by Lauren Clark
My best friend squares her shoulders. “You’d better not be trying to save my feelings or something dumb like that…”
“They think I’m at death’s door,” I exhale. “And it’s my fault.”
“What? Why?” Marietta tries not to smile.
“Right before I left for Alabama, there was this snowstorm. It was awful. I was freezing. There were no taxis. No one would stop. So, after twenty minutes, a cab finally pulls up and these ladies tried to steal it from me.”
“So you made up a story—”
“Yes. I don’t even want to talk about it,” I shoot Marietta a threatening look.
“What?” She makes a face, choking back a laugh. “That’s not even—”
“I know. Don’t even say it,” I sigh. “I feel bad enough as it is.”
“So, what if she calls back?”
“Um,” I wince and drum my fingers on the side of my leg. “Oh, I don’t know. First of all, give her my address so that she’ll leave you alone. And…how about tell her that…I’m cured?”
Marietta frowns at me.
“I promise I won’t ever do it again.” With my index finger, I cross my heart with a huge ‘x’ and make cow eyes. “Please, I know better now. It sounds crazy, but in the past week, I’ve really grown up. Tons. Forgive me?”
Marietta considers this. She pecks my cheek, still cautious, as if I might decide to nip her on the heels like a wild dog. “Don’t do it again,” she lectures.
We part ways at the hallway. I head for David’s office, steeling myself for the lecture he’d likely prepared. Lucky girl that she is, Marietta escapes, turning left, toward the cubicles.
When I round the corner, Dolores is sitting at her desk, shoulders hunched, fingers flying over the keyboard. There’s the unmistakable scent of Chanel No. 5 floating through the stale office air. That’s when I decide to look up.
Her hair is different, I notice, and then remember Marietta’s email about the makeover.
Instead of rapping my knuckles on the filing cabinet to let her know I’m waiting, I walk around the desk. “Hi there. David wanted to see me?” I say.
With a quick yank of her hand, Dolores pulls off her earbuds. Marietta was right, she does look good. Her hair is colored a dark brown and is styled in a cute pageboy. She’s dressed in a black pantsuit with a tasteful white blouse underneath. Her makeup is light and plays up her eyes, which are hazel-green.
“Look at you!” I exclaim, reaching my arms out for emphasis. “You look amazing, Dolores. Your hair. The clothes.”
She flutters her eyelashes in shock, and jumps a little, startled at the compliments. But instead of snapping back, ignoring me all together, or frowning in typical grumpy-Dolores fashion, she looks quite pleased. “Um, thank you,” she squeaks out, her voice barely above a whisper.
We stand beaming at each other when David opens the door to his office.
“Julia,” he beckons me with a straight face. “I thought I heard your voice.”
My legs quiver and a tickle of worry creeps up my spine. I paste on a brave smile and give a thumbs-up to Dolores.
Of course, as I cross the threshold into David’s office, I realize that maybe I shouldn’t be acting so jovial and chit-chatting about trivial matters like outfits and hairstyles. He’s probably going to send me home, so I’d be safer walking the plank off Captain Hook’s ship, straight into the mouth of that hungry crocodile, ticking clock and all.
He settles into his leather chair, looking every bit the corporate magnate. I take a seat and grip my hands in my lap, preparing for the worst.
“So, I received your story,” David says, his eyes piercing into mine. His mouth barely moves, but his body language is saying ‘less than thrilled.’
I press my lips together and nod.
“Interesting angle you took on this assignment. It’s a big step away from the usual style of the magazine.” David is still not smiling. He’s staring at me. Not blinking. He’s waiting for a response.
If it were possible by some miracle of quantum physics or magic, I’d make myself vanish. Poof! Gone! Or shrink myself to microscopic proportions. Of course, I’d run the risk of getting stepped on, but I’ll take my chances.
“So, why the change?” he prompts, swiveling in his chair to get a better angle on his laptop. He flicks his gaze toward the screen and scrolls through what I’m guessing is my Eufaula article.
