Carla Chadwell stood in front of her mirror. As she applied her mascara, she thought about the new girl at work. Blonde, blue-eyed, pretty. Carla was surprised she wasn’t jealous. “Nancy! That’s her name.” Carla smiled, pleased that she’d remembered. “Nancy Herring.”
A few minutes later, ready to face the day, she locked the door of her apartment. It was 7:55 when she stepped into the elevator of the Mannheim Building. She didn’t think about the new girl until they almost collided in the corridor. They both laughed a little nervously, and Carla found herself asking her if she wanted to join her for lunch.
“Sure,” Nancy said, a smile engulfing her whole face. “But I don’t think I can go until about one. Would that work?”
“You like Chinese?” Carla asked.
“I’m starved, so anything’s OK. I didn’t eat breakfast this morning.”
When they arrived at the restaurant later it was crowded, but they found a table soon enough.
“The hot and sour soup’s really good here.” Carla reached across the table and pointed to it on Nancy’s menu. “At least I think so.”
Nancy smiled appreciatively. “I’ll try it.”
The girls enjoyed small talk over the soup until Carla looked up in surprise when Nancy asked a very direct question.
“Is your boss married?”
“What?”
“How long have you worked here—for him, I mean?”
“You mean Mr. Garman?”
“I couldn’t remember his name. Yeah.”
“Well, aren’t you little Miss Inquisitive!” Carla didn’t try to hide her surprise at Nancy’s questions.
“I just wondered. He’s really cute.”
“He’s just as good as married.”
“He is?” Nancy leaned forward. “Have you met her?”
“No, not officially, but I saw her one time. She’s classy—just what you’d expect, I guess.”
“How old is Mr. Garman?”
“I’d guess twenty-seven, twenty-eight—maybe thirty: he is graying just a little. What do you think?”
“Maybe thirty. What’s his first name?”
“Marc with a ‘c’.”
“I’d sure love to be in your shoes—well, until you said he was practically married. He’s living with someone?”
“Yeah.”
“But otherwise you’d be interested in him, wouldn’t you?”
“No, not really. He’s handsome, but a little intimidating.” Carla shrugged, dropping the subject.
The two girls chatted easily over a variety of topics, and the time flew by.
Nancy glanced at her watch. “Oops! It’s a quarter till,” she exclaimed. Both girls jumped up. Nancy put her hand on Carla’s arm in an act of confidentiality as they walked out the door. “I’m really not guy-crazy. It’s just that you work for a hunk.” She looked at Carla mischievously. “Now don’t you agree?”
Carla took a deep breath. “Yeah.” She smiled, sheepishly. “You’re right; I do. He is a hunk. But …taken!”
“You want to do lunch tomorrow? I promise I won’t even mention your boss.”
Carla laughed. “Sure.”
Nancy flashed a smile that seemed to come from deep inside. “See you tomorrow!”
The afternoon went fast for Carla, and it wasn’t until she turned the key in the lock and stepped into her apartment that she thought again of Nancy and their lunch conversation. “Funny I’ve never thought of Mr. Garman as anything but a boss. He’s so strictly business.” She found herself wondering what his personal life was like. Strangely, she felt a tinge of sympathy—why she didn’t know. “I can’t imagine him singing—or even humming.” Carla was remembering her father and how happy his singing always sounded to her as a little girl.
……….
As she changed her clothes and put some dinner together, Carla thought about her parents. Her mother had just turned fifty. She was an attractive woman with short dark hair gracefully graying around her face and eyes that always seemed to sparkle when she talked. Carla was very fond of her mother, even though they didn’t connect on every level.
Stirring macaroni and cheese, she let herself remember that fateful day in early November when she was only eight years old. It was a blustery day, and she and her brother Mike, then ten, had just come home from school. Susie, their two-year-old sister, was clamoring for attention from Mike and her, as usual. When the doorbell rang, Carla had outrun Mike to open the door, expecting her dad. It was a policeman instead, asking to see her mother.
