I studied his face for hidden meaning. He seemed sincere, but something screamed “Warning, warning!” Really, what kind of person carried a thousand dollars’ cash in his wallet on a daily basis?
He nudged the bills into my hand.
The kind of guy that owned a Jaguar, I supposed.
“Thank you.” My voice was barely a whisper.
“You’re welcome. I’ll meet you after your interview, there,” he pointed across campus to a domed building that could pass for a state capitol, “at Walters Hall.” He got out of the car. “Oh,” he added, “driving without a license is illegal in all fifty states. So don’t get pulled over until we can get your new identity set up.”
The door slammed shut with the discreet hush of a luxury vehicle.
I stayed for a moment and watched my guardian ogre enter the building, disappearing behind silver glass that reflected a black Jaguar parked at the curb out front.
My fingers rubbed at the stack of hundred-dollar bills. A thousand bucks, a luxury car for the day-life wasn’t so bad. The woman in the reflection smiled at me, waving the money in her hand.
I put the car in gear and drove toward town, caught up in the thrill of the hunt.
4
A sign pointed the way to Business District. I turned up a hillside blooming with early summer splendor. At the top of the rise, the road ran straight. A gap between the farthest buildings showcased the blue Pacific. I drove down the three-block stretch and checked out the shop selection. From the timeworn building fronts, I got the overall impression that Del Gloria was a hardworking town, one without the time, money, or inclination to cater to snooty tourists. I patted the wad of money in my jeans pocket. That attitude would bode well for my hardly earned dollars.
I spotted what I was looking for and slammed on the brakes. I eased the Jag into a slanted parking space in front of the Del Gloria Thrift-Mart. For a moment, I felt at home in this strange land. Even on California’s rocky coast, folks had a yen for secondhand clothing.
The door
After thirty minutes of scrutinizing stains, checking sizes, and tracking down a variety of work-wear, I proceeded to the register.
The cashier rang up my items.
I pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and waited for change. She counted it into my hand with barely a glance at my face. It was nice to be in a college town. The steady influx of strangers gave me the anonymity necessary to pull off this crazy safe-house scheme.
A moment later, I was on the sidewalk headed for the department store. Inside, I picked out my interpretation of interview clothes: a deep blue jacket over a white blouse topping a pinstriped knee-length skirt and navy Mary Janes with a spunky heel. Completely conservative. And
The clerk tallied and bagged my items, then I scooted out the door.
One block down was the drugstore, where I splurged on an assortment of cosmetics, personal care items, and fresh bandages. I even bought a hair dryer and curling iron.
The black Jag was waiting for me, crowded between standard issue Toyotas and Hondas. I got behind the wheel and headed for Cliffhouse.
An hour later, I was showered, dressed, and driving to Walters Hall for my interview.
My chest constricted with nervous tension and my knees shook. With only a few hours’ notice to prepare,
I couldn’t think of a thing I had to offer DGC. What college would even want me? Besides marrying Brad and settling down and possibly continuing to renovate homes on the side, I had no spectacular future plans.
At the thought of Brad, the ache near my shoulder flared up. I rested my arm in my lap. I’d done too much already today. The doctor had told me to take it easy. Shopping wasn’t exactly a contact sport, but my body would need a few days to recover from the exertion. I gritted my teeth, determined to make it through the interview before giving in to the pain.
I eased the Jag past a group of students on the sidewalk. They waved as I drove by.
I found a parking space close to the door and got out.
A woman stopped at the front bumper. She held a stack of books in one hand. The other was on her hip. Short, kinked brown hair, a few shades darker than her skin, lifted at random in the breeze.
“I thought you were the doc,” she said, annoyance in her voice.
“Oh.” I looked at the Jag and a lightbulb came on. “No, he lent me his car for the morning.” I smoothed my skirt and auto-locked the doors.
She gave me a probing once-over. “Who are you, a recruiter from the naval base?”
Her attitude got to me. I pulled rank. “No. I’m the professor’s niece from Galveston.” I thrust my good hand toward her. “Alisha Braddock. Nice to meet you. And your name is?”
I detected a flush creeping up her cheeks. She switched her stack of books to the opposite hand and shook mine in a quick salute. “Portia Romero. Nice to meet you.”
I gave a final thrust. “I’ll make sure to let Uncle Denton know you’re looking for him. Bye.” I flung a smirk over my shoulder and headed to my interview.
The nerve of some people. I steamed about Portia Romero’s hoity-toity attitude all the way to the front entrance of Walters Hall. I stopped at the stone steps, took a deep breath, and tried to clear my mind.
My big second chance at college. A re-do. A turning back of the clock. All I had to do was make the best of the next six months. Maybe the credits would transfer to a college back in Michigan and I could finish school there. As soon as Brad called me home.
Inside, I scanned the directory. Dean of Admissions, Suite 401. I swallowed hard at the other words that popped off the marquis: Dean of Bible Studies, Philosophy, Theology… not exactly my cup of tea.
I took the elevator. My heart rate increased with the altitude. The doors opened. Stark black marble and a potted plant gave a sober welcome.
Inside, the acrid scent of just-installed industrial carpet matched its blackberry-pie hue. A tawny counter, the color of flaky crust, separated visitors from staff. I folded my hands on the textured surface and forced them to be still. Near a bank of windows overlooking the campus, an attractive redhead sat behind a desk.
“Hi,” I said, getting the woman’s attention. “I’m Ti-” I caught my blunder and swallowed. “I’m Alisha Braddock. I’m here for an interview with the dean.”
A smile lit her face. She toyed with something on the arm of her chair and the whole thing backed out from the desk and wheeled over to the counter. She reached up a hand in greeting. “I’m so pleased to meet you. Professor Braddock is a favorite around here. He’s told us so many wonderful things about his niece from Galveston.”
“He has?” I leaned over the counter and shook her hand.
“Of course. And I can see why. You’re beautiful. Just beautiful.”
I dropped my arm, dazed. “Oh, that Uncle Denton,” I played along. “He shouldn’t have.” For the moment I was glad to be decked out in my dress duds. It felt good to be considered beautiful by a complete stranger, even if she was just trying to butter up the niece of the beloved “Doc.”
“Dean Lester will see you in just a moment. Go ahead and have a seat.” She nodded to the row of chairs by the door.
An assortment of Del Gloria College literature was scattered in tidy array on a coffee table. I picked up a course catalog to peruse while waiting. The cover showed students in caps and gowns looking off toward some rosy future. I flipped to an inside page and scanned photos surrounding a Bible verse. More smiles. More hype. I read the quote, written in flowery script. “Jesus said, ‘It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick… For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.’”
The words hit at some deep level, wriggling their way into my brain. I tossed the catalog back on the table, not caring for the feelings evoked by a few simple words and images. My fingers instead found the zipper on the patent
