propped her fingertips together as she asked the question. Tech Temps catered almost solely to the gold mining industry, the number one employer in northern Nevada, but Callie was more than willing to take on a mine job, which ranged from secretarial to truck driving. Two days had passed since her unsettling conversation with Nate, and she still had no idea what she was going to do in the future. But if she was going to stay in Wesley for an undetermined amount of time, then she needed to work, because at the moment, writing wasn’t cutting it.
If she had to, she could write the service articles her magazine contacts were asking her to take on, but Callie’s strength was her voice. She wrote about people and places and her unique style had earned her both a name and a steady income.
Now, not only was her writing off, her voice was MIA and she was getting concerned. She hoped that if she got out into the workforce, met new people, had new experiences, something would spark, as it always had before, and the words would flow once again.
Grief was a bitch.
“I can do just about anything.” And she had, having supported herself with temporary jobs, between travel writing and other freelance gigs, since she’d left college. Indeed, the list of Callie’s skills, noted on the résumé sitting in front of Mrs. Copeland, was long and detailed. Maybe that was why the woman wasn’t looking at it.
Mrs. Copeland puckered her mouth thoughtfully and turned to her computer. She clicked her mouse and made a face. “Diesel mechanic?”
Callie couldn’t help smiling. “No, that’s one area where I’m lacking, but I did work in a tire store once.”
“Accounting?”
“At first, but one of the regular guys got sick for a week, so I mounted tires and fixed flats.”
Mrs. Copeland clicked through several more screens, her expression not exactly reassuring.
“Anything?” Callie had already checked the local paper, which was her only source of employment information. A remote town like Wesley had no short-term job listings on the Internet boards.
“Doesn’t look good. Most temp jobs are seasonal and you’re here at the end of the summer rather than the beginning.”
“I was hoping someone had become conveniently pregnant and needed time off.”
“It happens,” Mrs. Copeland mused. But it didn’t look as if it was happening now. Callie felt a sinking sensation when the lady took her hand off the mouse and turned to her, propping her elbows on her desk and clasping her fingers under her chin. “I see you have a college degree.”
“In journalism.” But she had a sneaking suspicion there wasn’t a big call for journalists in the mining industry.
“I suggest you go to the school district office. They’re crying for subs.”
“Subs?”
Callie’s horror must have shown. Subbing involved kids, and she hadn’t spent much time around kids. Like, none. The woman smiled. “It’s not a bad job. They pay close to a hundred dollars a day. You work from eight to three forty-five.”
“Then why are they crying for subs?” A justifiable question, considering the high pay and the short hours.
“They require two years of college to get the license and not many people here meet that requirement. If they do, they usually have full-time jobs.”
“A hundred dollars a day.”
“Almost a hundred,” Mrs. Copeland corrected her, her chin still resting on her clasped hands.
“I was hoping for something steadier.” Even a serial temp worker needed a little security in the short term.
“Trust me, it’s steady. My brother teaches and I know.” Mrs. Copeland picked up Callie’s résumé and slid it into a manila folder. “If you’re not interested in subbing,” she said, after placing the folder on a high stack on the rolling file cabinet next to her, “you can check back every few days, or check online. Maybe something will open up.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Callie left the office and walked to her hot car. Subbing…did she want to get back in the workforce that badly?
She gave herself a shake. Okay. The idea of trying to control a class of kids was intimidating, especially since she had zero notion how to do that, but…if it didn’t work out, she didn’t have to go back. Heck, if it didn’t work out, she probably wouldn’t be allowed back. She would go with Plan B then—taking the magazine contracts. She didn’t want to do that just yet because a small part of her was afraid that was all she’d ever do from that point on. She might never write anything worthwhile again.
Callie got into the Neon and drove the half mile to the school district office, where they practically hugged her for showing up with a bona fide college diploma and the desire—although Callie wasn’t quite certain that was the correct word—to substitute teach. These people were desperate.
After filling out forms and getting instructions on what to do with transcripts, she went to the sheriff’s office to be fingerprinted—a requirement for the sub license application. She’d looked around cautiously when she arrived, since once upon a time Nate’s father, John Marcenek, a man who’d never particularly cared for Callie, had been sheriff. But surely he’d retired by now. He had to be over sixty.
“Who’s sheriff?” Callie asked the brisk woman wearing too much perfume who took the prints.
“Marvin Lodi.”
Callie wasn’t familiar with the name. “John Marcenek retired then?” She was actually kind of hoping he’d been voted out of office.
“Yes. He’s chief of the volunteer fire department now.”
That sounded like the perfect retirement gig for Nathan’s dad. Something where he could be in command and throw his weight around.
Callie left the sheriff’s office and went back to Grace’s house, where she ordered her college transcript online, requesting that it be sent directly to the State Department. The extreme shortage of subs in the district meant her application would be expedited, according to the district office secretary. As soon as the paperwork was approved, all she had to do was wait for a call.
And in the meantime, she could try to force out some words.
Callie went into the kitchen with its sparkling linoleum floor, waxed in a bout of insomnia the night before, and glanced out the back window at the grass she needed to mow as soon as it cooled off. Then she smiled.
The baseball, which had disappeared from the birdbath a few hours after she’d put it there two days ago, was back, next to her bottom step. She went outside and picked it up, wondering if the owner was anywhere nearby.
The fence separating her property from the alley and the vacant lot next door was solid wood, but on the other side chain-link divided the backyards, so Callie was able to see Alice Krenshaw pruning her bushes near the corner of her house.
“Hey, Alice,” she called, her first voluntary contact since the memorial. She figured if they were going to be neighbors, however temporary, then they needed to develop a working relationship.
Alice
