by Ann McMan
“And who is that?”
Abbie sighed. “You of all people should know the answer to that question.”
“Abbie. I spent the better part of a day, and most of one incredible night with you, but I’d hardly say that qualifies me to know who you are.”
Abbie slowly nodded her head. She started to withdraw her hand, but Grace held on to it.
“Not so fast,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I’m not interested in finding out.”
Abbie’s expression lost some of its sadness. “Really?”
Grace nodded.
They smiled somewhat shyly at each other.
“So,” Grace asked, “how do we do this?”
Abbie shook her dark head. “Beats the hell outta me. I was hoping you’d have some ideas.”
“Oh,” Grace looked her up and down, “I have a few ideas all right.”
Abbie smiled. “Not those kinds of ideas. However,” she tugged Grace forward until their noses were nearly touching, “those certainly have some relevance to our . . . deliberations.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.” Abbie kissed her. It was just a quick, light kiss, but Grace could feel her toes curling up inside her socks.
“It’s still sleeting,” she said when she could find her voice.
“It is.”
“And we have this whole pot of coffee.”
“We do, indeed.”
“We’re two uncommonly smart women, aren’t we?” Grace asked.
Abbie thought about it. “I’d say so. Between the two of us, we probably have about eight million years of post-graduate education.”
“And in my case, twice that amount in unpaid student loans.”
Abbie drew back and looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “I may need to rethink this idea.”
“Nuh uh.” Grace pulled her closer again. “Drop/Add day already came and went, sister. You’re stuck in this little seminar until the bitter end.”
“Oh really?” Abbie didn’t sound too distressed by this revelation. “How will I know when we’re finished?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Grace took her face between both hands. “Just listen for the nine o’clock dog.”
“The nine o’clock dog?”
“Don’t worry.” Grace kissed her. “It’ll make sense soon enough.”
Out back in the neighbor’s yard, Grendel finally gave up her vigil for the night and retreated to the security of her doghouse. Morning would come soon enough, and with it, a host of new and unforeseen threats. For now, she could retire safely and rest while the landscape filled up with the calm and quiet that always accompanied an unexpected snow.
NEVERMORE!
“1-800-SPANK me. I know that number.” Diz was staring at the caller I.D. readout on her cell phone.
Clarissa glanced at her. “You should. You practically have it on speed dial.”
Diz snapped her phone shut and tossed a malted milk ball at Clarissa. Christmas was only a few days away, and the office break room was inundated with tins full of cheap confections from vendors.
It was a good throw. It landed in Clarissa’s coffee, causing it to slosh all over the article she was proofreading.
“Oh, nice one, nimrod.” Clarissa snatched up the top pages and shook them off over her waste can. “Great.” She held up the top page. Spidery blue lines from what had been notes were running down the sheet of paper like varicose veins. “You can be such an asshole. Now I’ll have to do this all over again.”
Diz shrugged. “You impugn my integrity and then take umbrage when I defend myself?”
Clarissa sighed. “Eighteen people in this department, and I get to share a rabbit hutch with you. Someday I’m going to figure out who I pissed off in a previous life.”
Diz snapped her bright red suspenders and stuck out her tongue.
“Oh, that’s mature. And what’s with the outfit today? You look like Howdy Doody on crack.”
Diz rolled her eyes. “Give me a break, Clar. It’s for the Christmas party. Besides, you wouldn’t know Howdy Doody if he walked up and bit you on your high-class ass.”
Clarissa opened her mouth to reply just as her phone rang. She turned away from Diz and snapped it up. “Research, this is Clarissa Wylie.”
Diz watched her while she talked. She and Clarissa had been working together for nearly two years, now. They weren’t exactly friends—not in the sense that they ever did much together socially. But that wasn’t hard to understand. Clarissa came from money—old money. And her family owned the company that published the magazine they worked for. In fact, her family’s company published half the goddamn magazines printed in the U.S.
