by Nancy Moser
“I’m Margery. Margery Lamborn.”
“Punctual. Two brownie points.” She jangled a crowded key chain.
Margery followed the woman inside Neighbor’s Drugstore.
Dr. Quigley flipped on the lights. “Follow me to the office. We’ll chat back there.”
The office was tiny and contained a metal desk with a computer, two chairs, and a four-drawer file cabinet. What made it unusual were the travel posters that lined the room floor to ceiling, covering every inch of wall like wallpaper. Venice ran into Paris, which butted up to the Alps, with half of Mozambique cut off at the ceiling.
“You like?”
Margery turned full circle in order to see every wall. “Have you been to all these places?”
“Most.” She pointed to the upper corner above the file cabinet. “Still working on Australia and New Zealand. If only they weren’t so drattedly far away. Thirty-three hours on the plane. Though I love to fly, that one’s pushing even my tolerance button. I mean, how many movies and pretzels can a person tolerate?”
“Movies?”
“On the plane. They’d probably show four. Maybe five.”
“I didn’t know they had movies on airplanes. ’Course, I’ve never been on a plane at all.”
“You afraid of flying or something?”
“I don’t think so. I just haven’t had the chance to go anywhere.”
“Anywhere yet,” Dr. Quigley said. “You’ll have a chance one of these days. If you make it a priority.”
Priorities were rent, utilities, and food. Margery couldn’t see how travel for fun would ever override any of that. Especially now since she was applying for a job as a checkout clerk that would mean a cut in pay. She and Mick would never have a better life if she took a step backward like this. Maybe the Chug & Chew wasn’t so bad . . .
Suddenly full of doubt, Margery took a step toward the door. “I’m sorry, Dr. Quigley, but I’ve changed my mind. I can’t apply for this job after all. I’m sorry for taking your time and—”
Dr. Quigley signaled time-out. “Whoa there, girl. What happened in the last five seconds that’s making you run? I didn’t scare you that bad, did I?”
Margery stopped in the doorway. “No, it’s just that . . .” She ran a hand along the doorjamb.
“Out with it.”
She didn’t want to explain. She didn’t even know this woman, though she sensed she might like to know her. “I really can’t go into it.”
“Oh pooh.” Dr. Quigley pulled the guest chair close and patted it. “Sit. Though people have accused me of going over my allotted words per lifetime, I do know how to listen if I’ve a mind to. Which I do right now. So take advantage of it, girl. Sit and tell me what’s going on.”
To leave now would be rude. Besides, if Gladys Quigley had been around the world, maybe she knew a thing or two about life. What could it hurt? Margery was always open to suggestions.
She sat down and Dr. Quigley took a seat in the wheeled desk chair. “All right. Step one completed. Now fire away. How about starting out by telling me why you wanted to apply for this job in the first place.”
Margery hesitated. Why did she want this job? “I . . . I like people.”
“That’s a job-interview answer. I want a real one.”
Put off guard, Margery dug out the truth. “I want to quit my other job. I want a regular job.”
“This other job is irregular?”
Margery looked past Dr. Quigley and focused on the Eiffel Tower. “I’m a cocktail waitress at the Chug & Chew.”
“Can’t say as I’ve partaken of their cuisine.”
“Burgers, nachos, beer . . .”
“And . . . ?”
Margery sensed Dr. Quigley wasn’t wanting an extended menu. “And skimpy outfits, guys hitting on me, me coming home smelling like booze and smoke, long hours, and never seeing Mick.”
Dr. Quigley pulled Margery’s left hand close and peered at the ring finger. “Mick’s your boyfriend?”
“Husband.”
She pointed at Margery’s vacant ring finger. “No ring.”
“We were only seventeen. There wasn’t money for a ring.”
Dr. Quigley’s eyebrows rose. “You’re a ways from seventeen now.”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“There hasn’t been a chance for him to get you a ring in ten years?”
It was a sore point that went far beyond lack of money. “He says he’s bought me one.”
