“Juli?”
“Sorry, Sheila. Didn’t see you.”
“Go ahead and close down your register. Have you been thinking about the assistant manager position? If you say you want it, I know Smith will be thrilled.”
“He mentioned it. I’m thinking about it.” She slipped her hand into her pocket and fingered the sharp edges of Ben’s business card. She was still young, but her feet hurt and her lower back ached from standing all day.
All of her good intentions about getting more education or specialized training had come to nothing. It was hard to get ahead when your energy and time were dedicated to keeping a roof over your head and the utilities on.
She’d taken his card out and read it at break. It had the name of an art gallery with a Beaufort address, along with his phone number. She’d seen his house at Emerald Isle when she’d driven him home that night. A house on the oceanfront. An art gallery. The only time she’d ever experienced success was in middle school. Eighth grade art. Mrs. Timberlake had had great hopes for her. Until she was sent to a new foster home and a new school.
She worked an assortment of nothing jobs that earned her barely enough to live on. She did no more than tread water and was losing against the inevitable tide. Even applying for the assistant manager position was a problem. It would draw attention to her application and she’d probably have to fill out more paperwork. She’d gotten away with it when they first hired her, but she’d be pushing her luck to try it again. Her other employers didn’t care if she’d graduated from high school, but Singer’s would, especially since she’d lied about it from the start.
She bit her lower lip and stared at Ben’s card.
How sad it was to think she’d peaked in eighth grade.
Chapter Three
By the time Juli dialed the phone her restless fingers had worried the sharp corners of the business card down to soft, papery edges.
“Hi, this is Juli Cooke.” She groaned. Dumb. He knew her last name. He’d proposed, for heaven’s sake.
“Juli. I’m glad to hear from you.”
How could she be doing this? He sounded so eager. Like a kid.
“Don’t misunderstand. I’m not agreeing to anything.” Juli watched as a woman passed by on the way to the restrooms. Not a co-worker. Juli turned back to face the wall phone. “I have questions, some concerns.”
“What would you like to know?”
Someone else walked by. Juli watched him turn the corner and disappear into the warehouse area.
She cupped her hand around her lips and the mouthpiece. “Not now. I’m at work, but I’m off early today. About two p.m., if you’re free?”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“Where will we go?”
A moment of silence, then he said, “No worries. I’ll think on it. We’ll go out for coffee or an early dinner. Whatever you like.”
“Park in the side lot and I’ll meet you out there a few minutes after two.”
They said goodbye and disconnected. The phone hung on the wall, still available. Her fingers itched to grab it back, re-dial and call it off, but then she touched the card again, in her pocket, in her hand. It was a stupid business card, not a lifeline. What was wrong with her?
A trashcan with a rocking top was near the opening of the short hallway. She should call him back and ditch the card. It was the only decision that made any sense.
He had a nice voice. Warm eyes.
He was a stranger, almost.
She slid the card into her shirt pocket, nearer her heart, and hurried back to the register.
The clock on the wall above the front plate glass windows ticked with the slow gravity of molasses. As she was switching off the OPEN light above her station, one last customer ran up with a cart. She gritted her teeth and smiled. It was a thin smile because she didn’t want to invite conversation. She was conscious of Ben sitting outside in the car, waiting.
“Cash?” Good, that was quicker. She slipped the bills and coins out of the cash drawer with nimble fingers and counted it back into the woman’s hand. A man approached the register. She said firmly, “I’m sorry. This register is closed.”
She turned away, tugging behind her back at the apron ties.
“Juli?”
“Mr. Smith. Hi. What can I do for you?” Doggone it. If only she’d moved a second faster. Managers always had a sixth sense for when you were in a hurry to get out.
“Can you stay this afternoon?” He smoothed his tie.
“Sheila approved me leaving early.”
After a surprised pause, he said, “Roger called in sick. We’re short-handed.”
One hundred out of one hundred times, when asked to work longer or extra, she’d said yes. She felt her chest rise and fall and she kept her lips pressed together to keep the ‘sure, I can’ from slipping out. Finally, she said, “I’m sorry, but I have an appointment.”