Free Looking for Me by Beth Hoffman Page A

once, while filling napkin dispensers and writing the daily specials on the blackboard behind the counter, I thought about the typewriter that Mama had given me for graduation and how much she’d wanted me to go to secretarial school. If she found out about my current predicament, I knew she’d lambaste me with a big
“
I told you so
”
lecture, so I didn’t tell her—or anybody else, for that matter.
    A month after I began waitressing tables, I was walking to work and saw a man put a For Rent sign in the window of Mr. Palmer’s old shop. That sign gnawed at me something awful, and I turned around and knocked on the door.
    When the man opened the door, I smiled and said, “Hello. My name’s Teddi Overman. I used to work here when Mr. Palmer owned it. I’d like to talk to you about renting this building.”
    He eyed me up and down, taking in my baggy waitress uniform and scuffed-up shoes. I had barely begun explaining what I wanted to do when he interrupted me. “What kind of collateral do you have?”
    That question brought me up short. “Well, I . . . I have a car, and I’ve saved up almost seven thousand dollars.”
    He shook his head and closed the door.
    After working my shift, I ran home, changed into my best dress, and set off for the bank where I had my savings account. I pleaded my case to the manager, a bald little man who looked disarmingly like a mole. When I believed I had his interest, I told him I’d need about thirty thousand dollars. The moment that number left my lips, he avoided my eyes and began shuffling papers on his desk. “I’m sorry, Miss Overman. We couldn’t possibly loan you that amount of money . . .”
    I left the bank feeling emptied of hope.

    Months passed, and still the For Rent sign remained in the window of Mr. Palmer’s old shop. The lettering had faded from the sun, and its edges were starting to curl.
    Most days I felt lost, and sometimes I was scared, yet I believed I could run my own business if somebody would just give me a chance. But I didn’t know who that somebody was. It wasn’t until I was in the pharmacy and began talking with Miz Tedra Calhoun in the checkout line that I got an idea.
    “You know, Teddi, I had a lovely fund-raising luncheon at my home a few weeks ago, and everyone raved about the decoupage you did on that chest.”
    “Thank you. I loved doing it.”
    “I’m so sorry Mr. Palmer passed away. This town won’t be the same without him. So how are you doing, Teddi? Where are you working now?”
    I felt ashamed when I answered, “Marty’s Diner. But only until I find a job working with furniture.”
    Miz Calhoun reached out and patted my hand, “Well, with all your talent I’m sure someone will snap you up in no time. It was nice chatting with you, honey. You take good care.” She gathered her purchase, and with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand she walked out the door.
    Tedra Calhoun had something special that was hard to define. I guessed she was in her mid-fifties—one of those women who knew exactly how to apply makeup and dress to perfection. She wasn’t a natural-born beauty, yet she exuded the illusion of beauty, which, as far as I was concerned, was a kind of beauty unto itself. As I watched her move down the sidewalk in a graceful stride, wearing her lime green suit and creamy pearls, I set off after her.
    “Miz Calhoun,” I said, running up to her side. “Do you have a few minutes? I’d like to tell you about an idea I have . . .”
    We walked slowly as I told her how much I’d learned while working for Mr. Palmer and why I believed I could be a successful shop owner. “I’m a hard worker, Miz Calhoun. Mr. Palmer said I had a real eye for knowing what had value. And I’m patient, too. I never rush my work. I figure you know just about everyone in Charleston, so I was wondering if you might put in a good word for me at one of the banks. If somebody would only give me a chance . . .”
    My words bumped