Drive Me Wild. Elizabeth Harbison

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