He didn’t budge.
“Just a short jog?”
Was he glaring at me? This animal had never refused a stroll.For him to refuse the opportunity to sniff schnauzers and fire hydrants could only mean he had suffered severe psychological damage in just a few short days. I climbed the stairs to try to coax him. I attached the leash to his collar.
“Come on, we haven’t been together in days.” I headed down the stairs . That dog would have none of it. He planted his feet, and by the time I got to stair number twelve, his leash fully extended, his stationary weight forced me back to stair eight via my haunches. I looked back at him from my now-seated position. All four of his paws had scooted up to the front of his body. I was surprised he hadn’t wrapped himself around the iron railing to hold on for dear life.
I crawled up the stairs so I could stare at him directly in his deep dark eyes.“You really don’t want to go outside?”
I heard a brief whimper and then he dropped to the floor with a sigh as only his eyes looked up at me.
I rubbed his head.“She’s not out there.”
He raised his head slightly.
“I promise. I will not take you to the courthouse, or even make you walk on the sidewalk . We can trot in the grass if you want to.”
He sat up on that one.
“I will protect you from the crazy lady.”
It took some more coaxing, but he did walk slowly to the door. But as I opened it, the poor soul just couldn’t bring himself to walk through it. And I would not be remembered in his beautiful strawberry blond head as the woman who led him to undue anguish. No,Vicky would keep that title.
I walked out the door not knowing if Duke would ever till with me again. It was a sad day. Until I remembered my conversation with Paige . Then, the hope of redemption swept over me in my prison of unrequited love with the calming effect of a southern siesta . Well, if you’re from southern Mexico.
The sounds of Josh Groban filled my iPod. In the middle of his and Charlotte Church’s rendition of “The Prayer,” I began to say some of my own. But tilling today felt exceptionally challenging. Somewhere between naming and claiming my destiny with Grant, and binding my mother’s reckless foolishness, the receiving end of my tilling felt rather . . . empty. I pressed on anyway. Today was Monday. Not that I thought heaven had Mondays. But just in case it did, I would give it the benefit of the doubt.
Classy and elegant hangs in the closet across the hall. Classy and elegant has not been seen in my closet since I purged it of such nonsense after a quarrel over my refusal to wear a suit to a two-year-old’s birthday party.
As I scanned my closet for something to wear I longed for classy and elegant . Who knows why. I just felt the need to get away from anything in the dark and dreary family. I had been shopping last week at Banana Republic on Broughton, so I sifted through the new assortment, longing for something a little un-Savannah.
Tucked in the back behind my new acquisitions was a straight-lined khaki skirt of brushed cotton. It had been a gift from Paige, who once ate one too many bags of Doritos and couldn’t get into it the next morning. In her fit of frustration, I gained some rather cute separates. It was a fitting compliment to my calves, falling just below the knees. I matched it with a baby blue cotton button-down with three-quarter sleeves.
As I slipped on my flip-flops and studied myself in the mirror, the word dowdy came to mind . The look was sleek, but the shoes didn’t fit. But the khaki opened-toed Coach-emblemed slip-ons with a small heel, purchased by my mother, were a perfect complement. As I tucked my standard flip-flops back into the closet, I resolved not to tell anyone what I discovered today.
Feeling a little flirty, I pulled out a strand of pearls worn only on Sundays or to the occasional Saturday wedding. Today they seemed fitting. Finishing it off with dainty pearl-stud earrings, I studied myself one more time. Sleek ponytail: classic. Pearls: elegant. The entire look was, dare I say, perfection. I could compete with the best of them . This look could turn heads in windows. And I’m not talking pet-store windows either.
“Well, Savannah Phillips, you look like you stepped out of some kind of fashion magazine,” Louise said, stopping her dishwashing midstroke as I entered the back door of Jake’s.
I looked down, running my hands over my skirt, trying unsuccessfully to smooth out the two wrinkles that the trip over here had created. “It’s not all that.”
