The Claremont Center sat on the edge of town on six acres that spread along the river. At one time it had been a working plantation. The three-hundred acre estate had been broken up and sold off over the years and in 1986, Gregory Claremont, a local textile tycoon and his wife Jillian had bought the decaying manor house and surrounding property and pumped millions into fixing it up.
Jillian had been some sort of Broadway star in the 1970s and a well-known champion of the performing arts. At that time the closest playhouse was an hour and a half away. So with their considerable fortune they had turned the stately home into one of the most illustrious performance halls on the east coast.
I parked my car and started walking toward the front of the building. The lawn was impeccably manicured and the large windows twinkled in the early morning sun. The frost still clung to the grass, making it crunch beneath my feet.
I had tried to shake my early morning conversation with Cole on the drive over. Sitting in traffic listening to angry chick music had gone a long way in soothing my jangled emotions.
I refused to fixate on the thousand meanings to our phone call. I couldn’t let myself dissect and tear apart everything he had said to me.
And I sure as hell wouldn’t think too long about the girl’s voice I had heard in the background. Because if I did, my professional first impression would go right out the window.
I was proud of myself when I was able to simmer down and change the radio station to something more upbeat. By the time I pulled into the parking lot out front of my new place of employment, I was feeling much better.
And now my emotions took a nosedive again. Anger being replaced by plain ole nerves.
I was still in a bit of shock that I had gotten the job. I was totally underqualified but obviously I had made someone think I was competent. I really wish I knew how I had achieved that particular feat. I just hoped this job lasted longer than the others.
I desperately needed to get my act together. I couldn’t expect my parents to give me money for the rest of my life. Even if mooching came naturally, I’d still like to have something to show for the four years I spent at college. Believe it or not, I did have some pride.
I walked through the large, oak doors and stood in the middle of the grand foyer, trying to figure out where I was supposed to go. One entire wall was made of glass and overlooked the river. A baby grand piano stood off in the corner. A wide staircase led to the second floor balcony.
A door opened and shut and I turned to see a petite woman with beautifully coiffed grey hair walking toward me. I recognized her from my second interview as Marion Vandy, the Director of Events and Programs for The Claremont Center.
“Vivian! Hello!” she said, holding out her hand for me to shake. Her palm was warm and dry and she gave me a calm and collected smile. She needed to share some of that composure because I was starting to quake in my fantastic pumps.
“Nice to see you! And five minutes early as well! Great start!” she complimented, releasing my hand and gesturing toward the hallway she had come from. I didn’t feel the need to explain that I had broken several traffic laws in getting here.
“I like to make a good first impression,” I said demurely, hiding my trembling hands behind my back and trying to choke the fluttering butterflies in my stomach.
“Impression is everything,” Marion said with a nod, leading me into a spacious office. “Have a seat.” She indicated a comfortable looking chair as she took her place behind a massive desk made from dark, shiny wood.
“There’s a lot to go over. Normally you’d have at least a week to settle into your position. There’s orientation and paperwork. However, some extenuating circumstances are going to change the course of your probationary period.”
“Extenuating circumstances?” I asked, not liking the sound of that at all.