Libby, Rosemary, and Carole ran back to her, eyes and mouths wide.
“Good gravy, Belinda, are you all right?”
“Barely,” she whispered, realizing how close she’d come to buying the farm. She leaned her head back to scan the twenty stories of the Stratford building for the origin of the falling plant, but the sun blinded her.
“You could have been killed,” Rosemary exclaimed.
“Where did it come from?” Carole asked.
Belinda shielded her eyes, but none of the windows provided a clue—no openings, no movement. “I don’t know.” She turned and addressed the crowd. “Did anyone see anything?” The spectators shook their heads, then began to disperse.
A uniformed city ambassador appeared, wearing a rueful expression. “A cleaning crew or one of those watering services probably knocked a plant off a windowsill, then got scared when they realized what they’d done,” he said. “I’ll inform the building security, and get this mess cleaned up. I’m sorry this happened, ma’am.”
Belinda nodded, but her limbs remained leaden.
“Do you still feel like getting a drink?” Rosemary asked, her eyes clouded.
Belinda puffed out her cheeks in an exhale. “More than ever.”
The women crowded around, cooing and fretting. She waved off their concern, manufactured a smile, and forced her feet to move, grateful to be alive.
At the corner, Carole said, “Let’s cross the street here,” then stepped out to pick a path between cars jammed in the intersection. “In case more plants start raining down.”
Rosemary followed but said, “You picked a bad intersection—this is where Margaret Mitchell was run down by a car in 1949.”
As she walked, Belinda surveyed the nondescript corner of Peachtree and 13th Street. “Really?”
“She was crossing with her husband, and a speeding taxi came around the curve.”
“Maybe this area is cursed,” Carole declared, looking heavenward.
“Kind of prophetic, huh?” Libby asked as they threaded their way through traffic. “That one of Atlanta’s national treasures would be run down by a car, and now the city is famous for traffic.”
Despite the blazing sun, a shiver passed over Belinda. It was as if the city had claimed the famous writer in every way, influencing her life and her death. When she reached the other side of the street, she turned and looked back, promising herself she’d bring flowers to this spot. Then she lifted her gaze to the Stratford Building and silently counted up eight floors to the Archer office windows, which looked as innocuous as the other panes of glass. Had the plant originated from an eighth-floor window, and if so, had it been pushed…or dropped?
She started at a touch to her arm.
“Ready?” Rosemary asked softly.
Belinda nodded, then turned to follow the women a half block to Crescent Street, popular for its trendy bars. Belinda had heard about the strip, but until now, she’d had no occasion to go there. Even in her younger days, she hadn’t favored the bar scene, hadn’t cared for the sense of being “on” all the time—on alert, on the prowl, on display.
“Inside or outside?” Carole asked as they approached Gypsy Joe’s. The place was packed with merry patrons, and John Mayer’s “Why Georgia” played over the speakers. Smartly dressed young men and women stood chatting with friends while scanning the crowd for possibilities. Fitness abounded, as well as palpable sexual energy. Belinda felt frumpy in her conservative blue pantsuit and dirt-spattered pumps.
“Inside,” Libby said. “Where it’s air-conditioned.”
Out of element in the social setting, Belinda was happy to follow their lead. Inside, the music was louder, as was the general noise level. Behind the long blond-wood bar, televisions were tuned to news and sports programs. She was momentarily struck by how much she missed the company of television, and she wasn’t sure if that was more motivation to get hers repaired, or motivation to get rid of it completely. The bar, engulfed by customers, extended the length of the main room. Tall round tables studded the remainder of the room and another step-down area, most of them already filled.
“There’s a table,” Carole said, pointing. She hurried to it, and when they caught up, she had rounded up enough chairs for all of them. A breathless waitress came by and took their orders for martinis, the house special.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Libby asked Belinda. “That was a close call.”
“I’m fine,” she said, now feeling as if she’d overreacted. If the street ambassador had a ready explanation, he must have seen it happen before. She changed the subject, and by the time their drinks arrived, everyone seemed to have put the incident behind them.
“To Jeanie,” Libby said and lifted her glass.
They clinked glasses, and Belinda had that weird “replacement” feeling again, as if she were the substitute player who’d only made it into the game because one of the starters had, well…died.
Belinda took a healthy drink from her glass. “Tell me about Jeanie.”
The three women looked at each other, and Libby shrugged. “She was petite, strawberry blond, lots of freckles, outdoorsy. Cute and quiet.”
Rosemary sighed. “Jeanie had her whole life in front of her.”
“She wanted to travel,” Carole said. “She hardly ever talked during the car pool because she was always listening to foreign language tapes.”
Belinda wondered if the headphones were Jeanie’s way of slowly extricating herself from the car pool, as Margo had suggested. “How did she and Margo get along?”
“Fine at first,” Libby said. “But when Jim Newberry was fired, Margo expected Jeanie to pick up the slack, and there was tension.”
“Although when Jeanie’s body was found, Margo seemed pretty devastated,” Rosemary said. “Personally, I always thought Margo didn’t attend the memorial service because she couldn’t face the fact that Jeanie was gone.”
