22

Sabrina splashed some tepid water on her face and groaned. Of all the times, why did this recurring cold have to show up the morning of the most important interview of her life? She dried her cheeks with a towel and looked in the mirror to see just how terrible the dark circles under her eyes might be. “You are kidding me.”

She dropped the towel on the sink and leaned closer to the mirror. And why, of all mornings, would there be a large zit on the left side of her nose? She shook her head and pulled out her face scrub, determined to minimize the damage in any way she could. She popped a couple of Tylenol and got busy getting ready.

By the time she opened the tall glass doors of the Kershaw Building, the Tylenol had kicked in, clearing her head slightly, and the side of her nose was a little less like Rudolph the Reindeer and a little more like pink bubblegum. Neither situation was perfect, but she intended to make the best of it.

She rode the elevator with a dozen other people, none of them looking at one another. By the time she reached the twenty-fifth floor, there were only three people left: two middle-aged men in business suits and an older woman with a cane. Sabrina doubted these were her competition.

The doors opened with a ding, and she walked through to find herself standing before a large reception desk, all done in glass and blue granite. Original pieces of art hung on every wall, a couple of life-size sculptures flanked the doors on each side of the lobby, and an exquisite chandelier of blue and green glass curling out in every direction hung directly above her. Remembering similar works from an introductory art class, she had no doubt it was a Dale Chihuly. Everything about this place screamed modern, meticulous, and successful.

She thought about the brochure she’d brought in her bag and suddenly it seemed old-fashioned and amateurish. Why hadn’t she spent just a little longer on it? By the time she’d taken the dozen steps to the receptionist’s desk, she could feel little trembles that started in her fingers and moved all the way down to her toes. “Hello. I’m Sabrina Rice, I have an appointment with Ms. Davenport.”

The woman at the desk, her glossy black hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, didn’t bother to consult a computer screen or even a handwritten list. She simply nodded and smiled. “Yes, welcome, Ms. Rice. We’re expecting you. Come with me, please.” She stood and walked around the counter, her footsteps silent in spite of the fact that when she emerged into full view, Sabrina could see her four-inch heels.

The trembles increased, and a dull, churning nausea began to burn at the pit of her stomach. While Sabrina had researched all about the work and scope of Grace Rose, somehow she had never fully understood the utter magnificence of this place. What had possessed her to believe that she could fit in here?

“This is your stop.” The receptionist opened the door to a small conference room. A rectangular mahogany table surrounded by leather chairs filled the space. At each seat there was a water pitcher and a heavy glass with the GR symbol engraved on it. “Take a seat at the end. They’ll be with you in just a moment.” And with that, she closed the door, leaving Sabrina alone with all her inadequacies.

Two hours of information blast had taken its toll until Sabrina wasn’t certain she could even string one more sentence together. Her head was swimming in a sea of questions, discussions, tours, and company facts. Various people of varying positions in the company had come in and out all morning. Some to ask questions, some to simply convey information. Their names and faces were starting to blur, but Sabrina struggled to keep them all straight—at a place like this it would be expected that you could remember names.

Candace Davenport reentered the conference room, prompting Sam . . . Sal . . . no, Sage from accounting, to stand up. He reached out to shake Sabrina’s hand. “Nice to have met you.”

She concentrated on keeping a firm handshake. “Nice to have met you, as well.” She tried to smile, but her whole body ached and she wasn’t certain the muscles in her cheeks were fully cooperating.

Candace, as she’d insisted that Sabrina call her, took the seat beside her. “Have we managed to overwhelm you yet?”

Again, Sabrina attempted a smile. “Almost.”

“Well, we’ve just about finished up here. There is one other question I wanted to ask before you go. There’s something in your resumé that I feel certain will come up during our intern-hiring discussions, and I want to get the facts directly from you.”

“Okay.” The nauseous feeling kicked up again.

“Your freshman year of college you went to the University of Tennessee, and as I understand it, you were on a full-ride, four-year scholarship.”

Oh no. Not this, anything but this. “Yes, that’s true.”

“Might I ask what provoked you to switch to Southern Tennessee State your sophomore year?”

“Well . . . I . . .” Sabrina knew she was stammering, an absolute point killer, but she hadn’t counted on this question and had not prepared herself to answer it. She studied her hands, locked together on the table in front of her, then forced herself to look back up at Candace. “I had some . . . physical problems that prevented me from being able to fulfill my obligations to the track team.”

“I see. But you don’t see those—physical problems, did you call them—as something that would prevent you from fulfilling your obligations here? Is there anything about you that we need to be aware of?”

Sabrina shook her head. “I have rheumatoid arthritis. That keeps me from running, but it doesn’t keep me from being a hard worker.”

Candace looked long and hard at Sabrina, her hazel eyes squinted. “All right, then.” There was nothing in her tone that revealed whether this last statement was said in acceptance or outright dismissal. She reached out her hand. “Nice to have met you. We’ll be making our selections in the next couple of weeks. You’ll hear from us soon after.”

“Thank you.”

Sabrina walked back down the hallway, out through the reception area, and down the elevators, having no idea what kind of impression she might have just made. She could only hope it was better than she felt.