A Dangerous Widow (A Dangerous Series) (28 page)

CHAPTER TWO

With my briefcase in hand,
I left our sorry-looking apartment building on East Tenth Street, and stepped
into the baking sun.
 
Thankfully, at
least, there was a breeze, which was rare these days.
 
For the past month, Manhattan had been
an airless sauna with the coals stacked high and some fool pouring ladles of
water over them in a successful attempt to keep the air miserably moist.
 

I looked down the street
for a cab, and, to my surprise, I didn’t have to wait long to find one.
 
I held out my hand, the driver spotted
me, pulled toward the curb, and I stepped into the back seat, relieved to find
that the air conditioning was turned to full blast.
 
I positioned myself so the cool air
flowed over me, and I took a breath.
 
It felt wonderful.

“Fifth and Forty-Eighth,” I
said to the driver, an older woman with a shock of red hair that was clipped
close.
 
“The Wenn Enterprises
building.
 
Or as close as you can
get me to it for twenty dollars.”

The woman looked at me in
the rearview mirror with a raised eyebrow.
 
“I’ll do my best.
 
You know
how it is during the lunch hour.”

“Whatever you can do, I
appreciate it.
 
And please make sure
you leave room for a tip.
 
Unfortunately, five dollars is all I can afford.”

“Don’t worry about the
tip,” the woman said.
 
“Some nice young
man just gave me a twenty for a five-dollar fare.
 
We’ll take yours out of that.”

I met the woman’s eyes in
the mirror.
 
Sometimes, this city
surprised me with its kindness.
 
“Thank you.”

“Just paying it forward,
sweetie.
 
Now, you do the same
today.
 
OK?”

“Deal.”

And yet another reason why
I love it here.
 
Now, if I can just
stay here.
 
I’ve got to get this
job.

We crossed over to Sixth
Avenue, the driver hooked a left past the First Republic Bank and Jerri’s
Cleaners, and we started to move uptown.
 
I kept my gaze fixed on the meter
noticing how quickly we were burning through the money Lisa gave me when I
left.
 
Already, we were at eight
dollars and counting.
 
In this
traffic, I’d be lucky if she got near Sixth and Fortieth Street, let alone
Fifth and Fortieth.

And I was right.
 
By the time we reached Thirty-Eighth
Street, my twenty dollars was gone.

“This is fine,” I
said.
 
“I can walk from here.”

“You going back to work?”

“I wish I had work.
 
I’m going for an interview.
 
I think this is about my hundredth
interview in the past few months.”

“Looking like you do, I’d
think someone would hire you in a minute.”

Before I could deflect the
compliment, the woman pressed a button.
 
A receipt started to print, and she clicked off the meter.
 
“Can’t show up looking like a mop, now
can you?
 
No one’s going to hire a
mop.
 
Don’t worry about it.
 
The fares uptown always pay.
 
I’ll make up for it.”

“You’re incredibly kind.”

“Just paying it
forward.
 
I know what it’s like
trying to find a job in this rotten economy.
 
Still pulling myself out of it.
 
I take it you’re not from here?”

“I’m from Maine.
 
Moved here in May.”

“Without a job?”

“Just one of the many
stupid things I’ve done in my life.
 
There’s so much to offer here, I thought it would be easy to find
work.
 
Well, at least easier than
finding work in Maine, where there are zero jobs.”

“Nothing’s easy in New
York, sweetie.
 
But pay it
forward.
 
Every day do someone a
kindness.
 
You’ll see.
 
Things will turn around for you.
 
They did for me.”

When we pulled alongside
Wenn Enterprises, which was a gleaming, modern skyscraper that seemed to catch
the sun and toss it back to kiss the sky, the woman adjusted her rearview
mirror so I could look into it.
 
“Do
you have a compact?”

“I do,” I said.
 
I lowered my head and saw why she
asked—despite the air conditioning, my face was shiny.
 
I opened the right side of my briefcase
and removed one.