“Where is it?”
Margery looked at the Roman Colosseum. If only she could escape there right now . . . “He has it. He told me he has it. He just hasn’t found the right time to give it to me yet.” I haven’t earned it yet.
Dr. Quigley rubbed her forehead. “I’m guessing a discussion regarding your husband’s lack of romantic skills would best be held another time. Let’s get back to your job at the bar. You want to quit.”
“I do. But I make decent money—with the tips.” She looked at the purse in her lap. The stitching on the strap was coming out. “This job here . . . from what you said on the phone, this job pays less.” She looked up and offered a smile. She didn’t want to offend. “But it does have normal hours. I’m hoping Mick would like that.” She shrugged, knowing he wouldn’t care. “I’m hoping.”
“How’s your eyesight?”
It seemed an odd question, but maybe it had something to do with Dr. Quigley’s thick glasses. “It’s good. Real good.”
The woman studied her, as if thinking things through. “To be honest it’s not like I’ve had a lot of applicants. And if you’ve been handling the punks and jerks at the Chug & Chew I figure you can handle the normal folk who come in here for TUMS, film, and prescriptions. I like the idea of getting you away from that place. What if I pay you a bit above what I quoted before? How about eight bucks an hour to start? We’ll talk about getting more after you’ve proven yourself.”
Margery wanted to cry. She shook Dr. Quigley’s hand vigorously. “I won’t let you down. I won’t.”
“I know you won’t, and call me Gladys. Later, you’ll meet Bernice, the other checkout clerk, and King. He’s my partner and fellow pharmacist.”
“King?”
Gladys rolled her eyes. “Dr. King Marlowe. He doesn’t like the name much, but in his own way, it suits him. Not that he’s high-and-mighty. Just the opposite. There’s not a more down-to-earth, dependable partner than King. He’s a widower with a son in college. Why another woman hasn’t snagged him is a mystery he’d prefer I stop trying to solve—though I do my part by connecting him with eligibles.”
“How old is he?” Margery asked.
Gladys smiled. “And here I thought you were married.”
“I—” Margery felt herself blush—“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Oh, ask away; there are few secrets round here. King is fifty.” She paused a moment. “Seems he pretty much spans the difference between your twenty-seven and my sixty-five. You’ll like him. Most do.” She stood. “Now, back to the basics . . . the hours vary, but most evenings we’ll get you home to have dinner with your darling hubby. Can you start today?”
“Now?”
“Now is always good.”
She had a job. A regular nine-to-five job.
Mick would be furious.
* * *
Gladys filled the prescription and was just putting it into the envelope for pickup when King walked in.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
He started to take off his jacket. “I work here.”
“Not in the mornings, you don’t.”
He shrugged and put his jacket back on. “You want me to leave, I’ll—”
“Don’t be silly. Work your fanny off; that’s up to you.”
Lately King had been coming in above and beyond the times when they’d decided he would be in charge. Not that she minded his company, but . . .
Actually, this morning Gladys was glad to see h
im. She wanted to hear all the juicy details about his blind date last night—a date Gladys had arranged. Mandy Thomason: pretty, witty, and successful. Combined with King’s qualifications—handsome, witty, and successful—they’d surely hit it off.
She waited until he’d hung up his jacket. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“How was it?”
“How was what?”
She groaned. “Don’t make me work for it.”
“Work for—”
“King! Your date. How was your date with Mandy?”
He slipped a white pharmacy coat over his plaid shirt. “It didn’t happen.”
“Why not?”
“I called it off.”
Gladys made a dramatic show of finding a stool to catch her as her legs gave out in shock. “Why would you do a dumb thing like that? She’s a beautiful woman. She’s smart, funny . . .”
He grinned. “What do I need with her? I have a beautiful, smart, funny woman right here.”
She crossed her arms. “Very funny. Honestly, why didn’t you go?”
