Single in Suburbia (9 page)

Rob’s desertion, his betrayal, the divorce, their financial ruin, all of it had been thrust, unbidden, on her children. Her daughter deserved this moment of joy. And she deserved to go to her prom in a dress that made her feel fabulous, not in a dress chosen solely for its price tag.

Standing next to Meghan, Amanda looked at the two of them in the mirror. Her daughter was already as tall as she was. Her build, the slash of her cheekbones, the slight upward slant of the brown eyes, were identical to her own.

Reaching out, she grasped the tag poking out from beneath Meghan’s arm and flipped it so she could read the numbers.

Stifling a gasp, she looked down again, hoping she’d misread it. Surely someone had added an extra place value by mistake. Or they’d accidentally hung a couture gown in the junior’s eveningwear department.

“It’s too much, isn’t it?” Meghan’s shoulders drooped and the light in her eyes dimmed.

Her gaze locked with Amanda’s and Amanda, who’d been expecting anger and frustration saw regret and a sad understanding instead.

“It’s OK, Mom. We’ll just take one of the other ones.” She turned to the gowns hanging on the hooks. “The black one was nice. And I kind of like the blue satin.”

Amanda noticed that Meghan didn’t look in the mirror again. But Amanda couldn’t take her eyes off her daughter in the perfect silver dress.

Meghan’s resignation tore through her. In that instant Amanda knew it didn’t matter how much the dress cost. The silver sheath was perfect, and Amanda was going to buy it for her even if she had to go out and rob a bank to pay for it.

“No,” Amanda said, reaching out a finger to lift Meghan’s chin. She turned her slowly so that she could see herself once again in the mirror. “You don’t walk away from something that perfect no matter what it costs.”

“But…”

“No buts. It’s yours. Fortunately it doesn’t need accessorizing and we can dye a pair of heels to match, so there’ll be no other expenses.”

She kept her voice calm and matter-of-fact despite the pounding of her heart and the mocking voice in her head that said, “Don’t do it, Meghan will understand. Don’t add more debt when you have no way to pay for it.”

Amanda ignored all the reasonable things the voice said. Instead, she focused on her daughter’s joy, listening with a brief stab of happiness as Meghan called her friends from the car to describe in agonizing detail the incredible dress her mother had just bought for her.

At home, Meghan raced into her room to try the dress on one more time.

Amanda raced to her bedroom clutching the classifieds, hoping she’d find something she missed earlier, trying to still her growing horror at the amount of money she’d just spent. First thing tomorrow, she was going to have to start looking for a job.

chapter
8

B
y eleven Monday morning, Amanda had put in applications at two art galleries, one ladies’ clothing boutique, and a trendy little coffee shop/bookstore in the quaint historic shopping area near her home.

No one was dying to hire her, but no one told her to get lost, either, which given the current state of her ego was a definite plus. Leaving the historic district, she spent the next several hours cruising through the strip malls and shopping centers in the northeastern Atlanta suburb where she lived, stopping anywhere that looked remotely possible to fill out an application and inquire about work. As she had when she’d condomed Rob’s tree, she found comfort in the act of taking action. She could no longer afford to sit and wait for things to improve; if there was a job to be had within a ten-mile radius of Chandler’s Pond, she intended to have it.

It was close to three
PM
when she pulled the van to a stop in the Steinmart parking lot. For several long minutes, Amanda sat and stared at the familiar storefront. Of all the places she’d stopped this morning, this was the one in which she’d be most likely to run into friends and acquaintances.

“It’s no big deal,” she said out loud. “Don’t be such a wuss. You’re just going to ask about employment opportunities and fill out an application, just like you’ve done everywhere else.”

Getting out of the car, she walked across the parking lot and stepped up onto the curb. “You know their inventory as well as they do,” she reminded herself as she pulled open the door.

Inside, a line of customers with returns waited for help at the service desk. Unable to force herself to ask for a job in front of an audience, Amanda strolled through the women’s section, pausing occasionally to look through a rack or finger a fabric.

Although Amanda knew women who continued careers or worked to bring in a second income, most of the women in her circle were full-time mothers who dabbled at enterprise.

They took spaces in cute little antique malls or sold things on eBay. Some gave jewelry and Tupperware parties, or sold gifts or imported things from their homes. A few taught exercise classes, but it was tacitly understood that they did this from choice not necessity. They were simply trying to pursue an interest or pick up some extra money. They weren’t punching a time clock at a minimum wage job.

The few times she’d run into an acquaintance working on the floor of a neighborhood store, they’d both flushed with embarrassment that they’d been very careful not to acknowledge.

She could hardly believe that she was hoping to become one of those women.

After completing a pass through clothing and another through accessories, Amanda staked out a spot behind a rack of new summer blazers. Eyeing the desk, she waited for her opportunity, but every time the line cleared, someone else stepped up for help.

Amanda pulled a multicolored linen number from the rack and held it up in front of her. Peeking around the left sleeve, she cased the service area carefully.

“Would you like to try that on?” A saleswoman materialized beside her and reached for the blazer. “I’ll be glad to put it in a dressing room for you.”

“No, thank you,” Amanda said, taking her gaze off the front counter in order to deal with the saleswoman.

Though white haired and willowy, the clerk proved surprisingly persistent. “It’s no trouble,” she said, grasping for the garment. “I’ll hang it on the dressing room door so you’ll know which one is yours.”

Amanda couldn’t bring herself to let go. Clutching the shoulders of the jacket in both hands, she ducked down behind it, keeping the blazer between her and the customer service area, wishing the stupid line would clear so that she could step up and get an application. In private. Without witnesses.

