“I HAVE A PLACE FOR FLIP IN THE BASEMENT,”MRS. FAIRMONT SAID.
We walked down a short hallway past a paneled room that looked like a den or study. Bookshelves lined the walls on either side of a large television. Mrs. Fairmont turned and faced me.
“I keep Flip with me all the time,” she said in a soft voice. “He even sleeps on my bed, although Christine doesn’t know it. We’ll take him downstairs, but it would be cruel to leave him there all the time. Does your family have a dog? Living on a farm like that, I’d expect you to have a dog.”
“Yes ma’am. We have two dogs; one is named Flip.”
“Really! What breed?”
“Mixed. Our Flip probably weighs about fifty pounds.”
“My baby weighs six pounds, four ounces.”
We went down to the basement. Light streamed in from the windows I’d seen from the front of the house. Mrs. Fairmont’s home was three stories in the rear and opened onto a courtyard/garden. Windows lined the wall and let in light and the view. A wall ran down the center of the room. To the left was an open space used for storage. Mrs. Fairmont opened a door to the right, and we entered a suite with a kitchenette. A dog bed surrounded by chew toys lay in the middle of the floor. There wasn’t any other furniture.
“Was this was one of the rooms for rent?”
“Yes. It’s really a little apartment. No one has lived here since I bought the house. It’s what they call a garden apartment.”
“May I take a look?”
“Sure.”
Still carrying Flip, I stepped across the living area into a bedroom with French double doors that opened onto a brick patio with a wrought-iron table. There was an old brass bed that looked like it hadn’t been used in years.
“It has a nice view of the garden, but it sure doesn’t look like a palace,” I said without thinking.
“Christine is prone to exaggeration, as I’m sure you’ve noticed if you’ve been around her more than five minutes.” Mrs. Fairmont sniffed. “She claims this house is worth three times what I paid for it.”
I recalled Mrs. Bartlett’s statement as “four times” but kept my mouth shut.
Mrs. Fairmont took Flip from my arms. The little dog licked her chin.
“Nice kisses,” she said. “Now show us how you got your name.”
She put the dog on the floor and made a circle with her right index finger. The Chihuahua stepped forward and did a backward somersault. It happened so fast that I didn’t get a good look.
“Will he do it again?” I asked.
Mrs. Fairmont swirled her finger and Flip obliged. She leaned over and patted him on the head.
“I’ve never seen a dog do that,” I said.
“He’s a smart boy.”
“What else can he do?”
“Love me,” Mrs. Fairmont said, looking at me with her blue eyes. “When no one else does.”
She gave Flip a treat and closed the door to the room. I listened for a moment but didn’t hear any scratching or whining. We returned upstairs. The coffee on my dress now felt clammy against my legs. Mrs. Bartlett was in the hallway near the kitchen. She had a cordless phone in her hand.
“I can’t get Gracie,” she said, clicking off the phone.
“I said that I’d be glad to finish cleaning up,” I said, trying not to sound disrespectful. “All I’ll need are paper towels, a broom, and a dustpan.”
“Gracie moved all the cleaning supplies to the closet near the porch,” Mrs. Fairmont said.
I followed Mrs. Bartlett through a small formal dining room. Before reaching the porch, we came to a space designed as a coat closet. I grabbed what I needed, returned to the parlor, and began cleaning up the mess. Mrs. Fairmont sat down and rested her head against the back of the chair.
“All this commotion has taken away all my energy,” she said. “I need to lie down for a few minutes.”
“Not yet. We’re not finished with our visit,” Mrs. Bartlett replied. She pointed across the room. “Tami, I see a splatter of coffee all the way over there.”
I went to the kitchen, moistened some of the paper towels, and while the two women watched, cleaned the floor, pushing the bits of glass into a single pile.
“You missed some glass beneath Mother’s chair,” Mrs. Bartlett said.
I turned on my knees so that my rear end was facing Mrs. Bartlett to hide the laughter threatening to explode. I didn’t mind cleaning up the mess, but Mrs. Bartlett’s bossiness was a comedy of the absurd.
“I need to moisten some more towels,” I said as I stood and left the room.
I reached the kitchen, a compact room at the rear of the house, and let myself giggle for a few seconds.
