Dear Wife - Kimberly Belle Page 0,44
church operates this way. That ignorant and willfully blind priests like Father Ian are, for the most part, a dying breed. I once read an article about an abused woman who claimed church was the only thing that kept her going, the one hour each week she allowed herself a glimmer of hope. And yet I stare out my windshield at this one, and I feel nothing but dread.
Martina all but guaranteed they would hire me on the spot. She said she told them that I clean like she does, powering through six toilets in the time it takes others to scrub one, even though she’s never seen me work so much as a sponge. I have no idea why she has taken up the role of my protector, but I’m not exactly in a position to turn her down. I do a mental count of the bills strapped to my stomach. After Jorge and groceries, it’s a whole lot lighter than it was just yesterday. It would take me days to find another job, which means church or not, I can’t afford to walk away from this one. I brace myself and climb out of the car.
The garage stairwell dumps me out at a side entrance, and I step into a hallway that smells like pine and incense. I follow it past a long line of double doors, then stop at an open one, gawking into a cavernous space three stories high. Rows and rows of plush crimson seats, thousands of them, are arranged in sections on a gentle slope around a podium hung with stage lights and two giant LED screens. And what’s that—an orchestra pit?
Voices come from somewhere behind me, and I continue down the hallway, following the signs to the administrative offices. Colored light trickles down from stained glass windows high above my head, painting patterns across a freshly vacuumed carpet. I can’t imagine why they need another person on their cleaning staff. So far, everything I’ve seen here has been spotless.
The executive offices are bright and spacious and, as far as I can tell, span the entire length of the church. There’s a reception area straight ahead, with hallways dotted with doors on either side. A woman sits behind the receptionist’s desk, one I recognize. Prim white blouse, understated pearls, diamonds at her wrists, blond hair teased into a helmet atop her head. Up close, she’s not half as pretty as she was in my rearview mirror.
She greets me like she’s never seen me before. “Welcome to the Church of Christ’s Twelve Apostles. What brings you in today?”
“I’m here to see Father Andrews.”
“It’s Reverend,” she corrects, turning to her computer. She punches a few buttons on the keyboard with a baby pink nail. “Do you have an appointment with the Reverend?”
“Yes, at ten.” I arrange my face into a careful neutral. “My name is Beth Murphy.”
She tells me the Reverend had a minor emergency in the music room and asked me to meet him there, then rattles off a series of convoluted directions for what is basically a trek to the basement. I thank her, then head in search of the stairwell.
A few minutes later, I step into a full-on recording studio. Modern and airy, furnished with sleek black chairs and leather couches arranged in clusters around a stage. Multiple rehearsal rooms each with their own mixing panel are lined up along the wall, across from a soundproof recording booth. Behind its smoky glass, a spongy microphone hovers like a spaceship from the ceiling.
“Hello?”
A thump, followed by a muffled curse, drifts up from somewhere behind me. I turn and that’s when I see them, two stovepipes of dark denim ending in orange Nikes, poking out from under one of the mixing panels. He wriggles himself out and heaves to a stand, holding out a hand.
“Erwin Andrews,” he says, smiling behind his clipped white beard. “And you must be Beth.”
I shake his hand, swallowing a flutter of nerves. It’s been years since I’ve been on a job interview, especially one for which I am so monumentally unqualified. I know how to scrub a toilet, yes, but what if he asks about prior experience? What if he asks for references?
“Why don’t we sit?” The Reverend is fit despite his age, popping off the ground with surprising speed and agility. He leads me with long, nimble strides to a matching pair of couches to the right of the stage. He’s a runner, judging by his shoes and his