Surely that wasn’t too much to ask.

A quiet, but determined, struggle followed.

“I need this blazer
here,
” Amanda said finally, wrenching it out of the woman’s grasp, “so that I can match things to it.”

“N-no problem,” the saleswoman stammered as she retreated, keeping her gaze trained on Amanda.

Amanda stayed where she was until the line finally broke up. Then she hung the jacket on the rack and moved toward the service desk as nonchalantly as a woman who had been cowering behind clothing could.

At the counter, Amanda said, “I’d like to apply for a job.”

The young woman, who’d cheerfully refunded a small fortune to Amanda over the years, raised her head from her paperwork with a questioning smile. “I’m sorry,” she said much too loudly. “What did you say?”

Amanda looked furtively around her. “I, um, wondered if you had any openings.”

Understanding flashed across the woman’s face at the same time Amanda sensed someone approaching from behind. Glancing quickly behind her, Amanda recognized Susie Simmons drawing near. She, too, was divorced but local gossip had her settlement so large she’d never had to work. They’d known each other forever and saw each other regularly at the ballpark but had never been friends.

“Did you say you want to apply for a job?” The customer service woman’s voice rang loudly enough to reverberate off the walls.

Amanda’s whole body tensed. “Yes,” she whispered, not wanting to be overheard.

The young woman reached beneath the counter, pulled out a printed form, and pushed it toward Amanda. Someone stepped into line directly behind her; she fervently hoped it wasn’t Susie.

“If you’d like to fill this out, I’ll make sure it’s put on file,” the clerk seemed to shout.

Amanda grabbed the form and stepped backward, eager to get out of there. There was a crunch as her heel landed on something decidedly un-floorlike.

“Ouch!” Susie Simmons yelped in her ear.

“Oh, my gosh! I’m so sorry!” Amanda turned around while trying to whip the application behind her back. The form shot out of Amanda’s hand and fluttered toward the floor. She and Susie knelt down to retrieve it. Their foreheads knocked together.

“I’ve got it.” Susie reached the paper first then glanced down to see what she held. The flash of pity in her eyes was quick but unmistakable and hit Amanda like a punch to the solar plexus.

They helped each other up and Amanda, fighting the urge to flee, stayed to chat while Susie filled out her return slip, as if she had no problem with going to work for minimum wage in a place where she would in all likelihood wait on legions of her former friends. But her stomach—that unflinching barometer of her true feelings—churned with embarrassment.

“You take care now,” Susie said as they parted with little air kisses.

“You too.” Amanda smiled. “I’ll see you at the ballpark. We really have to do lunch one day soon.”

The meaningless words tripped off her tongue, but she knew there’d be no lunch. There would, however, be gossip. Unless she missed her guess, word of her dire straits would be all over the neighborhood before Amanda backed the van out of its parking spot.

The suburban drums were already pounding.

Amanda spent the next two days waiting. She waited for Anne Justiss’s office to call and tell her where things stood. She waited for one of the stores at which she’d applied to call and offer her a job. She waited for Meghan to stop treating her as if she’d intentionally destroyed her life.

Most of all, she waited for something that might be construed as a positive indication of anything. But all she got was a house so clean it practically shouted “Get a life!”

In fact, if there were a prize for floors most possible to eat off or windows that most looked like they weren’t there, she would win hands down. It was just too bad there was no cleaning equivalent of the Pillsbury Bake-Off. Or a national circuit for cleanaholics like the professional eaters went on. Or a reality show pitting compulsive cleaners against each other with a catchy kind of name like
This Old Rag.

When she couldn’t wait another moment, she picked up the phone and began placing calls, once again feeling that any action was better than none.

She called Anne Justiss’s office and was told that they hoped to have a tentative agreement by the beginning of next week. Then she called all the stores where she’d applied. The only nibble of interest came from Steinmart.

“I see that you’ve been in retail for the last fourteen years,” the human resources person said.

“Oh, yes,” Amanda said as a tiny seed of hope blossomed in her chest. “I’ve been in retail stores on an ongoing basis most of my adult life.”

She pictured herself on the sales floor selling so effectively that they’d be clamoring to move her into management. She had the very powerful motivators of fear and desperation on her side; all she had to do was make the most of them.

“Which retailer were you with?” the woman asked.

“Oh, I didn’t stick with just one,” Amanda said. “I’m a firm believer in accumulating a diversity of experience.” She’d always been an equal opportunity shopper.

“That’s great. We have very few applicants who’ve worked for more than one retail chain.” The interviewer’s tone was genuinely enthusiastic. “Who were you with and what positions did you hold?”

Amanda’s foot slipped out of the rung of her fantasy leap up the retail ladder as the woman’s words sank in.

“Um, I was a…shopper,” she said carefully, trying to figure out how to regain her footing.

“You were a personal shopper? We’ve actually been considering offering that service to our customers—especially during the holidays when things get so hectic.”

Amanda was dangling from that ladder now, unable to find a toehold. She’d shopped for herself and her family plus an assortment of other friends and relatives, but this woman wasn’t looking for an itemized list of people Amanda had once bought something for.

She’d allowed her desperation to turn this woman’s words into what she wanted to hear. For about fifteen seconds, Amanda considered lying. She could be a personal shopper with her eyes closed. All she needed was an opportunity.

She laughed and said as lightly as she could, “It seems we’ve misunderstood each other. The personal shopping I’ve done is just that: personal. But I do have a huge amount of experience at it. I’m practically a world-class shopper. And I know and love your stores. I thought that might make me an attractive candidate. I mean you’d hardly have to train me.”