Then Dad walked through the doors and stopped midstride as well.“Well, what do we have here? I thought you already got a job.”
“So are you saying I only dress up for job interviews?” I refused to look at him and focused on my morning breakfast out of a fountain.
“I’m just saying it’s either an interview or church, and it’s not Sunday. Or it could be a funeral, but unless it’s slipped by the prying eyes and listening ears around here, no one’s died lately.”
“Somebody’s about to die.” I thought I heard Louise mumble as she returned to her dish washing.
I took a long sip of my Coke. “You’re crazy. I’m a working woman . There is nothing unusual about me looking nice to go to work.”
“Whatever you say . Well, have a good day.” He kissed me on the head and started back to the front.
“Still washing dishes?” I asked.
Louise mumbled again . This time I was pretty certain a death threat was involved. Even Mervine wasn’t smiling today. And that is enough to cause anyone to ruminate over the current state of affairs. I scurried to the front, before Louise was finished mumbling and Mervine took to imitating a scene from Psycho with that knife she was washing.
“Anyone willing to listen to correction that can lead them to life can consider themselves in company with the wise.” Jake’s thought for the day. Dad watched me as I read. “How do you know everything?”
“Savannah, you’re the crazy one. I don’t know half of anything.”
“Yes, you do . You know all of most, and the rest of all.”
“I just want to be prepared.”
“Prepared for what?”
“Prepared for living.”
“You’re prepared, for everything from skinned knees to natural disasters.”
He laughed.“I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“Am I prepared?”
“Only you can answer that. Are you? Are you prepared for your article tomorrow?”
I rested my chin in my hands and looked up at him. “I know the topic. But not the details. How is that for prepared?”
“Shaky, but at least you have a topic. Anyway, if you can’t think of anything, at least you’ll look like a professional.”
“Well, I’m so glad I’ve given all of you something to talk about today.” I said with a smirk.
The chime on the door announced the entrance of the cappuccino-loving television personality. Every head turned in tandem.
“Told you she’d be back,” I stated with shameless pleasure.
Dad’s face filled with regret.“Ooh, look. Maybe I’m smarter than I thought.” Our raised right eyebrows mirrored each other’s, and I headed to a place that would respect my newfound discernment and my professional attire.
Old Betsy hiccupped when I turned her off. The Saab still looked good (on the outside at least) for its eight years of age and close to 150,000 miles. Reaching across the seat, I grabbed my taupe Coach handbag that matched my shoes. I laughed at my mother’s diligence in making sure I possessed some sense of style. With her out of sight for a while, I could enjoy carrying it without her taking credit for instilling me with good, albeit expensive, taste. I opened the car door and practically collided with the last face I needed or wanted to see, standing there grinning at me.
“Why are you in the parking lot when you ride a bike?”
“I don’t want it to get scratched.” His grin absolutely grated. “And how was your evening?”
“It was fine.” I would try to ignore him . Taking a step forward, my perfect grace and elegance was held
back by the fact that I had shut my skirt in the car door. My attempt to walk jerked the ensnared skirt so hard that the force pulled my feet out from under me and flung them underneath the car. My purse flew out of my arms, and all of its contents ended up at Joshua’s feet. And there I was, held in place by the fabric of my skirt, elbows digging into pavement and sleek ponytail covering my face.
“Oh, Savannah!” He tried to catch me, yet unsuccessfully thwarted my fall.“Here, let me help you.” He opened the door and my knees came down to the concrete with undue pain and suffering.
“Ow!” I declared of both my pride and my body. He helped me squirm out from underneath the car and lifted me to my feet. He was about to brush the gravel from my now miserably stained skirt and shirt. I slapped his hand.“Well, pardon me, but I am more than capable of wiping myself off.”
