I’d kill myself before I ever became like you.”
A woman pushed the ladies’ room door open and froze halfway in, caught by the nastiness of the voices. She locked eyes with me for the briefest of seconds, then withdrew, condemnation in every line of her body.
Not me, I wanted to tell her. I’m an innocent bystander. I know better. I have class.
Jolene and Airy hadn’t even noticed her. They were too busy pouring out a lifetime of vituperation.
Suddenly Jolene turned sly. “By the way, Airy, how’s Sean?”
All color drained from Airy’s face. “Don’t you even mention his name,” she hissed. “Don’t you even think about him.”
Jolene just smiled. If I’d been Airy, I’d have been tempted to sock her one for her arrogance.
“How do you like his new mustache?” Jolene asked innocently. “I think it makes him look quite debonair, don’t you?”
“His new mus—How do you—?” Airy was so angry that she was sputtering. And scared? She shut her eyes and took a deep, calming breath. Then she said in an urgent, passionate voice, “Sean is off-limits to you. Don’t you ever, ever come near him.”
“Oops. You mean I shouldn’t have had lunch with him yesterday?”
Airy looked as if she had turned to stone. She didn’t even appear to draw breath.
Jolene did everything but smack her lips at the reaction she had gotten. “Why don’t you just settle for Arnie? You and he would make a great pair. The leftovers.” And she turned away.
Airy reached out and grabbed Jolene’s arm and spun her around. Jo blinked in surprise. The guppy was taking on the shark.
“I mean it, Jo. Stay away from Sean. You may have taken Arnie away from me once upon a time, but not Sean. Not Sean! He’s mine.”
Jolene raised an eyebrow and looked down her perfect nose. “Only if you can keep him, sweetie.” She shook Airy’s hand from her arm as if she was flicking garbage off a plate and strode out of the room.
I was left staring at my toes, unsure what to do. What did one say to the loser in a catfight? It was one of life’s little lessons that Mom, usually so good at preparing me, had neglected.
I heard a soft sigh and glanced up. Airy looked so sad.
“I’m sorry,” I said, even though I had nothing to do with any of it.
Airy nodded and smiled weakly. “You’d think I’d have learned to deal with her by now, wouldn’t you? I mean, I’ve known her since I was four years old. Princess Jo.”
She pulled a packet of tissues from her purse and wiped ineffectively at her nose.
“Merry Christmas,” she said and walked out without looking back.
When I left the ladies’ room, I looked to see if Airy was still in the restaurant. She wasn’t but Jolene was, standing straight and beautiful and haughty as she waited for me.
It was a silent walk back to The News.
TWO
“Merry, come here!” My editor, Mac Carnuccio, cocked a hand at me as soon as I came in from lunch.
Mac was king of our little world. His style was exactly the opposite of our previous editor, the erratic stacks of paper littering his desk being but one instance. Still, in the short two weeks that he’d held the job, he’d put out a paper as good as or better than our former editor.
And he clearly loved being in charge, taking a kid’s pleasure in the subtle perks of power, especially the enormous desk by the enormous window.
“I love sitting here,” he’d told me last week as he leaned back in his new ergonomically correct executive chair. “I feel like I own all of Amhearst.”
I’d looked out on Main Street and agreed it was an impressive sight. “Monarch of all you survey, eh?”
Mac smiled broadly at an iridescent gray pigeon taking its afternoon constitutional on the other side of his window. Then his face sobered.
“I’m not really editor, you know.” He glanced at me. “I’m only acting editor. The rag’s for sale, and who knows who will buy it and what will happen then. Ever since I saw Cary Grant in His Girl Friday, I wanted to be a suave, fast-talking editor. And—” his grin returned “—for now I am.”
Now this suave, fast-talking editor was waving to me, his Rosalind Russell.
As I hurried through the newsroom, I zigged and zagged as necessary to avoid being eaten by the spectacularly healthy plants that Jolene insisted on growing here. The huge grape ivy that sat on the soda machine had been joined by a gigantic red poinsettia, one of several that sat about in case we forgot that Christmas was a mere week away. On the great windowsill of the picture window African violets bloomed pink and purple and variegated in spite of the time of year, and Jolene’s Christmas cactus in a teeth-jarring shade of fuchsia hung nearly to the floor.
Mac’s policy was the same as our former editor’s: ignore the greenery and maybe it would die.
“Have I got an assignment for you, Beautiful,” Mac said when I stood before his cluttered desk. “You’ll love it!”
“Yeah?” Whenever Mac told me I’d love something, I got nervous. We were so different that most things he thought were great, I thought were vulgar, profane, and/or without redeeming social value.
“And if you don’t love it,” he said, “the penalty is dinner with me. Alone. At my place.”
“I can tell already that I’m going to like this assignment a lot.” I smiled to let him know I knew he was joking about the dinner, though I wasn’t certain he was. He asked me out with great regularity, and I refused with equal regularity. The last thing I wanted or needed was an office romance with a guy like Mac. Besides, a third guy would definitely be more than I could handle.
“I already assigned you Longwood Gardens at Christmas, right?”
I nodded. Longwood Gardens was a local wonder that I was to do a piece on for the December 26 issue, something I could write ahead, an informative filler that wouldn’t change, unless, of course, the conservatory decided to burn down or something.
“Good.” He nodded. “Don’t forget.”
I scowled at him. Like I’d forget an assignment.
He fumbled through one of his multiple stacks of papers. He grunted with satisfaction as he pulled a sheet free. “You know about His House?”
“Whose house?”
“His House.”
I looked at him blankly.
“You know. Like in God.”
“God’s house? Like church?”
“What’s
