way.
“ Well, if you ever have
any questions, you can call me.” She handed me her card, which had
her name on it. Martie Grimes. I wondered if it had made it easier
to get into the FBI with a name that could be a man’s or a woman’s
name. I didn’t ask.
The green-eyed Bond
look-a-like handed me his card, too. “I’m James.” He said. “James
Connery.” Then he grinned. “I think my mother and father have a
fine sense of humor, don’t you, Molly?” His eyes were quite
unfairly, quite vibrantly, green.
“ Yes.” My phone alarm went
off, alerting me of the time. I shook my head. “No, no. I have
children. A husband. I’m not spy material. I drive
carpool.”
I tried to hand the
brochure and the cards back.
“ Keep them,” he said.
“Just in case you change your mind.”
Martie said nothing. I
wondered if her silence was encouragement, or
discouragement.
I kept hold of the info,
and hurried off to the next booth, and the next. I had a notepad
out, and under the guise of making notes on jobs to keep Seth
happy, I wrote down the details needed for the real shop, on
Katrina’s company.
I had a respectable
collection of five business cards, twenty brochures, and three
applications, as I hurried out of the job fair, paying less
attention to the carefully crafted posters and table displays and
more attention to the fact that most of the people working the
booths looked less than thrilled to be there.
That’s the thing about
mystery shopping; it gives you a chance to check out a lot of other
jobs — and see just how little the people who had them actually
enjoyed doing them.
Back at home, Anna and Ryan collected and sorted into their
respective homework corners, I started the laundry first and dinner
second, feeling disoriented, as if I were wearing someone else’s
skin.
I’d begun the day trying
to imagine my dream man for a dating shop, talked serial killers
with Deb, and then played spy under the eye of a real live spy.
What would Anna say if I told her? Not that I would tell her. That
child worried enough as it was.
Seth came in with his
typical, “What’s for dinner?” and even that felt different somehow.
His eyes were a beautiful hazel behind his glasses, but they didn’t
look at me the way the Fed had looked at me. As if I just may,
possibly, be spy material.
I floated through the
dinner and bedtime routine like a zombie, not lost in thought, as
much as avoiding thought.
When it was time to do my
reports, though, I had to focus in and get them done. No report, no
payment, after all. I didn’t mention the FBI agent. It would have
been like taking points off because the woman was distracted by a
UFO. That would
be totally unfair.
I did mention the son.
Connor. I felt guilty about that, but she was the one who had
brought him along, and she was his mother, so she’d known him well
enough to at least suspect what a bad idea it would be. Mothers. We
always hope for the best, even when it is the longest long-shot in
the universe.
A longer shot than finding
a Greek God of an FBI agent at the next table. Or a UFO.
After the reports, I
decided it was time to figure out why I was still a little weirded
out by my dating site assignment, so I got onto my mystery shoppers
list and posted quickly.
“ Hey. Anyone else ever do
a dating shop? Felt weird even though I didn’t have to actually
post my stuff to the site. I am married, after all. But it was a
$20 bonus for a $10 shop. Couldn’t pass up the opportunity to
please my scheduler, could I? Or should I have? Do you think it
counts as cheating?”
I didn’t think it counted
as cheating. But I still felt funny. I often told Seth about my
shops, even when he really wasn’t that interested.
For once, I wasn’t sure
how he would react, despite the fact that I’d been paid what he
would consider a decent wage for what really amounted to a minimum
of work. In fact, I wasn’t sure I would tell him at all. And I
didn’t like that. As
“ Well, if you ever have
any questions, you can call me.” She handed me her card, which had
her name on it. Martie Grimes. I wondered if it had made it easier
to get into the FBI with a name that could be a man’s or a woman’s
name. I didn’t ask.
The green-eyed Bond
look-a-like handed me his card, too. “I’m James.” He said. “James
Connery.” Then he grinned. “I think my mother and father have a
fine sense of humor, don’t you, Molly?” His eyes were quite
unfairly, quite vibrantly, green.
“ Yes.” My phone alarm went
off, alerting me of the time. I shook my head. “No, no. I have
children. A husband. I’m not spy material. I drive
carpool.”
I tried to hand the
brochure and the cards back.
“ Keep them,” he said.
“Just in case you change your mind.”
Martie said nothing. I
wondered if her silence was encouragement, or
discouragement.
I kept hold of the info,
and hurried off to the next booth, and the next. I had a notepad
out, and under the guise of making notes on jobs to keep Seth
happy, I wrote down the details needed for the real shop, on
Katrina’s company.
I had a respectable
collection of five business cards, twenty brochures, and three
applications, as I hurried out of the job fair, paying less
attention to the carefully crafted posters and table displays and
more attention to the fact that most of the people working the
booths looked less than thrilled to be there.
That’s the thing about
mystery shopping; it gives you a chance to check out a lot of other
jobs — and see just how little the people who had them actually
enjoyed doing them.
Back at home, Anna and Ryan collected and sorted into their
respective homework corners, I started the laundry first and dinner
second, feeling disoriented, as if I were wearing someone else’s
skin.
I’d begun the day trying
to imagine my dream man for a dating shop, talked serial killers
with Deb, and then played spy under the eye of a real live spy.
What would Anna say if I told her? Not that I would tell her. That
child worried enough as it was.
Seth came in with his
typical, “What’s for dinner?” and even that felt different somehow.
His eyes were a beautiful hazel behind his glasses, but they didn’t
look at me the way the Fed had looked at me. As if I just may,
possibly, be spy material.
I floated through the
dinner and bedtime routine like a zombie, not lost in thought, as
much as avoiding thought.
When it was time to do my
reports, though, I had to focus in and get them done. No report, no
payment, after all. I didn’t mention the FBI agent. It would have
been like taking points off because the woman was distracted by a
UFO. That would
be totally unfair.
I did mention the son.
Connor. I felt guilty about that, but she was the one who had
brought him along, and she was his mother, so she’d known him well
enough to at least suspect what a bad idea it would be. Mothers. We
always hope for the best, even when it is the longest long-shot in
the universe.
A longer shot than finding
a Greek God of an FBI agent at the next table. Or a UFO.
After the reports, I
decided it was time to figure out why I was still a little weirded
out by my dating site assignment, so I got onto my mystery shoppers
list and posted quickly.
“ Hey. Anyone else ever do
a dating shop? Felt weird even though I didn’t have to actually
post my stuff to the site. I am married, after all. But it was a
$20 bonus for a $10 shop. Couldn’t pass up the opportunity to
please my scheduler, could I? Or should I have? Do you think it
counts as cheating?”
I didn’t think it counted
as cheating. But I still felt funny. I often told Seth about my
shops, even when he really wasn’t that interested.
For once, I wasn’t sure
how he would react, despite the fact that I’d been paid what he
would consider a decent wage for what really amounted to a minimum
of work. In fact, I wasn’t sure I would tell him at all. And I
didn’t like that. As
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