“I’d blot.”

“Blotting.”

“Under the eyes.”

“Eyes.”

“Don’t forget your neck.”

“Neck.”

“Now, kill the interview.”

“You must have some very
lucky children.”

“I’m the lucky one,” the
woman said, taking the twenty I handed her.
 
“I remind myself of that every day.”

CHAPTER THREE

Once inside the lobby,
which was a hive of activity as people stepped into and out of elevators and
crisscrossed in front of me, I approached the reception area.
 
I was so nervous that my heels sounded
to me like drum taps on the marble floor.
 

A man looked up at me.
 

“I’m Jennifer Kent,” I
said.
 
“I have an interview with
Barbara Blackwell.”

“Ms. Blackwell?”

“Sorry.
 
Yes, Ms. Blackwell.”

He typed something into his
computer, read the screen, picked up the phone that was next to him, and made a
call.
 
“Jennifer Kent to see Ms.
Blackwell.
 
Shall I send her
up?
 
I understand that she’s early,
but she’s nevertheless here.
 
Thank
you.”

He hung up the phone and
motioned toward the elevators.
 
“Fifty-first floor.
 
Take a
right when the doors open.
 
You’ll
find a sitting area to your left.
 
You’re early.
 
Wait there for
a bit, and Ms. Blackwell’s assistant will come for you.”

“Thank you,” I said.
 
“Sorry I’m early.”

“Better than late,” he
said.

*
 
*
 
*

When the doors opened, I
steeled myself and stepped into the hallway.
 
I saw the sitting area, went to it, and
found it packed.
 
There was no room
to sit down.
 
Fourteen faces looked
up at me, eyes roamed over me, and one fat man stuffed into a gray business
suit that barely contained his girth smiled suggestively at me.

“Excuse me,” someone said
as they brushed past me in the narrow hallway.

“Sorry.”

“Right.”

Christ.

“Julie Hopwood?”

I turned and saw a
middle-aged woman standing next to me.

“No, I’m Jennifer—”

“I’m Julie Hopwood,” a
pretty brunette sitting next to the fat man said.
 
She was polished and when she stood, I
thought she looked smashing in her dark blue suit.

“You’re here for the
secretarial job?”

“I think we all are,” she
said.

The woman smiled
tightly.
 
“Right this way.
 
Ms. Blackwell will see you now.”

“Thank you.”

As she moved past me, she
said, “I’ve so got this.”

Seriously?

I looked over at the fat
man, who was staring at me, his lips slightly parted.
 
Why is he looking at me like I’m roast
beef?
 
I certainly couldn’t linger
in the doorway, so I went over to the chair next to his and sat down.
 
I put my briefcase in my lap, and
noticed that his face was turned to mine.
 
I didn’t want to engage him, so I ignored him, snapped open my
briefcase, and pretended to look inside for something until he finally looked
away.

Fifteen minutes later, I
caught sight of Julie Hopwood walking past the sitting room’s door with a
contented smile on her face.
 
Then
the older woman who had retrieved her a moment before asked for a Jennifer
Kent.

“That’s me,” I said,
standing.

“Ms. Blackwell will see you
now.”

“Thank you.”

“Good luck,” the fat man
said.

I raised a hand in
acknowledgement and continued toward the woman, who brought me down a long
hallway to the open door of a corner office.
 
Inside, I saw a severe-looking woman in
a chic black business suit sitting at a large desk with the Manhattan skyline
shining behind her in the sun.
 
She
was talking on the phone, but she waved me inside, motioned for me to sit in
the chair opposite her, and mouthed but did not say the word “resume.”

I clicked open my briefcase
and retrieved a copy of it for her.
 

“No, no,” the woman said
into the phone, while reaching out a hand for my resume.
 
“That’s not how it works, and you know
it, Charles.
 
Speak to my lawyer.
 
Don’t call here again.
 
And may I offer you a piece of
advice?
 
Just sign the damned
paperwork so each of us can move on with our lives.
 
