Faking grace, p.2
Faking Grace, page 2
Or maybe not. I make a show of checking my watch and gasp. Nothing at all fake about that, as most of my leeway has been gobbled up. Thankfully, I was lucky to—
No, blessed. Must think as well as speak “Christian.” Thankfully, I was blessed to snag a parking space at the front of the building—the only one, as the dozen spaces marked Visitor were taken, and the remaining spaces on either side of mine apparently are reserved for upper management.
I fix a smile. “Thank you again for your help. If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”
“Certainly.”
I step forward and, as I pass within two feet of him, take a whiff. Some type of citrus-y cologne. Nice. Not sharp or cloying. Unlike Ben, whose cologne of choice made my nasal passages burn. And the Brit is nearly six feet tall to my five foot six. Not so tall I couldn’t wear three-inch heels for fear of shooting up past him. Unlike Ben, who’d limited me to one-inch heels—
Go away! Another reason to leave Seattle. With his liberal application of cologne and compact height and build, Ben was nowhere near the man for me. Not that his scent and size were the worst of him. Far from it. And am I glad to be far from him.
As I step to the sidewalk, I’m tempted to glance behind at the nicely proportioned, bumper-sticker-happy Brit. Temptation wins out.
Thumbs hooked in his pockets, he stands alongside my passenger door. Watching me.
Feeling as if caught doing something wrong, I jerk a hand up and scroll through my Christian speak for something to reinforce my claim of being a Christian. “Yours in Christ!” I flash a smile that instantly falters.
At the rumpling of his brow, I jerk around and head for the smoked glass doors of Steeple Side Christian Resources. Cannot believe I used a written salutation! Dumb blonde alert! Speaking of which…
The Dumb Blonde’s Guide to Christianity is on the passenger seat. Fortunately, if the man is nosy enough to scope out the interior of my car, it’s not as if I’ll see him again. That scrumptious accent and citrus cologne were a one-time thing. Unless he does work at Steeple Side and I do get the job. Fat chance.
As I pull open one of several sets of glass doors, I glance behind. He’s on the sidewalk now, head back as he peers up the twenty-some floors of the building. Definitely not an employee.
The lobby is bright and sparsely furnished, but what stops me is the backlit thirty-foot cross on the far wall. Fashioned out of what appears to be brushed aluminum, it’s glaringly simple. And yet I can’t imagine it having more presence.
Crossing to the information desk at the center of the lobby, I scope out several men and women who are entering and exiting the elevators. All nicely dressed. All conservative. I’ll fit right in—
I zoom in on a woman stepping into the nearest elevator. Her skirt is above the knee by a couple inches. And that guy who just stepped out of another elevator? His hair brushes his shoulders.
I shift my gaze back to the towering cross. I’m at the right place, meaning those two are probably visitors. Same goes for the young woman who sweeps past and reaches the information desk ahead of me. Not only is she wearing ruched capris, but she has my hair. Rather, the hair I had. Ha! If she’s after my job, I’ve got her beat.
She drops a jingly purse on the desk and points behind me. “Jack is so hot!”
“Really?” The chubby-faced receptionist bounds out of her chair, only to falter at the sight of me.
“Yes, hot!” The “ruched” young woman jabs the air again, looks around, and startles. “Er, not hot hot. Hot, as in under the collar … ticked off.”
That’s my cue to appear relieved that she didn’t mean hot as in carnal, as she’s obviously connected to this company—at least to the receptionist. I nod. “That’s a relief.”
She smiles, then puts her forearms on the desk and leans in to whisper in a not too whisper-y voice, “This time they stole his assigned-parking sign.”
If someone stole mine, it would make me “hot” too. Doubtless, some visitor would snap up my space, and I’d have to park—
Oh no. The front parking space I snagged … The only unmarked space in the middle of dozens of marked spaces…
I peer out the bank of windows. The Brit whose parking space I took and who does work here is striding toward the doors. And he does look hot, though I can’t be sure whether it’s more in the carnal way or the angry way. Regardless, I am not getting this job.
