GODS COUNTRY—BLAKE SHELTON
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Pelham, Alabama
September 14th, 2015
High Valley Farm
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"Mornin', ma," Morgan greeted, noticing her disheveled, crusty-eyed mother trudge from out her room.

"Whatcha doin' up so early?" she croaked.

Her mother took a plop at the wooden table and pushed out a wide, audible yawn.

Sighing, Morgan began brewing a load of coffee. "Big Red was at it again."

"That darn rooster," she chided, shaking her head. "I'm sorry sweet-cakes, I'll go 'head and tell pa he's still crowin' too early."

After handing her mother a steaming mug of straight black and pouring herself a second helping, she took a seat across from her.

She eyed her mother carefully before clearing her throat. "I got another interview today."

"What happened to the last one? Ya told me they said ya had real promise."

Morgan hesitated only briefly as she took a sip of her burnt coffee and placed it back on the ring stained table.

She shrugged. "Turns out, they already had someone in mind for the position."

"Well, they'd on just wasted yer time," she huffed, perturbed.

This was Morgan's fifth rejection since she started searching for a job back in August.

"It's alright, ma. I'll find one," she reassured. "Then we'll be able to catch up on the past rent."

"Sweet-cakes, ya know I could always ask Boone—"

She stopped her, shaking her head. "No, I ain't askin' him of that. I'll find a job, don't ya worry."

Boone had already done so much for her family and the farm. She didn't want to push it.

"Alright then." Chugging down the last bit of her coffee, her mother got up and headed to the fridge. "Imma fixin' to feed Huck and Grady. Are ya able to milk the cows before ya go?"

"Sure, ma."

Morgan grabbed her jacket from the coat rack shaped as a tree branch and threw it on. Slipping on her Wellington's, she headed out to the chipping red barn.

As she walked out, she filled her lungs with the crisp morning air and took in the sight of the green acres and rolling hills. With the sun still on the rise, it cast a redscale glow on the bucolic pastures up until she unhooked the barn doors.

"Howdy girls," she cooed, grabbing a stool and bucket from the corner of the barn. "Seems like yer pretty full today."

She snapped on some elastic gloves and gave a pat to the rear of one of the cows. Taking a seat, she gripped the utters and began filling the jars to the brim with milk. After she finished, she propped open the barn doors and led them down to the pasture to graze.

Heading back into the house, she saw her father leaned up against the stove. With a wrinkled newspaper in hand, he peered over the frame of his glasses that rested on the notches of his head.

"Mornin' kitten." He smiled, glancing up from his reading.

"Mornin'."

She stored the jars of milk in the fridge and then gave her father a peck on the cheek.

"Whatcha readin'?" she asked.

"The commodity price crash. It seems because of it the McKinley's from Whitewater Estate are goin' bankrupt."

Whitewater was a few acres down with a large swathe of land and enough profits for their inputs. They sold regularly to food distributors and were the most successful farm in the area. That's why it surprised both Morgan and her father to found out they had been struggling.

"Well, I'll be," she commented.

He nodded slowly in agreement, slight worry etching into his wrinkles.

"What's wrong, pa?"

Offering a warm smile, he folded the newspaper and tossed it on the counter. "Nothin' kitten, we'll discuss it later."

Though she was suspicious and a tad worried, she needed her mind to be focused on the job interview.

"Well, alright then. I have to head out now, but I'll be back at one."

"Where ya goin'?"

"Another interview. Hopefully somethin' good comes out of this one."

He shook his head. "I told ya before, I can handle the expenses—"

"Pa, it's fine. I have a good feelin'."

With another peck to the cheek, Morgan galloped to her room, took a quick shower and threw on her one and only pair of white-collar attire. She pulled her overly dry ginger hair in a ponytail and slicked back the flyaways with gel.

Giving herself a once over in her antique mirror, she took a deep breath.

"Ya got this Morg. Ya ain't need to be nervous. Just walk in there and be yerself ."

Ready for yet another anxiety crippling interview, she said goodbye to her parents, started her rusty pick-up truck and took off down the serpent road.

• • •
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Birmingham, Alabama
Eskinson Towers
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"Ms. Blaire?" A slender woman in a formal suit stood erect at the double doors. "Mr. Koshka's ready for you."

Leading her down a thin hallway, Morgan followed closely behind her. She looked at the exemplary artwork hung on the walls as she passed and her mind began to wonder. She tried to gauge the worth of each, and losing herself in her own train of thought, she became absentminded to the fact that the assistant's pace had slowed. If it hadn't been for the clearing of her throat, Morgan would have surly knocked into her.

She tapped her heel against the tile of the floor. "It's not wise to waste our time, Ms. Blaire. Mr. Koshka is on a tight schedule."

With an apologetic look, Morgan nodded and quickly took a couple of steps back, her wedges sounding out a couple of clunks.

With a daggered stare laced with contempt, the assistant pursed her cherry lips. "And do keep it down. This is a workplace after all."

"Sorry," Morgan whispered, finding the floor a lot  more comfortable than her inhospitable eyes.

She silently prayed that she hadn't begun on a bad note and hoped the rest of the interview went well.

