Paige Torn (6 page)

“Going to the grocery store. Then I'm going home for a few minutes.” And working on the wreath before Layla calls to tell me she is done having lunch with her parents and Peter.

“I can show you all the invitations I've been collecting that I really like,” she said all bubbly when I left a few minutes ago.

I am excited for Layla's parents. And it is really kind of her to throw this party for them. And I don't even mind helping with the party. I just wish someone else was helping who knows more about what to do. It is sort of like handing a person who's only watched monkeys swing through the trees a Tarzan rope and telling them to hang ten.

Or whatever you say to Tarzan before he leaps through the trees. I'm not really a Tarzan buff.

No pun intended.

I blink and rub my head. I need some sleep. Or some caffeine.

Tyler is still there and now he's grinning at me. “Hey, I've got a better idea. Let's go get lunch.”

“Let's?”

“Yeah, let's. You and me.”

I shake my head. “I'd like to, really, but I
have
to go to the grocery store. If I don't go today, then I have to eat Sonic for the whole next week, and I'm already into March's eating-out budget.” Not to mention the awful, greasy feeling my face had after I'd eaten Sonic three days in a row.

“Oh, okay. Some other time then.”

“Yes, I'd like that.” I don't want to be mean. I just have to go to the store before Layla calls me, because there is no telling how long I will be at her apartment this afternoon. I look at Tyler, feeling bad. “I'm sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” He shrugs. “You've got plans. It just means I'll have to plan further ahead or find a better day next time.”

I nod. Planning ahead is always a good thing.

“Paige! Paige, wait up!” Rick comes running across the parking lot. He stops in front of us, breathing hard. “Whew! I haven't run like that in …” He heaves his breath, locking his hands behind his head. “Dude, I can't even remember.”

“You can't remember why you ran over here like that?” I ask.

“No, I can't remember how long it's been since I ran like that. Look, Paige, I wanted to ask you. There's a girl who came into youth group this morning who is really going through a rough patch. Her parents just got divorced and she just moved here with her mom. Usually I would give this over to Natalie, but …” He shrugs, looking at me.

I nod. “Dilated?”

“Still. I moved a cot into my office here.”

I grin.

“Anyway, I am hoping maybe you could find a time to meet her for coffee or something this week and just talk to her and make her feel welcome?”

I pull my planner out of my purse. “Sure, I can meet with her on Thursday.” I can skip my Pilates class this week for a girl in need.

“Perfect.” Rick smiles at the two of us, all cheekily. “Sorry if I interrupted anything.”

I narrow my eyes at him. Natalie has been trying to set me up with someone since I met her. The first guy was a wannabe youth pastor from Corpus Christi who made my name into a six-syllable word.

Needless to say, it did not work out. I have all these expectations of what my future husband will be like, and while most of them have been formed from watching
Pride and Prejudice
too many times, one of the bigger ones is that I like how he says my name.

I'll be listening to him say it for the rest of my life. I figure I should enjoy it.

Besides, I'm pretty sure no one in history has ever said “Lizzy” as wonderfully as Mr. Darcy.

It's important.

“No.” Tyler shrugs to Rick's question. “Just chatting. Well, you have a great time at the grocery store, Paige, and I'll see you both on Wednesday night.”

I wave. “Bye, Tyler.”

“Yeah, see ya,” Rick says.

Tyler walks across the parking lot to his truck and climbs in.

“So,” Rick says, drawing the word out. “Tyler.”

“So,” I mimic. “I'm leaving.”

“Clean laundry and a hot meal!” he yells as I climb into my car.

I shake my head for his benefit as I start my car, but I can't help the grin.

* * * * *

The grocery store may be my least favorite place on the planet. Because not only do I have to face the fact of just how much of my paycheck I'm eating every week, but the things I'm craving most for dinners are inevitably not on sale. Ever. My appetite has never lined up with the sale ad.

All those budget experts who say you should scour the sales ad before you go to the store and stick to the perimeter of the store while you're shopping obviously never had the sudden and very strong desire for chips, queso, and Oreos.

If I have these cravings now, I will be about the worst pregnant woman in all of history, someday, far down the road.

I push my cart down one of the freezer aisles and pause in front of the frozen pizza section. At least once a week I eat frozen pizza. It's easy and relatively cheap when you consider it feeds me for about three days.

My phone buzzes as I decide on a Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza. And bonus! It even comes with half a dozen presliced cookie dough cookies.

“Hi, Mom,” I answer the phone.

“Hi, honey. How's your Sunday going?”

I talk to my mom probably three or four times a week, but she always, without fail, calls me on Sunday afternoon to catch up.

“Good. Just trying to get some grocery shopping done before I meet Layla.”

“More party planning?” Mom knows all about the Prestwicks' anniversary party. As far as I know, they are planning to come. They've hung out with Layla's parents a few times over the years and get along pretty well.

“We're picking out invitations.”

Mom pauses. “You know, seeing as how Layla and Peter just got engaged, you'd think he would have more of a hand in planning his future in-laws' party.”

“Peter is Peter,” I tell my mom.

She laughs. “Well, your dad and I are just sitting here very lonely from you leaving after Christmas and — ”

That is when I hear my dad in the background. “We are not lonely, Paige!”

“Lyle, for the love of — ” Mom hisses at him. Then she turns on her sweet voice for me again. “And we were just wondering when you thought you would be back down here.”

“I don't know, Mom. Sounds like Dad's not too anxious for me to come back.” I grin at the frozen peas.

