headaches?”
Groggins found Father Tully’s naïveté surprising in this day and age. “A generation or so ago—and practically forever before that—it would have been cause for scandal. Women were homemakers. Women—and I know that you know this was the measure of their success, Father—anyway, women stayed home, nurtured their husbands and their kids, went to church and church meetings. Husbands did important work and brought home the paycheck.
“But that’s history. Women still enter the workforce with a strike or two against them. But they definitely compete.
“And that’s what Nancy’s doing: She’s competing—in this case, against Al Ulrich. It doesn’t make any difference how much I’m making; she has to score on her own.
“I’m sure you know there’s a side issue here, Father. Whoever gets the new job will be Tom Adams’s fair-haired child. I mean, Nancy and Al are already favored employees of Adams Bank. But whoever is chosen here will … have a chance to go on to greater things.”
The seemingly never stationary waiters bestowed pasta as the next course.
“So,” Tully said, “there’s a lot hinging on Tom Adams’s choice.”
Groggins nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll say! You’re about the only one at this entire party who will be unaffected by that choice.”
Father Tully thought for a moment. “Me? Myself, alone? What about you? You don’t seem to have much riding on this event. How would your lifestyle be involved?”
Groggins shrugged. “If Nancy isn’t the choice, we’re going to have some instant replays, a lot of recrimination, and not a small amount of resentment and even anger.”
“And if she wins this appointment?”
“There’ll be some arguments about our enhanced capability. Should we wait for what seems certain to be an executive vice presidency? Should we be upwardly mobile right away? Should we move up even after the appointment? Things like that.
“But let me tell you, Reverend, whatever Nancy and I go through one way or another will be nothing— nothing —compared with what the other folks will have to manage.”
“All of them?”
Groggins spread his large hands on the table and nodded gravely.
The pasta was followed by a scoop of Italian ices as a palate cleanser. Then came the salad.
Groggins leaned toward the priest confidingly. “Romaine with cashews and hearts of palm and mustard vinaigrette. And, Reverend, it might be a good idea for you to forget how much all this costs. Otherwise you might be sorely tempted to turn down everything like you did the caviar.”
Father Tully forked through the salad. It was delicious, as had been everything so far.
As they ate, both the priest and Groggins briefly studied the other diners. There might have been five or six separate conversations going on. No one was paying any attention to the Tully-Groggins tête-à-tête.
Apparently, they were free to talk of anything or anyone they pleased with no repercussion from the other diners, who seemed to have forgotten them.
“God forgive me,” the priest said, “but I find this captivating. I mean, I don’t have any stake in any of this. I’ll probably never see any of you again. So why am I so interested in what’s going on?”
Groggins grinned. “Ever watch a soap opera, Reverend?”
“Can’t say that I have.” A smile spread slowly across the priest’s face. “A living, breathing soap opera, is it? Well, God help me, I’m hooked. I never thought such a thing could be. But I am.”
The pièce de résistance arrived.
“Steak!” Tully exclaimed.
Groggins was amused. “Black Angus sirloin strip with onions and pinot noir sauce,” he clarified. “And vegetable garnish.” Noting the priest’s somewhat quizzical expression, Groggins grinned again. “Nancy was in on the planning. She told me—in great detail—what we’d be eating tonight.”
As they fell to, the priest and Groggins again studied the other diners, who, unimpeded by
Groggins found Father Tully’s naïveté surprising in this day and age. “A generation or so ago—and practically forever before that—it would have been cause for scandal. Women were homemakers. Women—and I know that you know this was the measure of their success, Father—anyway, women stayed home, nurtured their husbands and their kids, went to church and church meetings. Husbands did important work and brought home the paycheck.
“But that’s history. Women still enter the workforce with a strike or two against them. But they definitely compete.
“And that’s what Nancy’s doing: She’s competing—in this case, against Al Ulrich. It doesn’t make any difference how much I’m making; she has to score on her own.
“I’m sure you know there’s a side issue here, Father. Whoever gets the new job will be Tom Adams’s fair-haired child. I mean, Nancy and Al are already favored employees of Adams Bank. But whoever is chosen here will … have a chance to go on to greater things.”
The seemingly never stationary waiters bestowed pasta as the next course.
“So,” Tully said, “there’s a lot hinging on Tom Adams’s choice.”
Groggins nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll say! You’re about the only one at this entire party who will be unaffected by that choice.”
Father Tully thought for a moment. “Me? Myself, alone? What about you? You don’t seem to have much riding on this event. How would your lifestyle be involved?”
Groggins shrugged. “If Nancy isn’t the choice, we’re going to have some instant replays, a lot of recrimination, and not a small amount of resentment and even anger.”
“And if she wins this appointment?”
“There’ll be some arguments about our enhanced capability. Should we wait for what seems certain to be an executive vice presidency? Should we be upwardly mobile right away? Should we move up even after the appointment? Things like that.
“But let me tell you, Reverend, whatever Nancy and I go through one way or another will be nothing— nothing —compared with what the other folks will have to manage.”
“All of them?”
Groggins spread his large hands on the table and nodded gravely.
The pasta was followed by a scoop of Italian ices as a palate cleanser. Then came the salad.
Groggins leaned toward the priest confidingly. “Romaine with cashews and hearts of palm and mustard vinaigrette. And, Reverend, it might be a good idea for you to forget how much all this costs. Otherwise you might be sorely tempted to turn down everything like you did the caviar.”
Father Tully forked through the salad. It was delicious, as had been everything so far.
As they ate, both the priest and Groggins briefly studied the other diners. There might have been five or six separate conversations going on. No one was paying any attention to the Tully-Groggins tête-à-tête.
Apparently, they were free to talk of anything or anyone they pleased with no repercussion from the other diners, who seemed to have forgotten them.
“God forgive me,” the priest said, “but I find this captivating. I mean, I don’t have any stake in any of this. I’ll probably never see any of you again. So why am I so interested in what’s going on?”
Groggins grinned. “Ever watch a soap opera, Reverend?”
“Can’t say that I have.” A smile spread slowly across the priest’s face. “A living, breathing soap opera, is it? Well, God help me, I’m hooked. I never thought such a thing could be. But I am.”
The pièce de résistance arrived.
“Steak!” Tully exclaimed.
Groggins was amused. “Black Angus sirloin strip with onions and pinot noir sauce,” he clarified. “And vegetable garnish.” Noting the priest’s somewhat quizzical expression, Groggins grinned again. “Nancy was in on the planning. She told me—in great detail—what we’d be eating tonight.”
As they fell to, the priest and Groggins again studied the other diners, who, unimpeded by
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