“Um,” I hedge for more time, jiggling my leg up and down. “I guess because it was a different kind of story.” My voice cracks on the last two words. I’m not the best at defending my work. Actually, I can’t remember a time that I’ve had to. The routine has been the same since I started at the magazine: Write the article, submit, make recommended edits. Clearly, David wants more. He blows out a breath and leans back in his chair, thinking.
I shift an inch in my seat. There’s an itch on my left knee, like something’s crawled up my leg. My neck is starting to cramp. I start praying for an interruption. Dolores, Marietta, the fire department. Anyone with a crisis.
David drums his fingers on his massive desk. “Maybe I’m not being clear, Julia. I’ll refresh your memory. The question was why?”
My vocal cords tighten. My throat thickens. I reach for the armrest and grip the fabric. Why is he torturing me? Can’t he just say what he means? I am suddenly incensed.
“Wait, just a minute,” I bark out like a Chihuahua. “I am proud of that article. I did a lot of research. I toured homes, learned the history of the city, and talked to tons of people, one of them named ‘Stump’—did you know that there’s an entire family named after Auburn University football coaches?”
David is trying to get a word in, but I wave a hand in the air and continue my tirade. “I drank iced tea with about a hundred packs of sugar, had to wear a ball gown because I lost my luggage, and very politely endured countless ‘Yankee’ comments, thank you very much.” I suck in a breath. “Not to mention that my windshield was smashed, my heel broke off at a party, and got a ride in an ambulance after being attacked by killer bees.”
My boss raises an eyebrow.
“Okay, so there weren’t any ‘actual’ killer bees,” I say. “I’m allergic.”
David nods. “I remember.”
You should, I want to say, but bite the inside of my cheek instead and think of my mom, which makes me want to cry. My father was at work when Mom figured it out. I was in the backyard by her hydrangeas, got stung, and blew up like a balloon. She rushed me to the hospital, sat with me in the emergency room, and held my swollen hand.
When she was still alive, she always reminded me to pack my EpiPen.
Stupid tears. I brush at the moisture on my cheeks and stand up. I’m not going to let David torture me any longer. I’ll pack up my cubicle, go back to my apartment, and send out resumes. No, better yet, I’ll have a glass of wine, sleep, and then look for a job tomorrow. I won’t be so upset then.
“Julia. What’s wrong? Where are you going?” he asks, pushing his chair back.
“I’m leaving,” I reply, bending down to grab my bag. “I’m fired, right? Isn’t that what you told me would happen? So, now you can have your fun.”
David stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Fun? Is that what you think?” He chuckles. “You were always sensitive.”
Jerk. I turn and walk away, reaching for the door handle, when I hear his voice.
“Stop,” he says. “Please.”
I bite my lip and concentrate on the swirls of woodgrain. I stare longer, but don’t see the office anymore. Instead, I see Shug and PD. Aubie, MeeMaw, Ella Rae. They all trusted me and I let them down. How am I going to break the news that the story’s been scrapped?
I pivot on my heel, raise my chin, and force myself to look at David.
My father’s face relaxes. He takes a seat on the edge of his desk. “You didn’t let me finish,” he explains. “I was trying to get you to explain what caused you to write that way—from the hea
rt. The article is very good. The best you’ve written in a long time. I think you did a marvelous job.”
Chapter 27
“You have to understand my situation,” David says, motioning me to have a seat again. He unbuttons his jacket and smoothes his tie. “Having a daughter working for me in the business looks a lot like nepotism.”
I perch back on the chair, relieved about postponing a frantic job search.
“Even,” he underscores with a direct look, “a daughter who hasn’t spoken to me in several years. It’s all about avoiding the appearance of impropriety.”
Image is huge at any magazine, but I admit that I hadn’t given our family connection that much thought. I was too busy focused on me, my job, and soothing what was left of my bruised ego after David informed me that my job might be on the chopping block.
“So, you were just threatening me for no reason?” I ask, a bit incredulous.