From the kitchen sink I could see more of the small formal gar- den with its carefully manicured shrubbery and an array of spring flowers. A brick walkway wound through the garden that featured a fountain in the middle—a great place to read the Bible and pray. I turned off the water along with my daydream. I had no idea whether I should live in the house or not.
At the entrance to the parlor, I heard Mrs. Fairmont say, “What on earth gave her that idea? To presume after one visit that I would want her to live—”
“Oh, Tami,” Mrs. Bartlett interrupted. “Thanks so much for helping us clean up this mess. You’re a dear to do it and come to the aid of two helpless old women.”
“You’re welcome.”
I resumed my work without any desire to laugh. I didn’t mind being a servant, but Mrs. Bartlett’s deception and supercilious statements about helplessness after she’d bragged about her golf game and long walks on the beach made me mad. I used the broom and dustpan to scoop up the broken pieces. Mrs. Fairmont didn’t speak a word. A few more wipes of wet paper towel across the floor, and no sign of the morning’s disaster remained. I looked up and saw Mrs. Bartlett mouthing words to her mother. I wanted to stuff a washcloth into Mrs. Bartlett’s mouth.
“What should I do with the dirty cloths?” I asked icily.
“There’s a clothes drop at the end of the hall,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “Follow me.”
As soon as we left the room, Mrs. Bartlett turned to me. “Give me a few minutes alone with Mother. She’s ecstatic about the idea of you staying with her, but we need to work out the details in private.”
“That’s not what . . . ,” I began, but Mrs. Bartlett was gone.
I found the dirty-clothes drop. Mrs. Bartlett’s subterfuge was an out-and-out lie, and I had to set the record straight. If honesty destroyed the chance to stay rent-free in a beautiful house, then there had to be a low-rent apartment on a bus line somewhere in Savannah. I returned to the parlor. The two women were sitting in silence. I could feel the tension. I moved to the edge of a cream sofa and started to sit down.
“Stop it!” Mrs. Bartlett cried out. “Don’t sit down.”
I jumped to my feet and looked around.
“Your dress is drenched in coffee,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “It might bleed onto the sofa.”
“Get a towel for her to sit on,” Mrs. Fairmont said.
Mrs. Bartlett looked at her mother. “But I thought—”
“Get a towel from the upstairs linen closet,” her mother insisted.
Mrs. Bartlett turned to me. “We won’t be staying long. I’m sure you’d like to change out of that dress and into something clean.”
Mrs. Bartlett left the room. As soon as her footsteps could be heard going up the stairs, I spoke rapidly.
“Mrs. Fairmont, I didn’t come here to invite myself to live in your house. That’s not the way I was raised. The office manager at the law firm gave my name to your daughter because I’ve helped take care of people with health problems in the past. I talked on the phone with Mrs. Bartlett, and she was kind enough to arrange my trip to Savannah. She even rented a car and put me up at the bed-and-breakfast on Abercorn Street last night. I completely understand if you don’t want a houseguest for the—”
“Ken arranged for the car and lodging,” Mrs. Fairmont interrupted. “If you ask me, he’s a saint for putting up with Christine. Fortunately, the boys take after their father.”
“Yes ma’am. But I want to be completely honest with you. This meeting was a setup.”
Mrs. Fairmont eyed me as she had at the door upon my arrival.
“Do you like Flip?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am.”
“More important,” she said with emphasis, “he likes you. I’ve never seen him take to a stranger like he has to you.”
“I’m used to being around animals. They know a lot more than we give them credit for.”
“Yes, they do. How long will you be in Savannah this summer?”
I gave her the dates of my employment with the law firm.
“Would you be willing to stay in the downstairs apartment?”
“Yes ma’am,” I said, startled.
Mrs. Fairmont leaned forward. “If you stay downstairs, it means Flip will have to sleep with me.”
“Yes ma’am,” I replied, smiling. “It would be a sacrifice on your part, but you would have no other reasonable option.”
“And you’re not wanting to be paid anything?”
“No ma’am. Although I’ll be willing to help around the house.”
“You’ve proven that this morning when you didn’t have to.”
Mrs. Bartlett returned with a peach-colored bath towel in her hand. “Will this one do? It was underneath the nice ones.”