“May I help you, miss?”
I focus on the receptionist, who has no idea how beyond help I am. Still, as the only alternative is to face the Brit on my way out, I step alongside the ruched young woman. “I have an interview with Mrs. Lucas.”
The receptionist lowers her chin, and I hear a series of keystrokes.
Hurry up! I can handle being late to an interview for a job I’m not likely to get, but sharing an elevator with a man who in no way believes I was unaware that bumper stickers are adhesive backed? No.
“You’re her one o’clock.” The receptionist points to the elevators. “Fifth floor, take a left, a right, then another left. Human Resources is at the end of the hall.”
“Thank you.” Fast feet! Must get to an elevator ahead of the Brit.
“Hey, hold up!”
I falter as the ruched young woman draws alongside me. “I’m heading to Human Resources. I’ll show you the way.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“I’m Jem.” She slips ahead of me into a vacant elevator. “Short for Jemima.”
As she pushes the button for the fifth floor, I look at the very thin woman who can’t be more than twenty-two to my twenty-six. She seems more like a Tiffany or Brittany. Of course Jem without the ima fits all right. As I turn alongside her, I’m snatched from my musings by the Brit heading across the lobby toward the elevators.
I jump forward, jab the Close Doors button, and hold my breath until the doors shut him out at ten feet and closing.
“Ah!” Jem bemoans. “Jack could have ridden up with us.”
I look around. “Hot-under-the-collar Jack?”
Her pout flips right side up. “He doesn’t stay that way for long. He’s just miffed at the guys for pulling one over on him.”
“The guys?”
“Yeah, Jack’s the managing editor of Men’s Publications.”
Great. Might as well head back down and see if I can remove the fish and bumper sticker before the adhesive sets.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “Don’t you think he looks like Daniel Craig?”
That’s the name of the new James Bond actor that escaped me. “Um … some.”
She exaggerates a scowl. “Obviously you need to take a closer look.”
No thanks.
“Anyway, the guys are the editors and writers who work under Jack. They’re always playing pranks on one another.”
A melodic ping announces our arrival at the fifth floor.
Jem leads the way out and turns left. “Last week Todd was the target when the seat of his pants got super glued to his chair.” She turns right, swerving to avoid a middle-aged man heading opposite. “Don’t ask me how.”
“So what happened?”
“The guys had a good laugh and started plotting their next prank—which, of course, likely manifested itself in the case of the missing parking sign.”
“Are you telling me no one was written up? Or fired?”
She turns to me. “Fired? Are you kidding?”
No, merely confused. “Sorry, but I can’t imagine someone getting away with that, especially at a Christian company.”
She makes a face. “Because we’re supposed to be uptight, keep our noses to the grindstone, and never crack a smile?”
I smile apologetically. “That is what I imagined.”
“We’re not like that.”
Maybe working here won’t be so bad after all. Maybe these people are normal. Just like me.
“Well …” Her smile falters. “We’re not all like that.”
Should have known there was a disclaimer. “It sounds like a nice place to work.”
“Definitely.” With a toss of her multiply shaded hair—how I miss mine!—Jem takes the lead down a long corridor. “Of course, Steeple Side does have its rules like every other place, but unlike every other place, there’s a code of conduct you have to follow when you go home at night.”
Whoa! They’re going to tell me how to behave outside the workplace? Police my personal life?
“That’s probably why they cut us some slack around here. You know, let us have a little fun. Of course, sometimes we go too far, like with the Super Glue—” Realizing I’m no longer next to her, she turns back. “Something wrong?”
I blink her into focus and, in a slightly cracked voice, say, “Could you elaborate on this code of conduct we’re supposed to follow after hours?”
She stares at me, as if trying to reconcile the assembly instructions with the assembled product. “You have no idea what you’re getting into, do you?”
