Marcia Talley - Through the Darkness

“Would you? You’re an angel!”

As simple as that, I had volunteered.

“Dante’s doing all the interviews, but if you could pull out the good ones and set up appointments, that would be great.”

Tucking his cell phone back into its holster, Dante rejoined us. He squeezed Emily’s shoulder. “I’m sure your mother has better things to do, Em.”

Emily blinked, bit her lower lip. I’d seen that look before. Emily hated being squelched.

I quickly jumped to her rescue. “I’m more than happy to help out, Dante. Bring on the résumés.” Then, to Emily, I said, “What positions are we talking about?”

“The accountant you know. But we’re also looking for a certified aesthetician.”

I groaned. “I’m not even sure what an aesthetician does!”

“Skin care, facials, manicures, pedicures, hair removal-”

“For the beauty parlor?”

François gasped theatrically and pressed a hand to his chest. “Oh God, don’t let Wally Jessop hear you. ‘Bellissima, s’il vous plaît! ’ ” he drawled, imitating the dubious French accent Cleveland-born Wally had been trying on lately. “Zee salon de bow-tay she eez called Bellissima.”

I’d chatted with Wally, and I suspected that the closest he ever got to France was the French bread bin at our local Whole Foods market. “But ‘Bellissima’ is an Italian word, surely?”

François grinned. “Of course, but Wally’s a continental kind of guy.”

“So you’ll do it, Mom?”

“Okay, I’ll do it,” I said, “but I’d rather take care of the children.”

“Don’t be silly, Mom. That’s my job.”

How I wish, now, that I had insisted.

Late Monday morning I dropped Paul off at Reception, leaving him in the capable hands of Heather, one of the female guides, looking sturdy and persuasively Teutonic in her polo shirt and shorts. In a former life, Heather could have been a hostess on QVC selling Handcrafted Tiffany Style Pet Bobble Head Accent Lamps to third-world villagers. She’d nearly signed me up for a tourmaline facial and a warm stone rubdown before I came to my senses and remembered that I’d promised to help Dante review résumés, and made my escape.

I found Dante hanging massage school diplomas on his office wall, the largest of three adjoining rooms in the elegantly furnished, walnut-paneled suite. He looked spiffy and very much in charge in his Perry Ellis, four-button pinstripe suit. In answer to my “Hi,” Dante laid the hammer on the credenza next to a bronze bust of Dante Alighieri and greeted me warmly. “Thanks for coming, Hannah.”

“Nice suit.”

He smiled. “I wasn’t so sure about the buttons, but Emily liked it. So either I’m way out of style or I’m starting a trend.”

“Where did that come from?” I asked, pointing to the bust of the poet. I was certain it hadn’t been there the last time I’d visited the office.

“It was my grandmother’s,” he said, resting a hand on the statue’s head. “It used to glare at me from on top of the bookshelf in Grandfather’s library, daring me to leave before finishing my homework.”

Four-year-old Dante had been staying with his grandparents the weekend his mother and father died of carbon monoxide poisoning on a camping trip to the Santa Cruz Mountains. His grandparents had raised him, but both were gone now. Everytime I found myself getting annoyed with Dante, I remembered this, and tried to focus on his strengths rather than his shortcomings. We were the only family the poor boy had.

“What happened to the rest of your grandmother’s things?” I asked.

Dante hugged himself, as if trying to compensate for his loss. “We auctioned everything off,” he said. “Emily and I sank it all into the business.”

“I’m sure your grandmother would have approved,” I said, meaning it.

“Yes. Well, let me get you started.” Almost absentmindedly, Dante gathered up some plump file folders from his desk and led me into the adjoining office. Through the plantation-style shutters the sun drew railroad tracks of light on the polished desktop. A flat screen monitor sat to the right, a telephone to the left.

Dante switched on the overhead light, a blaze of crystal prisms the size of a basketball. “This is where our business manager will hang out, whenever we hire one, that is.”

I stood there like an idiot, admiring the decor. Must be nice . When I managed the Records Department at Whitworth and Sullivan, I had been assigned to a cubicle so deep within the bowels of the building that when I ventured out for lunch, it took me five minutes to find a window to look out of to see if I needed to take an umbrella.

Dante laid the folders on the desk and flipped one of them open. It contained several dozen envelopes.

“Have you opened them yet?” I asked.

“Not yet. The postman brought them this morning.”

I groaned.

Dante chuckled, flipped the folder closed and handed me another one. “Let me give you this one instead. These are the folks who are coming for interviews this afternoon. I’d appreciate your feedback.”

I hefted the folder, weighing it. “Oh, this will cost you big, Dante.”

His eyebrows flew up. “I told Emily we couldn’t afford you.”

I laughed. “But I’m so easily bribed. Say, with lunch?”

“No problem, then. When you’re ready, just call François in the kitchen and tell him what you’re in the mood for.”

“Deal.” I walked to the window, raised one of the slats and peeked out into a glorious expanse of… parking lot. Clearly, Ruth and her Japanese gardener friend hadn’t made it around to this side of the building.

“Let me leave you to get on with it, then.” A few seconds later my son-in-law poked his head back around the corner. “If you need me, I’ll be in the conference center.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got an interview with Shape magazine at eleven-thirty. Wish me luck!”

And before I could say “Break a leg,” he was gone, leaving me alone with the folders.

It didn’t take me long to discover that in the world of job applications, at least, not much had changed since I left Whitworth and Sullivan. Dante’s ad had plainly stated “list salary requirements,” but three of the first five applicants whose résumés I reviewed had failed to do so.

Yet, I didn’t want to eliminate an otherwise qualified candidate simply because he or she couldn’t follow directions.

Or maybe I did.

Someone rapped smartly on the door, and I looked up with some relief from the employment history of Claudia Marie Harris, who evidently thought that printing her résumé on paper the color of Pepto Bismol would get her noticed. An attractive brunette about Emily’s age stood in the doorway, looking damp and frazzled.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but can you tell me where I could find Dante?”

“He’s in the conference room,” I told her, “but he’s busy with interviews at present. Have you checked in with reception?”

“No.”

“That would be your best bet, then.”

“Thanks.”

After the woman had gone, I returned to Ms. Harris. I learned that she was a cosmetologist and a “rabid typist.” I filed her résumé in the trash.

Stephen Davis had taken “curses in accounting” at Anne Arundel Community College. Circular file for Stephen, too.

laura elizabeth barnes kept all the books for garner, butters and aaronson in chestertown, maryland, and offered to revolutionize accounting for dante’s paradiso, but not, I thought, until she got her shift key repaired. Toss, rim shot, ker-plunk.

And how could you take seriously any applicant who used teeny-tiny type, or really weird fonts , or an e-mail address like kissmygrits@yahoo.com?