“Was anyone with Jeanie when she fell?” Belinda asked.
Carole shook her head. “Martin Derlinger found her body when he came in that night for a copy emergency, whatever that is. When the elevator door opened, the car was hanging low, and there was Jeanie, lying on top.”
Belinda winced.
Libby leaned in. “My friend in HR said Archer had to pay for him to see a head doctor because he was so traumatized.” She flushed. “Of course, that’s confidential.”
Belinda drank and tried to sound casual. “You said that Jeanie was acting strange before her accident. Did you ever get the feeling that she might be in trouble?”
Libby frowned. “You mean like someone was stalking her? She never said anything to me.” The other women shook their heads.
“Jeanie was a small-town girl,” Rosemary said, “and she was afraid in the city. She didn’t mind the extra workload when Jim was fired, but she hated working late and leaving in the dark. I think that’s why she took the self-defense class.”
“I think that’s why she joined the car pool,” Libby said. “It gave her an excuse to take work home instead of staying late at the office like Margo preferred.”
“So she wasn’t in the car pool the day she fell?”
The three women looked at each other, then Rosemary nodded. “Actually, she was. We waited for Jeanie that day, but we assumed she’d decided to work late.”
Carole’s eyes were glassy. “If we’d gone back to look for her—”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” Rosemary chided. “Her neck was broken.”
Belinda took another drink from her glass. So the women didn’t want to discuss her death because they felt guilty. “Margo said that Jeanie was involved with Julian.”
Libby’s eyes narrowed. “How on earth did that come up in conversation?”
A flush overtook Belinda. “Margo saw me at the gym today with Julian. She, um, hinted that Jeanie and I had similar coloring.”
“I take it she thought she was being snide?” Libby asked.
“Well…”
“I don’t see a resemblance,” Carole said, squinting.
“Me neither,” Libby said. “Jeanie had that elfin Opie Taylor look, and you’ve got that whole Julianne Moore thing going on.”
“You’re really pretty,” Carole declared. “Once a person gets a good look at you.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“Quiet beauty,” Libby clarified to Carole. “It’s a Northern thing.” Then Libby looked back. “But have you ever considered doing something different with your hair?”
Belinda fingered a limp hank. “Actually, I was going to ask for the name of a good, cheap stylist.”
“You should always change hairstyles after a breakup,” Carole offered. “After my last divorce, I went blond.”
“It was white,” Rosemary corrected.
“And hideous,” Libby added. “But Carole has a point—and that’s a good one for the book.” She whipped out the legal pad and wrote furiously. “After a breakup, DO try a new hairstyle.”
“What the hell does hair have to do with relationships?” Rosemary asked, signaling the waitress for another round. Since she’d been doing less talking, more drinking, her glass was nearly empty.
“A new hairstyle is symbolic,” Carole insisted. “It marks a new beginning.”
“I’m in,” Belinda said, finishing her drink, too. “Can you recommend a stylist?”
Libby snapped her fingers. “I know the perfect stylist. Me.”
Carole’s eyes bulged. “You?”
“I grew up working in my aunt Cherry’s beauty salon. I still cut my own hair.”
Rosemary’s gaze cut to Libby’s bouffant. “That’s an endorsement?”
“Oh, bwah-hah-hah.” Libby leaned forward. “Belinda, I’ll come over in the morning before we go to the spa—it’ll be so fun!”
Rosemary and Carole were shaking their heads and mouthing, “Don’t do it.” And while Belinda was hesitant, she was intrigued about the prospect of doing something so girly. Besides—her hair wasn’t that great to start with, so she didn’t have much to lose. And hats were back in style. Somewhere.
“Okay.”
Libby clapped her hands. “Oh, this will be great.” She took a big swallow of her drink, then sighed. “I should call and let Glen know I’m going to be late, but frankly, I just don’t give a good damn.”
Rosemary made a rueful noise. “Libby, don’t be so hard on Glen. You know you’re a shopaholic. You need help.”
“I need a raise. And another drink.”
On cue, the second round of drinks arrived. Belinda eyed hers warily.
Carole pulled a cigarette from her purse. “Does anyone mind?” No one did. In fact, Rosemary borrowed one for herself, and they lit the tips with a Bic lighter.
Carole inhaled, then turned her head to exhale a plume of pale smoke. “Maybe Margo will get laid over the weekend, and she’ll be in a good mood Monday.”
“Good gravy,” Libby said. “If that were the only requirement, she’d be Pollyanna every day. Her legs open more often than the doors at the all-night Go-Mart.”
Considering where her own legs had been today, Belinda felt compelled to defend the woman. “Come on, girls—I report directly to Margo. Keep it clean, okay?”
“You can’t honestly say that you respect the woman,” Libby said.
“I respect the position,” Belinda said carefully. “Maybe she isn’t the easiest boss, but she has plans to grow the company, which will mean more money to employee stockholders.” She chased the mouthful of propaganda with a swallow of martini.
The women exchanged glances and raised eyebrows. Carole pursed her mouth. “Guess we’ll have to watch what we say when you’re around.”
“Don’t worry, Belinda,” Libby said with a dry laugh. “If we put a hit out on Margo, we won’t ask you to contribute.”
