The Remnant

1.1.2

1.1.2

The Center for Theological Control (CTC) held its fundraiser in the plush oceanfront Marriot in Long Beach, California. Last year’s fundraiser had been held there as well, and Colton remembered it being just as grand. An enormous, sunlit ballroom teemed with endless tables of hors d'oeuvres; waiters and waitresses scrambled between everything while balancing trays of champagne flutes with impressive dexterity. A blues band had been hired for the occasion, filling the festive event with soulful tunes.

Colton arrived a little late. He adjusted his tie as he walked in, and he hardly had a chance to take in the enormous spectacle of a party before he was handed a glass of champagne by one of the waiters, who disappeared back into the crowd. He was greeted by several co-workers who all knew him to be the number one extractor the CTC had seen in recent years and, because of his impressive abilities on the field, also knew the rumors to be true: Colton Pierce was most likely be hired as the new Chief Officer of the CTC. Secretly, he liked the jokes that implied he was much too young and much too good-looking for such a serious role. Just over forty, he’d fought and clawed his way to where he was, and he hoped that soon—tonight perhaps—Brian Barclay would officially announce that he was stepping down from his post. Everyone knew the announcement was imminent; Brian had his sights set on sandy beaches and retirement these days.

Colton jested with colleagues and took several congratulatory slaps on the back for being the Extractor of the Month once again. Then he caught sight of Selma Grissom. She was at the hors d'oeuvres table, delicately picking sushi from the display and placing them on her plate. He completely lost awareness of his colleagues and what they were saying. Hoping not to be rude, he waved a friendly goodbye and drifted toward the hors d'oeuvres table, where he grabbed a plate and began to eye the sushi himself.

“My favorite,” he said, and felt entirely fortunate that nobody else was near the spread. They were alone here, a little ways from the tables, the blues band, and the hordes of people.

“Sushi?” Selma asked.

“Yeah, that too.”

Selma looked at him and grinned subtly. She was a new secretary for the CTC’s Public Relations Office, and Colton had enjoyed the pleasure of a few brief conversations with her at meetings and in the lunch room. During those moments he’d thought the same thing he was thinking now: She was an amazingly beautiful woman. Her hair was long, not far above her belt-line, and black as the night itself. But her poise impressed Colton the most. She was confident in herself, or at least her posture seemed to broadcast that. She held herself in a way that conveyed she was valuable, rare, and confident, and Colton had been drawn to her from their first interaction. And there was something about her eyes—those green eyes of hers—that was almost mesmerizing.

“I hear you’re the lead extractor again this month,” she said.

“That’s what they tell me,” he said. He avoided the sushi altogether, and threw some delicious-looking sliders on his plate. He wasn’t really a fan of sushi anyway. “It’ll be my third month in a row as lead extractor, but who’s counting?”

He grinned but couldn’t read Selma’s expression. Was she smiling back out of professional politeness?

“I’ve seen some pictures of you at old CTC functions,” Selma said, and nibbled on a rainbow roll. “You were with a boy. Was that your son?”

“Yes, that’s my son, Marty,” Colton said, knowing that when it came to women, being a single dad and father to a pre-teen son was a deal-breaker for many of them. He watched her reaction very closely. “A good kid, actually. Twelve years old. Almost a teenager.”

“Interesting,” she said, and Colton, once again, felt frustrated that he couldn’t get an exact read on her. Did this convey indifference? Rejection? What was she thinking? “Divorce, huh?”

“Kinda,” he said. “She walked out almost seven years ago but died a few years after that.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”

“No need to be sorry,” he said. “These things happen, and it’s been a long time. So it’s just the two of us in a bachelor pad of our own. It actually isn’t all that bad.”

“Well, it’s good that you guys are happy,” she said.

Colton was surprised to feel something that he hadn’t felt in a long time: He was nervous. Something about this woman made him feel genuinely tongue-tied. It had been years since he’d felt this way, and part of him welcomed it. With his rising reputation at the CTC, many women—even the attractive ones—threw themselves at him. Sherry in the copy room, Barb in human resources, and Gina who worked in archives were only a few who’d made it abundantly clear they were available and willing. But something about Selma was more alluring. He’d been an extractor for so long that maybe it was his need for the hunt. The chase. Maybe it was in his DNA.

“Where did you work before the CTC?” he asked, and took a bite out of a slider.

“City of Long Beach, Gas and Water. Nothing special. I just needed a change.”

“It’s nice to work for a good cause, isn’t it?” Colton wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “That’s the thing you’ll love about working here. You’ll get up in the morning knowing you’re doing something good for the sake of humanity, and you’ll go to bed at night knowing you helped out in a meaningful way. Nothing more you can ask for.”

“And that’s how you feel?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “I feel like this has become more than a job to me—it’s become a passion. It’s the reason I’m the lead extractor and why I might be running this whole division soon. I put everything I have into it. Nothing is more important than public safety.”

She nodded, and he noted that she hadn’t made any attempt to move away from the appetizer table. Maybe the mention of his son hadn’t scared her away—yet.

A woman Colton had gone on a few dates with several months before, Amanda Morales, complained that Colton spent too much time talking about himself. The night she broke off the relationship, she said something that stuck with him: “If I could take every ‘I’ you say and turn them into pennies, I could fill up the Grand Canyon.” It was a weird comment, spoken in anger, but Colton remembered it. The fact that his late wife had made the same observation on several occasions—without the imagery of pennies and Arizona geography—only made it that much more potent. So he questioned himself and his approach to Selma. Am I talking too much about myself? Am I going to scare her off?

“I’m afraid I’m not into causes,” she said almost sheepishly, “but everyone here has been nice, and I’m having a wonderful time. Even right now, talking to you.”

If that wasn’t a direct invitation to take this to another level, he didn’t know what was. He set down his plate of sliders and thought of how he could ask her out. There was a Lakers game next weekend, and he could easily get two tickets.

“I’ve enjoyed talking to you,” he said. “Do you have any plans next—?”

“Colton, it’s show time.” Kramer, his personal aide, grabbed him by the shoulder. A short, stocky, curly-haired guy, Kramer was at least half the reason Colton made it to any CTC meetings on time. Already, Colton could hear Brian Barclay on stage, beginning his speech. He needed to get to his seat quickly. As lead extractor, it would be a political mishap to be out of his seat for the Chief Officer’s presentation.

With Kramer pulling him away from the hors d'oeuvres table, Colton looked back and saw Selma, standing with her plate of sushi, watching him with her green, dreamy eyes.

“We’ll talk soon,” he said, and made a dash for his seat. “Very soon.”