Mrs. Fairmont nodded. “Yes, and Miss Taylor and I have agreed that she will spend the summer with me.”
Mrs. Bartlett’s mouth dropped open. “But you were adamant—”
“Oh, that was the multi-infarct dementia speaking,” Mrs. Fairmont replied lightly. “I’m in my right mind now. Miss Taylor, didn’t you say your first name was Tami?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I can see how it will be positive for Tami and me if she spends evenings and nights here. I suggested the downstairs apartment, and she agreed.”
“What about the dog?” Mrs. Bartlett asked.
“I’ll find a comfortable place for him.” Mrs. Fairmont winked at me.
I spread the towel on the sofa and sat down.
“Tell me more about your family, especially your twin sisters,” Mrs. Fairmont said. “I went to school with twins, and we’ve been friends ever since.”
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER Mrs. Bartlett patted me on the arm as we left.
“Well, you’re going to be a successful lawyer if you can manipulate people like you did my mother.”
“I didn’t manipulate her. I told her the truth.”
“I’m sure. And nothing but the truth.” Mrs. Bartlett sniffed. “Somehow, you got Mother to do what we wanted and made her think it was her idea. That’s hard to do.”
I didn’t try to argue. We made a jerky trip back to the bed-and-breakfast. Mrs. Bartlett stopped the car in front of the inn and called her husband.
“Ken can’t meet us,” Mrs. Bartlett said after a brief conversation. “He’s had something come up. But Mother already called him and told him that you were going to be her guest for the summer. Can you imagine her being that excited about it?”
“I’m looking forward to staying with her too.”
“I’ll be running on my way,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “I wouldn’t want to bore you with my activities of the day.”
“From now on should I contact you or your mother?”
“Try Mother first; here’s her number.” Mrs. Bartlett took a card from her purse and wrote it down.
“Mother’s first name is Margaret, but her close friends call her Maggie.”
“I’m sure I’ll be more comfortable with Mrs. Fairmont.”
“Of course. She can be contrary at times, but after your performance this morning, I doubt you’ll have any problems with her. The fact that you could handle that vicious dog of hers was very impressive.”
I opened the door of the car and got out. “Please tell Mr. Bartlett how much I appreciate the arrangements you made for my trip.”
With a wave of her hand, Mrs. Bartlett sped away from the curb. I went to my room, cleaned up, and changed into a long blue skirt, yellow short-sleeved blouse, and white tennis shoes. I packed my suitcase and garment bag and carried them downstairs.
“Do you know where the law offices of Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter are located?” I asked the hostess on duty.
“It’s on Montgomery Street.” She drew a map. A different porter than the young man who’d helped me the previous evening carried my luggage to the car.
It took about five minutes to reach the law firm. A prominent, brick-framed white sign in front announced “Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter—Attorneys at Law.” I pulled into a parking lot covered with ornamental pavers. Several nice cars were in the lot, but none as fancy as my convertible.
The office was a two-story structure built of old brick with a slate roof and lots of windows framed by dark shutters. Two balconies were inset at either end of the second floor. The entrance was guarded by a set of small stone lions in front of large wooden double doors. Everything about the place spoke of prosperity and attention to detail. Mr. Callahan’s chipped white office in Powell Station couldn’t have served as a storage shed for this building. I wanted to peek inside, but I wasn’t dressed for success and didn’t want to give a wrong first impression.
The reality of what lay ahead hit me.
I wasn’t admiring just another nice building. I was parked at the place where I would be working in a few weeks and, if God granted me favor and success, be employed for many years to come. I imagined myself walking into the office wearing the blue suit I’d worn to Mr. Callahan’s office. But a blue suit wouldn’t banish fear. Inside the beautiful office would be people smarter than me, more sophisticated than me, and better able to excel in the legal community than me. My mouth suddenly went dry.
I’d made a terrible mistake. I needed one more summer at the chicken plant before venturing into the world on my own.
I heard the sound of a motorcycle turning into the parking area. It was bright red with a fat rear tire. The rider crouched over the handlebars, circled in front of my car, then drove directly toward me. I reached over to start the engine, but the rider held up his hand. He was wearing a red helmet with white Mercury wings on either side. He turned off the motorcycle. I didn’t want to get into a conversation with a member of a local motorcycle gang. The rider took off his helmet and approached. To my surprise, he was a nice-looking young man in his twenties with blue eyes and light brown hair bound in a very short ponytail. He was wearing blue jeans and black boots.
