Love Me Forever. Muriel Jensen
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of the girls all over, and a few of Bobbie’s paintings.
Bobbie also did calligraphy on handmade paper. When she was still living in Southern California, she’d done a piece of calligraphy for Sandy’s birthday that read, “A friend is never known till a man have need.” The quote by John Heywood, who lived in the sixteenth century, was on handmade paper with tiny leaves in it, and set in a filigree frame.
Sandy valued the work for more than just its wonderful, esoteric quality, because Bobbie had done it while ill and struggling to get from day to day. She’d said she wanted Sandy to know how touched she’d been that Sandy had left the girls with her mother and flown to Southern California to sit with her for her first chemo session. Sandy always looked at it whenever she walked through the living room.
In her cream-and-yellow bedroom, she dropped the box in a corner, designating that space for the Clothes Closet things. Then she sat on the foot of her bed and let herself plop backward.
So much time had passed since she’d shared this room with anyone. She hadn’t forgotten what it felt like to love a man and be loved in return, but the process seemed to have forgotten her.
She wondered if something was wrong with her. Oh, everyone liked her, men were attracted to her, and she had the opportunity to meet many of them in her job at the law office and her work for the community. But she seldom had long-term relationships.
Her mother insisted that Sandy was too competent, but always smiled when she said that. “Thank goodness for your competence. Remember when your father left and I couldn’t pay the rent? The landlord was so mean to me, and you went and told him off, though I pleaded with you not to.”
She did remember. They were still living in Salem. She’d been mad and scared and had trembled inside, but she knew if they had to leave the apartment, the only place they could go was a shelter or the street. Her mother’s depression prevented her from explaining the situation to Mr. Fogarty, the landlord, so Sandy had taken charge. First, she told him how cruel it was for a man who had several businesses and an apartment house to evict a woman and her daughter who were destitute through no fault of their own. Then she told him she’d seen the Help Wanted sign in the window of his hardware store. She said if he’d give her the job, he wouldn’t have to pay her until she’d earned the amount of their rent. “I can work weekends and after school,” she’d told him.
He’d folded his arms and frowned at her. “You’re not old enough to work.”
“I’m fourteen.” She stood straighter to give herself more height. “I have a social security card and an Employment Certificate from the State of Oregon. I can start this weekend.”
And that was how she’d helped get their lives on track again. Her mother had been amazed and grateful.
Sandy remembered those days well and was happy they were behind them. She’d had a part-time job until she graduated from high school with a scholarship. The summer before she went away to school, Mr. Fogarty had given her a raise, full-time work, overtime opportunities and a bonus that provided her with spending money for school. Her mother had gotten a job scheduling appointments and doing the billing in a doctor’s office and had even saved a little to help Sandy on her way.
No, competence wasn’t the reason men didn’t want a permanent relationship with her; most men now realized women could do most things they could do, even those involving muscle. The smart ones appreciated that.
Maybe it was because Sandy had two lively, often loud little girls. Hunter had dealt well with them, whereas even she needed to run for cover sometimes.
No, not that reason, either. It must be something about her personality, not her skills. Life had made her strong and independent. It wasn’t her fault that she knew her own mind and recognized Hunter as the ONE. Of course, her mind had once led her to Charlie, and that relationship hadn’t been anything to boast about.
The simple fact was that she didn’t want anyone halfhearted about her or her girls. If Hunter couldn’t be completely committed, she didn’t want him—even if he was the ONE.
Okay. That was it. No more agonizing. She got to her feet, put in a load of laundry, straightened up the kitchen, then went back to Celia’s. The faucet continued to work beautifully.
Celia sent her off with a casserole and three ceramic cups of flan. Sandy took them home to the safety of her refrigerator, then headed for town and the peaceful, quiet lunch she’d promised herself.
She shopped first, and found a large tube of giftwrap with the Cars design patterned after the children’s movie of the same name. While Zoey loved princesses in all forms, Addie’s passion was Tow Mater, the movie’s loveable tow truck character whose greatest skill was driving backward. Sandy’s mother predicted that Addie would be the Danica Patrick of her generation, the first woman ever to place in the Indianapolis 500. Addie ignored doll houses and Barbies and loved everything that had wheels, motors and loud noises.
Sandy found Cars pajamas, a Tow Mater bank and a bright yellow jacket for herself made from a redesigned sweatshirt.
Her cell phone rang as she was finishing a jalapeño burger at the Wet Dog, a brew pub that was a local favorite.
She saw the name of her employer and answered, thinking someone in the front office must have gone home sick and her free afternoon was about to disappear.
“Sandy!” Darren, her immediate supervisor, said her name cheerfully. “What are you doing?”
“Having lunch,” she replied. “What’s going on? Somebody sick?”
“No. I wondered if you could come in this afternoon for a quick meeting. I know you asked for the day off, but something’s happened that I need to talk to you about.”
“What’s that?”
“We’ll talk about it when you get here. Can you come in?”
She didn’t want to, but she did a lot of things she really didn’t want to. “Sure. Half an hour?”
“Perfect.”
She hurried home to freshen up, trade her jeans jacket for the new yellow one, and wondered what the meeting was about as she drove to the office. It might be scheduling. A new partner had come to the firm several months ago and brought along his secretary. The woman had been remote and superior, and had complained about most things since she’d arrived, but she was good at her job.
Or maybe it was the mundane business of coffee and rolls for the morning meetings. Sandy usually picked them up at the coffeehouse when she drove in, but she’d been told not to bother last week, that someone else would handle it.
She walked through the office, smiling and waving at the other women she’d worked with for six years since moving to Astoria with Charlie. His dream of making a fortune fishing had been short-lived when he got seriously seasick and decided he didn’t like twelve hour shifts after all. When Charlie left, Sandy’s mother had moved to Astoria. Life had been good since then.
Sandy had so enjoyed managing the office, answering the phones, directing clients to the right person to solve their problems, working with various organizations in town to coordinate a client’s needs and obligations. Those contacts had made her community work easier.
But the minute she arrived at Darren Foster’s office she knew that something had changed. She felt it in the air. Darren, one of the partners, who also supervised the front office staff, was usually lighthearted, eager to make people feel comfortable. But, today he sat focused on the open file in the middle of his desk and barely looked at her except to greet her with a perfunctory smile and invite her to sit down.
Sandy’s throat went dry and her heartbeat accelerated. She sensed danger.
“You have been the most loyal, hardworking office manager we have ever had,” Darren said, eyes still on the file.
She noticed the past tense. Not are but have been.
She struggled to remain calm, not sure what