They walked further down the hall until stopping at a frosted door with a bronze plaque. Unlike Morgan's brittle and bitten nails, the assistant pressed a well kempt one to the intercom button.

"Ms. Blaire, your 11:30 is here."

With a buzz and a click, she hauled open the door and gestured for Morgan inside.

Taking a quick breather, she straightened herself and set a foot in the vast office space. Rare, high-priced artifacts decorated the walls and corners, cluttered and overwhelming. She was in awe by the design's but had learned from her earlier slip-up. She focused on the task at hand.

A businessman, possibly in his late forties, stood on the far side of the room, pouring himself coffee from a droning machine.

"I'll be right there."

Morgan nodded and found a seat on a yellow suede chair. It was hard, firm, and uncomfortable.

She reminded herself of her posture and sat erect. It was by far stilted and foreign in comparison to her natural slouch, but Morgan truly believed that her country tang had caused her a lack of employment.

Mr. Koshka walked over and took a seat, sipping on his gold-rimmed mug before swiveling his chair towards her. His eyes lapped her from top to bottom, making her to feel even more self-conscious than she already was.

After his careful examination, he flipped open her resume and skimmed through the file. As his eyes shifted back up to her, there lay a complete lack of interest within his steely gaze.

"Firstly, I've always been a man of frankness, so I'm just going to tell it to you straight. From what I can gather from your resume, there is nothing that qualifies you for this temp work." Mr. Koshka leaned back in his chair. "Or any other position here for that matter."

Any hope that Morgan had held out was gone, her disappointment and frustration meshing with the pit in her stomach.

"You're better off working somewhere else less challenging."

She felt as if someone had slapped her across the face. Though his words were subtle, she was sure he was insulting her. The judgement behind his stare made her want to crawl under a rock and hide.

"Even your euphemism is callous, friend," a voice called from behind her.

Morgan stared down at her hands as her thumbs twiddle one another, not having the energy to take a look at the newcomer. She felt hopeless and crushed.

"Atlas. Do you not see that I'm in the middle of something?" Mr. Koshka growled.

"In the middle of belittling this young woman? Yes, I can see that clearly." Atlas' voice dripped with sarcasm.

Mr. Koshka's eyes narrowed. "This does not concern you."

"Doesn't it?"

The shuffling of shoes across the granite tile drew closer until they stopped a few feet from Morgan. She was now a wide-eyed bystander in their confrontation.

"Last time I checked, I'm the chairman of Eskinson."

"And I am the CEO," he countered. "This is highly unprofessional."

He scoffed. "I think you owe her at least a consideration, Neil. You wouldn't want a lawsuit to jeopardize  your position here, now would you?"

Mr. Koshka gritted his teeth and Morgan glanced up to see his eyes deadlocked on the man behind her. His face reddened out of anger.

"Don't undermine me, Mackay. I have been with this company far longer than you have." He closed her resume and tossed it aside. "I have already considered. We have a certain brand to maintain and Ms. Blaire here has none of the qualities we are looking for. That's that."

Morgan felt hurt by his words. She would have rather not heard the truth if it meant being so harshly judged. She wanted to book it out of the office as quick as possible but didn't want them to see her fazed.

Politely thanking Mr. Koshka, she gathered her things and darted out, brisking past Atlas without so much as a look his way. She kept her head down all the way to the lobby.

Mr. Koshka had tarnished Morgan's sweet nature without any regard to her feelings and it left Morgan in a puddle of devastation. Was she that incapable of getting a job?

Morgan say in her truck on the outside of the immaculate Eskinson building. Leaning her forehead against the wheel, she replayed his words.

Morgan had always been a demure woman. Regarded as a pushover by many of her old classmates, she had been bullied for being barefaced and a late bloomer. Back in the office with Mr. Koshka, she felt like she was back in high school again, teased for who she was and how she acted.

She felt at a loss.

"You're an easy target for vultures like Neil."

The same voice from the office reeled back into her ears and she was quick to recover herself and wipe away any tears.

For the first time, she got a real good look at him.

He nodded at her. "Atlas Mackay."

In a pressed designer suit with lush brown curls foamed stylishly, he had the pith of Tony Montana without the Cuban accent.

"Morgan," she responded.

Fixing the cufflinks on his sleeve, he scanned the exterior of her truck. "If you're in need of employment, I have an open position."

Morgan slightly frowned, unsure of the vagueness. She was desperate for a job, but not desperate enough to take a random offer she knew nothing about.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I have a meeting to attend in twenty, but you can call this number sometime tomorrow and set-up an appointment with me." He handed her a polished business card. "I can explain the details then."

She took it and flipped it in her hand to the backside, reading the print. When she looked back up to ask him a question, he was already taking long strides back through the revolving doors of Eskinson.

Morgan felt a little bit better in knowing she wasn't leaving completely empty handed. Even if it wasn't what she was expecting.

Pushing the failure of her interview out of her mind for the time being, she ignited the truck's engine and commenced the hour long drive back to High Valley.

Copyright ⓒ 2019, Desarae A Dotson. All rights reserved