She clamped a hand on her hip. “Excuse me, sir—we’re running a very reputable business with plenty of security, I’ll thank you kindly to remember! Your little girl found our phone number on, according to her, your desk. So, in the future, when you take it upon yourself to seek solace with a woman who is not your intended or otherwise, I highly recommend you don’t leave such things lyin’ about in a place an innocent child of six can find!” Em slammed down the phone with a huff, infuriated their above-standards security measures had been called into question.
As she fought for breath, so incensed she wanted to hurl every item off Dixie’s desk and slam it against the wall, Dixie, Marybell and LaDawn all stood, still rooted to their spots in quiet mode, waiting, watching.
Cat stirred, eliciting a small snore.
Em’s lips thinned, her fingers clutching the back of her chair, her knuckles white from the effort. “I will not have our security questioned by some man who can’t keep track of his adorable little girl and her penchant for girlfriend shopping. Will not!”
LaDawn was the first to approach her, though it was hesitant. “I’m afraid a’ you, sugarlove.”
Marybell nodded numbly and raised her hand, her bangle bracelets jingling and sliding into place at the bend in her forearm. “Me...too.”
Dixie’s mouth was slightly open, her brow creased. “Wow. You were on fire. See what we mean about the fire breathing?”
If there was one thing Em had in her life besides her boys, it was her job. One she took incredibly seriously. “I take great pride in making sure everything runs smoothly here at Call Girls—especially the phones. How dare he outright declare we would have allowed something like that!”
LaDawn came up behind her and massaged her shoulders with nimble hands, breathing a sigh of a giggle. “Okay, Rocky. It’s over now, and you set him right. Why don’t you grab your chicken breasts? I think it’s time we all head on home and get a good night’s rest. You fought the good fight. You should take a break between matches.”
As her wits gathered, Em couldn’t help but replay the sweet voice in her head, wanting a girlfriend for her daddy so he wouldn’t be so cranky. There had been a hint of sadness, the wish to make everything better for her father that in a six-year-old’s mind meant snuggles and kisses and a girlfriend you bought at the girlfriend store.
The spike of anger she’d rolled with when she’d spoken to that arrogant jackass of a man dissipated in a puff, leaving her with a combination adrenaline/alcohol-related pounder of a headache, and a sad ache in her heart that a sweet little girl wanted her father to have a girlfriend.
This was what she got for thinking she was ever going to be capable of simulating sexual acts with LaDawn’s special spatula and a chair.
Oh, libation, what have you done?
* * *
The hard drop of a hammer on metal had Em gritting her teeth and wincing with pain. No more girls’ night—not ever. At least not when it factored in swirly orange drinks accompanied by chicken cutlet breasts.
Making her way toward Lucky Judson’s Hardware store, she stopped on the curb, unable to properly appreciate the cooler weather with early winter in full swing. Usually, it made her happy to finally be able to wear sweaters and boots. Today, it grated on her hangover and bit at her sinuses, forcing her to tighten the belt around her thigh-length coat to keep the sharp wind from clawing at her silky blouse.
Typically, the square, sitting directly in the center of Plum Orchard, surrounded by the local establishments and quaint row of Victorian houses where the local doctor, lawyer and dentist were housed, made Em smile.
It was always busy and humming with the people she’d grown up with all her life. Today, she’d rather not see any of those people, for surely they’d see her red eyes and sallow skin and label her with a big, fat letter H for shamefully hungover.
Her hangover reminded her of that innocent, sweet voice dipped in angels’ wings on the phone last night. There was something, something the mother in her had picked up on that told her the little girl had sensed a need in her father—loneliness maybe? Children had an uncanny knack for picking up emotions, leading them to act on their simplistic views of the world just to make the boo-boo better.
Not thirty feet from Lucky’s, the scent of freshly brewed coffee rose, making Em’s alcohol-weakened stomach lurch, taking her mind off the little girl momentarily. Or was her stomach lurching at the sight of the Magnolias, lying in wait, all phony smiles as they sat at the new café, hoping to make her their first pounce of the day?
The Magnolias, or Mags as everyone around town called them, were the backbone of all town social events, and what everyone perceived as the cream of Plum Orchard society. The chosen ones with rich families, and what was considered the proper connections.
Em always secretly compared them to henchwomen due to the fact that getting into the Magnolias was as difficult, and probably as bloody, as joining the mob. Unless, of course, you entered by birthright. She’d never been a Magnolia, but Dixie had once been the leader of their pack. They were exclusive, snobbish and plain old mean if anyone dared cross them.
When Dixie had come back to town—a changed woman—she’d crossed the Mags, and they were never going to let Em forget that even though she wasn’t allowed access to their exclusive club, she’d betrayed them simply by accepting Dixie.
Squaring her shoulders for the barb they’d certainly shoot at her, Em forced herself to make her feet move past Louella Palmer and her gang of Magnolia-scented thugs, each sipping on fancy coffee with whipped cream and sprinkles.
Louella, beautiful and blonde, pristine in a winter-white cowl neck dress and deep burgundy knit shrug, coupled with knee-high, brown leather boots, wiggled her fingers at Em. “Hi, Em! How’s tricks—I mean, Trixie?” Lesta-Sue Arnold and Annabelle Pruitt giggled on cue like all good gang members do when their head gangster tugged on their puppet strings.
If there were ever a day, today would be the one, when slugging Louella Palmer right in her perky nose was highest on her bucket list. Her reference to Em’s ex-husband, Clifton, and his cross-dresser name, Trixie, had everyone in town turning around.
Always look your demons square in the eye, Emmaline Amos—then lift your chin and show ’em all your secrets. You get there before they do, there’s nothing they can touch if you’ve already touched it.
Sage advice from Dixie the ex-demon.
Em lifted her chin, securing her dark sunglasses on her nose to fight the effects of the glaring sun and the stares of everyone around them, waiting to see if she would react.
She chanted in her mind, Be Dixie. Be one with the Dixie. “Oh, he’s right fine, Louella. How’s that rhinoplasty you’ve got scheduled comin’ along?” she called back, stopping just feet from the white steel table they’d gathered ’round like it was a cauldron and they were witches, mixing a brew.
She smiled with innocence at the group, eyeing each one of them, then setting her sights on Louella, still recovering from her crack about the bump she currently had on her nose, courtesy of tanglin’ with Dixie. “Silly me. How insensitive to make mention of it when it’s clear you still haven’t even made the appointment.”
Em didn’t wait to see their faces. Pivoting on her heel,
