"I disagree on that regard as well," Deborah said. "The personnel director is a woman, I grant you that. But she's got to be a realist about recruitment. I'm applying for a job in a laboratory, not out in the front meeting patients. Besides, they saw fit to hire that redhead receptionist who was almost as provocatively dressed as I am."
"But why even take the chance?" Joanna complained.
"The worry was, as you voiced it yourself, whether or not we'd be recognized," Deborah said. "Trust me1. We're not going to be recognized. On top of that we're having a little fun. I'm not going to give up trying to loosen you up and keep you from having a social relapse."
"Oh, sure!" Joanna said. "Now you're going to try to convince me that your dressing up like a tart is for my benefit. Give me a break!"
"All right, mostly for me, but a little for you too."
By the time they got to Bookford and drove through town, Joanna had reconciled herself to Deborah's appearance. She imagined that the worst-case scenario would be for Deborah not to get a job, but there was little reason that Deborah's difficulties would affect her chances. Deborah's not getting a job would hardly be a disaster. After all, Joanna had originally planned to go to the Wingate Clinic by herself. It was Deborah who'd insisted on coming along.
"Do you remember where the turnoff is?" Joanna asked. On the previous visit she'd not been driving, and whenever she was the passenger she had difficulty remembering landmarks.
"It will be on the left just after this upcoming curve," Deborah said. "I remember it was just beyond this barn on the right."
"You're right; I see the sign," Joanna said as she straightened the car after the turn. She slowed and pulled off onto the gravel road. Ahead they could see the stone gatehouse. Nosing into the tunnel beneath the house and barring their way was a line of trucks. The uniformed guard could be seen, clipboard in hand, apparently conversing with the driver inside the cab of the first truck.
"Looks like delivery time for the farm," Deborah said. The back of the last truck said WEBSTER ANIMAL FEED.
"What time is it?" Joanna asked. She was concerned about the time since they'd ended up leaving the apartment twenty minutes later than intended, having had to wait for Deborah's nails to dry.
"It's five before ten," Deborah said.
"Oh great!" Joanna commented despairingly. "I hate to be late for appointments, especially if I'm applying for a job."
"We can only do the best we can," Deborah said.
Joanna nodded. She loathed patronizing comments like that, and she knew Deborah knew it, but she didn't say anything. She didn't want to give Deborah the satisfaction. Instead she drummed the steering wheel.
Minutes ticked by. Joanna's drumming picked up its pace. She sighed and glanced up into the rearview mirror with the intention of checking how her hair had weathered the trip. Before she could adjust the mirror she caught sight of a car turning off Pierce Street onto the gravel road. While she watched, the car drove toward them, slowed, and stopped immediately behind.
"Do you remember that Bentley convertible we saw in the clinic's parking lot the last time we were here?" Joanna asked.
"Vaguely," Deborah said. Cars had never interested her other than to get from point A to point B and she could not distinguish between a Chevy and a Ford or between a BMW and a Mercedes.
"It just drove up behind us," Joanna reported.
"Oh," Deborah commented. She turned and looked out the back of the car. "Oh yeah, I remember it."
"I wonder if it's one of the doctors?" Joanna said while continuing to eye the burgundy vehicle in the rearview mirror. With the glare on the windshield, she could not see the interior.
Deborah checked her watch again. "Gosh, it's after ten. What's the deal? That stupid guard is still talking with that truck driver. What on earth could they be talking about?"
"I guess they're careful who they let on the grounds."
"That might be the case, but we have an appointment," Deborah said. She unlatched the door and slid out.
"Where are you going?" Joanna asked.
"I'm going to find out what's going on," Deborah said. "This is ridiculous." She slammed the door, then rounded the front of the car. Teetering on her toes to keep her narrow heels from penetrating into the gravel, she started forward toward the gatehouse.
Despite her earlier irritation, Joanna had to laugh at her roommate's gait until she noticed that Deborah's short skirt was hiked up on her backside thanks to static cling with her panty hose. Letting down the window, she leaned out.
"Hey! Marilyn Monroe! Your rear end is hanging out!"
USING THE KNUCKLES OF BOTH INDEX FINGERS, SPENCER rubbed his eyes briefly to bring them into better focus. He'd pulled up behind the nondescript Chevy Malibu, feeling irritated that now that he was finally here, his way was blocked by a mini traffic jam. He'd seen the two heads in the car in front but had thought nothing of them until one of them had gotten out.
For Spencer it was like seeing a mirage. The woman appeared like the person he'd been searching for and not finding the entire time he'd been in Naples. Not only was she attractive with a slim, athletic body, but she was dressed in an alluring style the likes of which he'd not seen except on rare visits to Miami's South Beach. To make the unexpected situation even more provocative, the woman's dress was pulled up in the back exposing a near-naked, panty-hose-clad derriere.
Emboldened by a sense of being on home turf, Spencer did not hesitate like he would have had he still been in Naples. He opened his door and got out. He'd heard the yell from the woman's companion, and now the skirt was down where it was supposed to be, yet it still hovered above mid-thigh, and being made of a synthetic, clingy fabric, it undulated sensuously as the woman unsteadily walked over the gravel drive.
Launching himself forward in a jog, Spencer headed toward the gatehouse in hot pursuit. As he passed the women's Malibu he caught a fleeting glimpse of the companion, which was enough to tell him she was of a totally different ilk. Slowing to a walk, he passed the first truck and approached the woman whose back was to him. She was arguing, arms akimbo, with the guard.
"Well, have them back up the damn trucks and let us go by," Deborah was saying. "We have an appointment with Ms. Masterson, head of personnel, and we're already late."
The guard with his clipboard was unintimidated. His eyebrows were raised and he had a smirk on his face as he peered down at Deborah through his aviator sunglasses. He started to respond to her suggestion, but Spencer interrupted him.
"What seems to be the problem here?" Spencer questioned in the most authoritarian tone he could muster. Unconsciously mimicking Deborah's stance, he put his hands on his hips.
The guard glanced at Spencer and told him in no uncertain terms it was none of his business and that he should get back in his vehicle. He used the words please and sir but obviously intended them as mere formalities.
"These feed trucks are not on his list," Deborah explained contemptuously. "They're acting like this is Fort Knox, for crying out loud."
"Perhaps a call down to the farm will clear things up," Spencer suggested.
"Listen, sir!" the guard said, pronouncing sir as if it were an epithet. He pointed toward Spencer's Bentley with the clipboard with one hand while resting the other on the top of his bolstered automatic. "I want you back in that car ASAP."
"Don't you dare threaten me," Spencer growled. "For your information, I'm Dr. Spencer Wingate."
The guard's menacing expression quavered as he stared Spencer in the eye. It appeared as if he were having an internal debate as to how to proceed. Deborah's attention switched from the guard to Spencer with his surprising announcement. She found herself looking up into the face of the stereotypic soap-opera doctor: tall, slender, angled face, tanned skin, and silver-gray hair.