Carolina Mist Read Free Page A

said that to her once, she recalled as she stepped into the steaming water. Who … ?
    Oh. Alex. Alex Kane. He had said that, that last summer. Must be ten years now , she mused. At least ten.
    Her hair had been more red when she was younger, and t hat’s what he had called her when they were children: Red. And she had retaliated by calling him Candy. Candy Kane.
    She stepped from the shower and wrapped a towel around her head before reaching for her terry-cloth robe. The hot water had helped to clear her head. She had allowed herself enough time to mourn for what could have been at White- Edwards. She would focus on what had to be done, update her resume, pull out the Sunday paper, and make a list of headhunters. She was down but not out. There was no more time for self-pity. White-Edwards could keep its outplacement service. Abigail McKenna wouldn’t need it, thank you very much. She’d have a new job in no time. She was certain of it.
    With the return of the first fragments of her former confidence, her innate sense of determination urged her on. Abby snapped off the bathroom light and headed for the PC in the corner of the living room.
     
     
    I t had not taken long for Abby to recognize that there was a major difference between job hunting in the nineties and job hunting in the eighties. Good jobs with great futures had been plentiful when she left college. Today’s market was overflowing with candidates just like her—top skills, great experience, superb references—and all of them competing with her for the same few positions. Middle management, the land of opportunity of the eighties, was a wasteland in the nineties.
    Oh, she had heard about it, read about it. But all those articles pertained to someone else. Some other companies had phased out certain positions. Some other fields had dried up. It had never been germane to her. Until the headhunter she interviewed with on her first day out showed her a stack of resumes the size of a phone book.
    “All just like you, Ms. McKenna. All highly qualified, highly desirable prospects. I have exactly three positions at your level—none of them in investment counseling, I might add—and seventy-three resumes.” The employment counselor sat back in her chair and sighed. “Look, I’d love to be able to help you. I’d kill to be able to place every one of these people.” She nodded toward the resumes she had plunked down on her desk. “But the positions simply aren’t there. There are entry-level jobs—not many, but a few—paying a fraction of what you’re making now. Are you interested in any of them?”
    Abby leaned forward and scanned the short list of positions, noted the salaries, and shook her head. She’d not even make her rent.
    “No,” she whispered.
    “Look, I’ll keep your resume on file. If anything co mes up, I’ll be sure to call… ”
    Abby walked back to her apartment in a fog of disbelief and disappointment. She’d call another employment agency in the morning. Surely there’d be something.
    But there was not, not the next day, or the next week, or the one after that.
    She started buying out-of-town newspapers, calling employment services in Baltimore, Trenton, Lancaster, D.C., even Pittsburgh. Nothing was promising enough to spend the money for travel.
    By the end of September, she was beginning to panic. Faced with a stack of bills, her rent due, and no prospects, she pulled out her savings account, her checking account, the list of her meager investments. She had received eight weeks of severance pay, which she had just about depleted, and there would be unemployment, she knew, but that wouldn’t even cover the rent on her apartment. At this rate, she could last three months, four maybe, if she stopped eating, used no electricity, and had her phone removed. She had thought there would be plenty of time to save for her future. Unfortunately, the future had arrived much sooner than she’d anticipated, and she was totally unprepared