"The Gorge Road" Chapter 1

1.    Endeavor    

      In the year since I moved to the town of Willamette Falls, Oregon, I’ve been called a homewrecker, an angel, a monster, and a witch.

Some of these things may actually be true. 

On the night I met the DiAnnons, though, I felt absolutely average (if not below it) and completely out of place altogether.

“You just have to remember to be confident,” Sarah chirped at me, as she zipped up my dress. “If you don’t believe in yourself, how can you expect others to believe in you? Everyone is attracted to confidence.”

I wondered if she was simply regurgitating an inspirational poster she had taped to the wall of her classroom.

“I think you should put on something nice and come with us,” I pressed, for the third time. “Meet Deon’s colleagues, their spouses… it’d be an easy way to meet new people.”

“Yeah, no. No way. Walking around in a skimpy little dress and high heels, pretending to have fun with a bunch of stuck-up strangers and rich people? That’s for you, not me. No offense, though. You look great,” she assured me, meeting my eyes in the bathroom mirror. “I’d just look stupid.”

“And this is coming from someone who was just preaching about confidence?” 

I tried to keep my voice playful rather than nagging. She was trying her best to pep-talk me. She’d never been fired from a job (or two…) before. I couldn’t expect her to know or understand that it took a different type of effort for me to put my face on for the world these days. And it was much harder work than just applying a face of makeup.

Sarah, my childhood friend and college roommate, had met and married Deon several years ago. Though I was happy there was finally someone else to share the workload of weathering her puppy-like energy, I thought anyone who got married so young was being naïve at best. But I’d kept my opinion to myself. I didn’t have any business speaking out on successful long-term relationships anyway.

“Also: not all lawyers are rich,” I followed up.

“A bunch of Deon’s clients are pretty rich,” Sarah retorted, brushing lint off my back. “A lot of them own their own companies – or multiple companies – real estate, tech startups, you name it. Somebody’s bound to be hiring. You’ve just got to steer conversation in that direction. And believe me, they’ll talk to you.”

I couldn’t tell if she was being complimentary or not. For my part, I thought the tight-fitting black dress looked okay, but I felt like a fraud.

Is this what I’ve resorted to to get hired? Playing dress up and trying to get wealthy people to notice me?

“Alex? How much longer do you think you’ll be?”

Deon was calling me from downstairs. He hardly begrudged us any girl time, but seldom approved of lateness. And I hated being the constantly-primping girl for whom everyone had to wait to detach from a mirror.

“60 seconds!” I called back, and ducked into my bedroom. I seized a clutch, my cell phone and a tube of red lipstick off the old card table that doubled as my vanity and workdesk. Moving to Oregon in one small car meant that most of my meager furniture got left behind, but it wasn’t as if I used a desk for much work these days anyway.

“Have fun,” Sarah grinned at me as I dashed down the stairs.

“I’ll try.” 

Deon stood by the front door consulting downtown-Portland traffic reports on his phone. Without looking up, he opened the door for me.

“Hopefully we’ll be back by eleven,” I heard him tell Sarah as I walked to his car.

 

The hotel ballroom was already decorated in something resembling art-deco style, so it hardly needed the tired Gatsby-esque party store favors that had been tossed on the tables and in the corners. I did my best to see past them, and the glaring white banner that read, “Welcome Denner & Birch!”

A brief early-fall rain shower from a few hours ago had left the floor-to-ceiling windows speckled with droplets, which magnified and distorted the city lights outside. Inside, warm lighting from rectangular brass chandeliers gleamed off black marble tabletops and the mirrors behind the bar.

Though the décor hadn’t changed since the eighties and the atmosphere smelled of glad-handing, I had to admit: the place was still sexy and elegant. Confident, well-spoken attorneys, paralegals and their clientele milled around in black suits and shimmering dresses, spouses in tow, sipping cocktails and laughing a little too loud. And here I was, with my best friend’s husband.

