Page 1 of Love From the Ashes

CHAPTER 1

The Interview

Ibrushed awisp of hair from my cheek as I dashed down the sidewalk, my toes painfully pinched in my thrift store pair of high heels. I misstepped while dodging past a group of people blocking my path, a briefcase nailing me in the knee, and I fought to move forward. Of all days to screw up, today was not the day to take the wrong bus in Boston. But I had, and I was paying for it—my interview with the software development company was in ten minutes.

“Thank…God,” I muttered between gasping breaths, spotting the multistoried office building on the opposite corner. Relieved, I darted into the intersection, noticing a car on my left as soon as my foot left the curb. I abruptly halted, my feet stopping on the asphalt while my upper body and arms shot forward. Pain spread through my hand as it hit the front quarter panel of a black Mercedes sedan.

The driver slammed on his brakes, and a second later, a man in a dark business suit scrambled from the back seat. He rushed toward me, a mixture of irritation and concern darkening his face. Taller than average, he loomed over me while I stood there waiting for his comments, unsure whether I’d scared him or ticked him off.

“That was stupidly reckless. You’re lucky you didn’t cause an accident. The light in your direction was red. Didn’t you bother to look, or were you trying to get yourself killed?” The man glared down at me, his jaw rigid and his gray-blue eyes glimmering with annoyance.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and shook my head. He’d undoubtedly kicked any concern he might have had for me to the curb as soon as he’d seen I didn’t appear hurt. The man was a jerk. And one I didn’t have time to deal with right now.

“Look. It wasn’t intentional, and if I were trying to kill myself, I’d be lying underneath your car. And thanks for your concern. I appreciate it.” I flipped a wayward strand of mahogany hair over my shoulder and marched across the street, my stoplight green and the walk sign lit.

Entering the tiled lobby with its cream-and-white wallpaper, I glanced at my watch. That was it. I was officially late for my interview. After reading the signs on the wall behind the stone-topped reception counter, I hurried into the elevator lobby on my right, which serviced the second through tenth floors. I stood there, waiting, while I tried not to cry. Couldn’t one tiny moment of my life be a plus instead of a minus?

Reaching the second floor, I cautiously exited the elevator. Finding the corridor empty, I leaned against the wall and took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. As ready as I was going to be for my interrogation, I opened the door to the human resources department and approached the reception desk. Although it was a tremendous effort, I managed a sweet smile.

“Good morning. I’m Sofie Fletcher. I have an interview with Mr. Kingsley.”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Kingsley is in an unscheduled management meeting. I expect him back anytime now. Please take a seat, and I’ll call you when he’s available. We have a watercooler in the corner if you’d like something to drink.” The gray-haired woman in the bright pink sweater with pearl buttons motioned toward the adjacent wall before answering the phone.

I hung my head as I walked across the lobby. All my panic and worry had been for nothing. Mr. Kingsley wasn’t even here. After adjusting my dark gray skirt, I sat in one of the upholstered guest chairs against the wall. My outfit was a size too big, and the skirt had shifted with all my running, the back zipper becoming off-center. I couldn’t complain. These clothes were the best Ms. Walker could find at the last minute. She had sprung the interview on me late yesterday after Mr. Kingsley had informed her that the candidate she’d sent from the women’s shelter that morning was unsuitable for the position. He’d requested Ms. Walker send someone else, and after reviewing my work history and background, she’d chosen me for the coveted spot.

Sighing, I leaned back in the chair, wondering what questions he’d ask. That thought made my stomach turn. I didn’t want to talk about my past. Regardless of what I wanted, though, if Mr. Kingsley asked a question, he’d expect a decent answer from me in response. If I failed, it could mean missing out on this job, which I desperately needed to turn my life around.