It’s been months since I’ve filed.
 
I’m tired of this.
 
I want you out of my life.
 
So do the children.
 
God!”

Without another word, she
hung up the phone, looked down at my resume, and then looked back at me, anger
clearly stamped on her face.
 
“Ms.
Kent,” she said.
 
“Hellohoware?”

“I’m fine, Ms.
Blackwell.
 
Thank you for seeing
me.”

“There’s no need to thank
me.
 
It’s what I do.
 
All day long.
 
Sometimes on weekends.”
 
She scanned the resume.
 
“You’re from Maine?”

“I am.”

“And you graduated in May?”

“With my master’s degree,
yes.”

“In business?”

“That’s right.”

She looked at me.
 
“Why would you be interested in a
secretarial job when you have an MBA?”

I tried to keep myself
composed.
 
“I’ve been here since
May, and it’s been difficult to find a job.”

“You are aware that the
economy is in the toilet, aren’t you?”

“I am.
 
I just thought that there would be more
opportunities here than in Maine.”

“Which brings you to me
today.”

“That’s right.”

“Here’s how I view
this.
 
You want to answer phones
until you can find a better job.
 
Why would I waste my time on that?
 
That will just mean replacing your position sooner rather than later.”

I could feel myself
flush.
 
“Actually, I was hoping this
would be a way to get my foot in the door.
 
I was hoping that if I worked hard enough at Wenn, that someone might
see something in me that would allow for other opportunities to open.”

“Is that so?
 
And how long would you give us for that
to happen?
 
A few weeks?
 
A couple of months?
 
Until you found work elsewhere?”

“If the pay was decent, I’d
wait until something good opened up.”

“Well, that’s kind of you.”

“Ms. Blackwell, I’m a good
worker.
 
I just need a chance.
 
If I don’t find a job soon, I’ll need to
move back to Maine and give up my dreams here.”

“And that concerns me
how?”
 
She tossed the resume back on
her desk.
 
“Look, Ms. Kent.
 
I’m not looking for a short-term hire.
 
I’m looking for someone to fill this
position for the long-term so I don’t have to fill it again for another year or
so.
 
Does that make sense?
 
You’re not in Maine anymore.
 
You’re in New York.
 
It’s a big city filled with lots of
people just like you who are trying to find work.
 
Spare me the theatrics about “just
needing a chance.”
 
That’s already
being sold in every show on Broadway.
 
I suggest you get a ticket to a matinee and soak it up.”

What was her problem?
 
“Did I do something to offend you?”

“You’ve wasted my time.”

“Actually, I think I walked
into an argument.”

“You think you walked into
a what?”

“An argument.
 
You were arguing when I walked in.
 
Now, you’re taking it out on me.
 
That’s unprofessional.
 
I’m not Charles, so please stop acting as
if I am.”

The woman sat back in her
chair and looked amused.
 
“Well,
look at you, Maine.
 
Maybe you do
have what it takes to make it in the big city.
 
That’s quite a mouth you have on
you.”
 
She leaned forward and a lock
of her black hair fell into her face.
 
“But we’re not going to listen to it here.
 
Have a nice day.”

Furious, I stood.
 
Really?
 
A three-minute interview?
 
What had I done to deserve this?
 
How many times was I going to be
dismissed in this city?
 
I felt
another flash of anger, and directed it at this Blackwell bitch just as she had
directed her anger at me.
 
“Have a
swell divorce.
 
From where I sit, it
looks like Charles got away from a dragon.”

“Sweetheart, you have no
idea.
 
And thanks for your
resume.
 
I’ll be sure to call all
the headhunters I know around town and warn them about you.”

“So, you’d like another
lawsuit?”

“Oh, please.
 
From what you told me, you couldn’t
afford it.
 
Goodbye, Ms. Kent.
 
Goodbye and good luck.
 
Now, go on.
 
Close your mouth.
 
Ms. Blackwell is finished with you.
 
Toodles.”

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