" Gifford swiveled from the window and watched
Oliver. Hard to blame them, Oliver started to say, but he smiled
instead, acknowledging the joke. It was a joke, he was pretty sure,
although it was hard to tell from Gifford's expression.
"It appears from your experience that you could handle the work. Are
these references current?"
"Yes, they are."
"I have no further questions." Silence. Gifford Sims,
conversationalist. Oliver stood.
"Thank you for taking the time. Lovely place . . ." He waved his arm,
vaguely including the hospital and the parking lot. "Well, goodbye, Mr.
Sims."
"Goodbye."
Oliver walked toward the main entrance. A young woman in the hall
looked at him seriously. Her hair was blonde, the color of freshly
planed maple. She had dark eyes and a compact graceful body. Oliver's
stomach tightened; he straightened and nodded as he passed. At the
front door, he said, "So long," to the receptionist, a middle-aged
redhead.
"Y'all come back, now!" Oliver stopped.
"Where you from?"
"Georgia, honey."
"Good deal," Oliver said, "the sun just came out." The hospital,
Gifford Sims notwithstanding, had a light atmosphere. Aside from a
large painting of Jesus near the entrance, the tone was functional and
non-denominational.
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