I stole a glance at Deon while he scanned the room, likely looking for co-workers he recognized. His eyes darted from table to table, under bushy eyebrows and close-cropped hair. Topping it off was an even-tempered demeanor that I imagined served Deon well in both the workspace, and as Sarah’s partner. But it also made it impossible to get a read on him; to determine his motivations.

For all I knew, Deon could genuinely be here to network with his colleagues, and help me to do the same. Or, he could be planning to simply enjoy free booze. But most likely, he was waiting for someone else to get tipsy and start over-sharing, at which point Deon could be counted on to take copious mental notes, for later use as leverage in the games of office politics.

Some days, I felt like I knew him. Other days, not so much. I wondered if I needed to be more like him to fit in and get a leg up in the world, but the idea sounded… deadening. Futile.

“Blakely! Where’s your drink, bro?”

A man with a linebacker’s build, not much older than Deon and I, walked up and pressed a Bud Light bottle into Deon’s left hand while vigorously shaking his right.

“Let’s take care of that problem right now! How’s life? How’s your wife?” He eyed me curiously. “Who’s this?”

“I’m Alex,” I said, smiling as well as I could manage and extending my hand. “I’m Deon and Sarah’s housemate. Just moved here from the Midwest.”

“Midwestern gal, huh? Well, nice to meet you, Miss Lexi.” The stranger squeezed my hand and grinned, gliding his thumb over one of my knuckles.

“Alex, this is Benji,” Deon said lightly. “We share office space.”

Benji made me think of a WWE wrestler crossed with a Viagra salesman, with inky-black hair gelled into spikes and too-white teeth. But Deon worked in Operations, which I knew shared cubicle blocks with HR.  Benji likely had a grasp of staffing needs at the firm, and elsewhere.

“What do you do for the company, Benji?” I asked, trying to match Deon’s easy-going tone. “I figure there’s all sorts of different jobs at a big firm like D&B. Do you have any legal training?”

“No, all my training was strictly illegal,” he cracked. Deon muttered something about going to get a drink and saying hi to his boss, and strode away, his obligation to me fulfilled. I almost called after him to get me a scotch, but held my tongue. 

“Actually, I was in sales before I got picked up to work for Denner & Birch,” Benji continued. 

Well. Hit that one on the head.

“Now I meet with potential clients and vet them before they’re handed off to a junior attorney. And I train people on my staff to do the same thing.” He took a swig of beer.

“You have an entire staff of people to vet incoming clients?”

“Oh, definitely. Big defense firm like this, we have to be choosy about who we take on.”

“Ah, gotcha. So Denner and Birch only want to represent people who are innocent, or at least repentant?”

“Ehh… more like, we’re not gonna waste our time with underemployed people, or anyone who makes less than 75K a year, honestly.”

“Oh. Well, what about… a teacher? Like Sarah?” I tried. “I don’t think she’s pulling down much more than forty grand.”

Benji guffawed. “What exactly do you think teachers need defending from? And yeah, she’s making peanuts, but Deon’s doing all right. Dual or spousal income is what we’re looking for, really.” Another quaff of Bud.

Forty-thousand is nearly twice what I made last year, I realized glumly.

“I see,” I said.

“For example, the head of consumer products at HP: his wife came in last month – gorgeous, gorgeous lady, legs like yours. Turns out she drove her BMW through a park over the summer after four glasses of wine. She got slapped with another DUI and was gonna face jail time –”

“Uh.. are you supposed to be sharing client information like this?”

“Oh sure… yeah, no, it was an honest mistake, no one was hurt, we took her on right away. Made sure she got to keep her license.”

“Right. And how much does she earn?”

Benji snickered over a mouthful and had to force himself to swallow. “Wife of a VP at Hewlett Packard? Why the hell would she work?”

“Ah. Gotcha.”