“You’re assuming the worst. Maybe Margo will approve raises across the board.”
“Spoken like someone who expects a raise,” Libby said lightly. “Maybe even a promotion?”
Suddenly the room seemed unbearably warm. “I don’t expect anything.”
“But what do you think?” Rosemary pressed.
“I think that Margo is pleased with the progress on the Payton project.”
“And?” Libby prodded.
“And I trust her to reward the entire team.”
Libby snorted. “This is the same woman who threatened to fire you four days ago.”
Belinda splayed her non-drinking hand. “She was stressed about Payton. We were able to reach an understanding.”
Rosemary’s mouth curved in a sly smile. “You mean a deal?”
Belinda’s skin prickled, but she tried to maintain a casual tone as she changed tack. “If working with Margo is so bad, why haven’t all of you quit?”
“Because,” Rosemary said, “we keep hoping Juneau will see the light and come back to run the firm.”
Belinda pursed her mouth. “Maybe that’s why Margo is hostile. Maybe she perceives that resistance.” She wet her lips. “Are you sure that the way you feel about Margo has nothing to do with her being…female?”
“Absolutely not,” Libby said.
“No way,” Carole added.
Rosemary was quiet and took a deep drink from her glass. “Actually, Margo and I used to be friends.”
“What?” Libby and Carole chorused.
“It was before either one of you came to work for Archer,” Rosemary said, pointing to Libby and Carole with her pinkie. “She and I were neighbors when my husband was still alive.” Rosemary drew shallowly on the cigarette, then exhaled. “Margo moved in two doors down, and said she was looking for a job. She seemed nice, and I helped her to get on at Archer. She started as a secretary, like me, but she was more ambitious. Then she got power hungry. I didn’t approve of the way she tried to manipulate Juneau, especially when he became so distracted by his wife’s illness.” She flicked ash. “Margo and I had words, and she’s had it in for me ever since.” Rosemary shrugged. “But I have an idea—no more talk about Margo this evening. Let’s have a good time.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Belinda said, lifting her glass. Libby and Carole followed suit.
Libby insisted they work on the book over dinner. Dinner sounded like a good idea to Belinda, since the vodka was doing strange things to her. They ordered salads and, contemplating the drive home, she switched to iced tea. But everyone’s tongues had loosened, and by the time the food arrived, Libby was writing as fast as she could, jotting down everything the girls said.
“DON’T expect copulation and conversation at the same time,” Carole offered.
“DON’T underestimate the extent to which men underestimate women,” Rosemary added.
“DON’T trust a man whose most long-term relationship is with his dog,” Libby said.
“DO prepare for inevitable setbacks in your relationship,” Belinda said, “like sex.”
They all stared.
“I think she said a naughty word,” Libby whispered.
“Are you talking about Vince?” Carole demanded. “Or Julian?”
“No one else had to explain their advice,” Belinda objected with a laugh.
“She’s right,” Rosemary said, digging into her salad. “Give the woman a break.”
“Okay,” Libby said. “We won’t read anything into the fact that she’s blushing like a woman who’s been had, and her new boyfriend talks to her through the radio.”
“Julian isn’t my boyfriend.”
“Well, I don’t care if he is a celebrity,” Rosemary said. “You should be careful.”
Belinda forked in a bite of Caesar salad and chewed. That made two people who’d warned her about Julian. After a swallow and a drink of tea, she looked at Rosemary. “Do you know something about Julian that I should know?”
Rosemary shook her head but seemed overly preoccupied with her own greens. “At the risk of sounding like your mother, I just think young women s
hould be more careful when they first meet men, especially in a city the size of Atlanta.”
Libby huffed. “I say be careful even after you marry the man. How does the saying go—DON’T trust a man farther than you can throw him?”
“Or farther than you can blow him,” Carole added with a grin.
“You have spinach in your braces,” Rosemary said with a disapproving tone.
“Yes, Mother.”
Rosemary scowled. “So what are we going to be subjected to at the spa tomorrow?”
Carole’s eyes lit up. “We’re all getting seaweed wraps, then Rosemary and Libby are going for facials, while Belinda and I do something a little more…adventurous.”
Belinda choked down a hunk of romaine. “Adventurous?”
Carole smiled but thankfully hid it with her hand. “Have you ever had a Brazilian bikini wax?”
“Um, no.”
“You’re going to love it.”
Belinda arched her eyebrow. “Isn’t that supposed to be painful?”
“It’s over, like, instantly. You won’t feel a thing.”
“Famous last words,” Libby murmured.
“By the time Libby and Carole get through with you, Belinda,” Rosemary said with a smirk, “you won’t have any hair left at all.”
Belinda smiled at the group of diverse women, feeling comfortable for the first time in recent memory. None of the women seemed to have anything in common other than working for Archer, and perhaps battling the traffic. Funny, but she had shied away from female relationships for that very reason—she hadn’t seemed to have anything in common with most women she’d met. She’d been a loner her entire life.
And lonely.
But she was starting to realize that she didn’t have to have obvious commonalities with friends—simply being female appeared to be a universally confusing condition. She was in good company.
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