Clarissa was a comer. Everybody knew that. Since finishing grad school at Princeton, she was paying her dues by working her way up through the ranks of the family business. One year in subscription services, eighteen months in distribution, and a whopping two years in research with Diz. Her next move would certainly be to a private office upstairs in the editorial suite. But you had to give her credit—she worked hard, and she knew her shit.
Diz, on the other hand, was pretty much fated to remain chained to her desk in the bowels of the building, vetting facts and making sure the Wylies didn’t get sued for libel or plagiarism. That was okay. This was just her day job. At night, she slaved away on her other passion—a comprehensive and comparative study of the development of detective fiction as a literary genre. She was A.B.D.—all-but-dissertation—and after six years of night school, she was only nine hundred plus pages away from earning her doctorate in American literature from the University of Baltimore.
Dr. Gillespie—what a nice ring that had. Of course, she’d always be Diz to her family and friends. The childhood nickname started out as homage to her father’s love of jazz, but it stuck. And frankly, it suited her a whole lot better than her given name.
And once she finally had that sheepskin, she’d blow this pop stand and . . . and what?
And be an unemployed Ph.D.
Oh, well. There were worse things. She could end up like her idol. Poe died alone in poverty at age forty, about five blocks away from this goddamn building.
She glanced at Clarissa, who was still talking. Correction, listening. She was jotting notes down in longhand, using that damn, precious Italian fountain pen of hers.
Diz studied her. It wasn’t the first time.
Clarissa wasn’t just a comer, she was a looker, too. Her thick auburn hair cascaded down her back like a red waterfall. And she had a set of legs that would make Betty Grable’s pale by comparison. She knew how to dress for them, too. Today she was wearing a form-fitting black suit and stylish shoes that probably cost more than Diz spent on clothing in a year. Correction—in five years. Although she admired the view, Diz wondered why Clarissa bothered. It wasn’t like anyone who mattered was going to see her down here in this dank basement.
Clarissa turned her head and caught Diz staring. She frowned and tossed a paper clip at her. Diz caught it. Diz always caught anything Clarissa tossed at her, except compliments, of course. Diz usually let those fly by like fastballs that were thrown outside the strike zone. It was better for Diz not to indulge in how great it felt when Clarissa paid attention to her. That was one dead-end street that she just didn’t need to travel. Everyone knew that Clarissa was A.B.E.—all-but-engaged. And her intended was the granite-jawed, heir-apparent to Baltimore’s oldest and most prestigious shipbuilding company. It was going to be one hell of a merger, and photos of the glamorous couple frequently punctuated the society pages of the Sun.
No, Diz thought, as she gazed back at Clarissa’s smoky gray eyes. There was no there, there for her.
Clarissa hung up her phone.
“What time are you leaving for the party?” she asked.
Diz shrugged. “Sometime after six. I figure it’ll take forty-five minutes to get there with all the Christmas shoppers clogging the Metro.”
This year’s party was at Nevermore!—a hig
h-end tapas bar at the Inner Harbor.
“You’re taking the Metro? Why don’t you take a cab?”
“A cab?” Diz raised an eyebrow. “Sure . . . I mean, I don’t really have to eat the rest of the month.”
Clarissa sighed. “Ride with me. I’ve got a car.”
“Of course you do.”
“Don’t be a cretin. You’d be doing me a favor.”
Diz was intrigued. “How so?”
Clarissa looked like she was trying to decide whether or not she wanted to answer that question.
“Oh, dear,” Diz guessed. “Trouble in paradise? You and Dash Riprock have a falling out?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Diz sighed. “I usually do on Friday nights.”
Clarissa shook her red head. “Why do I bother with you?”
Diz gave her a blinding smile. “Because I’m a foot taller than you, and whenever we go anyplace together, people think you’re out with Rachel Maddow.”
Clarissa thought about that. “Sad, but true.”