It was the beginning of May, and after two months of counseling following the house fire, I still felt numb. I was told my conscious mind was blocking my emotions, burying them underneath the surface while I hid behind a false front. My therapist encouraged me to discuss my feelings to help bring those bits and pieces to the surface. I preferred to stay silent, erecting a wall around myself and getting back on my feet. This strategy was something I had perfected, having done it repeatedly throughout my twenty-eight years.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I stared at the clock on the wall, the sound driving me crazy. I imagined Mr. Kingsley asking one of those feared questions and the clock ticking away as I struggled for an answer. Then a buzzer would go off, and he’d yell, “Nope. That’s the wrong answer,” before deeming me unfit to work here and sending me away. Struggling with my thoughts, I turned my attention to a middle-aged couple entering the lobby. The man had a neatly trimmed beard and wore a light gray business suit. The woman was tall and sophisticated looking, dressed in tan slacks and a blazer with her red hair pulled back into a meticulous bun. The man waved a badge over a security device and opened the door next to it. The couple disappeared through the opening.

I shifted in my seat as the door opened again a few minutes later, the man with the beard standing there looking at me.

“Sofie Fletcher?” the man said, smiling.

I nodded, a lump forming in my throat as I got up and stepped across the threshold into the area I labeled the discomfort zone. Glancing around the nondescript hallway with its gray-patterned industrial carpeting and white walls, I followed the man to a small conference room. He directed me to sit at an eight-person table, the woman in the tan outfit seated across from me. Her face was expressionless as she watched me slide the chair backward and take a seat.

“Good morning. I’m Armand Kingsley, the company’s human resources manager. With me today is Virginia Morgan. Virginia runs our employment assistance program with the women’s shelter. She’s also an owner of the company.”

I tried to swallow the boulder-sized lump in my throat. Mr. Kingsley’s identification of the woman across from me as one of the company’s owners made me even more uncomfortable.

“Did you find our office all right this morning? I see from your employment application you recently moved here from Quincy and lived in New York before that,” Mr. Kingsley said.

“Yes. It was easy to find,” I lied, unwilling to admit my failure at navigating the local bus system.

“Well, let’s get started, then.” Mr. Kingsley divided the paperwork in front of him into two neat stacks. He then peered at me from across the table. “Morgan Systems designs and develops artificial intelligence solutions across a wide array of industries. We are an innovator in the field, having been at the forefront of the industry for over twenty years. At present, we are hiring an office assistant for our marketing division. It’s a temporary-to-permanent placement, meaning if the candidate successfully completes the six-month probationary period, we may offer a permanent position based on our hiring needs at that time. The job entails sorting and distributing the mail, ordering office supplies, filing, miscellaneous general office duties, and setting up the conference room for meetings and presentations. The hours are eight to five with an hour lunch, Monday through Friday, and the position reports directly to the marketing manager. Virginia, did you have anything to add?”

“No. You summarized the company and position well. Please continue,” Ms. Morgan said without looking at Mr. Kingsley, focusing on the paperwork in front of her as she scanned through the pages.

“Ms. Walker sent us your employment application, reference checks, and some notes about the skills assessment test you took when you arrived at the shelter. According to her, you scored extremely well on the test, especially in math and science. Ms. Walker felt you’d be a good fit for the company. Sofie, we’d like you to tell us why you think you’d be a good candidate for this position.”

I cleared my throat, then recited my preprogrammed answer. This question was the standard one asked right off the bat in every interview I’d ever had. Besides the commonality of the question, I’d had more jobs than I could easily count and a ton more interviews than that, making me an unofficial expert on the process. Trying to steel my nerves and remain calm, I answered question after question as Mr. Kingsley went down the prepared list in front of him.

Finished with his questions, Mr. Kingsley turned to Ms. Morgan. “Virginia, did you have any questions you’d like to ask?”

“I do.” Ms. Morgan’s gray-blue eyes intently scrutinized me from across the table. Their similarity to the man’s eyes as he’d berated me at the street corner earlier caught me off guard. “Sofie, you checked the box on the application asking if an employer had ever fired you, but you didn’t fill in the box below it with an explanation. Can you please tell me the reason the company fired you?”