prepared for that question. “Let’s see, I’ve spent the past nine years chairing the annual Bingham Industrialists Golf Tournament.” The pen remained poised over the pad but did not touch it, Grace noticed. “I also organized and edited the Bingham Junior League cookbook in 1996, 1997 and 1999.”

After a painful pause, Ms. Lindon said, “I mean, what kind of marketable qualifications do you have? How fast can you type?”

Grace smiled brilliantly. “Typing isn’t really my strong suit….”

Ms. Lindon looked at her with flat eyes. “Computer skills?”

Grace wondered if her old Atari Pong game qualified. “None to speak of but—”

Ms. Lindon dropped her pen and leaned back in her chair, appraising Grace with a cool eye. “I’m afraid we don’t have anything that suits your particular…expertise.”

The blood that had drained moments earlier began to rise in Grace’s face. “I’m willing to learn,” she said, trying to keep the desperate edge out of her voice.

Something in the older woman seemed to soften. She picked up a large portfolio marked Positions to Fill in a handwriting Grace remembered from her old report cards—Grace needs to learn that she has to work for her grades instead of expecting everything to be handed to her on a silver platter—and leafed through it.

She shook her head. “Mmm. No, it’s as I thought. All of these jobs require the latest computer skills and good typing speed, not to mention experience. Wait—here’s one that will train you—” She squinted and looked closer. “Oh, no. That’s no good.” She clopped the book shut. “I’m sorry. I don’t have anything for you now. Maybe if you take a secretarial class and come back, we can help you at a later time.”

Grace refused to give up so easily, even though half of her wanted to concede. “You just said there was one that didn’t require experience.”

Ms. Lindon smirked. “No, that was definitely not for you.”

Grace leaned forward in her seat. “Ms. Lindon, I really, really need a job. Any job.” She hated to beg the help of a woman who clearly wouldn’t share a canteen of water with Grace even if her clothes burst into flames, but she had no choice. “I’m broke.”

The other woman shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I am sorry for your misfortune, but—”

“I don’t want your pity.” Grace swallowed hard. “I’m not here asking for favors. I have a ten-year-old son to take care of now. I need the work. Please, Ms. Lindon—” she reached out and touched the older woman’s hand “—please tell me what you have.”

A long moment passed, during which Grace wondered if Ms. Lindon would let that tennis ball fall in her court or if she’d just lob it back at Grace by the sheer force of impatience. “All right,” she said at last. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

Grace tried to keep calm. “What have you got?”

“It’s at Connor Primary Day School. You know, over on Bayshore Drive?”

Grace nodded, feeling a dull ache grow rapidly in her chest. Dread. Another shoe was going to drop any minute, she knew it, and it would be a size-fourteen stiletto. “I went to school there.”

Ms. Lindon gave her a look of slight skepticism but didn’t say anything. “Well. You may be able to work tuition for your kid into the deal if you get the job. There’s one perk anyway.”

That didn’t sound so bad. She’d kind of like Jimmy to go to the same school she went to, if only briefly. “Really? So what do they need?” She tried to imagine what job Ms. Lindon thought Grace wouldn’t like. “Playground assistant?” she asked, to let the other woman know she was willing to take that kind of job. “After-school care?”

“Bus driver.”

Grace felt as if she’d missed the bottom step of a very steep staircase and fallen flat on her face. “I beg your pardon?”

“They need a bus driver.”

That was it, the other shoe she’d been waiting for. There was a moment’s silence while the news bounced around the room and into Grace’s consciousness.

“If you’re willing to do it, I can call and set up an interview.”

“But a bus driver?” Grace was still back at square one. Visions of meaty tattooed arms and screaming kids came to mind. “But I don’t know anything about driving a bus.”

Ms. Lindon shrugged. “It says here that they’ll train the right person.”

Grace shifted her weight in her seat, which had suddenly become extremely uncomfortable. “Are you sure there’s nothing else?”

“Nothing.” She pushed the book aside. “You’re clearly not suited for that kind of position, though.”

“But—”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll keep a special eye out for anything that might work for you and I’ll call you immediately if I see something.” She started to stand up.

“Wait.” Grace put a hand up. “How much does it pay? The bus-driver position, I mean.”

Ms. Lindon looked in the book and quoted a figure.

Grace did some quick calculations and said, “That could work. I could survive on that pay.” She’d carefully budgeted what she needed to save each month in order to be able to move back north in one year. This salary would cover that and leave a little over at the end of the month for incidentals. It would be a strenuously budgeted life, but it would be temporary. “I’ll take it.”

“That’s only if they hire you, of course.”

There was that knot in the pit of her stomach again. “Do you think they won’t?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever driven a bus before?”

“No.” Of course not.

The older woman shrugged. “Might not matter. It does say they’ll train. You’d have to interview first, of course. I can only refer you. Whether or not they hire you depends on how that interview goes.” She hesitated before adding, “If you really want to try it.”

“I do.” Grace took a slow breath. She wasn’t going to get sidetracked into a discussion about whether or not she knew what she was saying. “You mentioned there’s a tuition benefit for my son?”

“Says so here. You can talk to Mr. Stewart about that more if you interview.”

Grace noticed that if. “Okay, set up an interview.” She straightened and brushed a fly off the front of her dove-gray Armani suit. She’d bought it in Milan two years ago. Things were different then. “I’ll be a bus driver.”