Paige Torn (23 page)

I don't like giving blind dates my home address, so he'd shown up at my work to pick me up wearing a T-shirt with a bleached design of a Mario Brother on it — that he had created himself.

“It's Luigi,” he said proudly, puffing out his chest.

I had very good reasons to be tense that night.

“Or that guy you went out with a few times a little while ago … what was his name?” Candace asks, frowning at Peggy.

“Anthony,” Peggy supplies.

Anthony Myerson. It's been a long time since I'd thought about him. He made Michael the Mario Brothers fan look normal. I'm not sure what I ever saw in him, but I went out with him two or three times.

“Come to think of it, you have very interesting taste in men.” Candace sits on the edge of my desk, angling her body so she can see me. “Why do you think that's the case?”

Great. Now I am going to get a counseling session on my dating life. My day isn't looking as bright all of a sudden.

“I d-don't … know,” I stutter.

“She has a wonderful father, so it's not father issues,” Peggy says.

“I know.” Candace is looking at me with a studying frown. “You are a great puzzle to me, Paige Alder. And a good study for us.” She stares at me a minute longer. “I think I'll do it.”

“Do what?” I ask, suddenly very scared.

“I'm going to find out what's wrong with you.” She nods and hops off the desk.

What am I supposed to say to that? Gee, thanks? Don't worry about it? I'd prefer to stay a puzzle?

“Okay,” I say slowly.

“Paige,” Peggy says, her tone placating. “There's nothing wrong with you. You are God's creation, and you are beautiful and intelligent.”

“Y'all aren't going to charge me by the hour, are you?”

“I want you to see the wonderful person you are in God's eyes,” Peggy says.

“And I want you to start dating a guy who actually deserves someone as amazing as you are and not some loser who thinks that chocolate will kill you,” Candace adds.

Peggy laughs. “Oh yeah!” She grins. “What was his name again?”

“Will Rakers,” I supply, rubbing my head. Maybe my real issue isn't my horrible taste in men as much as my habit of having them meet me at work.

“Now he was funny.”

“That's because it wasn't your M&Ms he flushed down the toilet.” Peggy rolls her eyes at Candace.

She laughs.

“The point I'm trying to make, Paige, is that you should sit down and write out a list of qualities you want in a future husband,” Candace says.

“I have a list of qualities. I've never written it down, but I know them.”

“Tell me three of them.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

“I'll even name five,” I tell her haughtily, checking the list off on my fingers. “Rich doctor, frequent shaver, high-class chef, doesn't wear skinny jeans, and appreciates HGTV,” I finish.

Peggy and Candace just exchange a look.

“What?” I protest.

“None of those things is a quality,” Peggy says.

“Not even one,” Candace adds. “No qualities. At all.”

“Doesn't wear skinny jeans?” I say. “That is a definite quality.”

“Paige,” Peggy says.

I sigh.

“Look, honey, you have the …” Peggy squints at the ceiling, obviously looking for a nice word to use. “Tendency. You have the tendency to say yes to everything.”

This sounds vaguely like what Tyler told me on our last nondate.

“I do not,” I say.

“Ahem, I'll give you examples.” Peggy starts ticking them off on her fingers. “Michael, Anthony, and Will. There's three.”

“Waterskiing with Layla's family,” Candace adds.

I wince. I hate water. And I hate skiing. And yet, somehow I found myself strapped to the heaviest skis in the world, grasping onto a handle tied to a rope that was attached to a boat. I had to have my arm set back in the socket and wore a brace for three weeks afterward.

And none of my cute summer outfits looked cute with an Ace bandage brace.

“What's-his-face from your Sunday school class who needed help moving,” Peggy says.

I'd shown up to Gavin's all set to help and found him and three guys playing Xbox in an apartment that hadn't even started being boxed up. So I spent the rest of the day boxing up his closet while he and his friends tried to kill each other in whatever the horribly violent game was.

I can concede that one.

“That friend of yours who, thank the good Lord, finally moved back home to Michigan or wherever she was from, who kept asking you to go to dinner and forgetting her wallet,” Candace says.

Aubrey Benterly. Once she finally moved, I had to eat rice cakes for every meal for four months just to get money back into my savings. She called me up at least three times a week with some crisis she needed to talk about. “Let's just meet at Olive Garden,” she'd say in tears.

“And then the winner of them all, Luke Prestwick,” Candace says.

I sigh.

Luke Prestwick. I cried over him for two months.

A few months after getting this job, I'd confessed the whole Luke saga to Candace and Peggy. And then I decided that maybe his moving to California was a blessing in disguise.

Maybe.

I try not to think about him.

“Look, Paige,” Peggy says in a more gentle voice. “I'm not against you helping people. In fact, it's one of the qualities I love best about you.”

“And it totally comes across in your work here,” Candace says. “That's why you've got a drawerful of thank-you cards and pictures from all of our clients.” She pulls open my top drawer as Exhibit A. I have stacks and stacks of cards, letters, and pictures in there.

“What did you do last week?” Peggy asks.

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I've seen your planner. Get it out. I want to see what you did last week.”

I pull my planner out of my purse, open it to last week, and set it on my desk. Peggy and Candace read quietly for a minute.

Candace shakes her head. “Good gracious, girl. When do you even have time to eat?”

“Or shower?” Peggy asks.

“Or sit and watch a movie?” Candace says.

I sigh again. “I don't know what you guys expect me to do.” I close my planner and shove it back in my purse. “Nothing in there is bad. It's church stuff or best-friend stuff or work stuff. I can't cut out any of it.”

“I'm just suggesting that maybe you look into the mirror and practice saying the word
no
,” Peggy says gently.

