Carl Van Marcus - The motorcyclist_s wife

"No office experience?" She repeated Sandi's statement as though she were accusing the girl of having a prison record. "Well, then, what can you do?"

What could she do? Perhaps because she'd been so distracted by her guilty thoughts about the depraved scene with Larry Johnson the evening before, Sandi hadn't even thought to consider this question. Getting a job and making lots of money to help her injured husband had been as far as her thoughts went as she drove into Brunrocke this morning, and she'd been very glad to have something to do that helped to alleviate the crushing burden of guilt about her wanton behavior. But what if she couldn't even get a job…?

"Well, Mrs. Smith, what skills do you have?" the gray-haired woman asked, impatiently tapping her ballpoint against the gray metal desktop.

"I… I…" Sandi began, then paused in despair as she fished through her mind for some citable accomplishment. Verne had always praised her cooking… and she'd done a lot of babysitting during high school… and she could knit and crochet… and she'd gotten straight A's in English, though she'd failed Algebra… Somehow, though, none of these attributes seemed the sort of thing that would interest this unfriendly woman.

"I… I," she tried again, "I can cook…"

"If you wanted a job as a domestic," the woman interrupted, glancing at her watch, "you ought to have gone to an agency that deals in that."

"Oh no!" Sandi exclaimed, her cheeks flushing redder than ever. "I… I don't think I want to be a maid."

Maids didn't make enough money to pay for Verne's operation, and she knew that her proud husband would be ashamed to have her cleaning someone else's home. He'd probably be resentful at the fact she was seeking any job at all, for he'd always insisted that no wife of his was going to work.

Catching the note of hysteria in the girl's voice, the frozen-faced employment bureau worker glanced up at her for the first time. The applicant didn't look a day over eighteen, though she was certainly pretty enough… somehow she just didn't look like the type to be a waitress in a nightclub, which was just about the only type of unskilled job the agency had listed at the moment.

"Unfortunately, there are no vacancies at any of the groceries or department stores here in Brunrocke," she said, riffling through a stack of file cards containing job listings. "But I do have something for a nightclub waitress at the Pioneer Bar and Steak House just out of town, down by the new expressway. It's well-paid, but naturally it involves night work…"

"Oh no, I don't think so," Sandi demurred. That certainly wouldn't please Verne either!

"Well, then," the lady was beginning to sound impatient and the nineteen year old blonde felt distinctly embarrassed. "I just don't know what we can offer you…" she shuffled through her cards again, shaking her head, and then rather doubtfully plucked one out. "How about modeling? This is a rather – uh – odd position, but maybe…?"

Sandi licked her lips, then gulped, "Odd?" Models make lots of money, she was thinking, and people are always telling me I'm built like a model.

"Mr. Fletcher seems to be a bit particular; he never seems to like the girls we send over. I suppose its because he's a foreigner. But you could give it a try."

The woman's statement was a command rather than an offer, and Sandi rose hurriedly, aware that the woman was anxious to get on with her more lucrative clients.

Clutching the paper on which the woman had written Mr. Fletcher's address, she slowly threaded her way cross the medium-sized town toward the three-story brick building which housed the "Deja-Vu Studio". She pushed the button labeled, "Tony Fletcher, Fashion Photographer", and waited, her heart thumping against her ribs and her mouth dry with nervousness. Suddenly the headache she'd woken up with returned to throb behind her temples, and when no one answered her rather timid ring she felt a sensation of relief.

Turning so quickly that her mini-skirt caught in the current of the autumn breeze and exposed her firm-fleshed thighs and pink lace panties, she started down the three rather steep front steps, her long slender legs wobbling slightly in her chunky navy blue platform heels. I'll try again tomorrow, when I'm feeling calmer, she promised herself. And I'll wear something more conservative too. But try as she would, she couldn't block out the guilty whispers that persisted in creeping through into her consciousness.

You're just afraid – and you'll be just as much a chicken tomorrow! her conscience accused. You're too stupid to find a job to help Verne! You can't do anything without making a mess of it, just like your mother always said. Just look at what you did last night! She was right when she said you'd never be able to get along alone up north!

A sobering image of her gray-faced mother flashed across the already downhearted young wife's mind, so distracting her that she failed to hear the "Deja-Vu's" front door opening and an oddly accented man's voice calling out to her. When she felt an arm tugging at her red cardigan, she yelped and whirled around so quickly that she had to catch hold of the bannister to keep from toppling over. Then, blushing with embarrassment at her awkwardness, she turned to stare at the dark-haired, bare-chested young man in chopped-off blue jeans who had caught hold of her arm when she stumbled in her cumbersome shoes.

"Never did understand why you chicks want to wear those crazy shoes. Bloody dangerous," he remarked as casually as though they were old friends instead of complete strangers.

"I-I'm sorry… I guess y-you startled m-me," she stammered, annoyed at her own gauche behavior but feeling extremely disconcerted by the way the handsome man's eyes seemed to be undressing her right out there on the doorstep. Then, when he failed to release his hold on her arm, she mumbled, "Well, better be going. Th-thanks for c-catching me." With a self-conscious laugh she turned away from him and put one foot down on the step below, then stopped short as he tightened his grip on her sweatered arm.

"Hey, wait a minute," he smiled, "I don't get it. You come to my house and ring my doorbell, but the minute you see me you want to run away. Am I so awful as all that?"

Sandi gaped at him uncertainly, wondering just what it was about his piercing blue eyes that made her feel so exposed. "Oh no… I mean… I was… I was looking for a Mr. Fletcher," she explained, wishing again that she'd worn something that didn't reveal quite so much of her shapely legs.

The slim-hipped, long-haired youth grinned down at her, the pressure of his hand upon her arm increasing as he laughed, "Well, you found him!"

"You're… you're not…?" Sandi was astounded. She'd certainly not expected that woman at the agency to send her out for an interview with someone who looked for all the world like a college student from nearby Notre Dame. Why, he didn't look as old as her twenty-five year old husband Verne, and what with those sideburns, boyishly waving long hair, and faded and patched cut-offs, she just couldn't picture him as a prospective employer. Of course, she'd expected a foreign photographer to look somewhat more eccentric than an ordinary business executive, but a bearded, baggy-trousered, bereted little man was more the image she'd conjured up.

"Tony W. Fletcher, Fashion Photographer," the dark-haired youth tapped his tanned, well-muscled chest, looking vastly amused at the attractive young blonde's self-conscious confusion. "And when I make the effort I actually look quite respectable enough to impress the good citizens of Brunrocke, Indiana. Come on in."

Before she knew quite what was happening, Sandi Smith found herself being led back up the cement steps and into a dimly lit, very narrow hallway. To the left was a steep flight of stairs, and at the end of the corridor was a shiny black door on which was painted in red, "knock before entering".