“Mom!” Carla remembered calling. Her mother had come quickly down the hall, tidying her hair. At the man’s signal, she stepped outside onto the covered porch and closed the door behind her. Carla had gone back into the kitchen and Mike started pouring the hot chocolate her mother had fixed.
When her mother came back inside, she was crying. She called the children into the living room and had them sit close beside her and on her lap. The only thing Carla remembered her mother telling them was that there had been a terrible accident at work, and their daddy would not be coming home anymore. She remembered how her mother had wrapped all three sobbing children together in her arms and held them a long, long time. They had never seen their mother cry before, and even Susie—so small—made no attempt to move away, sensing her mother’s need for them right then. Afterwards, her mother had prayed. Carla didn’t remember the words. What she did remember was that right before, her mother had held out her left hand, palm up, and had asked the children to fold their hands and put them on it—Mike first, then Carla, and finally Susie. Then her mother had put her own right hand on top and prayed.
During that sad period in their family history, the hardest time for Carla had been early mornings when she missed hearing her dad sing or hum while he was getting ready for work. Several mornings her mother had found Carla still in bed, crying because she was missing her daddy and his “happy songs.” Carla’s eyes welled with tears, touched suddenly by the memory of her mother’s gentle suggestion that she start singing in the morning—that her daddy would be so honored by it.
And so she had. Carla smiled now, remembering this commissioned responsibility that had proven so precious and healing. Her mother must have known that it would do a lot to soothe the heart of her eight-year old daughter.
Now, fifteen years later, Carla sighed. She was ready to put away the memory once again, but as she cleared her dishes, she began musing about how Mike had coped as a ten-year-old boy with his father’s sudden death. She remembered his telling her once, years later, that he had prayed every night, and that it had helped him a lot. Carla herself didn’t pray, except at Sunday school when it was her turn. In her teen years, she attended youth group at church, but it never held her interest like it seemed to for Mike, who was always bringing friends and was involved in leadership.
Carla’s mother had always encouraged her children to read the Bible, and Carla knew her mother did so, as well as Mike, for that matter. But Carla didn’t share that level of faith; hers was casual at best, occasionally attending church on Sundays with her mother and Susie in Plainview, thirty miles away.
……….
The December day was dawning clear and cold a few weeks later when Carla stepped out of her apartment building. Christmas Day was less than two weeks away, and she found herself humming a Christmas carol as she walked to her car, the snow in the frigid air crunching under her feet. Her teeth chattering, she turned the key in the ignition and pulled her skirt close around her legs.
Today was going to be fun. Carla and Nancy were in charge of shopping for the company Christmas party tomorrow afternoon.
The morning went fast, and at 12:00, they left the office. An hour and a half later, they pushed the two loaded carts out to Carla’s car and unloaded them into the trunk.
As Nancy buckled her seat belt, she commented, “It surprises me that this office party is basically no-alcohol. What’s the deal?”
Carla turned to Nancy. “Well, I think it’s because Mr. Garman has a policy of no alcohol in the office area—including at parties. His mom died of cirrhosis a couple years ago. Sherry, the secretary who was here before me, said Mr. Garman had all the employees watch a documentary about cirrhosis. I didn’t see it, of course, but the gal whose place I took told me it was an eye-opener for everybody. Mr. Garman’s pretty young, but people in the office really respect him—even Brad Nickson, and you know Brad.”
“Yeah,” Nancy responded, and both girls were quiet for a moment. “I think something must have happened in his younger years,” Nancy confided, quietly. “He’s kind of crusty. I feel sorry for him, but mostly I just try to stay out of his way. I’m praying for him, though.” As though she’d let words slip out that she hadn’t meant to, Nancy quickly added, “I mean, he’s so negative.” After a moment of no response from Carla, Nancy asked, “Is he married? I’ve noticed he doesn’t wear a ring.”
“Actually he is. I think his wife’s an accountant. Sherry told me they have a son who’s on drugs. He’s probably an adult now, because Brad must be close to sixty.”
“Maybe that’s why he’s so negative. Do they have other children?”
“I’m not sure. I think so.”
Nancy sighed a big sigh that seemed to come from deep within.
“Are you OK?” Carla asked, curiously.