“She’s a riot, though. Kept trying to tell me about how she swerved to miss a damn mountain lion, or something, in the road. And I’m sitting there like ‘Ma’am, a puma in the Pearl District… get ahold of yourself. A homeless person, sure, but not a giant cat.’ Then, of course, I advised her about her record, and told her about the fee structure…”

While Benji continued to tell me about how much money Denner & Birch charged Mrs. Four-Glasses, I looked around the room for Deon, and wondered if there was a way to steer this conversation to my advantage. My tolerance for Benji, like his client’s for wine, was limited.

“…. So yeah, that’s a bit about what I do. At work. Outside of that, I lift and do MMA with some guys at my gym. We hang out in my condo on the West Side, play poker… you should come out sometime.”

“Um..” I turned back to him, caught off-guard. “Maybe. I don’t really play cards, but I need to do some networking since I’m new in town and on the job hunt. Would it be cool if I just came and watched, and handed out my resume?”

“I mean, sure. Sorta sounds like a buzzkill; I doubt any of the guys will read it. But we can definitely teach you how to play, and I bet one or two of the guys will have a job for you. Who knows? Maybe we can get a round of strip poker going.” He winked at me.

A job for me. Sure.

I swallowed, mentally pushing away the image of a man towering over me -- The Man in the Blue Suit.  I was about to excuse myself to the restroom when Benji suddenly choked on a mouthful of beer and staggered back, wiping his mouth and nose.

“Shit, your eyes!” he said loudly. “How’d you do that?”

“I’m sorry, what?” I said, a bit too impatiently. A few people around us had turned to stare at Benji’s outburst.

“Your eyes! They turned fucking orange. Do you have those holographic contacts that the Asian girls wear?”

Several people tittered, fell silent and looked into their glasses at Benji’s choice of language. A few cast questioning looks toward me, the source of the sudden vulgarity at a nice party. I felt heat rising up my neck and to my face.

“Excuse me,” I said thickly.

In the ladies room, I peered into the mirror and examined my irises. My eyes were the same dull hazel they’d always been, staring back at me under mousy hair. Benji must’ve been more buzzed than I thought. It was stupid of me to waste time talking to him when I should’ve been making connections elsewhere.

This is so desperate-feeling. Why do I have to walk around with an ulterior motive? Why can’t I just enjoy the party like everyone else?

Because everyone else has a job, honey. They’ve earned the time off. You haven’t. 

I exited the bathroom and promptly ran into Deon. He handed me a clear plastic cup.

“Punch,” he said simply. I took a few gulps of the candy-sweet liquid.

“How’d it go with Benji?” Deon asked.

I arched my eyebrows at him over the rim of the cup, and took another silent sip.

“That well, huh?”

I put the cup down and sniffed. “Sarah suggested I talk to your clients rather than your co-workers. Nothing against the rest of the Denner staff, but I’m thinking I should take her advice for the moment. Can you point me in the direction of any business owners or hiring managers?”

 “Err…” Deon shoved his hands back in his pockets and looked around half-heartedly. He turned back to me.

“Maybe if I knew where to start. What’s your elevator pitch, again?”

I sighed. I’d been through this with him; with so many people over the last few years, I’d lost count.

“I just want to work. I have a college degree; I can do basic administrative assistant stuff or maybe junior account management. I can do retail, shift management… hell, I’ll even clean toilets for a decent hourly.”

Deon wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “That sounds… kind of unambitious. What do you want to do?”

This was the part where, despite their attempts to be helpful, I wanted to shake people. It was an effort not to growl through gritted teeth that life wasn’t that simple – at least not for me. Pie-in-the-sky musings about career aspirations and one’s “true calling” -- those were luxuries I was not entitled to anymore.

I didn’t have a Masters degree in finance with a knack for computer networking, like Deon. I didn’t live for the thrill of the sale, like Benji. I didn’t have the ability or passion for teaching practical things, like geometry or algebra, which Sarah taught. The fact that institutions no longer had the money to employ art teachers – much less, art therapists – had left me humbled and willing to take whatever job I could get my hands on to make rent.