“So.” Diz adjusted the black horn-rims that used to make her look like a nerd, but now made her look chic. “What’s up with Dash? He not coming to the party?”
Clarissa shrugged. “He has to work late.”
“On the Friday night before Christmas? What? Is there a late-breaking shipment of yard arms coming in from Norway, or something?”
“Or something.” Clarissa smiled. She had a great smile, with big, deep dimples that made Diz go weak at the knees if she looked at them for too long. It was every bit as hypnotic as staring at a lighted candle, and every bit as dangerous, too. If you weren’t careful, you’d end up going blind.
Diz sat back in her chair and extended her long legs. She was wearing her best pair of red, high-top Chucks. They matched her suspenders perfectly. “Let me get this straight. You need me to keep you company until Lord Nelson arrives?”
“Something like that,” Clarissa said.
“What makes you think I don’t already have a date? Or two?”
Clarissa rolled her eyes. “If you do, I promise not to cramp your style. Besides, aren’t you likelier to make friends with someone at the party? If memory serves, you fared quite well last year. What were their names, again?”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yes, you do. I’m talking about those two zaftig types from the mail room.”
Enlightenment dawned. “Oh. You mean Randi and Ronni. The twins. How could I forget?”
“Beats me,” Clarissa offered. “You walked with a limp for nearly a week.”
“And I thought you didn’t care.”
“In your dreams.”
Clarissa had no idea how true that statement was.
“Well,” Diz said. “It’s true that I do like to keep my options open. So you’re in luck. I don’t, as it happens, have a date for tonight. Yet.”
Clarissa smiled at her. “Great. Then maybe you’ll consent to keep me company until Dane arrives?”
Diz narrowed her eyes. “I’m curious about something, Clar.”
“What’s that?”
“Why hang out with me? Why not just mosey on up to the head table, where the rest of the ‘fambly’ will be tossing back the single malts?”
“I don’t socialize with my father at work.”
“This isn’t work. This is a Christmas party.”
“Maybe for you. For me, it’s work.”
“Well that kind of sucks.”
Clarissa shrugged. “I’m used to it.”
Diz smiled at her sadly. “I know. That’s the part that sucks.”
Clarissa stared at her for a moment. She opened her mouth to say something when Marty Jacobs appeared in the doorway to their cube.
“Yo—Diz. A couple of us are gonna splurge and share a cab ride to the Harbor. Wanna come along?” He glanced at Clarissa, then lowered his voice. “Lisa even volunteered to sit on your lap if you promise not to behave.”
Diz glanced at Clarissa, who seemed to be studying something fascinating on the sleeve of her jacket.
“No thanks, Marty. I’ve made other plans.”
“Dude.” Marty looked incredulous. “I don’t think you heard me. I said Lisa, as in the woman voted Miss Sweater Meat of 2011.”
“I heard you, Marty,” Diz hissed. “Tell Lisa I’m beyond flattered, but I’ve made other plans.”
Marty stood there looking back and forth between Diz and Clarissa. Then he shook his head. “Whatever floats your boat. Don’t say I didn’t ask.”
“I won’t.”
“Later.” He rapped the wall of their cube and backed out, headed for god knows where.
Diz looked at Clarissa who sat there regarding her with a raised eyebrow.
“Miss Sweater Meat?” she asked.
Diz shrugged.
Clarissa shook her head. “I guess it’s an acquired taste.”
Diz fought to keep her gaze away from the plunging neckline of Clarissa’s silk blouse. Telling Clarissa that she could certainly hold her own in a Sweater Meat contest would probably be a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
“Yeah,” she said instead. “I guess.”
The party at Nevermore! was in full swing.
Or was that full swig?
Most of the management echelon decamped as soon as the dancing started.
Diz didn’t really blame them. The majority of the dancers were beyond rhythmically challenged, and their obscene gyrations made them look like drunken extras from the set of Mogambo.