“I’m visiting and about to leave,” I said.
“Who were you visiting?” he asked.
“No one. This is where I’m going to be working in a few weeks. I’ve got to go.”
“Then I’ll see you soon. I’m one of the lawyers.”
“You’re a lawyer?”
The man released the band that held his hair and ran his fingers through it.
“And a motorcycle rider,” he replied. “Nice car.”
“It’s a rental.”
“It’s still a nice car.” He stuck a tanned hand over the side of the car. “I’m Zach Mays, an associate with the firm.”
I remembered his name on the letterhead. Zachary L. Mays. He was near the bottom of the list of attorneys. There was an asterisk beside his name and a reference indicating that he was also licensed to practice law in California.
“Tami Taylor, one of the summer clerks.”
“I heard the firm was bringing in a clerk or two. What did you think of the offices?”
“I didn’t go inside. I just wanted to know how to find it.”
“I can give you a tour. One of my jobs as an associate is to make sure summer clerks have a positive experience with the firm.”
“No, thanks. I’m sure you have a lot of work to do.”
“There’s always work to do. Come on.” He pointed to the other cars. “None of the named partners are here. And there isn’t anything on my desk that can’t wait a few minutes.”
I still wanted to drive off, but he reached out and opened the car door.
“No, Mr. Mays,” I said. “I’d rather not.”
He laughed. “Call me Zach. Save that title for the real bosses.”
The young man didn’t let go of the car door. I had no options. Self-conscious about my clothes and hoping my face wasn’t red, I got out of the car.
“Okay, but I won’t take much of your time. I don’t want to impose.”
“It’s not an imposition. I know how tough it is to come from law school into an environment like this. It hasn’t been that long since I was a summer clerk.”
We walked across the parking lot. Beautiful flowers, bushes, and ornamental trees surrounded the building.
“Did you clerk here?” I asked.
“No, Los Angeles. I went to law school at Pepperdine and worked for a firm in the city with a big admiralty practice.”
I’d heard of the law school but didn’t know anything about it.
“I’ve been in Savannah for two years,” he continued.
“How do you like it?”
“It’s different from Los Angeles.”
We passed the guardian lions. Zach swiped a card through a security device, and I heard the door click. He held it open for me.
We entered a high lobby open to the top of the building. The floors were covered in dark wood, and a curving staircase led to the second floor. Oriental rugs and ornate furniture were arranged throughout the area.
“This is amazing!” I exclaimed.
“And from what the partners tell me, it’s paid for. Follow me. Downstairs is where the elite hang out.”
Zach led me through the lower level that contained the partners’ offices and two conference rooms. After seeing the lobby, I wasn’t surprised at the opulence at every turn.
“Where is your office?” I asked.
“Upstairs. Do you want to take the elevator or the stairs?”
“I think the stairs are more elegant.”
“Tell me about yourself,” Zach said as we made our way back to the lobby.
“I’m a second-year student at Georgia and grew up in a rural area in the northern part of the state.”
Zach glanced at me. “When you’re asked that kind of question this summer you need to open up a lot more. People want to learn about you so they can decide whether you’ll be a fit for the firm after you graduate.”
“That makes sense.”
The staircase was designed for a woman wearing a regal gown. However, the upstairs was a different world. In both directions there were open areas divided into small cubicles. It was like a beehive.
“This is where a lot of work takes place,” Zach said. “Except for the partners’ executive assistants, all the clerical, word processing, and bookkeeping is performed here.” He pointed to an enclosed office. “That’s where the office manager works.”
“Ms. Patrick?”
“Right.”
We came to a row of small, separate offices, each with its own window. Several of the doors were closed.
“These are for the associates and top paralegals. The closed doors mean someone is pretending to work on a Saturday.”
“Why do you say pretending?”
Zach stopped, knocked on a closed door, and opened it before any- one inside could respond. A young woman dressed in casual clothes was sitting behind her desk with papers spread out in front of her and a dictation unit in her hand.