Hate to admit it, but my tactless reaction—a far cry from how a serious reporter ought to conduct herself—makes my ignorance glaring. “I’ve never worked for a Christian company.”
With a sigh, she waves me forward. “The code of conduct. You know, living the Christian life. You are a Christian, aren’t you?”
I almost choke. “Absolutely!” Was that convincing? It should be, because I am a Christian. No reason to feel as if I’m here under false pretenses.
She pushes a hand through silky chunks of auburn, chocolate, gold, and bronze tresses. “Good, ’cause it’s required to work here. So back to the code of conduct. As an employee, you’re a reflection of the company and its Christian values, so you have to behave accordingly. I mean, can you imagine the harm it would do Steeple Side’s reputation if its employees who are putting out materials on how to live the Christian life aren’t living it? Doing drugs … stealing … cheating on spouses …”
True, but while I don’t do any of the above, it still feels like a violation of my privacy.
“… lying.”
Now that I do fall back on, though usually only little white lies, like when I told the Brit I did want the bumper sticker to adhere permanently, then said I appreciated him taking the time to affix it. But they’re little lies, and very white, so they don’t qualify as lying. Do they? And even if they do, it’s not as if I don’t pay a price, as I usually feel bad afterward. Though maybe only a little…
Jem lays a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t sweat it. It’s a great place to work.” She draws me forward and halts alongside a door marked Human Resources. “Now go get that job.”
I do need it. Even if “Big Brother” will be looking over my shoulder. “Thanks, Jem.”
“You’re welcome. It was nice meeting you … uh …” She wrinkles her button nose. “I don’t think you told me your name.”
“It’s M …” I clear my throat. “Grace.”
She frowns. “You don’t look like a Grace.”
“I don’t?” Talk about shrill!
“Of course, I don’t look like a Jemima, but that’s why I go by Jem.”
I stick out a hand. “Nice to meet you. God willing”—Ha! That one rolled right off my tongue—“we’ll see each other around.”
She clasps my hand. “You bet.” Then she walks away.
I’m tempted to follow her and keep going until I’m miles clear of this place.
TWO
“What does M stand for?” Mrs. Lucas peers at me over her glasses.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t avoid reference to my first name, as I had to provide my social security number, and surely the name has to match the number. However, I only gave the initial in case someone connects me with the Maizy Stewart who writes for the local paper—something my friend Tessie had warned me about. “You’ll never get hired if they know you write for mainstream media,” she said. “Too liberal for their taste.”
I moisten my lips and mumble, “It stands for Maizy.”
Mrs. Lucas frowns. “Did you say Mae?”
Close enough. “Yes”—hardly even a little white lie—“but I go by my middle name, Grace.”
With a faint smile, she returns to my application. “Pretty name.”
“And Christian. You know, ‘Amazing Grace.’ ” Dumb blonde alert!
Her gaze flicks over me. “Yes. And you attend a Christian church?”
Uh-oh. And to make matters worse, I have yet to come up with an exciting testimony. My hands tingle where I clasp them in my lap, so I splay them on my thighs. “Since I recently moved here, I haven’t yet found one I consider my … church home.” Nice Christian speak! “But there is one off West End that I’m leaning toward.”
“Wonderful. What denomination?”
No testimony, no denomination. “This is embarrassing, but I’m not sure. It just felt right.” At least, driving by it…
Mrs. Lucas picks up my résumé. “It says that after you graduated with a degree in journalism, you postponed your plans to enter the work force for two years to travel the world.”
It’s true, though not to that extent. The summer after I graduated, I did travel the world. Well, Europe. But considering that the Seattle Sound, where I went to work three months later, is mainstream media and keeping in mind the circumstances under which I left, I couldn’t put it down as work experience. Better to be considered “green” than incompetent. “Yes ma’am.”
“So other than writing for the university paper and an internship at Entertainment Seattle, you don’t have any real work experience?”
