As soon as I get to Shady Grove, I see a motel on Main Street called Gran’s Porch Motel. The rooms look like little white cottages, and there’s a courtyard at the center that has what looks like a porch. Something about it draws me, so I check in there. I like the idea of saying I have to go to Gran’s Porch rather than “the motel.”
I picture a family opening this place for travelers on their way down to Florida, hoping to offer homelike comfort. But the man behind the desk doesn’t seem to care much. He’s smoking a cigar that makes me cough, but he takes my cash for a week’s stay and gives me the key card.
The place is clean, and the room has everything I need. A bed, a chair, a kitchenette. I’ll be okay here until I find an apartment.
Leaving my car in the parking lot, I walk up the strip of adjacent stores and offices, looking for a Help Wanted sign. I’ll take anything. Just something to earn a living so that I can pay back my nest egg and get by day-to-day. I stop at two restaurants, tell them I’ve just moved here, ask them if they have any openings. Neither one does, but I leave an application just in case, under the name of Grace Newland.
I like Shady Grove. Its name makes sense, given all the trees that shade the roads. Whoever planned this town had a special respect for trees. It makes me feel warm, at home, and—except for the motel manager—the town and people have a Mayberry feel that makes me think I could actually make it here if I have to stay forever.
I finally see a Help Wanted sign in the window of a store called Simmons Cell Repair. I don’t know anything about servicing cell phones, but I decide to try it anyway. I push through the glass door, wait for a man who’s talking to a customer. I browse the glass cases until he’s ready for me, and finally, he turns. “Help you, ma’am?”
I smile at him. “Hi, I’m Case—” I stop midword and correct myself. “Grace Newland. I just moved to the area and saw the Help Wanted sign on the door.”
He tells me his name—Stan Simmons—and looks me over. “Do you have any experience working with cell phones?”
“No, but I’m a quick learner. Anything you teach me I can pick up right away. If there are manuals, I can read them all tonight. Most of my experience is office work.”
“So what brings you to Shady Grove?” he asks.
“I just like this town. I thought it would be a nice place to live.”
He gives me a questioning look, and I’m sure he’s going to dig for more, but he doesn’t. “Yeah, it is a good town. When I was in high school I had every intention of moving to a big city. Spent two years in Chicago but couldn’t wait to get back. You seem like a smart lady.” He inclines his head and studies me. “Can I count on you staying awhile? You’re not going to get homesick and take off back home next week, are you?”
“No,” I say. “I’m staying.”
He looks hard into my eyes, as if assessing me for truth, and sweat prickles my underarms. “I’m not expecting somebody to fix the phones,” he says. “My techs and I do that. But we also sell refurbished phones, and you would have to help do that. You’d mostly be a sales clerk, taking down what’s wrong with the phones people bring in for service, calling people when they’re ready, that kind of thing. You need to be good with people.”
I give him my best smile again. “I think I can be. My mama taught me good manners.”
He smiles. “We have five other employees, but one just had a baby, two of them are techs who do the repairs, and two of them are in college. We need somebody full time.”
“I can work full time,” I say, “and I can start right away.”
“One other thing,” he says. “This is a subcontracting job. In other words, I can’t afford to offer you health insurance or match your social security. So all my employees are subcontracted.”
I think about that for a moment, wondering if this is a trap. To the IRS, I’ll be self-employed. I’ll have to pay my taxes and social security myself. He won’t withhold anything from my checks.
It actually might be a blessing in disguise. A way to stay off the grid, at least until taxes are due next April. “I guess that’s okay,” I say. “When can I start?”
“Monday?” he asks.
It’s Friday now, so that will give me the weekend to get settled in. “Sure, no problem.”
He reaches out a hand and we shake. “Let me get you to fill out some paperwork so I can get all your info. You’re hired as far as I’m concerned.”
I wonder if he is the only one concerned, but I quickly fill out the application with everything I know about Grace Newland. Then I turn it in, feeling a little sad that I’ve had to deceive him. I’m getting tired of the lies, but what can I do?
I notice the cross on the wall and a framed Scripture verse. “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” Though I’m not a believer, I’ve had good experiences with people who are. They’re usually nice people trying to do the right thing. I’m always baffled by the way the media portrays them. If I’d never met one, I’d think they were all mean, intolerant prudes who wanted the world to line up like robots. I’m sure there are some who are shrill and bitter, but for the true believers—the ones comfortable talking about their faith, like Miss Lucy—I’ve only been left with good feelings. I like people who stand up for their convictions, even if I don’t share them.
I think I’ll be fine working for Mr. Simmons. I turn the application back in, and he looks it over, then says, “See you Monday! We open at ten, but I need you to be here at nine.”
I have a little jaunt to my step as I head back to the motel. I’m making progress. Once I feel like the earth has stopped trembling beneath my feet, then I can worry about proving my innocence and exposing the ones who murdered Brent and my father. But for now, I just have to stay hidden from day-to-day and forge what little life I can.