Which had led to things that I couldn’t afford to think about. Not now.

“What I want to do doesn’t matter, because it’s not going to make me any money,” I said to Deon, trying to keep it simple.

“Not with that attitude, it won’t,” Deon replied evenly. To avoid rolling my eyes at him, I looked over his shoulder through a window onto a balcony. A cigar and brandy table had been set up. A herd of white men in their fifties and sixties stood in clusters, talking, gesturing and waving their smoking stubs in the crisp air.

Then, through the haze, I saw two pairs of eyes staring at me. Steady, and unblinking.

“Alex?”

I jumped. Deon was apparently still expecting me to spout my career mission statement. 

“I…” I glanced at him, then back over his shoulder. Out on the balcony, in the spot where I thought I’d seen two dark figures, was instead a middle-aged couple talking quietly. Maybe I was seeing things… light distortion through the wet windows, or maybe the punch was stiffer that I realized.

“You’re not wrong, Deon,” I said, trying to regain focus. “I should have something more confident-sounding under my belt, a shpiel, a… a bit. But walking around telling people how I’m going to cure anxiety and depression with colored pencils is not going to get me hired anytime soon.”

“Okay, but you know different types of design software, right?”

“Yeah, about the same as your average high school graduate.”

“Well, let’s try to think positive here: What sets you apart?”

Christ. Again with the motivational-speaker, career-counselor bullshit…

 “I don’t know, Deon. I have a higher-than-average grasp on psychology – but no actual, non-intern clinical hours to match – and a resume that looks like it was stitched together by Victor Frankenstien, with holes you could drive a car through.”  I could tell he was getting exasperated with me, but I didn’t know what else to say. He was starting to poke at very tender spots, and in public, no less. There was nowhere to hide if I started to spiral down. 

“So… what?” he pressed. “You’re just going to do odd jobs forever and live in my spare bedroom indefinitely? Or just wait until some guy comes along to slap a ring on your finger and take care of all your problems?”

I glared at him.  “You’re trying to light a fire under my ass by pissing me off, and I don’t appreciate it.”

“Sorry,” Deon responded, not sounding sorry at all. “I just thought you were ready to do some serious networking tonight. There’s more to it than just getting dressed up and shaking hands and asking questions. If that’s all you really care about, don’t go to an office party. Go to a speed-dating event at a bar. It’s no better than those online dates you’ve been going on anyway.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so quick to typecast me as a husband-hunter with no work ethic,” I grumbled.

“All I’m saying is that no one here is going to take you seriously if you can’t stand up tall and say what you do – other than wait tables and answer the phone.” 

“What’s so wrong with that?” I was aware my voice was rising. I tried to damper it down, but it made my stomach burn. “Is that not prestigious or ambitious enough for you? I’m not looking for a sugar daddy; I want to work. I want to make my own money. But if I can’t get paid decently to do something I care about, I have to be ready to do whatever else people want or need. Why is that so unrespectable to people like you?”

Deon looked stung. “What do you mean, people like me? People who want real careers making real money?”

“Never mind.” I closed my eyes and blew out a breath. Cool, self-assured people like Deon were cut out for this high-powered career stuff. I just wasn’t. But Deon wasn't going to hear that; he'd just accuse me of being defeatist. 

“I’m being short-tempered,” I muttered. “I’m sorry; being examined like this doesn’t exactly bolster my self-worth. I’m gonna go get some air.” I walked toward the door to the balcony, making it two guys I’d walked away from in the past twenty minutes.

Great. Deon and Benji are my only feet in the door so far, and I probably look like a piece of work, stomping off…

How do I make myself belong in their world?

It was cool outside, but I barely noticed. I made a beeline for an open area by the railing, away from the cigar smoke and loud chatter. Checking myself not to slump over the steel banister like a sulking kid, I took a breath and looked out over the skyline: the river, the bridges, the few skyscrapers.

