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Robert Whitlow is the bestselling author of legal novels set in the South and winner of the Christy Award for Contemporary Fiction. He received his JD with honors from the University of Georgia School of Law where he served on the staff of the Georgia Law Review. Website: robertwhitlow.com; X: @whitlowwriter; Facebook: @robertwhitlowbooks.

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DEEPER WATER

Thomas Nelson

Chapter One

I left the pantry beneath the staircase and came into the kitchen. With lots of windows, the large kitchen protruded from our wood-frame house like Mama's abdomen a week before the twins were born.

"And is there a new law against calling an unmarried woman Miss?" Mama added as she opened a quart jar of yellow squash she'd put up the previous summer.

I deposited two yellow onions on the scratched countertop and picked up the envelope. It was addressed to Ms. Tami L. Taylor, 463 Beaver Ruin Road, Powell Station, Georgia. I'd thought long and hard about changing the spelling of my name to Tami on my rsum. First impressions are important, and I didn't want the hiring partner at a prestigious law firm to think I was a second-rate country singer who went to law school after she bombed out in Nashville.

T-a-m-i had a more sophisticated ring to it. It could even be short for Tamara. As long as I honored my parents in the important things, secretly changing the spelling of my first name for professional reasons wouldn't be a sin. Or so I hoped. I rubbed my finger across the address. I couldn't tell Mama the law firm made a mistake. That would be a violation of the ninth commandment. I kept quiet, trusting silence to keep me righteous in the sight of a holy God. Mama's voice rescued me.

"You're doing well in school, and I'm pleased with you," she continued. "But I'm afraid you wasted a lot of paper and stamps on those letters you sent out. You should have set your sights on working for Mr. Callahan. He might actually give you a job when you get out of school."

"Yes ma'am."

Mama wanted me working close to home, the only secure haven in the midst of a wicked world. Her disapproval that I'd mailed letters seeking a summer clerk position to one hundred law firms across the state wasn't a surprise. It helped a little when I reassured her I'd excluded Atlanta like the hole in the middle of a donut. To live in a place populated by millions of people after growing up surrounded by millions of trees wasn't a step I wanted to take either.

I took the letter into the front room. Our house didn't have a formal living room. The front room served as everything from homeschool classroom to temporary church sanctuary if the preacher stopped by for an impromptu prayer meeting. I plopped down on a sofa covered by a white chenille bedspread and closely examined the return address on the outside of the envelope. I was impressed. Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter still used engraved envelopes. Most of the rejection letters I'd received arrived at my law school post office box in Athens fresh from a laser printer.

Mama was right. Trying to find a summer clerk job through unsolicited letters to law firms picked at random from a list in the placement office was not the best use of a first-class stamp. I'd already resigned myself to another summer working first shift with Daddy at the chicken plant. I opened the envelope.

Dear Ms. Taylor,

We received your rsum and appreciate your interest in a summer clerkship with our firm. You have an outstanding record of academic and personal accomplishments. If you have not already obtained employment, please contact Ms. Gerry Patrick, our office administrator, to discuss one of the positions available at Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter.

If you have taken another job or no longer have an interest in working for our firm, the courtesy of a prompt response notifying us accordingly would be appreciated.

Sincerely, Joseph P. Carpenter

"Mama," I screamed. "I have a job!" I rushed into the kitchen and tried to hand her the letter. "Read this!"

"Calm down and wait a minute," she said, maintaining her grip on the large knife in her right hand. "I'm in the middle of chopping onions for the squash."

"I'll read it to you!"

I sat at the kitchen table, an oversize picnic table painted white, and in a breathless voice read the letter. Mama scraped the onions into the saucepan.

"Read it again," she said when I finished.

Mama sat across from me and wiped her hands with a dish towel. I read the letter more slowly.

"And here at the top it says the firm was founded by Mr. Benjamin Braddock in 1888."

"Are you sure it's a job offer? It sounds to me like they just want to talk to you about it."

"They wouldn't contact me this late in the school year if they didn't have a job. Maybe someone backed out and a spot opened for me."

Mama repositioned one of the hairpins that held her dark hair in a tight bun. She hadn't cut her hair in years, and when freed it fell to her waist. Mama and I shared the same hair color, brown eyes, tall, slender frame, and angular features. It always made her smile when someone mentioned how alike we looked. As a single woman, I was allowed to cut my hair, but it still fell past my shoulders. I only wore it in a bun on Sunday mornings.

"Why would they offer you a job?" she asked. "They haven't even met you."

"I laid my hands on the stack of letters and prayed before I mailed them. Then I thanked God for every rejection that came in. He saw my heart and came through at the last moment."

"Maybe, but I'm not comfortable with you claiming his approval so quickly. We need to talk about this. Savannah is on the other end of the state. How far away is it?"

"I don't know." I looked up at the clock on the wall beside the refrigerator. It was 5:10 p.m. "I should call right now and find out if this really is a job offer. That way we can talk it over with Daddy and not guess about anything."

Mama returned to the stove. I waited.

"Go ahead," she sighed. "You're at the edge of the river and need to know what's on the other side."

The only telephone in the house was in my parents' bedroom. When I stopped homeschooling in the ninth grade and went to public high school, Mama never had to worry about me having secret phone conversations late at night. She needn't have worried anyway. Most of my calls were about basketball practice and homework assignments.

I hit the numbers for the unfamiliar area code followed by the seven-digit phone number. The phone rang three times. Maybe the firm didn't answer calls after 5:00 p.m. Then, a silky voice spoke.

"Good afternoon, Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter."

The sound made my mouth suddenly go dry.

"Ms. Gerry Patrick, please."

"May I tell her who is calling?"

"Tami Taylor. That's T-a-m-i."

I couldn't believe I'd spelled my first name. I stifled a giggle while the receptionist put me on hold and let me stew like Mama's squash and onions. I rehearsed my next lines to avoid another long-distance embarrassment. A more mature-sounding female voice came on the line.

"Gerry Patrick."

"Good afternoon, Ms. Patrick. This is Tami Taylor, a second-year law student at the University of Georgia. I received a letter from Mr. Carpenter about a summer clerk position. He told me to contact you."

There was a brief pause. "I have your rsum, but all summer job offers go through my office. I'd know if the firm sent you a letter."

My mouth went dry. "Could you check with Mr. Carpenter?"

"Yes, I want to...