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She drove home quickly, hoping Wes would still be asleep. He’d go ballistic if he knew she had taken a job.
The house was quiet. Laurel put on a pot of coffee and tiptoed into the bedroom. Wes was snoring softly. Good, she thought. She’d have time to rest before she had to fix his breakfast. She showered and changed in the bathroom. When she came out, Wes was propped up on his elbows. “You’re up early,” he said.
“It’s nearly nine.”
He swung his feet onto the floor. “What’s for breakfast?”
Laurel wasn’t the only one looking for work. Charlie didn’t know how long she could hold Craig off. He wouldn’t give up. At least she would give him a run for his money.
Realistically, though, Charlie knew she had to prepare for the inevitable. With only half of the money from the sale of this house and less support, her future looked dim if she didn’t do something about it. She’d need a place of her own. She couldn’t rent. What landlord would accept her menagerie? She’d never qualify for a mortgage, even if Craig didn’t cut her alimony. And a cut was a definite possibility.
So a week after Thanksgiving, Charlie sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, the telephone, and the classified section of the paper. There weren’t as many ads as she remembered from previous attempts. She’d heard that most jobs were advertised on-line now, but she didn’t even own a computer.
She felt lucky, though, when she saw a job listed that was made for her, a pet groomer at PetAgree. Perfect. She dialed with great expectations only to be told the job had been filled. She inked a big X over the ad. She called an insurance agency looking for a receptionist with good telephone skills. They were looking for someone with recent experience. Another X. How hard was it to answer a phone?
There were ads for people with accounting degrees, sales experience, computer skills. There were jobs for auto mechanics, busboys, registered nurses and managers of IT, whatever that was. None that advertised for a fifty-something woman with no recent work record. In the 1970's and 80's, there was a push to get women like her -- ‘displaced homemakers’ they were called - into the workplace. But it never occurred to her then that she would become one. And now that she was in her fifties, the trend was over; apparently all the former homemakers had now been ‘placed’. Now every employer seemed to be looking for someone under thirty with twenty years
worth of experience. Fair Grounds, the home of the multi-studded server, needed a counter person. Grace didn’t think she fit their image.
By the time she finished her coffee, the paper was covered with large black Xs. She folded it and tossed it into the trash.
She leashed up the dogs for their mid-day walk and marched out into the brisk late autumn air. They moved slowly, stopping to inspect rocks, hedges, and the fire hydrant at the corner. When she got back to her house, Charlie stared in disbelief. In the short time she was away, a large For Sale sign had been planted on her front lawn. Someone must have been watching the house. The thought gave her the shivers. Worse, whoever planted the sign -- she doubted Sheila had gotten her hands dirty-- had punched a large hole in her carefully tended lawn and left the divot lying beside it. On the post beneath the sign was a clear plastic display case filled with flyers describing the house. This was too much.
She let the dogs loose in the house, then went to the front lawn and pulled the sign out, leaving a gaping hole. She carried it into the garage, tore the flyers up and dumped the pieces into the trash. She replaced the divot, tamping it back into the ground. The war was escalating.
After dark, Charlie wrestled the sign into the trunk of her car and drove to the Fairbrook Realty office. They could have their sign back. Next time they’d have to come to her for permission. Lights were on, and she saw someone moving around inside. She passed by and continued on until she passed a construction site with huge dumpsters parked in front. She lugged the sign to the nearest one, and with a huge effort, heaved it over the top and into the debris box. Dusting off her hands, she drove home with a mixture of dread and satisfaction. She’d shown them they couldn’t trod on her lawn or her. It was their move next.
CHAPTER 5
Laurel couldn’t believe that, under the circumstances, Zora was giving her annual party. Zora had once confided that she gave the first party of the holiday season to insure she got invited to all the affairs that followed. It was also around the time of her anniversary, so it was doubly festive. And this year they were celebrating their twenty-fifth. So this party was the most elaborate yet.
With so many people thrown out of work just before the holidays, it seemed to Laurel inappropriate and downright insensitive to hold such an elaborate event. But she and Zora marched to different drummers.
Naturally, Wes had refused to come. But Laurel couldn’t see any reason not to. Even though she knew many of the people here, she was nervous. This was the first time since her marriage that she had attended a formal event without Wes. Normally he would have introduced her to his colleagues, gotten her a drink, made sure she had someone to talk to. Tonight she was on her own. She handed her car keys to the valet Zora had hired and walked up the wide steps to the front door with the brass lion’s head knocker.
She waited in the marble foyer as Zora air-kissed a couple Laurel didn’t know. The maid took the woman’s fur, then returned for Laurel’s wool overcoat. Laurel hoped no one would recognize her green crepe dress as the one she’d worn last year. She’d sewn a lace collar to the neckline to disguise it.
Laurel patted the back of her head, scrunching her hair to hide any roots she might have missed. When Wes lost his job, she gave up her weekly trip to Shear Beauty. Now coloring it herself, Laurel was afraid she had gotten more dye on the towel than on her head. She asked Wes if she’d missed any spots, but he barely looked, and she didn’t trust his grunted “looks fine.” In his present frame of mind, he probably wouldn’t have noticed if she’d dyed it green and sculpted it into a Mohawk.
When Zora, sleek and trim in an emerald silk sheath turned to greet her, Laurel felt like the epitome of frump. Compared to Zora’s jet black coif, her hair seemed mousy brown. Why hadn’t she tried a more dramatic color? And she had to shed the ten pounds that seemed permanently attached to her mid-section. The trouble was she loved to eat as much as she loved to cook.
“Where’s Wes?” Zora asked.
“He’s not feeling well. He sends his regrets.” Laurel crossed her fingers behind her back.
“Let’s get you a drink.” Zora steered Laurel into the crowded living room. Pockets of people cradled drinks in their hands and plucked canapes from trays passed by young men in white waistcoats. A string trio played in the corner. Through the open doorway, Laurel spotted the buffet table in the dining room.
At the far side of the room, Nathan stood behind the marble-topped bar mixing drinks. “I intended to have this at the Club, but they couldn’t accommodate me,” Zora confided. “At the very least I wanted to hire a professional bartender, but Nathan insisted on doing it himself. He said that way he’d get a chance to talk to everybody.” She left Laurel at the bar and returned to the front hall.
Nathan’s mouth curved in a slight smile, but his eyes looked sad, as if his face belonged to two different people.
Laurel asked for a glass of white wine. She tried to think of small talk, but her mental quiver was empty of conversational arrows. “It’s a nice party,” she said.
Nathan shrugged. His hand shook slightly as he filled her glass. Before she could thank him, he moved to the other end of the bar to help another guest.
Laurel recognized a few people from company parties she’d attended, but nobody she felt she could approach. She wasn’t adept at chatting with people she didn’t know well-- she usually left that to Wes.
To her surprise, she spotted the Armstrongs across the room. Zora probably had invited them