“And I'm seconding that suggestion.” Candace nods. “It's a lesson I had to learn, and it's one I've always been thankful for.” She looks at me for a long minute and then pats the top of my hand. “A need does not constitute a call, sweetie.”

Peggy smiles softly at me. “We'll let you do your work. Just think about it.”

I nod. Candace walks around my desk and gives me one of those awkward hugs when one person is seated. “I love you, honey. It's the only reason I'm giving you a hard time.”

I nod again. They both walk down to their offices, flipping through their voice-mail slips. I look at my computer, pulling up the banquet spreadsheet I created, and bite my lip.

Do I really have that big of a problem saying no?

I shake my head. They are overreacting. I can say no. I mean, I've said no to Tyler asking me out like eight times by this point. Which maybe is a bigger issue I have. Apparently, I can't say no to needy, weird guys, but a normal, sweet Christian guy I have no problem turning down.

Maybe I do need help.

* * * * *

At First Sight is about fifteen minutes from the office, but since it's a work-related visit, Mark agreed that he and Peggy would cover the phone. I love work-related errands. They are like a field trip.

The day is absolutely beautiful. Sunshine, blue skies, probably seventy-five degrees, and low humidity, which is something of a miracle in Dallas.

The florist is in a little strip mall right next door to a tailor. I park in front and walk in.

Some days, I wish I'd gone into floral design. The place smells amazing.

“Hey there.” An older lady who looks a lot like the actress Kathy Bates smiles at me from behind a long worktable and rubs her hands on a towel. “Can I help you?”

“I'm Paige Alder. I called you this morning from Lawman Adoption Agency.”

She nods. “I am expecting you. I'm Sandra. Come on in to the back room. Can I get you anything? Water? Coke? I think I've even got a pitcher of sweet tea in there.” She waves for me to follow her.

“No thanks.” See? I can say no.

“It's my famous sweet tea.” She leads me into a small white room with a wicker coffee table and two wicker chairs. She nods to one of the chairs.

“Okay then,” I say. “Sweet tea sounds good.”

Sandra leaves and I nod to myself. Sweet tea does sound good. So it's fine.

“Here you go.” She comes back in with a tall glass a minute later. “And I'll be right back with your arrangements. I just finished the last one a few minutes ago.”

“Thank you.”

“Don't thank me until you've seen them.” She grins. She comes back holding two different arrangements. “Let me grab the last,” she says and then is back a minute later.

She sets them all on the table in front of me, and I feel myself relaxing. They are absolutely stunning. The smaller one is too small for what I am thinking, but I will have a hard time deciding between the larger and the middle-sized one.

“And all of these are within my budget?” I ask her.

“Yes, they are.” She pushes a pair of bifocals up on her face. “Now, you said you need eighty-four of these?”

“Right.”

“Totally doable.” She nods. “You just let me know which one you like or if you want any changes made to them.” She sits back in the other wicker chair and smiles at me. “Is this a fancy event?”

“Yeah. It's as close to black tie as you can get,” I tell her. She nods.

I study the flowers, thinking. “Okay, another question. If I get the medium-sized ones and we make it this size but with fewer flowers, can I get two extra-large arrangements for the stage?”

She purses her lips, thinking. “Red roses as well?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm. We can probably do that. I might have to add some filler greenery in there, but that will bring the price down a little bit so it's a comfortable fit for your budget.”

I like this lady. I sip her sweet tea and can see why she is famous for it. “Are you guys open on Saturday?”

“Until noon.”

“My friend is planning an anniversary party for her parents. I might have her come by.” It would be much easier on us both if someone else was making the centerpieces for Layla's party. Particularly if she really wants us to sleep in the park the night before.

I am still praying she'll change her mind on that one.

I leave the florist feeling a little more relieved about the banquet. Sandra says she'll get to the Marriott at two o'clock on the last Saturday in February. Which gives us four hours to get the arrangements on the tables and stage before the banquet actually starts.

Surely that is enough time.

I get back to work and check the florist off my list of things to do. Mark comes over to my desk around four.

“Paige, did you already confirm with the speakers?”

I nod and flip through my file on the banquet. “Yes, sir. All of them should be there at five, and I've already arranged with the Marriott to have three wireless microphones for them, as well as one on the podium as a backup.”

Mark looks impressed. “Very thorough.” He smiles at me proudly. “And when is the band getting there?”

“I think they're coming at three to rehearse. I told them they'd go on at six fifteen.” The way the banquet is set up, Mark will open the evening, say grace, and then we'll serve dinner. The Marriott is giving us a great discount on their catering service, so we are using them. When dinner starts to wrap up, the band will take a break, we'll hear from Owen Roberts, the TV guy; Alexa Thomas, the lady from March of Dimes; and Camilla Carson, the beauty pageant girl. Then the band will play again, and they'll have an open dance floor until the night ends around ten with the silent auction winners.

It will be a big night.

“And the auction items?” Mark asks.

Again, I flip around in my file folder. Mark spent the past year going to different businesses and asking for donations for our auction. All of the proceeds go straight to helping lower-income families adopt. Add the auction money to the ticket sales and we usually exceed $20,000 to $30,000 in one night.

The biggest item he got to auction off is a seventy-two-inch flat-screen TV. Which just seems ridiculously huge for a TV. And it makes me feel sad for the poor news anchors on television these days. I would be horribly self-conscious if I knew my face was seventy-two inches and in high definition in someone's house.

I tell him which businesses are bringing the auction items and which ones we need to pick up from the day before. He nods and then smiles at me again. “You're a great secretary,” he says and goes back to his office.

I think he means it as a compliment. But as he leaves, I just sit there and stare at the banquet file.

I will most likely never be a counselor at Lawman Adoption Agency.

I
am
a good secretary. Too good for my own good.