Judy Baer - Million Dollar Dilemma

“Sorry, I was mistaken. It wasn’t your muffler at all. It was your whole transmission that dropped. Do you have tape and bubblegum in your tool kit, or do you want me to fix it for you? I’ve got a bale of twine in my trunk.”

“Very funny, Randy. I don’t make fun of your car.” I tried my best to look indignant.

“Don’t bother locking it, Cassia,” Randy advised. “If you’re lucky, somebody will come by and steal it.”

“Not if I can help it. I put it in the garage every night.”

“No kidding?” Randy sounded and looked amazed. “You actually protect that thing?”

“At least I’m not like some of my neighbors who leave their expensive cars out at night because there’s too much useless junk in their garages.”

“Right,” Randy said with a grin. “You drive your useless junk.”

We fell into step together as we walked toward the front doors of Parker Bennett’s main office. I had to skip every few steps to keep up with the long-legged accountant.

“It’s a good car,” I said defensively. “Never a problem. I have it serviced regularly.”

“I’m sure you do. Just don’t wash it. It’s only the rust that’s holding it together.”

“You’re just jealous because your car doesn’t have two hundred and thirty thousand miles on it.”

“No kidding? Two thirty?” Randy whistled. “I didn’t know they could get that high.” Then his genial face sobered. “Seriously, Cassia, it’s time to get something newer. It doesn’t have to be expensive, but you shouldn’t be driving city streets in that thing. You’re going to end up stranded someplace.” He eyed me up and down. “A lamb among the wolves.”

“I can change a tire, check the oil, test the air in the tires and even make sure the alternator belt is tight.”

“Maybe so, but rebuilding the whole chassis is probably beyond you, and that’s what you’ll need to do soon.”

I skipped again to match my steps to Randy’s long stride. “If it’s any comfort, my sister agrees with you. She’s suggested that I take her car this winter and she’ll buy a new one.”

“Why don’t you get the new one?” Randy held the door for me.

“I don’t need one.”

“Sometimes life is about more than ‘needing.’ What if you want one?”

“But I don’t.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“For the last eighteen months, Randy, the closest thing I’ve come to a traffic jam is having to wait for a semi to come by in the other lane so that I can pass a tractor. Besides, I can use a pair of jumper cables just as well as the next girl.”

“I’m sure you can.” As he sighed and rolled his eyes, mine followed his gaze upward to the three-story waterfall and banks of glass elevators that glided whisper soft up and down. “No matter how long I work here, I don’t think I’ll get over all this wasted space. All of Simms could fit in here, with a floor left over.”

“It’s pretty impressive, though, don’t you think?” he asked.

“But is it good for anything? That’s the question.”

Randy stopped to stare at me. I caught a glimpse of my hair in the polished chrome base of the elevator as we waited for the cab to return for us. It was particularly unruly today, framing my face in a boisterous cloud. Sometimes I think my hair has more personality than I do. It certainly has a mind of its own.

Sometimes Ken accuses me of looking like a fall maple in full color. That’s one of his nicer compliments. Usually he compares me to something from his work orbit. “Cassia, you’re pretty as a new power saw,” “clever as a Swiss army knife” or “feisty as new sandpaper.” When I’ve really pleased him, he always says, “I’ve never had or sold a model home quite as fine as you.” When he and I don’t agree, it’s always, “Darlin,’ quit talking like your attic’s not finished yet.” Quite a romantic, that Ken.

“Does everything have to be useful for you to enjoy it, Cassia?” Randy asked, bringing me back to the present.

“Of course not, but it helps.”

“They must raise children differently where you come from.”

“Simms? Maybe they do. I know people who still make their children apologize to telemarketers before they hang up on them.” I paused to eyeball him for a change. “Tell me, Randy, what’s your story? You don’t get to hear mine without sharing a little of your own. I know you’re an accountant and that you go to church just a few blocks from here, but other than that…’

He shrugged his wide but bony shoulders beneath his jacket. “Not much to tell. I was born and raised in a middle-class suburb of the Twin Cities. Had a good education, went to the university, became a CPA and here I am, at Parker Bennett.”

“That’s a little dull, don’t you think? Surely there must be people in your life.”

“A younger brother and sister, two parents who are teachers. And a pack of first and second cousins that I see on holidays. I’m single because the right girl just hasn’t come along yet. And I have a cat named Franklin, after the stove in my parents’ cabin.”

“That’s what I was talking about! The people in your life, what you do for fun! That’s the best part of a person’s life, not what they own.”

“What is it with you, anyway? I’ve never met anyone as—” he searched for words “—as content as you are.” He scratched his sandy head in puzzlement. “You’ve come here every day for nearly a month in your old junker of a car, carrying a sack lunch and humming like a canary. The execs drive BMWs or Jags and go out for power lunches to grouse about how hard they have it. What’s your secret?”

He looked so sincere and cute and vulnerable standing there trying to puzzle me out that I wanted to give him a squeeze. I did, however, restrain my impulses.

“My secret? Randy, I’m the most transparent person on the planet. With me, what you see is what you get.”

“That’s what you say, but there’s something…” Randy looked so puzzled that I had to laugh.

“So you want my secret? Okay, I’ll give you my confidential formula. But it’s one I’m sure you already know.” I dug in my purse for a scrap of paper and came up with half a deposit slip from my checkbook. I scribbled down the information for which Randy was digging, then I slipped the scrap inside the little New Testament I always carry and pressed it into his palm. “Here you are.”

“I’ve already got a Bible, Cassia.”

I ignored him.

The elevator arrived as he looked at the packet in his hand. As we stepped inside, I asked. “What floor do you want? I’ll drive.”

“Sixth floor. I want to stop at the cafeteria and grab some coffee. I got up too late to make my own this morning.” Then he opened the little Testament and read what I’d scratched on the bit of paper. Hebrews 13:5, one of my favorites.

Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said, “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.”

He slipped the Testament into his pocket and stepped off the elevator on the sixth floor shaking his head.

On the way down the hall to my office, I ran through the game I’d been playing every day since I joined Parker Bennett. It was one my mother always used to break the ice and help us kids remember each other’s names at vacation Bible school. Children would introduce themselves by giving their first names and an adjective that described them. I was always Curly Cassia and my sister Jolly Jane. Over the years our classes were filled with notables such as Mucky Matthew (something to do with the fact that he did barn chores before coming to church school), Blinking Bonnie, Running Ronnie, Silly Sarah and, my personal favorite, Daring Dan. The game got to be such a popular tradition that all the vacation Bible school classes used it, and it’s been my memory tool ever since. It’s come in particularly handy since I was hired at Parker Bennett. Every face is new, and I find myself applying adjectives to each person I meet. In my portion of the office alone are Stunning Stella, Paranoid Paula, Betting Bob, Thoughtful Thelma, Ego Ed, Jealous Jan and—even though it’s not playing the game right—Petty Betty. The only one I didn’t need to add a descriptive adjective to was someone with an already memorable name—Cricket.