Across the table from her, Clarissa just looked amused. She was sipping on a glass of Pinot Noir, or Petit Syrah, or something red and expensive, and Diz was amazed at how long she could make one glass of anything last.
Diz was feeling no pain, and not just because of the five vodka gimlets she’d had. Dash/Dane was still a no-show, and Clarissa didn’t really seem to mind, nor did she appear to be in any particular hurry to leave.
Diz could feel a surge of false courage pushing against the levy of better sense that normally kept her out of harm’s way. And that couldn’t be good news. After three drinks, Clarissa started to look less formidable. After five, she started looking downright . . . attainable. And Diz was barely clinging to enough good sense to realize that it was in everyone’s best interest for her to change the circumstances—fast.
Idly, she wondered where Lisa was. Maybe it wasn’t too late to rethink that whole lap-dance idea.
The music was so damn loud that it was hard to think. And she needed to be able to think. She needed to think because right now, all she wanted to do was act.
She heard Clarissa say something, but the ambient noise was too loud for her to make out what it was. She leaned toward her.
“What?” she bellowed.
Clarissa met her halfway. Bad idea. This was far too close for comfort. Her eyes were like tractor beams.
“I said, do you want to dance?” she repeated.
Diz looked around at the crush of people standing near their small table. No one seemed to be looking her way.
“With whom?” she asked.
Clarissa rolled her eyes. “With me, nimrod.”
Diz wasn’t sure she heard her correctly. “Did you say with you?”
“Is there an echo in here? Yes. Dance. You. With me.”
Diz stared at Clarissa with her mouth hanging open.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Clarissa finally said. She grabbed Diz by the hand and yanked her to her feet. “Come on. It won’t kill you.”
Diz could feel the room starting to spin.
“I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” she said, as Clarissa pulled her toward the dance floor.
“I think you can handle it,” she said, tightening her hold on Diz—probably so she couldn’t fall. Or flee, which was likelier. “Be strong and courageous.”
Diz wasn’t feeling particularly strong right then, and she appeared to be leaking courage like a giant sieve.
>
Clarissa led them to a spot on the dance floor that was mostly unoccupied. Someone slammed into Diz from behind and shoved her up against Clarissa. She ended up with a mouthful of red hair, and Clarissa grabbed on to her suspenders with some kind of death grip. The sensation of having all that silk-clad sweater meat plastered up against her was making her woozy. She had a feeling that this wasn’t going to end well.
The music changed. Lady Gaga now.
Great.
Red Wine. I’ve had a little bit too much.
Clarissa laughed. “This should be my theme song.”
Diz could feel the vibration of her words against her ear. She drew back and looked at her. They weren’t so much dancing as swaying. There wasn’t really much room to move around.
“Seriously? You’ve had, like one glass, all night.”
Clarissa rolled her eyes. “It’s a metaphor, asshole.”
Diz was confused. “For what?”
Clarissa just shook her head and tugged her closer. “You’re a bright girl. Figure it out.”
Diz was going to reply, but she got distracted when she noticed that people were staring at them. Lots of people. It started out small, then seemed to spread out across the dance floor like a wave. Between gyrations, they were pointing and talking behind their hands.
She bent closer to Clarissa’s ear. “People are staring at us.”
“You only just noticed that?” Clarissa replied.
Diz nodded. Clarissa’s hair smelled great—like red violets.
“Why are they looking at us? Is my fly unzipped or something?”
Clarissa laughed. “Is your fly on your ass?”
Diz had to think about that. In fact, her fly was quite happily conjoined with the waistband of Clarissa’s tight skirt. Right now, it was one hundred and eighty degrees away from her ass.
“No.”
“Then I don’t think it’s related to your pants.”
“Well what the hell is it then?”
Clarissa pulled back and gave Diz an ironic look. She raised a hand and ran it through Diz’s thick head of short, dark hair.
“They think you’re Rachel Maddow, nimrod.”
“Oh.” Diz had a sudden, and brief, moment of clarity. “That.”