“I’m OK.” Nancy looked at Carla and smiled. Then, after a moment, she added, “Wouldn’t it be great if you could solve everyone’s problems?”
“Yeah, it would be great, all right. I’d start with my own.” Carla smiled. “But I don’t have too many, really.”
“You’re blessed, Carla. And so am I.” They had reached the Mannheim building now. “Look at these goodies we’re going to be chomping on tomorrow night. I can’t wait! I luhhv food, even when I’m not hungry.” She laughed delightedly.
“Well, you’d never guess it.” Carla glanced at her friend’s slim figure. Nancy was about the prettiest girl she’d ever met, especially if you took into account her personality. Something was different about her, an entirely good different.
As the girls brought the heavy bags of groceries into the building, they didn’t talk.
“Well,” Nancy panted, when the bags were finally all loaded onto the counter in the office break room, “Are you sure you don’t need help?”
“No, I’m OK,” Carla said, as she pushed the cheese balls to the back of the refrigerator. “It won’t take long, and Mr. Garman doesn’t need me until 2:30. Have fun tonight at your group, if I don’t see you before you leave.”
“Oh, I will. Thanks.”
Nancy had invited Carla several times to the Thursday Night Club at her church. Carla had never been interested.
……….
Later in the afternoon, Carla found herself thinking about Nancy again. This girl had freshness about her. She seemed completely void of defensiveness and determined to like everybody. Interesting that it should seem so unusual, but it was unusual, Carla mused, as she knocked on Mr. Garman’s door.
“Come in.”
Carla opened the door and glanced at the man behind the desk as she closed it again.
“So,” Mr. Garman asked, “is everything set for tomorrow evening?”
“I hope so, sir.” Seeing a slightly quizzical reaction on her boss’s face to this comment, she quickly added, “It is ready.”
“Good. Here’s a letter for John McCormack over at Northwestern.” Mr. Garman pushed a small recording tape across the desktop. “It’s a long one, I’m afraid, but I need to get it out today. Can you manage that?”
“Sure, I think so—if you can sign it.” Carla knew her boss had a meeting at three o’clock.
“Mmm…” He looked out the window thoughtfully, then turned and gave her a problem-solved look of satisfaction. “When you have it ready, open the conference door—don’t knock—and bring it to me. I’ll sign it and you can get it out tonight.”
“Yes, sir.” Carla rose.
“Tell me what’s planned for tomorrow afternoon.”
Carla gingerly sat back down. “Well, Nancy and I picked up the things for the buffet—fruit, cheese balls, crackers, punch, and stuff for a chip mix. George’s wife is making Christmas cookies. Rita said she’ll bring some homemade candy, and I know Don’s bringing bagels and lox. I’m not sure what the rest of the guys are bringing.” Carla smiled. “It should be good.”
Mr. Garman raised his brows approvingly, then asked, “Do you have things set up for a bar?”
It was Carla’s eyebrows this time, raised in open surprise. “A bar?” She hesitated, a slight frown on her face. “I thought you didn’t want liquor in the office area.” Carla’s face candidly reflected her bewilderment.
“Yes… well, I’ve been thinking most of us might appreciate a little extra cheer.”
Carla sat quietly. The party had suddenly taken on a new flavor, which was fine with her, but which she suspected would make Nancy feel awkward and might even cause her friend to miss the party the two had had so much fun planning together.
“Call Walpole Liquor and ask them to deliver two cases of beer, a case of champagne and three bottles each of gin and vodka. And some tonic.”
“Mr. Garman,” Carla ventured a bit timidly, “I don’t think anyone’s complained—at least I haven’t gotten wind of it.”
“Well, you probably wouldn’t, since you’re my secretary. You’d better call right away. We’re giving them fairly late notice.”
Carla sensed the finality in Mr. Garman’s voice. She rose and walked to the door. “I’ll do it right away.”
Mr. Garman looked up at her as she closed the door. The quiet resignation in her voice seemed to have struck him curiously; his eyes rested on the chair she’d left, and he sat there as if musing for a moment. He sighed, with his own resignation, reached for his notebook, and headed toward the conference room.