What am I doing here? 

Pull yourself together and smile and shake some hands, otherwise the night will be wasted.

But Deon has a point. What will you say to make people want to hire you? What are you selling?

Myself?

A stiff breeze blew out of the north and I caught a strong scent that wasn’t cigar smoke. It was like… 

Like warm wood and cold rivers at the same time. 

I turned, and suddenly met eyes with the couple I’d seen earlier. They were walking toward me. And how I’d ever passed them off as a normal couple, I couldn’t say.

They looked like movie stars; like golden-age Hollywood actors from a bygone era, and they moved like models. A leisurely yet confident pace, upright and composed but somehow still languid and at-ease.

She had long, dark hair tied back in a low, elegant ponytail. Full lips and cat-like green eyes were accentuated with impeccable, classic makeup on an angular face. Under an elegant fur stole, she wore a long black dress with a high collar, and a slit up to her thigh. I suddenly had a new life goal: a body like hers when I was her age, even though I had no idea what that was. She could’ve been 37 or 57, or anywhere in between. How was that possible?

His age was equally impossible to guess. Silvering hair flashed against blue eyes, and a well-kept goatee accented a handsomely-rugged yet spry-looking face. He wore a tailored black tuxedo, with a pocket square that matched the amber tones of the fur draped over his partner’s shoulders.

They were definitely approaching me, but that didn’t make any sense. What could the most attractive people at the party possibly have to say to me?

“Hello, how are you?” I blurted. I felt my voice deepen, my shoulders square up, and a nervous smile creep across my face; all part of the same strange instinct to try to appear more… anything. More adult, more confident, more comfortable – something.

“We’re excellent, miss,” the man replied, with a smile that crackled invitingly like a campfire. “How about yourself?” 

Alarm bells sounded in my head: Womanizer. 

Luckily, the threat of him charming me speechless was lessened; I had never really been attracted to older and/or taken men. But he had been, without a doubt, a capital-L Ladykiller in his prime, and perhaps still was. Sophistication and warmth mixed perfectly in his voice. Where the gaze of other men would dart and roam, he looked you directly in the eyes, holding you gently, respectfully.

“I’m well, thank you. I’m not one for cigars, but I thought I’d take in the view. I’m new in town.”

Don’t yammer at them, woman.

“I’m Alex,” I finished, holding out my hand to her.

“Alexandra,” the woman purred. If his voice was molasses, then hers was brandy. Out of her mouth, my full name sounded like the title of a Harlequin romance paperback, rather than ostentatious formal print on a birth certificate. “It’s a pleasure. I’m Angela; this is my husband Richard.”

“What brings you to us, Alex?” the silverfox asked. He shook my hand firmly but easily.

I could feel the strain easing out of my smile, but I hesitated.  Were they asking how I came to be in Oregon? Or how I had fumbled my way into this party where I clearly didn’t belong? I tried to answer both questions succinctly.

“I’m here with my friend, Deon Blakely. He’s an operations manager for Denner & Birch. His wife and I go way back. They offered to let me live with them for a while, and he brought me along tonight so I can network a bit, maybe find a job.” I could only pray that I didn’t come across as pathetic as I sounded to myself.

“That’s really smart, on your part,” applauded Richard. “It can be difficult to put yourself out there when you’re still adjusting to a new place. I’ve been there myself.”

Although it was hard for me to imagine Richard ever being uncomfortable in any situation, I found myself believing him. He and his wife seemed under absolutely no pressure to pretend anything to anyone.

“I have so much admiration for young people who follow their hearts,” Angela said. “You have the rest of your lives to do the usual, mundane things the world expects you to do. Go out there and take chances while you can, I say.  Live in new places, try different jobs.”

“Easier said than done, I’m sure,” Richard grinned. “The bills still have to be paid.” He finally averted his eyes and glanced at our surroundings. “We have a tendency to forget that, honey.”

