“Miss Adams?” She smiled at Grace, and sized her up immediately. She was young, and scared, but she looked bright, and she had a good look to her. “I'm Cheryl Swanson.”

“Hello. Thank you for seeing me.” Grace shook her hand across the desk, and sat down again, feeling her asthma start to fill her chest, and she prayed she wouldn't have an attack now. It was so terrifying walking in cold, asking for interviews, and then trying to talk them into hiring her. She'd been at it for almost a week, and so far there was no hope yet. And she knew that if she didn't get a job by the following week, her probation officer really would give her trouble.

“I hear you're interested in a job as a receptionist,” Cheryl said, glancing at a note her secretary had given her. “That's an important job here. You're the first face they see, the first voice. Their very first contact with Swanson's. It's important that everything you do represents who and what we are, and what we stand for. Do you know the agency?” Cheryl Swanson asked, taking off her glasses and scrutinizing Grace more closely. She had good skin, great eyes, beautiful hair. It made her wonder as she looked at her. Maybe she was just trying to get in the back door. Maybe she didn't even have to. “Are you interested in modeling, Miss Adams?” Maybe that's what this was all about, and it was all a ploy, but Grace was quick to shake her head in answer to the question. That was the last thing she wanted, guys pawing all over her, thinking she was easy because she was a model, or photographers chasing her around in a bathing suit, or less. No, thank you.

“No, I'm not. Not at all. I want a job in the office.”

“Maybe you should look beyond that,” she glanced at her note again, “Grace … maybe you should think about modeling. Stand up.” Grace did, reluctantly, and Cheryl was very pleased to see how tall she was. But Grace looked like she was about to cry, or run screaming from the office.

“I don't want to model, Mrs. Swanson. I just want to answer the phone, or type, or run errands for you, or do whatever I can … anything but model.”

“Why? Most girls are dying for a modeling career.” But Grace wasn't. She wanted a real life, a real job, a real family. She didn't want to start her new life chasing rainbows.

“It's not what I want. I want something … more … more …” she groped for the right word and then found it,“… solid.”

“Well,” Cheryl said regretfully, “we do have a job open here, but I think it's a terrible waste. How old are you, by the way?”

Grace thought about lying to her, and then decided not to. “Twenty. I have an AA degree, I can type, but not very fast. And I'll be good, and work hard, I swear it.” She was begging for the job, and Cheryl couldn't help smiling at her. She was a sensational girl, it was just such a waste to have her answering phones behind a desk. But on the other hand, she certainly set the right tone for what Swanson had to offer. She looked like one of their models.

“When can you start?” Cheryl looked at her with a motherly smile. She liked her.

“Today. Now. Whenever you like. I just came to Chicago.”

“From where?” she asked with interest, but Grace didn't want to tell her that she was from Watseka in case she had heard of her father's murder two years before, nor did she want to say she'd just come from Dwight, in case she knew about the prison.

“From Taylorville,” she lied. It was a small town two hundred miles from Chicago.

“Are your parents there?”

“My parents both died when I was in high school.” It was close enough to the truth, and vague enough not to get her in any trouble.

“Do you have any family here at all?” Cheryl Swan-son asked, looking worried about her. But Grace only shook her head.

“No one.”

“Normally, I'd ask you for references, but with no prior experience, there really isn't much point, is there? All I'd get is a nice letter from your high school gym teacher and I can see what you're made of. Welcome to the family, Grace.”

Her new boss stood up and patted her arm in warm welcome.

“I hope you'll be happy here for a long, long time, at least until you decide to start modeling,” she laughed. They had offered her the receptionist's job at a hundred a week, which was all she wanted.

Cheryl took her out into the hall, and introduced her to everyone. There were six agents, and three secretaries, two bookkeepers, and a couple of people Grace wasn't quite sure who they were, and at the end of the hall, Cheryl walked into a sumptuous office done in gray leather and suede, and introduced her to her husband. They both looked as though they were in their mid-forties, and Cheryl had already explained that they had been married for twenty years, but had no children. The models are our kids, she had said. They're our babies.

