Paige Torn (16 page)

I write her back. W
E'LL FIND SOMEONE ELSE.
D
ON'T WORRY ABOUT IT.

I've already booked one of the bands for the banquet. They are a swing band, so I figured it would be fun dance music. And Mark actually liked the demo I gave him, which is something of a miracle. Mark is all about the music and the dancing at these banquets.

Much to all of our chagrin.

* * * * *

Youth group goes well. The girls really learn from the lesson on sin, and honestly, I do too. Rick has an interesting way of looking at things. He doesn't make a lot of sense in person, but for whatever reason, he can write well.

After the class is over, I gather all the extra pencils the girls used, and everyone has already headed back to the youth room for snacks. I grab my jacket, Bible, and leader's guide and follow a group of sophomore guys down the hall.

Nichole approaches me as I walk in. “Hey, so I think I can meet again tomorrow.” She had to cancel last Thursday because her mom had already scheduled a dentist appointment for her.

I nod. “I'll pick you up at five thirty.” I'll be skipping my workout again this week, but who am I kidding? I haven't had the time to work out in about a month.

A few of the other girls come over and we end up talking about a new movie that has just come out that a few of them have seen. “Oh, Paige, it is
sooo
cute,” Tasha gushes. “It's the best movie I've ever seen!”

I know Tasha well. “You always think that,” I tell her, grinning.

“I do not!”

“I present Exhibit A,” I say. “
Cheaper by the Dozen 2
.”

“Oh yeah! That's a great movie!”

Obviously this girl needs some serious movie therapy. And quite possibly some kind of a brain scan.

“I really need to organize a movie night for you,” I say offhandedly.

“Oh, Paige, would you?” one girl says.

“Can I come too?” another one jumps in.

Suddenly all six girls are jumping up and down about the movie night at my place.

“I'm so excited!” Brittany, one of the girls, says. “When are we having it?”

“Um,” I say, trying to defuse their enthusiasm. I can barely find time to eat. How in the world am I going to pull off a movie night?

“Friday?” Tasha suggests.

“Friday works for me!” Brittany says.

“I mean, I guess … that might wor — ” I barely get the word
work
out of my mouth when all of the girls explode, and somehow they multiply.

“Movie night at Paige's on Friday!” Tasha yells.

“Sweet,” Tyler says, coming over. “How about
Gladiator
?”

“Ick,” Brittany says. “And no boys allowed. This is a girls' movie night.”

Tyler backs away to the snack table, hands up surrender-style. “My bad, my bad.” He grins at me.

“Okay, guys, listen.” I try to corral the madness. And how are there suddenly twelve girls excited about this?

“I'll bring popcorn,” Tasha says.

“And my mom will
totally
make cookies,” Paris Kleinman says.

That part sounds good. Mrs. Kleinman makes the most amazing sugar cookies I've ever tasted. Paris will probably bring them and they'll be shaped like those clapperboard things that directors use. Or a movie camera. Or, considering the talent Mrs. Kleinman has, a rendering of a poster of whatever movie we decide to watch. She has basically a full-time job making cookies for everyone at the church.

“Well,” I say, feeling myself weakening.

What do I really have planned for Friday night anyway?

“We can all get there about six and pitch in for pizza!” Tasha suggests.

“Yeah!” seven of the girls shout.

I leave church with my entire Friday night planned without my help.

* * * * *

Candace walks in Thursday, weaves her fingers together under her chin, and says, “Okay, Paige. You can't hate me forever.”

“What?” I smile up at her from my desk. “I've never hated you.”

“Right. Hold on to that feeling.”

“Why?”

She shakes her head and disappears into her office. Five minutes later, my e-mail notification dings.

So sorry, Paige. I need these by Monday.

Three home-study audios are attached to the e-mail.

Normally, one home study takes me about six hours to transcribe. Six uninterrupted hours, which never happens. The home studies end up being about thirty single-
spaced pages and have to be perfect because they are legal documents.

I bite my bottom lip. Taxes and banquet preparation officially take a backseat, and it looks like I will be working late tonight. Especially because I can't work late tomorrow, since it's my job to pick up the pizza before heading back to my apartment to watch
Tangled
.

And I really, really don't want to come in over the weekend.

Particularly since my weekend is going to include more listening to bands for the anniversary party. Layla found one she was almost sure of last night on the band's website. I've never heard of them. Plus, she says she might want to go back to Marcello's and look at more dresses.

Which means there is potential for more of the amazing cheese and chocolate platters at Marcello's. Not a chance I am willing to give up, even if it means I have to work my tail off all day and night tonight and try on thirty bridesmaid dresses like I know Layla will want me to do.

It was really good cheese and chocolate. The only thing I hope is that the bridesmaids don't have to wear that awful corset.

I pull up a blank document on my computer, slip on my headphones, get my foot pedal ready, and start transcribing. The bummer about transcribing at the office during business hours is that every single time the phone rings, I have to stop and answer it, totally disrupting my flow.

But I manage to crank through one home study by the time I get my late lunch of peanut butter and jelly on stale bread and a Ziploc bag of dried mangos I found hidden in the back of my pantry.