He tried to hide his intense delight but proved totally incapable. I brushed the residue of embedded gravel from my unfortunate apparel and looked in horror at the contents of my purse, displayed across two parking places . We both saw them at the same time . The feminine items. Everyone knows a woman has feminine issues that require feminine products, but no one wants them exhibited across a parking lot and stared at by their latest affliction.
But he never made a remark as he picked up every item, including those “products,” and placed them back inside my purse. I snatched it from him and straightened, refusing to give him any glory in my plight. Then I tucked the dangling hair back behind my ears and made a mental note to fix that as soon as I could get to a bathroom.
He opened the back door for me without saying a word and let me go to my desk without further comment or insult. As soon as his back was turned, I made my way to the ladies’ room. Long gone was the classic and elegant look of the morning. Here in the mirror stood a pavement-stained skirt, gravel-pitted blouse, scuffed-up sandals, ratted hair, and bleeding knee . The trashed pride wasn’t even worth mentioning.
Halfway into trying to salvage any semblance of being well-groomed, Jessica—my boss’s abrasive secretary—walked in. Just what I need to top off my morning.
“I’ll come back when you’re through,” said the snippy petite blonde.
“I’m through . Trust me.” I made my way to the door.
“You might want to rethink that.” She said in a perfectly pain-in-the-behind tone while backing away from me.
“What? Are you afraid I’m going to kiss you?” I referred to my kissing her on the cheek last week, assuring her I would make her like me. Looking back now, I wasn’t sure of that small fact at all.
“No!” But she backed up even farther.“You better not anyway.”
“Well, as I said, I’m through.” And with that I walked around her to head out the bathroom door that she was holding open. I lunged for her as I walked through. Poor child about crashed into the paper-towel dispenser. I didn’t even feel like laughing. So I just walked slowly to my cardboard world that needed walls and a door and an intercom system so I didn’t have to come out until all the world had fallen into the ocean.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
My Styrofoam world had only been mine for one week today. I had tried to make it home the best I could. It wasn’t great. How could any office without a door be considered great? But at least there wasn’t quite so much gray.
I was going to be a writer. A writer of books. Actually, I did write a book. The Road to Anywhere it was called, about four girls on a road trip . Won a huge competition. A competition that would have made me a published author. A competition I was certain my mother had rigged. She hadn’t. Didn’t find that out quick enough. So, here I sit. A journalist for the Savannah Chronicle. A new destiny. But today it felt rather daunting. I was filling the shoes of an icon. A lady named Gloria Anderson, who had written stories that were life changing and thought provoking.
My most recent article took two long weeks to produce, and I do mean long, so long an entire book could be written about them. Come to think of it, I might just do that someday. But first I have to figure out what to say in the article for this week.
What part of the story shaping up on Wright Square would challenge a person, truly change a person? The events represented so many opinions and passions that it wasn’t clear to me how to effectively portray their real breadth to my readers. And, after only one week on the job, I still worked in prove-yourself territory.
Even though this city has known about me and my achievements for years because of Vicky’s incessant need to recognize me publicly—mostly in this very newspaper through, shall we say, rather large announcements—this effort of mine was different. And the world seemed to be watching. Every network-news team and several cable stations had collided in the heart of Savannah, giving me unprecedented opportunity to prove to the world my rational side, to be an effective and unbiased journalist . To portray the facts.
Let the readers form their opinion. Let all humans reading this newspaper garner their own perspective by the views that had made us a city in the spotlight.
“That’s it,” I said to the ashen wall staring back.“I’ll just state the views, the perspectives. Let the readers form their own opinions.”
I got to work, trying to succinctly base the foundation of my story on the manifold conversations I heard around that square over the last three very long days. It was a human-interest story based on multiple humans.
By noon my computer screen was full but my stomach was empty. The cold Pop-Tart that I found stuck inside one of Dad’s desk drawers in his study hadn’t proven to be a substantial breakfast. The Coke had helped. But to be honest, I considered it an extraordinary achievement that I had been able to concentrate on anything other than how to bring my love home.