Bob Swanson sized Grace up from behind his desk, and looked at her with a warm smile that really did make her feel part of the family, and then he got up and walked around his desk to shake her hand. He was about six feet four, very rugged-looking with dark hair and blue eyes and movie star handsome. He had been a child actor in Hollywood as a kid, and a model, of course, as Cheryl had been, in New York. And eventually, they had moved to Chicago, and opened the business.

“Did you say ‘receptionist,’ “he asked his wife, “or new model?” He beamed down at her, and Grace felt as though she was home at last. They were really nice people.

“That's what I said.” Cheryl smiled at him, and it was obvious immediately that they liked each other, and worked well together. “But she's a stubborn one. She says she wants a desk job.”

“What makes you so smart?” he laughed as he looked at Grace. She was really a pretty girl, and his wife was right She could have done well as a model. “It took us years to figure that out. We learned the hard way.”

“I just know I'd never be good at it. I'm happy behind the scenes, making things work.” Just like she'd run her mother's house, and made the supply room hum at Dwight. She had a knack for organizing things, and she was willing to work long hours and do anything she had to, to get the job done.

“Well, welcome aboard, Grace. Get to work.” He sat back down at his desk again, waved at them both as they left, and sat staring at them going down the hall for a few minutes. There was something interesting about the girl, he decided as he looked at her, but he wasn't sure what it was yet. He prided himself on having a sixth sense about people.

Cheryl asked two of the secretaries to take Grace under their wings, and show her how the phone system worked, and the office machines. And by noon, it seemed as though she had always been there. Their last receptionist had quit the week before, and they'd been making do with temps in the meantime. It was a relief for everyone to have someone efficient on hand, to take calls, make appointments, and register their bookings. It was a complicated job, and required a lot of juggling at times, but by the end of the first week, she knew she loved it. The job was perfect.

When Grace reported to Louis Marquez at the end of the week there was nothing for him to complain about. She had a good job, a decent salary. She was leading a respectable life, and she was planning to move as soon as she could find a small apartment. She would have loved to live closer to work, but the apartments around Lake Shore Drive were unbelievably expensive. She was scouring the paper, looking for one, when four of the models were hanging around one afternoon, waiting to hear about a go-see. Grace was always overwhelmed by how beautiful they were, and how exquisitely put together. They had fabulous hair, perfect nails, their makeup always looked like it had been done by professionals, and their clothes made her stare at them with envy. But she still had no desire to do the kind of work they did. She didn't want to trade on her looks, or her sex appeal, or draw that kind of attention to herself. It was too much for her, emotionally. She couldn't handle it, and she knew it. After everything she'd been through in her life, her survival had depended on her ability not to attract attention. And even at twenty, it was too late for her to change that now. She liked nothing better than not being the center of attention. But the models always included her in their conversations. This time they were talking about renting a town house they'd seen. It sounded fabulous to her, but also way out of reach, they were talking about a thousand dollars. It had five bedrooms, though, and they only needed four. Maybe even fewer since one of them was thinking about getting married.

“We need someone else to come in with us,” a girl called Divina said, sounding disappointed. She was spectacular-looking, and she was Brazilian. “Any interest?” she asked Grace casually, but she couldn't imagine living with them, or being able to afford sharing a rent they could manage.

“I'm looking for a place,” she said honesdy, “but I don't think I can afford the kind of rents you'd want to pay,” she said glumly.

“If we cut this one five ways, it's only two hundred apiece,” the twenty-two-year-old German model, Brigitte, said matter-of-factly. “Could you afford that, Graze?” Grace loved her accent.

“Yeah, if I stop eating.” It meant giving up half her salary, which wouldn't leave her much for food or fun, or any other needs she might have. And she hated to dip into her savings, but she knew she could if she had to. And maybe living in a nice place, in a good neighborhood, with decent people, would be worth it. “Let me think about it.”

One of the two American girls laughed and looked at her watch. “Great. You have till four o'clock to make up your mind. We have to go look at it again, and tell them by four-thirty. Want to come?”