“Can you draw from your savings?”
“I don’t . . . have any,” she admits. “I can try to pick up more shifts.” It’s probably not enough, but it’s all her brain can come up with on the spot.
“Mrs. Hill, may I ask you something rather personal?”
Amber nods.
“Did you receive a death gratuity check from the military?”
“I did.” Amber nods again, glancing down at her lap. She knows what’s coming. She’ll need to give an account of the hundred grand she received from the government.
“I’m assuming by your expression that you no longer have that money?”
“That check wasn’t the safety net it was made out to be.”
Jim shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m listening.”
“When Darren was deployed . . . it was tough to make ends meet. His electrician salary was cut in half when he left. I had to put a lot on our credit cards. Throw in a transmission for the car, a new roof, the water heater going out . . . I just got really behind. I used the check to pay everything off. I thought it was the responsible thing to do.”
Jim nods.
Amber senses his desire to offer solutions. “What else can I do here?”
“Have you considered perhaps renting out a room or two in your home?”
“Get a roommate?”
“Yes. Splitting costs might make it more affordable for you.”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel safe to me.”
“People do it all the time. Ask for referrals. Establish a trial period—say, thirty days.”
“You make it sound so easy. I’m not sure I’m ready to share our space.”
“It’s just a suggestion. But if it’s not for you, then you need to be willing to let the house go.”
“I was thinking about getting a different job. You wouldn’t happen to have any referrals, would you?”
“I wish I did. Have you noticed all the empty shop windows downtown? Clarksville has been hit pretty hard since the recession. A lot of our companies moved out years ago. Even though the rest of the country is back on track, we’re still suffering from a depleted economy. However, from time to time, things do land on my desk. It helps if I have an idea of what kind of job you’d like, or what other goals you have in mind for yourself.”
“I guess I . . . I haven’t ever really thought about it. I just always . . . My plan was to be a wife and mother.”
“And those are very important and worthy professions, Mrs. Hill. But sometimes life throws us into situations that nudge us to adjust our plans.”
Amber holds back tears and forces herself to keep a stoic look on her face. She can’t let Jim Wellington see her falter, even if she has to feign confidence with every ounce of her being.
“Are there other skills you can draw on? Hobbies? Interests? Things you’ve always wanted to try?”
“I don’t really know what else I’m good at.” Why does it sound so weak now that all her hopes and dreams and plans were tied up in Darren? “I was thinking nursing assistant.”
“That’s a good goal. The library offers free career counseling and skills evaluation. Why not start there?”
Amber nods. “If I have time.”
“Mrs. Hill, I don’t mean to speak harshly or to scare you, but you don’t have the luxury of waiting. You should have come to me when we served you the first notice. Let me explain what’s about to happen now. If you miss the next payment, there are only two options: you can short-sale your home, or the bank—”
But all Amber hears is . . . “Sell our home? I can’t sell our home.”
“Then the bank will be forced to take possession. I’m very sorry, Mrs. Hill.”
“Is there anything else I should know?”
“I think we’ve covered everything.” Jim shuffles the papers together and slides them neatly back into their file.
“What else can I do? Please, I’m willing to try. I just need a little more time.” Amber’s facade drops. She doesn’t dare move. Or breathe. Or blink. This man holds her life in the balance.
“The best I can offer is a two-week reprieve before we move into the next phase of the foreclosure.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” A smidgen of hope arises in Amber.
“It means you have two more weeks to come up with the money to save your house.”
“Okay. I see. Well, I can work with that.” She manages a tight smile as she rises from the velvet armchair. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wellington.”
“In the meantime, I would ask you to please consider other options for your future.”
Amber flees from Jim’s office, across the lobby floor, and down the steps into the street. She has no idea how she’s going to pull this off.
chapter thirteen
Single and Trying to Get Ahead
THE NEXT MORNING, Amber drops Bree off at school a half hour early, where she finds the door is still locked and she has to wait another fifteen minutes until the janitor unlocks it. From there she rushes to Rosie’s, only to arrive a half hour late for her morning shift. Can’t win.
Dashing into the front of the diner, she’s relieved to see Rosie hovering in the kitchen, scolding the cook for not ordering enough rye bread. She sneaks in behind the front register, punches in, and then exchanges her coat for an apron. She just finishes cinching the apron around her waist when Rosie’s voice summons her from the counter.
“Glad you could make it in this morning.”
Rosie cruises up, overloaded with a tray of piping-hot pancake platters.
“I’m so sorry, Rosie. I had to bring Bree to school a half hour early, and the door was still locked.”
“Save it,” Rosie snaps. “Grab the coffeepot and follow me.”
Amber trails behind Rosie to table twelve, where six hungry fishermen are eagerly anticipating the Rosie special—two eggs, two slices of bacon, and a tall stack of her famous pancakes.
“Morning rush starts at seven. I need you here by six thirty.” Rosie distributes the plates as Amber fills coffee mugs. “Anything else I can get you, boys?” The men shake their heads, already several bites in. Amber trails Rosie back to the kitchen.
“Did you have a chance to think about that shift-manager position?”
