Always a Temp

“In the flesh,” Nate muttered, looking back down.

“Wow. I haven’t seen her since high school.” Chip gave a slight cough. “She, uh, filled out nicely, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” Nathan said in a conversation-stopping tone. “Do you have something you need to discuss?”

“Nope,” Chip answered, emphasizing the p and taking the hint. “I’m heading out to take photos of the new bridge.” He pushed off from the door frame, his baggy pants dropping an inch as he did. He hiked them back up with his free hand.

“Are you done with the BLM story?”

“I will be by tomorrow morning.”

“See to it.” Nathan shifted back to the piece he was editing. It would be so great if Chip had a clue when to use an apostrophe. At least he took decent photos.

Two hours and one headache after Callie had left, Joy came into Nathan’s office carrying a cup of green tea. She insisted he drink one cup a day to help combat stress. Nathan actually thrived under pressure and hated green tea, which tasted like boiled lettuce, but he was wise enough not to mess with Joy. The office would implode without her.

“Thanks,” he said absently as she set the cup on the one clear spot on his desk—the spot he kept clear for this purpose—close to the potted plant. He was beginning to think that there might be something to the purported medicinal properties of green tea, since the dieffenbachia had put on an amazing growth spurt.

“You should have hired her to freelance,” Joy said. There was no doubt which “her” she meant, since with the exception of Millie, the advertising salesperson, there had been no other woman in the office that day.

Nathan looked up. “You were listening?”

“Not on purpose. You didn’t close the door and I was in the supply closet taking inventory. You should have given her some work.”

“But I didn’t.”

“It would have reduced the load here.”

“She’s going to be gone in a few weeks, Joy.”

“How do you know?” Joy challenged.

Nathan moved his mouse, bringing his screen back up. “Trust me. I know.”

“We’ll see,” she replied on her way out the door, which she closed behind her, leaving Nathan free to dispose of his tea and to wonder why she was defending Callie. Since Joy and Grace had been friends, he hadn’t expected that. And he hadn’t made a mistake.

Vince Michaels, the owner of the Wesley Star and several other rural papers scattered throughout Nevada and western Utah, would not agree. He’d be totally pissed if he discovered that Nathan had refused to hire Callie, since she’d won a few awards and people knew her name.

Was that why he felt like hell?

“WHAT ARE YOUR SKILLS?” Mrs. Copeland, the woman who managed the only temp agency in Wesley, 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.”