Million Dollar Dilemma. Judy Baer

of breath and knew what was coming next.

      “Promise me this, Adam. Before you throw in the towel, give it some time. Find a story to write that isn’t going to eat your heart out and see how that feels before you make any rash decisions.”

      “That’s not going to help.” Something had broken in him that needed to heal—his heart. No story he could think of was going to distract him enough for that to happen.

      “Just promise.”

      “Only if something falls into my lap. I’m not going out to look for a fluff piece just to prove to you that I’m telling you the truth.”

      “Think this through, Adam….”

      “Gotta go. I’ll call you when that story comes knocking on my door.”

      Adam stared at the phone a long time after he’d hung up. He couldn’t believe he’d just chopped away at the cable that had kept him connected to life for the past fifteen years, had brought him a Pulitzer and a myriad of other journalistic awards. But the import and meaning he’d always attributed to life, the idea of God, peace and goodwill on earth, humanity and brotherhood had all evaporated during his time in Burundi. Something was deeply wrong with a world in which a child could be born, live and die and leave no more impression than a raindrop in an ocean.

      CHAPTER 6

      Why people think city living is so great is beyond me.

      Everyone says things are so convenient here. Maybe, but I think it’s a little weird that I could order a pizza, a taxi and an ambulance at the same time and count on the pizza to come first. Of course, in Simms the rumor that you’re sick can arrive before the illness does, so maybe it’s, as Grandpa always said, “a horse apiece.”

      I rode the brakes as I nosed my way into the right lane on I-494 and made ready to pull onto the exit ramp that led to the “shortcut” I’ve devised to get to work. Shortcut…hah! There’s no such thing. Not here, at least.

      In Simms we talk in miles. If something is sixty miles away, it’s probably sixty minutes away, too, give or take a few, depending on the weight of my foot on the accelerator. Here, miles have no meaning, as far as I can tell. It takes me thirty-five minutes to get to work if I time it right and three times that in rush-hour traffic. I don’t know if I’ve driven five miles or fifty. I only know that it seems like a hundred.

      I haven’t got it fine-tuned yet, but I’m getting there. I haven’t been late for work in a week and I’ve completely gotten over the urge to shriek every time I hit the gas and edge off an on-ramp into speeding traffic. I’ll just say this—more than once I’ve been thankful that I’m right with God when I’m pulling onto the freeway.

      My car was a hand-me-down from my father, who got it as a hand-me-down from a parishioner. Actually, it probably belonged to a few people before that, as well. As pedigreed cars go, mine’s an elderly mutt, over eighty-four in dog years.

      As I pulled into Parker Bennett’s parking lot I heard a yell from behind me. “Hey, lady, your muffler just fell off!”

      I slowed and looked through my rearview mirror. I assumed it was a joke, but with my car anything is possible. Then I saw who was standing in the middle of the parking lot grinning with that gap-toothed grin of his. I’d met Randy Mills at work first, but I also ran into him at the church I attended a couple Sundays ago. How great is that? God gave me a Christian friend right off the bat. He’s a lean and lanky scarecrow kind of guy, with sandy hair and sandy freckles. I leaned out the window and waved before pulling into a parking space. By the time I’d gathered my purse and my lunch, Randy was standing arms akimbo, theatrically studying my tires.

      “Sorry, I was mistaken. It wasn’t your muffler at all. It was your whole transmission that dropped. Do you have tape and bubblegum in your tool kit, or do you want me to fix it for you? I’ve got a bale of twine in my trunk.”

      “Very funny, Randy. I don’t make fun of your car.” I tried my best to look indignant.

      “Don’t bother locking it, Cassia,” Randy advised. “If you’re lucky, somebody will come by and steal it.”

      “Not if I can help it. I put it in the garage every night.”

      “No kidding?” Randy sounded and looked amazed. “You actually protect that thing?”

      “At least I’m not like some of my neighbors who leave their expensive cars out at night because there’s too much useless junk in their garages.”

      “Right,” Randy said with a grin. “You drive your useless junk.”

      We fell into step together as we walked toward the front doors of Parker Bennett’s main office. I had to skip every few steps to keep up with the long-legged accountant.

      “It’s a good car,” I said defensively. “Never a problem. I have it serviced regularly.”

      “I’m sure you do. Just don’t wash it. It’s only the rust that’s holding it together.”

      “You’re just jealous because your car doesn’t have two hundred and thirty thousand miles on it.”

      “No kidding? Two thirty?” Randy whistled. “I didn’t know they could get that high.” Then his genial face sobered. “Seriously, Cassia, it’s time to get something newer. It doesn’t have to be expensive, but you shouldn’t be driving city streets in that thing. You’re going to end up stranded someplace.” He eyed me up and down. “A lamb among the wolves.”

      “I can change a tire, check the oil, test the air in the tires and even make sure the alternator belt is tight.”

      “Maybe so, but rebuilding the whole chassis is probably beyond you, and that’s what you’ll need to do soon.”

      I skipped again to match my steps to Randy’s long stride. “If it’s any comfort, my sister agrees with you. She’s suggested that I take her car this winter and she’ll buy a new one.”

      “Why don’t you get the new one?” Randy held the door for me.

      “I don’t need one.”

      “Sometimes life is about more than ‘needing.’ What if you want one?”

      “But I don’t.”

      “I can’t believe that.”

      “For the last eighteen months, Randy, the closest thing I’ve come to a traffic jam is having to wait for a semi to come by in the other lane so that I can pass a tractor. Besides, I can use a pair of jumper cables just as well as the next girl.”

      “I’m sure you can.” As he sighed and rolled his eyes, mine followed his gaze upward to the three-story waterfall and banks of glass elevators that glided whisper soft up and down. “No matter how long I work here, I don’t think I’ll get over all this wasted space. All of Simms could fit in here, with a floor left over.”

      “It’s pretty impressive, though, don’t you think?” he asked.

      “But is it good for anything? That’s the question.”

      Randy stopped to stare at me. I caught a glimpse of my hair in the polished chrome base of the elevator as we waited for the cab to return for us. It was particularly unruly today, framing my face in a boisterous cloud. Sometimes I think my hair has more personality than I do. It certainly has a mind of its own.

      Sometimes Ken accuses me of looking like a fall maple in full color. That’s one of his nicer compliments. Usually he compares me to something from his work orbit. “Cassia, you’re pretty as a new power saw,” “clever as a Swiss army knife” or “feisty as new sandpaper.” When I’ve really pleased him, he always says, “I’ve never had or sold a model home quite as fine as you.” When he and I don’t agree, it’s always, “Darlin,’ quit talking like your attic’s not finished yet.”