It's a lunch of champions for those who haven't gone grocery shopping in over a week again.

Peggy comes in from her lunch appointment and sets an envelope with my name written on it on the desk in front of me. I am attempting to eat a mango while typing. It is not going well.

“From the Tellers,” she says, tapping the envelope. “And you are not as talented as you think you are.”

“Thanks. And thanks.” I pause Candace's recording right in the middle of her description of the clients' living room. I don't really want to know why the state cares so much about whether or not the couple has plug covers installed already. Usually, it's at least six months if not a year from the time of a home study before a client gets matched with a birth mother. And really, how quickly do babies start sticking things in outlets anyway?

I rip open the envelope. It's a bright yellow card with
Thank You!
written across the front in happy, flowery letters.

If Mrs. Teller were a card, this would be it.

I open it, and a Starbucks card and a picture fall out. I grin.

Paige,

Thank you for your unending sweetness to us during a time of emotional stress! We will never forget your kindness or your smiles when we would come in for what was often a very hard meeting. Thank you! May God bless you!

Love,

Gabe, Cassie, and Samuel Teller

She's drawn a big smiley face below Samuel's name. The picture is of the three of them at the hospital, I assume. Samuel has a little striped hat on his head and Mrs. Teller has obviously been crying. Actually, both Mr. and Mrs. Teller look like they have been crying. I squint at the picture. And so does Samuel. Though I doubt that his crying is from happiness like I am sure his parents' tears are.

I smile and tuck the note in my desk along with a few others I've gotten from clients. It makes my chest get all warm when I see a couple I really love finally get their dream baby.

I pocket the Starbucks card and get back to work. Candace owes me a macchiato for dropping three of these on me at once.

By five o'clock, I am about ten minutes away from finishing the second one. I click over to the third. It's a four-hour tape. I squeeze my eyes shut. I do not want to stay here until nine. Plus, I promised to take Nichole out at five thirty. I've been putting off calling her to cancel because I was hoping I'd finish sooner than I thought.

Plus, what kind of person cancels on a girl who has already gone through so much?

Candace tries to sneak by my desk to leave.

“Hey!” I shout.

“Sorry. I'm so sorry. I thought I'd already given you the first two, I honestly did. And then all of their lawyers called me last night and said they needed them this week, and I realized I'd never given them to you to transcribe. I'm so sorry,” Candace says, a hundred miles a minute.

“Venti. Caramel. Macchiato,” I say very slowly.

“Yes, ma'am. I'll have it on your desk at nine tomorrow morning.”

“Macchiato,” I say again as she opens the door.

“Right. Got it,” Candace says. But I know exactly what I'll read on my phone at eight forty-five tomorrow morning. W
AIT, DO YOU WANT A CARAMEL LATTE OR A CARAMEL
F
RAPPUCINO
?

Candace isn't a Starbucks regular, so she tends to get mixed up once she gets inside and starts listening to other people's orders. One time, she made a Starbucks run for Peggy and me and came back with a tall, decaf, iced skinny mocha with an extra shot for me.

I asked her to bring me a grande caramel macchiato and an apple fritter.

And besides that, I do not understand the concept of ordering an extra shot of decaf. Why? To what end?

I look at the clock. It is now five fifteen. I have finally finished transcribing the second home study, and if I don't get any red lights and maybe speed a tiny bit, I can get to Nichole's house by five thirty.

It just means I'll have to work on the third home study during the day tomorrow and bring home banquet stuff to work on over the weekend.

Joy.

I grab my purse, sling on my jacket, and run for my car. I drive as fast as I dare, since I'm not really in the financial place to afford to pay for a speeding ticket. My dad always flirts with ten miles an hour over the speed limit. No matter where he drives.

But he also makes twice my salary.

I get to Nichole's apartment at five thirty-seven. Not quite the timing I was hoping for. I hurry out of my car, run up the walk, and tap on the door.

“I am so sorry,” I say when she opens the door.

She shrugs. “No big deal. Mom's here, so let me tell her I'm leaving.” She opens the door a little wider. “Come on in. I'll get my jacket too.”

I step into her apartment. She and her mom have just moved here, so there are still boxes stacked against walls and piles of things in different places.

There is a long shelf against the wall by the door that has a bunch of jars on it. I step closer to look at them. They're filled with rocks, dirt, and little tiny bushes that look like they've been planted by gnomes.

“My mom builds terrariums,” Nichole says, coming back into the room with her jacket.

“Oh,” I say, because really, what else can you say to that? Terrariums and an extra shot of decaf are about on the same level of usefulness in my mind. But then again, so are goldfish, and there are plenty of happy goldfish owners out there.

I assume they are happy anyway. I've never asked them.

“So,” I say, climbing back in my car. Nichole buckles her seat belt on the passenger side. “Where would you like to go?”

We end up going back to Starbucks, and I use some of what the Tellers gave me to buy our drinks. Nichole talks for the next hour about her dad and how she and her mom are doing.

“I just don't understand why he left.” She gets quiet and sips her vanilla bean Frappucino, tears shining in her eyes.