“I suppose I’m adaptable enough to get the bills paid,” I said, looking down at the concrete. “but I’d really rather find someplace where I fit in, instead of flying by the seat of my pants and taking whatever holdover job I happen to collide with.” I looked out over the river.  “If there’s any adventure in that, I’ll tell you: it wears away after a few years and a few layoffs.”

What are you saying?

No. More. Punch. So much for trying to appear sophisticated and capable, you twit. Honesty is one thing, but these people don’t need -- or care -- to hear your life’s sob story.

“You seem like an educated woman,” Angela mused. “May I ask what you studied at university? I get the feeling you wanted to do something practical, but also refused to let go of your passions.”

I smiled wryly. She read me like an open book. But I still felt the compulsion to be completely honest with both of them. If they laughed or rolled their eyes at my degree like other people did, fine. What did I have to lose?

“I have a Bachelor of Arts degree in art education, with an emphasis in art therapy. I wrote my senior thesis on so-called ‘practical’ applications of fine motor techniques to treatment of anxiety spectrum disorders.”

Richard and Angela looked at each other and smiled like two children on Christmas morning. Before I could ask what was so exciting, Angela turned back.

“Have you had a chance to try these techniques on a student? And document the results? Since graduation, I mean.”

“Honestly, no. There’s not a lot of formal research being done. There’s just not the funding for it. The biggest and most profitable development to come out of the field is the sale of those ‘therapeutic’ coloring books. What I want – well, what I thought I wanted – was to take that a step further and integrate color theory and emotional response, basic textile science, verbal and visual symbolism…. to teach a variety of useful things – and coping mechanisms -- while making the students feel like they’re just experimenting with crafts and different art styles, rather than being stuck in a therapy session.”

I was caught up again in the ambition and optimism I’d felt in school, flashing my liberal-arts heart on my sleeve for everyone to see. What I needed to do was beg for a rank-and-file clerk job.

Stupid, stupid…

“I’m so sorry. I’m blabbering at you two.”

“Not at all! Please, we… we’re actually very interested,” Richard said, smiling excitedly to me and then back to his wife.

“Yes, this is fantastic,” Angela continued. “Richard and I have been talking about hiring some sort of tutor or therapist for our son, but we just weren’t sure where to start. He doesn’t need psychiatric care, per se, but… how to put this?” She looked at Richard.

“He’s different,” Richard said, somewhat bluntly. “He’s brilliant. Out-paced his classmates and got bored; we eventually just paid to have him homeschooled. But his brain – well, his body, too – works a little differently.”

I nodded, trying to keep up. “Has he been diagnosed as being on the Autism or Anxiety Disorder spectrums, at all?”

Angela didn’t meet my eyes, and I panicked that I’d overstepped.

“We haven’t had him tested, formally,” Richard said. “We didn’t see the point. We believe the condition is genetic, and whatever it is, it certainly isn’t degenerative – it’s barely noticeable, I think, to most people. Daniel is very high-functioning, but since we keep him sequestered, it’s hard to know how he’s developing socially. We would love for someone to assess and work with him.”

The words “Wow! Are you offering me a job?” should’ve popped out of my mouth.

“You keep him sequestered?” was what I said instead, before I could stop myself.

Dammit. That was definitely overstepping.

“Daniel is immunocompromised,” Angela explained quickly. “But so long as he stays in or near our home – areas that his body is acclimated to -- he’s fine.” 

“Yes, absolutely,” Richard chimed in. “Daniel doesn’t need someone with a medical degree, and he finished his GED years ago, so he doesn’t need a strictly-academic tutor. But there’s some…. things that he needs to work through as he gets older and learns to manage his condition on his own. We want to give him a more varied set of tools to deal with it than what we, or traditional medicine, can offer.”

“I know this is all rather sudden,” Angela continued.  “But we would love for you to meet him. Especially since you’re looking for work anyway. It seems you may be exactly what we’ve been looking for.”