“Since you’ve handily ignored the main reason, you’re making me resort to reason number two: I don’t want to date. I don’t want a girlfriend. I don’t want a woman who’s looking to become a wife.”
“But Carla’s been gone five years. And Jason’s off at college now. You’re in that house alone.”
“You’re in your house alone.”
“Because I choose to be. I was never married. I never had what you had.”
“Had being the key word. My life with Carla was wonderful. God was very generous to give me such a great wife then, and a great son now. I’m not going to be greedy and want more, nor am I going to try to re-create what was.” He buttoned the last button on his white coat. “So, Dr. Quigley, I’d appreciate it if you close up your yenta shop.”
She stood and pushed the stool out of the way. “You’re no fun.”
“You know that’s not true.”
She whipped toward him. “Exactly! Which is why I’m trying to get you to share the wealth.”
He took hold of her upper arms. “I’m fine, Gladys. Really. I like my life. I like working here with you.”
But he was such a catch. It was such a waste.
“Changing the subject, which desperately needs changing . . . what are you working on, Red?”
Only he could call her that.
Gladys pointed at the pills for Bonnie Philips, then nodded toward the stack of prescriptions left to fill. “It’s not that busy.”
King picked up the filled prescription. Then he looked at the doctor’s note that she’d put in the basket. “Gladys . . . this isn’t right.”
“What do you mean?”
He held the bottle close. “The prescription says Zyrtec. This is Zyprexa.”
“No . . .” Gladys adjusted her glasses. If she angled them just right she could see the mistake. This was not good. Zyrtec was an ordinary antihistamine, and Zyprexa was a potent antipsychotic with lots of side effects. Both were 10 mg—at least she’d gotten that right.
But she couldn’t kid herself.
This could have been a catastrophe.
She took the bottle back. “I would have caught it.” But I wouldn’t have. I was ready to put it in the bag.
“Are your eyes bothering you again?”
“They are never bothering me, young man. They are what they are. And I always double- and even triple-check the prescriptions before they go out. If you think you’re pulling a George Bailey on me, implying I’m Mr. Gower filling a prescription with poison, I’ll give your ears a boxing just like Mr. Gower gave George.” She assumed he was familiar with the movie It’s a Wonderful Life.
“I’m not accusing you. I’m your partner. I’m just trying to help. And if your eyes—”
“I’m fine.” But I’m not fine and that was way too close. Gladys shoved the twinge of fear away. To deflect the conversation she pointed into the main part of the store toward Margery. “Do you see we have a new clerk? Her name’s Margery Lamborn. She started today.”
They watched as Margery worked the register. “Thank you, Mrs. Connors. You’ll like that shampoo. I promise.”
If Margery could handle Adele Connors, she could handle anyone.
“Will it make my hair shiny like yours?” Mrs. Connors asked.
Truth be told, Adele’s hair had stopped being shiny twenty years ago.
“If you don’t like it, you bring it back and I’ll personally give you a refund.”
Oh dear. One didn’t offer save-a-dime-save-a-dollar Adele a way to get something for free.
“I’ll do that,” Adele said.
I bet you will.
“Have a good one,” Margery said.
“Refunds?” King said to Gladys. “Since when do we do money-back guarantees on shampoo?”
Gladys leaned through the pharmacy window. “Margery? Can you come here a minute?”
Margery came close. “Yes?”
“It’s probably not wise to offer someone their money back. Especially Adele Connors.”
“But it’s good shampoo. And it does make hair shiny, and she was wanting something to make her hair look better and—”
“Her hair can’t look any better,” Gladys said. “Glum and dour. That’s Adele’s personality and her looks.” Gladys had a fleeting thought that perhaps she was being unfair. Maybe the woman was softening in her old age.
Nah.
“Just watch the refund offers, okay?” Gladys turned to King and made the introductions. He and Margery shook hands.
“Glad to have you with us, Margery,” King said.
“Me too. I’ll try to make you proud.” She started to leave, then turned back. “I was wondering if it would be all right if I made a new display in the cosmetics section? Maybe use some of those cute cosmetic bags with the fall leaves on them and a few pieces of jewelry?”