Dad, for all the love he has for me, has very much been enjoying these years of having my mom all to himself again. Mom is a different story.

“Of course he wants you to come home again, sweetheart,” Mom says, and I hear Dad chuckling.

I pull my planner out of my purse. I have a long weekend coming up in March. In a twist of fate that has brought me joy without fail for the year that I've worked there, Mark and Peggy had both gotten married on the same day.

To different people.

But it means they are easily swayed by Candace and me to just close the agency for the day. Last year, I'd gotten a wonderful Thursday off. And this year, I am very excited about my long weekend.

“March 14 then?” I ask Mom.

“Oh, that will be perfect!” Mom squeals. “I'll make all of your favorite meals. You just e-mail me a list of anything you want to eat. Okay, honey?”

“Sounds good, Mom.” I am already imagining a huge spiral-sliced honey ham, sweet potatoes, and my mom's famous spinach casserole. Then we can end the evening with peanut butter chocolate bars, plenty of hot coffee, and card games until late at night.

“All right then. Happy shopping!” Mom says.

I hang up and grab a few bags of the microwave-steamable vegetables. Some days, they are my dinner.

I look in my cart. Suddenly I feel very homesick.

M
onday and Tuesday pass in a blur of working and then spending the entire evening looking up anniversary decoration ideas on the Internet. I love making crafts, and the idea of decorating for a party that isn't my own is starting to sound more fun.

Probably because it isn't my own, I have less of a personal stake in it.

Wednesday morning, I walk into work carrying my lunch cooler. I bought a few packaged salads at the grocery store on Sunday. They probably cost more than making the salad from scratch myself, but they don't take as much time, so packaged salad it is.

Mark is already there when I walk in.

“Morning, Paige. Hey, do you know what I did with the case file for the Wittles? I can't find it in my office.”

I swallow my laugh, which then gets me coughing. “Uh, yes sir. You mean the Waughtels? I have it right here, sir.” Candace just completed their home study, and I just finished transcribing it. “The home study is all printed up.” I set my purse and cooler on the desk and pull the file from my Stuff I'm Working On stack.

Amazing how high that stack tends to get throughout the day.

Mark grins. “Wow, thanks, Paige. Waughtel. That's right.” He chuckles. “You realize you can never leave this job, right? The agency wouldn't survive. How's the banquet coming?”

“Good. We're looking at the bands this week, and then I need to talk to the florist next week,” I say, doing my best to ignore his first statement. Still, a part of me holds out hope that Mark will come to me one day and offer me a job as a partner.

“Florist?”

“For the table centerpieces.”

He nods. “Right. I trust you'll make it beautiful.” He sends me another smile before heading back to his office, Waughtel file in hand.

Apparently, the Waughtels' house is so clean that Candace was afraid to walk inside.

“I don't know about you, but I prefer homes where I feel like a kid could be allowed to make messes. It's important for kids to make messes,” she told me afterward while she leaned against my desk eating a celery stick.

Candace is one of those women who isn't necessarily skinny but isn't necessarily overweight either. Which means she is also one of those women who goes on a diet about twenty-three times a year.

Or anytime she needs to fit into what she calls her “wear-all” dress.

“If I've got a funeral, it's appropriate. If I've got a wedding, it's appropriate. Need a dress for a baby shower?” she told me another time. “Got it. It's like the million-wear dress.”

Candace always makes me laugh.

I set my purse under the desk and turn on the computer. The message light is blinking, and I pull over the voice-mail message book to start writing them down.

“Yeah, hi, my name is Flynn Anderson, I'm with Office Plus. Just calling to see if there is a good time today to swing by and check out your copier. Give me a call.”
He rattles off his number, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Finally.

A few messages are for Mark, several are for Peggy, and Candace got one from a former client about her child's upcoming birthday party.

I call the copier guy back as soon as I finish getting all the messages. A man answers on the third ring. “This is Flynn.”

I bite my lip, trying to get the image of the lead male character from
Tangled
out of my head. “Hi, Flynn. My name's Paige Alder. I work at Lawman Adoption Agency, and you called us earlier this morning?”

“Oh, yes, ma'am. I've got a report here that says you need a technician to come look at your copier.”

“Yes, please.” Like two weeks ago, but I don't complain and I try to keep my voice sweet. My grandmother always told me you could attract more bees with honey than with vinegar. Considering I was six, it was no wonder I smelled like dill pickles for the rest of the summer.

I hate bees.

“All righty, ma'am. I'm on my way to another job, but it shouldn't take too long. Can I be there around three or four?”

I look at the clock. It is barely nine. Suddenly, I understand a little better why it has taken them two weeks to get back to me if a six-hour job is considered a short one.

“Uh, sure,” I say.

“Great. I'll see you this afternoon, Paige.”

I hang up and spend the rest of the day answering the phone and getting all of the information we need to do paychecks on Friday. We get paid the first and third Fridays of every month. This week is the third week in January, and I always hate doing paychecks for the third week because it is depressing to think this is the last time I am getting paid this month.

I rip open my salad bag at noon and Peggy comes down the hall, holding a fresh-from-the-microwave Lean Cuisine. “Need to work through lunch?” she asks me.

I shake my head. I got the time cards all put into the program, and I almost have the checks ready for Mark to sign.

Mark does everything old school. There are ways to give each person an account on their own computer that will track when they get in and when they leave, but Mark still wants handwritten time cards. Except for him and Peggy. Both of them are on salary. Mark keeps wanting to put Candace and me on salary, but I think that's just another way of asking us to be here longer without getting paid for it.