Paige and her plan awaited.
As I packed up my bag, the chatter of two girls a couple of shelters up strayed over the top of my own.
“You are so paranoid,” one announced. “Who in the world will care if you take an hour or an hour and a half lunch break? No one will even notice you’re still gone.”
“I’m not sure I should appreciate that observation.”
“Oh, you know what I mean . We work hard; we deserve to take however long we want to for lunch. Now go and have fun. You can show an hour on your time card and no one will know the difference.”
“Well, I’ll think about it.”
I headed out the door, certain that after only a week, I wasn’t going to be pressing any luck with that one. At least not yet.
Clary’s was our constant. Our North Star. Well, it wasn’t all that, but their BLTs were the bomb. Helen had our drinks waiting. A Coke for me and a fake Coke for Paige, who pranced in late as always.
“Don’t drink. Just talk,” I told her.
She took the straw that was touching her lips and sucked on it long and hard and bugged her eyes out at me. “You’re just nasty lately. Are you PMSing it?”
“Permanently! But enough about me. Let’s talk about your plan for me.”
“Well, at least you give me credit for the plan.”
“I’m feeling generous.” I smiled.
Helen sat our plates down in front of us. Her eyes darted between Paige and me. “Savannah, child, you look too thin. I’m getting you a milkshake.”With that she darted back behind the bar to prepare me extra caffeine.
“Am I Two-Ton Tilda or what?” Paige asked loud enough for Helen to hear. Helen chose not to.
“Don’t worry about her, I’ll share. Now go on.”
As she began her strategy for our conquest, the young man at the table next to us began to raise his voice at the other two elderly men sitting with him. “Do you have a medical degree?” he challenged. He expressed little regard for the fact that either of the two were old enough to have been his father.“No, you don’t . You don’t take people’s hearts out of their chests and hold them in your hand and then put new ones back inside and save their lives. Do you do that?”
“You can lower your voice, Peter,” one o
f the gentlemen encouraged.
“I’m not going to lower my voice,” he assured us all. Apparently he was clueless that I had a plan to hear and he was getting in the way of it.“You two come in here trying to tell me what procedures I can and can’t do in my operating room, while you push bureaucratic papers through, trying to keep Joe Public happy.”
“Paige, just talk a little louder.”
“Huh?”
“TALK A LITTLE LOUDER!”
“I CAN’T TALK OVER THAT!”
The snot-nosed surgeon continued to attract the attention of the entire restaurant and even got a few shh ’s from different directions. Had Helen not been in the back kicking up a milkshake for me, she would have come out here and thrown him out on his keister.
Looking down at my watch, I realized my lunch hour was evaporating. And unlike some people, I didn’t have the luxury of being tardy. Finally, with no relief in sight, I took relief into my own hands.
“Excuse me, Paige.”
“HUH?”
“EXCUSE ME!” I got up. Placed my napkin back on the table, pried the backs of my legs off of the plastic-encased seat cushion and entered the firing zone.
“Sir?”
He didn’t look up.
“Um, sir.” I cleared my throat. He wouldn’t even look in my direction.
“SIR!” That one got him and just about everybody else. About near startled myself.
“What do you want?” he snapped.
“I, no, we”—I motioned to the now totally engrossed audi-ence—“ we want you to either pipe down or leave.”
“I beg your pardon?” He rose from his seat. He was a pretty big fella.
“Please don’t get up unless you’re going to leave.”
“I don’t know who you think you are—”
“I’ll tell you who I am. I am a patron of this restaurant, and I have thirty minutes to eat, hear a story that I have been waiting all day to hear, and get back to work before my lunch time expires . You have just wasted ten minutes of my time. And unless you hold the ability to heal broken hearts, then your discourse on all your other skills won’t do me a lick of good. So, if you will please keep it down, the rest of us could get back to our nice lunch and not have to endure your insufferable self-righteousness and obnoxious behavior.”
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