“How about you try being on time for the job you have first?” Rosie nods toward the cash register, where a line of seven customers has formed.
Rosie heads back toward the cooler, leaving Amber to tend to the exiting customers.
Amber speeds through the line, surprised to see that the last customer is her old friend Monica Stevens. She met Monica shortly after she and Darren were married. Darren’s best friend, Frank, was dating her at the time. They went out as couples almost once a week until Monica and Frank split right before Monica’s sophomore year of college. The friendship couldn’t survive the long distance, and Monica and Amber lost touch, their paths going separate ways—Amber’s to motherhood and Monica’s to corporate climbing.
“Amber, hey. I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Yeah. About six months now.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve been to Rosie’s. Had to meet a client here for breakfast.”
“Oh. Glad you came in. What are you up to these days?”
“Just made junior partner at Perkins and Standale. So, now, technically, Perkins, Standale, and Stevens.”
She looks incredibly put together. Like a model right out of Style magazine. Silk shirt. Coach bag. Long, dark, glossy hair. And a MyWay face that would make Patti drool. Amber is suddenly aware of her dowdy, barefaced appearance and her faded pink smock and ponytail.
“Congratulations.”
“And best of all, it came with a huge promotion. So I bought a condo, over on the lake.” Monica says it with such emphasis that Amber is tempted to applaud.
“I’m not surprised at all. You were always a go-getter.”
“Well, successful maybe, but still single.” Monica for
ms those burgundy-matted lips into a playful pout.
The word “single” jolts Amber. Unmarried or widowed—they both fall into the same category. Age twenty-eight and completely alone.
Monica leans in. “Let me tell you, though—I’d better be married by the time I’m thirty.”
Amber nods.
“Hey, how’s Bree doing?” Monica hands Amber her check and a hundred-dollar bill.
“She’s good. Good. Growing like a weed.” Amber opens the register and struggles to do the math on $100 minus $26.72. Why does Rosie insist on keeping this vintage cash register that doesn’t compute the change?
“Just round up to forty and keep the rest for a tip.” Monica helps her out graciously.
“Monica, that’s too much.”
“It’s fine.”
“Thank you.” She makes change and puts the remaining cash in the tip jar on the counter.
“Hey, you should bring Bree by sometime, and we’ll go out on the boat.”
“That sounds great.” Monica hands her a business card. MONICA STEVENS, ESQUIRE, PERKINS, STANDALE & STEVENS.
“Give my assistant a call, and she’ll get something scheduled.”
Assistant? Wow. “Sure.” What would it be like to be so busy that one needs an assistant to manage it all? She probably takes care of Monica’s dry cleaning and walks her dog, too. Just like in the movies.
“Good to see you, Amber.”
Rosie swings by with an armload of dirty dishes.
“Amber, table seven needs coffee refills, and thirteen is asking for a high chair.”
Amber exhales. “Got it.”
“See you soon,” says Monica, slinging her designer handbag over her shoulder and swishing out the door, leaving a trail of exotic, earthy-smelling perfume. Something Patti would sell.
Amber grabs a high chair from behind the cash register and tucks it under one arm. She heads for the coffee station, only to find both pots sitting empty on the burner. Behind. Why does she always feel like she’s two steps behind? Monica’s visit had certainly highlighted that fact . . . in spades.
* * *
THE BREAKFAST RUSH empties around ten, and the restaurant quiets to a single, elderly man sipping coffee and doing the daily crossword in a corner booth. As Amber refills his coffee, he doesn’t even look up. She returns the coffeepot to the burner and takes to cleaning the countertop. She sprays disinfectant on a clean rag and wipes down the napkin holders until they shine like mirrors; the salt and pepper shakers stand like soldiers guarding either side. Rosie likes the place to sparkle.
Amber wipes the nozzles of a row of ketchup bottles she’s collected. Rosie, brow moist with sweat, pads out from the kitchen. She grabs the last chocolate muffin from the cake display, peeling back the liner.
“Looks good in here, kid,” Rosie says, taking a bite of the muffin.
“Thanks, Rosie. I’m trying to make up for earlier.”
“I know you are.” Rosie splits off a chunk of muffin and holds it out to Amber. “You want some?”
“Nah, you enjoy it.”
“There’s a stack of pancakes in a box in the fridge. Take it home for you and Bree.”
“Thanks, Rosie.” Amber begins to place a sanitized ketchup bottle on each table.
“It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable of being a shift manager,” Rosie says after a moment. “You are.”
“But you won’t do it because . . . ?”
Rosie motions for Amber to take a seat next to her at the counter. Amber saunters over but refuses to sit.
“You’re not ready, kid. Your head’s somewhere else.”
“My head’s exactly where it should be.”
“And tell me, where’s that?”
“Trying to find a way to get ahead.”
Rosie takes a sip of milk. “These things take time. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“I’m out of time, Rosie.”
“How’s that?” Rosie cocks her head in Amber’s direction.
Amber clams up. She can sense my desperation. She can’t let Rosie know about the foreclosure or her bottomed-out bank account. She doesn’t want the entire town labeling her “that poor war widow.”
