“Unlike Mr. Ferguson and Mrs. King, who’d been on the other side of their desks during her job interviews, Mr. Callahan (who insisted she call him Pat) sat in one of the two occasional chairs—both golden yellow and boxy—in the midst of a true workingman’s office.The man she hoped would be her next employer wore dress slacks and a white shirt, its long sleeves cuffed, exposing tanned arms with thick red-blond hair. He also sported a shiny gold watch, which she suspected was more than just toned. ...Pat Callahan seemed the kind of man who’d wear only the real deal or nothing at all.Joan kept her legs crossed at the ankles and her back straight as an ironing board, gripping the lifeline—her purse, the one thing on her that didn’t belong to Betty. Pat leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees. He held her résumé loosely between the index and middle fingers of both hands. A hi-fi phonograph in the corner of the office played a Dean Martin tune, and his right toe tapped in time.“So,”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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