“This is Myra Dean, a paralegal in the litigation department,” Zach said. “She is working, not pretending.”
He introduced me.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said.
“No problem,” she replied in a voice with a Midwestern accent. “Zach should have known I wouldn’t be sitting here reading the sports page.”
“Except in the fall when Ohio State is playing football.”
The woman smiled. “On my own time.”
Zach closed the door and continued down the hall.
“Myra was a bad choice to catch goofing off. She’s in Joe Carpenter’s group. If she wasn’t a hard worker, she wouldn’t have lasted a week.”
He stopped at another closed door. “This is a sure bet.”
He knocked and opened. A balding man was sitting with his feet propped up on his desk and holding a book about golf.
“Zach, knock and wait for an answer before barging in here!” he snapped before he saw me. “Oh, who’s your lady friend?”
“Tami Taylor, one of our summer clerks. Just giving her a tour. This is Barry Conrad. He works in the transactions area.”
Conrad held up the book. “And on my slice. Are you a golfer, Ms. Taylor? It’s a great way to develop client relations.”
“No, I play basketball.”
Conrad looked at Zach. “Do we have any clients who play basketball?”
“I don’t know. Who’s paying for your golf study?”
“The firm. I’m billing it to professional development. Mr. Braddock wants me on the course at four o’clock this afternoon with the management team for Forester Shipping Lines. If I don’t do something about my driver and hold up my end of our foursome, it could cost us thousands.”
“Keep your shoulders square to the ball and don’t rotate your hips too soon,” Zach said, adopting a pretend golf stance.
“Get out of here.”
We left the office, and Zach shut the door.
“Is Mr. Conrad a partner?”
“No, he’s a permanent associate. He swallowed his pride when he wasn’t asked to join the firm. It’s not a bad life. The pay is good by Savannah standards, and there’s no management responsibility.”
“How long has he been here?”
“Maybe fifteen years.” Zach added, “That’s fifteen years averaging fifty to sixty hours a week working plus time spent in his office reading a golf manual or following his fantasy football team.”
We stopped before an open door.
“This is my space,” he said. “Come in and have a seat.”
I hesitated. “I really need to be on my way.”
Zach held up his right index finger and shook it. “What is lesson number one?”
“Open up and tell about myself when asked a question by one of the lawyers.”
“Good. Rule number two. Don’t miss an opportunity to talk to one of the lawyers when given the chance to do so. We’re all busy and won’t ask you to spend a few minutes with us unless we intend to use it efficiently.”
“Yes sir.”
“Don’t call me sir or mister. My name is Zach.”
“Okay.”
“Come in.”
He led the way into a small office. Directly in front of me was a window that overlooked the parking lot. I could see my car with Zach’s motorcycle beside it. Two miniature motorcycles rested on the front of the lawyer’s desk. In neat rows on the wall were framed diplomas and other certificates.
On the corner of his desk facing me was a picture of a very attractive young woman with a white flower in her blonde hair. Next to that picture was a photograph of an older couple I guessed to be his parents. The man in the picture had long hair that was gray around the edges, and the woman was wearing a dress that would have looked in style in the late 1970s. Zach picked up a legal pad and took a pen from the top drawer of his desk.
“Tell me about your spiritual journey,” he said.
“My spiritual journey?” I asked in surprise.
“Yes, it’s an allowable question under the antidiscrimination guidelines.”
“Why do you think I have a spiritual journey?”
Zach held up three fingers. “Rule three about being a successful summer clerk. Never answer a question in a way that makes you seem evasive. It’s easy to spot a phony. Better to be forthright and honest than beat around the bush and give what you think is a politically correct answer that will help you land a job upon graduation.”
“I’d never do that.”
“Good. Start by giving me a straight answer.”
I sat up in my chair. A head-on challenge required fearlessness in the face of attack. Zach Mays probably didn’t have the power to revoke the summer job offer, but even if he did, I wouldn’t compromise.
“I’ve been a Christian since I prayed with my mother at the altar of our church when I was a little girl.”
“Did your spiritual journey stop there?”
“No, it’s a lifetime relationship with Jesus Christ that affects every aspect of life. I’m always trying to learn and grow.”
“Do you believe there are other ways for sincere people to find God?”