Gladys was impressed. “Have at it, girl. I give you free rein.”
Margery was going to work out just fine.
Gladys’s eyes were another matter.
* * *
Gennifer Mancowitz slipped into work as unobtrusively as possible—as she did every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday when she came in late. Gennifer was a lawyer at Chasen, Grieb, and Caldwell. A good lawyer.
A good lawyer who had a secret. But didn’t everybody?
Although her coworkers—and even her bosses—knew she would be late on these days, she always made her entrance as discreet as possible: once out of the elevators, she took the right aisle around the center island of paralegals and office managers, past her bosses’ offices—which were always empty because they religiously met with each other on M-W-F mornings in the east conference room. Until 9:15. Gennifer had perfected her entrance to take place between 9:08 and 9:09. By the time they were done with their meeting she was deeply engrossed in work at her desk. She had the whole thing down to a science—which suited her just fine. She had enough iffiness in her life. What she could control she did control.
One office, two offices . . . just one to go.
“Gennifer, would you come in here a moment?”
At the sound of her boss’s voice she suffered a surge of adrenaline. She went inside Charles Chasen’s office, her mind racing with reasons why he was there at this time of day, as well as wondering why he would want to talk to her. She usually dealt with Kyle Grieb—after safely slipping into work.
Chasen tossed his pen on the desk and leaned back in his leather chair. “I hear you’ve refused to be in court Friday at eight.”
Her heart did a double flip. “Refused is a pretty strong word, sir. I can’t be there at eight.”
“Can’t is a pretty strong word.”
Gennifer wasn’t sure what to say—which for a lawyer was not a good thing.
Chasen retrieved the pen and tapped it on his hand. “I guess my main question is whether you can’t or you won’t?”
More semantics. “I
have morning commitments three days a week that prevent me from getting to work—or court—before nine. It’s been this way for a year now.”
He looked at his watch. “It’s 9:10.”
Exactly. Which begs the question of why you are in your office. “Excuse me. I’m not available until 9:10.”
When he leveled her with a look, Gennifer had a flash of fear that she’d come off as too defensive—which considering she was a defense lawyer, was appropriate. In court.
“You mentioned commitments. What kind of commitments? If you don’t mind my asking.”
I do mind. But in response she brought forward the excuse she’d been using. “My daughter has special needs. She goes to the tutor first thing on those mornings. I drop her off at school and then come to work.”
His right eyebrow rose. “How old is she now?”
“Seventeen.”
“Does she drive?”
Oops. “Yes, but . . .” Gennifer hated to extend the lie but he was giving her no choice. “She can. But she doesn’t have a car.”
“Your life will be simplified when she does.”
“I suppose.” She risked one last comment. “When the time comes.”
Chasen sat forward and pulled a file front and center. “Partners need to be available, Gennifer.”
Partners? The carrot was suitably dangled. “Yes, sir.”
He didn’t say she was dismissed, but merely opened the file and began to read. She slipped out; her heart was racing. When her thrice-weekly dialysis had first started she’d thought her story about Sarah and a tutor was the perfect excuse—especially in a firm that embraced education. The fact that Sarah had her own car and was doing fine in school without any tutor . . . what was she going to do now? Chasen clearly expected Gennifer to be more readily available to the firm. “Partners need to be available, Gennifer.” The implication was clear.
Yet coming up with a new excuse for her dialysis schedule wouldn’t be easy, or even feasible.
As she passed her secretary’s desk, Mary looked up and asked, “Is something wrong?”
Just everything. Gennifer pasted on a smile. “Not a thing.”
She went into her office and quietly closed the door, took her seat, and tried to wait out the pounding in her chest.
She noticed the flip calendar where she’d painstakingly written Sarah—Tutoring in the first space on every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. She tore off today’s sheet and proceeded to dissect it into long strips. Then crosswise strips, then small squares.