“Never mind.”
“Is there anything I can do? As a friend,” Rosie says.
“How ’bout another shift or two?”
“You’re already working seven days a week.”
“Right. So what’s another few extra hours if I’m already here?”
“When are you gonna squeeze in time to spend with that delightful daughter of yours?”
Amber turns as a customer enters and takes a booth.
“Let me worry about that, Rosie.”
“Hon, I know what you make, and it’s not a treasure chest, but it’s a livable wage. Is there something else going on?”
“No, I’m fine.” Amber fills a glass with ice and water and grabs a menu.
“And Bree?”
“She’s fine.”
She can feel the burn of Rosie’s concerned look following her as she hustles off to greet a new diner. “Welcome to Rosie’s. Right this way.”
chapter fourteen
Training Wheels
CODY FINISHES BUFFING out the scrape on Joe’s vintage Ford as Joe drives another car into the stall next to him. Don’t tell me he’s gonna ask for help on that one, too.
“This one needs a new oil filter,” Joe says, getting out of the driver’s seat. “And when that’s done, you can get started tearing the engine out of that old racer outside.”
“Joe. When am I gonna race? It’s been three weeks since I’ve been in the seat.” Cody tosses the buffing rag aside. He goes over to Joe as he pops the hood on the newly arrived car.
“From what Gibbs told me, and from what I’ve seen on your reels, you need to learn a little patience. So we’re gonna work on that first.”
“He sent me down here to cool off?”
“If you were my driver, I would’ve just fired you. The right driving attitude comes from inside. Otherwise, it’s always crash and burn.” Joe pulls the dipstick. “It’s low. Grab me a couple quarts of 10W-30.”
“I think maybe you just needed a free hand.” There, I said it.
“Who fixes your cars after you crash them?”
“My crew.” What does this guy really know about racing? Cody hands Joe two quarts of oil from the shelf.
“Do you know how much work and expense goes into that?”
Cody shrugs. “Gibbs foots the bill.”
“Gibbs told me your sponsor pulled out. That money tree’s dried up, son.”
“What?”
“Oh yeah. It’s way worse than you thought, isn’t it?”
Am I gonna race again? “What does that mean for my . . . future?”
“Gibbs sees something in you. I don’t know what. But he’s working out a plan to find you a new sponsor. On the condition I can get you to change your attitude.”
“Look, Joe, I’m a solid driver. I just need to get in the car.”
“You need direction. A lot of it.”
“I’m open to any tips you have.”
“Tips? Oh, no. You want tips, read a book.” Joe shakes his head. “Here’s the plan. We’re gonna start from scratch. You’re gonna tear that car apart and put it back together as many times as I say. I want you to respect how every inch of your car functions. I want it to sparkle and shine. And I don’t care how long it takes. Do you understand?”
Cody nods. This guy’s crazy.
“The proper response is ‘Yes, sir.’ ”
“Yes, sir,” Cody mumbles.
“And when we’re on the track, you’ll do exactly what I say, when I say it. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re lacking precision and patience. You keep those two words at the forefront of your mind. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now with that attitude, you just may have the tiniest chance at being a win
ner someday.”
Joe starts to walk away. “Oh, and fix the brakes on the green go-kart. I’ll be back after lunch.”
He leaves. Cody stands alone in the garage, facing the raw truth of his situation for the first time. This is way worse than I thought.
Cody turns to his race car. “We’re never gonna get back to Indy with Joe on our tail.”
chapter fifteen
Girls’ Night In
AMBER PICKS UP Bree from her friend David’s house and arrives home exhausted from her busy weekend shift. She sends Bree upstairs to play in her room for a while so she can get some cleaning and laundry done. Bree offers no resistance as Amber follows her upstairs to her bedroom. She slips right into her bed with an armload of books. Amber goes through the upstairs, picking up dirty clothes. By the time she returns to Bree’s room, she’s napping peacefully.
Amber tiptoes back downstairs with her basket full of wash and heads to the laundry room off the kitchen. She’s always loved this space. It calms her and reminds her of the times she and Darren held conversations and laughed as they folded laundry.
Amber stands in front of a mountain of clean laundry she has neglected to put away for several weeks. She slowly pulls piece after piece, folding each one methodically, lost in the task. She remembers one of their last conversations before Darren deployed. It was about the house. Darren had gone over a list of everything she would need to know about the upkeep while he was gone. The toolbox. The power tools. Fuse box switches. Water heater. Lawn maintenance. Gutter cleaning. Heating and cooling. How to fix minor plumbing issues. At the end of the list he had scribbled a name and number. A handyman. Her plan B should things get over her head.
Well, here she is. Way over her head. And no handyman is going to fix this mess.
“Mom?” Bree’s voice shoots up behind her. Amber jumps. “Mom!”
“You’re up.” She turns slightly to find Bree with her hands on her hips.
“Do you have one of Dad’s patches?”
“Probably. What for?”
“For my go-kart.”
“Your what?” Amber stacks a pile of towels in a laundry basket to bring upstairs to refresh the bathroom linens.
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