“No, there is only one way.”
“It’s your way or the highway?”
I didn’t like to be mocked, but it was part of the persecution of the righteous. At least I knew where I stood when an assault came.
“My beliefs aren’t based on my opinions. The Bible says that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. No one can come to the Father except through him.”
“Doesn’t that sound narrow-minded?”
“It is narrow-minded. But truth doesn’t depend on popular consensus or opinion polls. The Bible also says the road that leads to eternal life is narrow, and only a few find it. Pretending that someone who tries to live a good life or believes in the god of another religion will make it into heaven is a cruel deception.”
“And you’re convinced about your religious perspective?”
“Enough to tell you what I believe without beating around the bush.” I looked directly into his eyes and took a deep breath. “If you had a wreck on your motorcycle later today and died on the side of the road, would you go to heaven?”
The corner of the lawyer’s lips curled up. Whether in a smile or a sneer, I couldn’t tell. He pointed to the picture of the beautiful woman on his desk.
“Who do you think that is?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s my older sister. She’s a nurse at a clinic in Zambia.”
I wasn’t going to be easily deterred. “My question deserves an answer.”
Zach ignored me. “She’s a missionary in Africa.”
“A Christian missionary?”
“Yes.”
“Has she talked to you the same way I am?”
The lawyer shook his head. “No, actually, I’m the one who led her to faith in Jesus Christ. It happened at a summer camp for home- schoolers we attended in Oregon. One year she realized the faith of our parents had to become real for her.”
I sat back in the chair. “You were homeschooled?”
“Since kindergarten. The first time I entered a public school classroom was to take a course at a local community college when I was sixteen. My high school graduation was sponsored by a homeschool association in Southern California.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I pointed to the picture of the older couple. “Your parents?”
“Yes. They were part of the Jesus movement and lived in a Christian commune for a number of years.”
“A Christian commune?”
“Yep. Remember how the early believers in the book of Acts didn’t claim any private property but held everything in common for the good of all?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what my parents and some of their friends did. Does your church believe that part of the Bible?”
“We believe every word of the Bible.”
“Do you follow the part about sharing everything with other Christians?”
“Not exactly the same way, but we give to people in need. Members of the church have helped me financially even though they didn’t have to.”
“That’s good, but it’s not having all things in common. My parents held on to the ideal for years but gave up on group Christianity when I was about ten years old. After that, we lived in the same area as people in our fellowship, but every family had its own checkbook. It takes a zealous group of believers to be biblical in every aspect of their lifestyle.”
I’d always considered myself and those like me the epitome of zeal, not in a prideful way, but in humble recognition of our responsibility to walk in the light given us. Suddenly, new biblical revelation I’d not considered loomed before me like a fog bank.
“What are you thinking?” the lawyer asked, interrupting my thoughts.
“Do I have to reveal my secret thoughts as part of the interview process?”
“No.”
“And you haven’t been taking notes.”
The lawyer laughed. It was a pleasant sound.
“I won’t be preparing a memo to Mr. Carpenter about the details of this conversation. It would require too much background information that he wouldn’t understand.”
“So why did you ask your spiritual journey question?”
Zach smiled. “I could tell that your beliefs dictated the way you dress. But your preferences could have been caused by a lot of things.”
“It’s not a preference; it’s a conviction,” I responded firmly. “We believe in modesty for women and that there should be a difference between the sexes in clothing. Women should wear skirts or dresses.”
“You’ve never worn blue jeans?”
“Not one day in my life.”
The lawyer started to speak, then closed his mouth. “I’ll have time this summer to learn more about you,” he said.
His comment made me feel like an insect under a microscope. I looked for an air of judgment or condemnation on his face but didn’t detect it. As we walked out of the building, I told him we shared the common bond of a homeschool education.
“Until I attended the local high school,” I said.
“And played basketball?”
“Yes. I’m on an intramural team now.”
Outside, it was a pleasant day with a breeze blowing. The humidity of the previous afternoon had been swept away. Zach opened the car door for me. I hesitated.
“What brought you to Savannah?” I asked. “It’s a long way from Southern California.”
“We’ll save that for later.”
“But that violates rule number one.”
Zach smiled. “Rules don’t apply to me.”