David rubs his chin. “That was the tricky part. Your work had slipped. There were a few complaints, mostly deadline-related, but the overall consensus was that your writing had lost its pizzazz.”
I feel my face grow hot.
“I was faced with a very odd predicament, so I made a deal. One last assignment, a tricky one, and one last chance to succeed.”
“Or fail,” I add.
“No one had an office pool going, but you needed to know I meant business.” David runs a finger along the edge of the desk. “If anything, I had to be tougher on you. Set the standard higher.”
“So, I was being taught a lesson,” I say. My skin prickles with embarrassment. I didn’t realize the position David was in. I almost blew a wonderful career. And I was oblivious to it all.
David shrugs. “Did it feel like punishment?”
“Maybe at first,” I say, hesitating at coming out with the God’s honest truth. David crinkles his forehead. “Well, yes, it did feel like punishment,” I admit. “I was a little angry. A little resentful.”
He nods.
“But, as it ended up, despite all of the craziness, once I settled in, it was really wonderful.” I allow myself to gush a little bit. “The homes, the people. Everything was great, the weather especially. But—” I stop myself.
David tilts his head expectantly. “But what?”
I want to rewind the last word, pop it back in my mouth, and swallow it like a piece of candy. It’s too late. I’ve already said too much. As I watch the expression on his face, I suspect that David knows more than he’s saying.
There’s a knock on the door, and the handle turns.
Dolores sticks her head inside the office. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Sullivan. There’s a visitor. He says it’s urgent.”
David is nonplussed. “I don’t remember anything on my calendar. Who is it? What do they need?”
With a slight cough, Dolores pauses and looks at me. “Actually sir, there’s a man here to see Julia.”
My father nods at me. “Go ahead and see what it’s about. We can talk about the rest of this later. I have your next assignment for you, by the way. And a photo you might find interesting.” He hands over an envelope.
“Oh?” I arch an eyebrow, immediately intrigued.
David smiles, “I think you’ll like New Orleans this time of year. Festive, lovely decor, parties in the Garden District. I’ve got you staying at the Roosevelt. You leave Wednesday.”
“What happened to Route 66?”
He checks his watch. “You’re still on that beat. Dana? Dena? The new hire? She has the flu, so you’re covering her assignment. We’ll talk more about it tomorrow. Let’s meet at ten-thirty sharp.” He looks at Dolores. “Can you get me Steve Jabowski at Hearst on the phone?”
“Yes sir.”
I follow Dolores out, still clutching the envelope. In a fog, I walk to the front lobby where I assume the surprise visitor is waiting for me. On the curved receptionist’s desk, there’s a huge bouquet of flowers, dripping with lilies and roses. It’s so enormous that I have to squat down a few inches to see the girl who answers the phone.
“Hello?”
“Julia,” she smiles.
“Nice flowers,” I comment. “Special occasion?”
She tilts her head to the side with a coy look. “I wish. They’re for you.”
I whirl around to see who delivered them, but the reception area is empty. “But it’s not my birthday, or anything…”
The receptionist giggles behind the arrangement.
I bend down. “Do you know who brought them? Is there a card?”
She points to the left side of the vase. “I think there’s a message.”
“Oh, I see it,” I say, stretching to reach the tiny white card. I pluck it from between the blossoms and tear it open. There are three words printed in block letters.
Meet me downstairs.
A sudden thought crosses my mind. It’s Shug. He broke up with Mary Katherine, flew up to New York, and tracked me here. I float toward the elevators, not able feel my own feet, and press the down button. The light passes from number to number, getting closer.
On impulse, I dial his phone. I’ll beat him at his game.
The instant the elevator dings, I hear a deep, masculine voice answer. “Hello?”
The massive silver doors slide open and I step inside. “Guess who this is?” I giggle into the phone. As the doors close and the car descends, there’s only the low hum and soft whir of the elevator mechanism.
My stomach drops. “Hello?” I say again, perplexed at the silence.
The connection begins to fuzz out as we drop deeper inside the building. Fifth floor, fourth floor.