“No.” Definitely a lie. Let’s call that “Lie Number One.” Easier to keep track of. Not that I intend to get in over my head, but if by some twist of fate I’m hired, I’m bound to have to crank out a few more doozies. “As I had to put myself through university, it took a couple of years longer to get my degree.” The whole truth and nothing but the truth. “Of course, I did take out a student loan”—as evidenced by past due bills—“but it didn’t come close to covering the cost, and I didn’t want to be any further in debt by taking out another loan.”
Mrs. Lucas’s eyebrows rise. “Responsible of you.” She leans forward. “Debt is a terrible thing.”
Don’t I know it. “It certainly is. A vicious cycle that … Jesus would not want us to get caught up in.” Hey, I’m getting good at this!
She inclines her head. “You’re not working anywhere at this time?”
“No.” Lie Number Two.
“Well, as you know, the position is only part time at twenty-five hours a week.”
“Perfect! That’s all I’m looking for.” Something to tide me over until I go full time at the paper.
Her brow rumples. “Most of the applicants view this position as a step toward full-time employment. You wouldn’t be interested if the opportunity arose?”
Oh no. “Of course, I’d be interested.” Lie Number Three. “I’m just saying that until then, I’m content to work part time. God’s timing and all that.”
Her brow clears. “When can you start?”
I blink. “Are you offering me the job?”
“I am.”
“But what about a second interview?”
“Normally there would be an interview with Mrs. Stillwater, the senior editor who will be your supervisor. But she’s out of town until Monday and has asked me to have someone up and running by the time she returns.”
I’ve done it—and without a testimony. I’ll be able to pay my bills, eat out from time to time, and feed my mutt something other than generic food. Maybe even re-stripe my hair! All good. “I can start tomorrow.”
“Excellent.” She pulls a piece of paper off a note block and begins to jot. “Your hours will be eight to one, Monday through Friday. You’ll report to Fiala Cramer in Women’s Publications on the eighth floor.”
She hands me the paper. “I’ll make sure she’s prepared to get you started in the morning.” She stands and reaches a hand to me. “It was lovely meeting you. I’m sure you’ll be a blessing to our company.”
I accept her handshake as I rise. So this is what flabbergasted feels like. Cannot believe it was this easy, especially considering my encounter with the Brit … Ooh, I hope I don’t run into him. Fortunately it’s a fairly large company, so avoiding him may not be difficult.
I give her hand a final squeeze. “Thank you. I appreciate the opportunity.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“I look forward to it. Have a blessed day.” At the door I glance back at her, then step through and pull the door closed. “Have a blessed day,” I whisper as I start down the corridor. Icing on the cake. I am getting good at this.
Niggle, niggle.
And to think I only had to tell three lies.
Niggle, niggle.
I smile at a young man who sidesteps me, arms weighted with folders. Yes, only three. After all, half truths and omissions can’t really be counted as lies.
Niggle, niggle.
Okay, so I’m a fake, a fraud, a phony. But what’s a girl to do when facing another month of part-time employment and mounting bills? Play by the rules that nobody follows? Be honest to her detriment? A little embellishment never hurt anyone. And I am a Christian, so I didn’t lie about that. Just the extent of my faith.
As I turn the corner and head for the elevator, that bad feeling I get when I’m not completely honest—niggle, niggle—once more flicks my hard-earned happy place.
“Stop it,” I growl, only to force a smile when a woman passing by frowns at me. Caught talking to myself. What’s next?
“Grace!”
With a shake of my head, I step into the elevator and jab the Lobby button.
“Grace!” A body leaps between the closing doors.
I stare wide eyed at Jem, who’s wearing a frown so large it barely fits her pixieish face. Better yet, caught not answering to your name, Grr-ace! This is not going to be easy. Or comfortable, as I’m reminded of the last time I went by a fake name and the end result—humiliation and a seriously derailed career.
I draw a shaky breath. “Sorry, I must have been deep in thought.”
“I’ll say!” Her frown eases. “So have you been asked back for a second interview?”
