course not, but it helps.”
“They must raise children differently where you come from.”
“Simms? Maybe they do. I know people who still make their children apologize to telemarketers before they hang up on them.” I paused to eyeball him for a change. “Tell me, Randy, what’s your story? You don’t get to hear mine without sharing a little of your own. I know you’re an accountant and that you go to church just a few blocks from here, but other than that…’
He shrugged his wide but bony shoulders beneath his jacket. “Not much to tell. I was born and raised in a middle-class suburb of the Twin Cities. Had a good education, went to the university, became a CPA and here I am, at Parker Bennett.”
“That’s a little dull, don’t you think? Surely there must be people in your life.”
“A younger brother and sister, two parents who are teachers. And a pack of first and second cousins that I see on holidays. I’m single because the right girl just hasn’t come along yet. And I have a cat named Franklin, after the stove in my parents’ cabin.”
“That’s what I was talking about! The people in your life, what you do for fun! That’s the best part of a person’s life, not what they own.”
“What is it with you, anyway? I’ve never met anyone as—” he searched for words “—as content as you are.” He scratched his sandy head in puzzlement. “You’ve come here every day for nearly a month in your old junker of a car, carrying a sack lunch and humming like a canary. The execs drive BMWs or Jags and go out for power lunches to grouse about how hard they have it. What’s your secret?”
He looked so sincere and cute and vulnerable standing there trying to puzzle me out that I wanted to give him a squeeze. I did, however, restrain my impulses.
“My secret? Randy, I’m the most transparent person on the planet. With me, what you see is what you get.”
“That’s what you say, but there’s something…” Randy looked so puzzled that I had to laugh.
“So you want my secret? Okay, I’ll give you my confidential formula. But it’s one I’m sure you already know.” I dug in my purse for a scrap of paper and came up with half a deposit slip from my checkbook. I scribbled down the information for which Randy was digging, then I slipped the scrap inside the little New Testament I always carry and pressed it into his palm. “Here you are.”
“I’ve already got a Bible, Cassia.”
I ignored him.
The elevator arrived as he looked at the packet in his hand. As we stepped inside, I asked. “What floor do you want? I’ll drive.”
“Sixth floor. I want to stop at the cafeteria and grab some coffee. I got up too late to make my own this morning.” Then he opened the little Testament and read what I’d scratched on the bit of paper. Hebrews 13:5, one of my favorites.
Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said, “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.”
He slipped the Testament into his pocket and stepped off the elevator on the sixth floor shaking his head.
On the way down the hall to my office, I ran through the game I’d been playing every day since I joined Parker Bennett. It was one my mother always used to break the ice and help us kids remember each other’s names at vacation Bible school. Children would introduce themselves by giving their first names and an adjective that described them. I was always Curly Cassia and my sister Jolly Jane. Over the years our classes were filled with notables such as Mucky Matthew (something to do with the fact that he did barn chores before coming to church school), Blinking Bonnie, Running Ronnie, Silly Sarah and, my personal favorite, Daring Dan. The game got to be such a popular tradition that all the vacation Bible school classes used it, and it’s been my memory tool ever since. It’s come in particularly handy since I was hired at Parker Bennett. Every face is new, and I find myself applying adjectives to each person I meet. In my portion of the office alone are Stunning Stella, Paranoid Paula, Betting Bob, Thoughtful Thelma, Ego Ed, Jealous Jan and—even though it’s not playing the game right—Petty Betty. The only one I didn’t need to add a descriptive adjective to was someone with an already memorable name—Cricket.
Cricket is about my age, and while I’m tall and slender, she’s short and round and always has a glorious smile that can light up a room. Cricket told me immediately how she came to have her unusual name. Her much-in-love parents—Jim and Mimi—tried to give her a name that was a combination of their own two names. Unfortunately, all they could come up with was Jimini. It wasn’t long till everyone was calling the baby Jimini Cricket, and before long, Jimini had gone by the wayside and now she’s just Cricket. She’s forever fighting her weight, loves food, abhors exercise and thinks television reality shows are ridiculous. She also feels the need to watch every one of those shows just to make sure that someone doesn’t slip something relevant or enlightening into one of them. Cricket has been a real blessing in the office, not to mention a huge dose of comic relief.
That’s not to say my office mates aren’t all wonderful people—they are, and I like them all very much. But each does have a quirk or two that stand out above all others—Ed, for example.
Ed’s a nice guy. He’s friendly, cheerful and generous. He’s also got a mirror taped to the inside drawer of his desk so he can check his hair for a strand out of place and his teeth for an errant speck of spinach. If Ed lost his hair, he would run right out and buy a wardrobe of hairpieces—a rug for every room, so to speak. Paula and Betty (it figures) think Ed had something “done” around his eyes over his last vacation. Thelma says he just looked “rested,” but apparently Paula counts crow’s-feet and keeps a tally. Now they’re trying to work up the nerve to ask who his plastic surgeon was. I’ve warned them against it. If Ed hasn’t had a touch-up, he’ll be as upset as a woman who is asked when her baby is due six months after she’s delivered.
I hope they aren’t counting my wrinkles. I didn’t have many when I came to Parker Bennett, but they could be adding up quickly now. I’m not much for looking in the mirror. Just seeing myself full-length in a department-store window surprises me. Since all the mirrors in Simms are attached to dressers, I’d even forgotten how long my legs are. Now when I see them in a full-length mirror, I’m reminded of walking on stilts. Ken did tell me once, however, that his buddies thought I had great legs. It was one of the first and only times I’d wished that they’d stick to talking about trucks, power washers, construction materials and the like.
I’d had the most trouble finding an adjective for Thelma. I went back and forth between Thoughtful and Thrifty for a few days before I settled on Thoughtful. She’s the dearest, kindest person in the office, always remembering to ask how Winslow is settling in, to compliment Stella on her new shoes or Jan on a different haircut. She also carries her lunch to work in the same paper bag all week, washes out Baggies so she can reuse them and insists that a teabag can be reused at least four or five times before it loses its punch.
I passed the office of my boss, Ned Lakestone, the man who’s in charge of the many smaller offices that make up the customer service department. His door is rarely open and I don’t think he likes people very much. Customer service is an odd place for a recluse to work, but Stella assures me that Ned’s the best kind of boss to have—one who never interrupts his employees’ workday with instructions or directives. According to Stella, that type is a real nuisance. Besides, if Mr. Lakestone got involved with us, she probably wouldn’t have time to change her nail polish every day.
For some strange reason, as I neared the office, the fine hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle. It reminded me of Boosters, Ken’s dog, when he senses some change in the air or nearly imperceptible hint that something’s not quite as it should be. Then the fur on Boosters’s neck stands up and he puts his nose to the ground because something is very suspicious. Looking back, I realized that if I’d known what was coming, every hair on my head would have stood up and taken notice.
I pushed my way through the throng