Between crackles, I can hear him say something. “Em?” I make out. His voice is gruff and I can tell he’s older. His tone is familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
“No, it’s not Em,” I reply, making my voice cool. “Who is this?” I start to ask, but before I can get the words out, he’s gone. On my screen, the number flashes, signaling I’ve lost the call. Instead of five bars, my cell has none. Lips pursed, I exhale, blowing all of the air out of my lungs. What in the world is going on?
The doors open at the second floor, and a man in a dark suit steps inside. He offers a curt hello, but I’m too upset to do anything but nod and grimace.
I called the right number, but it was definitely not Shug who answered. And who is this mysterious “Em”?
With a jolt, the elevator stops at the first floor. After another ding, the double-doors heave open. I blink and step into the bright lobby, the heels of my boots click on the marble tile. I stop and stand still, craning my neck like a goose, searching for a glimpse of Shug’s dark hair and broad shoulders.
Oh, I am going to give him a piece of my mind…
Someone taps my shoulder. I whirl around, holding out an accusing finger, ready to launch into a mini-tirade about the phone call and “Em.”
But it’s Andrew.
“Looking for someone?” He smiles and takes my limp hand. He’s holding yet another bunch of flowers, perky white daisies and bright pink tulips, this time.
“Andrew!” I widen my eyes and try to form something else to say. My brain is stuck in reverse. I want to go back upstairs, back to my office, back to David’s office, even.
He laughs, showing off his perfect teeth and boyish dimples. I can feel a few jealous looks as we stand in the middle of the lobby. Andrew always attracts admiring glances with his sea green eyes and blonde hair.
“I know we’re supposed to meet a little later,” he grins and rubs his gloved hands together, “but I called your office and arranged for you to have the afternoon off.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and I try not to look furious.
Andrew takes me by the elbow, turns me around to face him, then leans in and nuzzles my forehead. I used to love that, I think to myself. I used to love everything about him. I swallow the gigantic bubble in my throat.
“Who? How—?” I sputter out and shake my head. We begin to walk t
oward the street and I’m glad I don’t have to look Andrew straight in the face.
He chortles. “Oh, I have my ways.”
I nudge his ribs with my elbow, encouraging him to tell the rest of the story. I need to know who I am going to have to kill when I come to work in the morning.
“Marietta?” I ask.
“Nope,” he raises his chin in satisfaction. “I talked to the top man. Your new boss. He was in a great mood, said you just finished a fantastic assignment.”
I slow my pace. “You. Talked. To. David.”
“He was great. Seems like he really likes you,” Andrew winks down at me like we’ve just shared a juicy secret.
It’s my turn to laugh. Of course, it comes out sounding more like a sharp, halting bark. Like a dog that’s had his paw run over with a child’s bicycle wheel.
Andrew holds the door open for me and gives me a curious look. “What’s the matter?” he asks and frowns.
The December wind whips my cheeks and, for once, I’m glad, because it helps me calm down. I take a deep breath and review the facts: Andrew doesn’t know David. They never met. By the time we started dating, my father had already left.
But David could have warned me. Given me a sign. A clue.
Andrew whistles and waves down a yellow taxi. As the cab pulls up, wheels gripping the packed snow, I step back from the curb and wait. Always the gentleman, Andrew opens the door and beckons me inside.
“So, did David, my lovely new boss, happen to mention his last name?” I ask as I slide inside the back seat.
Andrew pauses for a moment, then shuts my door. He leans forward to the cab driver’s open window, murmurs an address, and walks around to the other side of the taxi. After he’s settled in next to me, he thinks for a moment. He’s usually good with names. He remembers everyone. He drums his fingers on the seat beside him. “Sanders, Sherwood, Silver?”
“Try Sullivan,” I say.
“Sullivan, that’s it,” Andrew snaps his fingers in delight.
I don’t respond. I watch him. And wait for it all to click. Not thirty seconds later, Andrew gets it. The name. My name. The whole story. His eyes meet mine. “As in?”
