Chapter Two

Luci

 

My phone buzzes, again. I don’t have to steal a peek at the screen to know it’s Blythe. She’s been obsessively texting me for over a week now.

“You have to come to the New Year’s Eve party with me, Luci,” she insisted. “You have to. The publicist for the Carolina Cougars invited me and all the football players are supposed to be there.”

It was sweet of her to think of me and to want me to go, but the party is in Kiawah, four long hours away, and very much outside my comfort zone.

I toss my phone inside my desk drawer and shut it, lifting my gaze to meet Riley’s.

The hem of her short skirt skims further up her legs when she leans forward. “Are you firing me?” she demands.

Riley blinks her outrageously long lashes rather dramatically before crossing her arms over breasts greatly at odds with her double-zero figure. I’m not certain her lashes or breasts are real. From what I’ve noticed every dollar she makes goes into her appearance and wardrobe. Other luxuries such as food and rent are supposedly supplemented by her father, a neurosurgeon at Charlotte Central. I’m not judging her, really, I’m not. But someone like Riley who always had everything, and feels entitled to more, often can’t be reasoned with. Today is a prime example.

“No,” I say.

“I didn’t think so,” she quips, narrowing her eyes.

She starts to stand, except I’m not done. “That doesn’t mean you’re not on probation,” I add. “Nor does it mean that your position is safe.”

I’m not yelling or glaring. I don’t have it in me to be cruel. Maybe if I did, people like Riley would think twice before mistreating me. But I’ve always believed in being kind. Not that anyone should mistake my kindness for timidity.

My voice is as stern as the conversation. “In the six weeks you’ve worked in the firm, you’ve arrived late almost every day.”

She falls back into her chair, her annoyance clawing at the air between us. “That’s a lie,” she snaps.

“Watch your tone,” I counter. Again, I’m not yelling. I turn my computer screen around so she can see it. “We document the arrival time of every employee who’s not a member of the legal team.”

“I’m a paralegal,” she tells me, her tone suggesting I’m the one out of line.

I maintain my professional demeanor, although by now it’s becoming more challenging. “Which as I’ve mentioned on numerous occasions classifies you under our regular staff. At the time of your hire, you were informed the start time is between eight-thirty and nine a.m., sometimes earlier depending on the needs of your assigned attorney.” I switch to the collection of screens. “Each square in red represents the days you’ve arrived after ten in the morning.”

She frowns. “You can’t record me like that.”

“Based on the security and agreement clause you signed when you accepted the position here at Ballantyne and Bradly, we can.”

“I work from home,” she says.

“That’s not what you were hired to do nor was it something cleared by a senior partner. I’m giving you a chance, and one last warning. If you’re late again, your position will be terminated.”

“You’re not my supervisor,” she tells me.

I’m ready to beat my head against the wall. “No, your supervisor wants you fired. I’m trying to give you a chance.”

“Don’t bother,” she says. She rips off her court I.D. and tosses it on my desk. “I quit.”

I imagine this is Riley’s last “F you” to me. She’s never liked me and has often questioned our staff on why I hold the office manager position. “She just graduated from college?” I once overheard her say. “God, how old is she, thirty?”

I’m twenty-eight, not that it should matter. But since the moment we were introduced, it seems only Riley’s feelings matter to Riley.

She stomps away, pausing in the doorway. “You know, Luci, maybe if you cared more about what you look like and how you dress, you’d actually have a life outside this fucking office, and a reason to be late in the mornings.”

“And maybe if you worked hard and committed to being a better person you’d still have a job here,” I counter.

Again, there’s no point in yelling. She whirls around, stopping short when she sees the two security guards waiting for her. I’d called them ahead of time in case they were needed. Riley more than proved they were. “Thank you for responding,” I tell them. “Kindly escort Miss Bassett back to her desk and off the premises. Her coat and the contents of her purse are the only things she’s permitted to take with her.”

“Yes, Miss Luci,” the first guard says.

Kee-Kee walks in front of my glass fronted office, slowing her quick steps long enough to flip Riley off. Kee-Kee is like that, which is why I’ve always loved her.

She slams the door shut behind her and in Riley’s face. “Hey. I see you changed your mind and fired her ass.”

I adjust the computer screen so it faces me and reach for Riley file. “I didn’t fire her. If you must know, she quit.”

Kee-Kee is in her forties, with shoulder-length brown hair she spends a fortune on to cut and color. Between her appearance and the classic way she dresses (today a lovely navy suit), she reminds me of a younger, curvier, Caroline Kennedy.

“Why the fuck did you let her quit?”

Her mouth, however, does not.

She taps her manicured nails against the armrest, something she does when she’s seconds from telling someone off. Today, it’s me. “You should have fired her for being a little bitch. A little lazy bitch. A little lazy bitch who liked to whore around with all the junior partners.”

I hold out my palms, trying to silence her. But Kee-Kee isn’t a person easily silenced. Kee is all about doing the silencing and throat-punching anyone who dares to cover her mouth.

“Did you know the last time we hit happy hour she and Jefferson went at it like wildebeests on parade following prom night?”

“I’m not sure what that means,” I begin.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is she’s useless and doesn’t deserve to quit. You should have fired her ass, the big boss gave you the go-ahead for hell’s sake. Shit, even he recognized what dead weight she was and he only spoke to her twice. Didn’t I tell you not to hire any millennials?”

“I’m not the one who hired her.”

“Whatever,” she says.

“And Mr. Ballantyne gave me no such go-ahead.” I shove the file into an inter-office envelope and address it to payroll. “He said is it was my call and that he trusted my decision.” I shrug and swivel in my seat to type the email that seals Riley’s fate. “I wanted to give her a chance.”

“Why?”

My fingers fly over the keyboard. “People make mistakes. Sometimes, they just need the right person to give them a chance.”

“Like Mr. Ballantyne gave you a chance?” She huffs when my typing slows. “Not the same thing, Luci. You work hard, stay late, taking care of everything and everyone. Riley . . . how can I put this? Riley sucks, as a paralegal and pretty much as a human being. You have any idea how many other paralegals and secretaries had to pick up the slack for her?”

“I realize she’s young and immature.”

“She’s a little shit,” Kee adds. “That’s what she is.”

“I won’t argue with you about that,” I agree.

I’m trying not to think about what she said, about how I look and how I don’t take care of myself. It shouldn’t have bothered me and I realize she meant to hurt me the best way she knew how. But I can’t deny that at least some of what she said is true.

Managing the office has become my life, from assuring the attorneys and staff have everything they need, to picking up the slack for those who fall behind. I eat well, and run a few miles on my treadmill every other day. I just don’t do more for myself than necessary.

Maybe I should.

“What’s wrong?” Kee asks.

“It’s nothing,” I say.

“Luci, did she say something to you?” She frowns when I don’t answer. “What the hell did she say to you?”

I hit the send icon and print out a hard copy. “She said that if I cared more about what I looked like and how I dress, I’d actually have a life outside this office.”

She presses her lips and nods. “I’ll give the little skank that one.”

“I thought you were on my side.” I stand and reach for the paperwork sliding out from the printer behind me. I’m wearing a charcoal gray pencil skirt, a light pink sweater, and a pretty floral scarf. My attire doesn’t draw the eye. It’s not supposed to. “And what’s wrong with the way I dress? I’m professional.”

“So am I, but at least men can tell that I have tits.” She motions to my blouse. “The jury’s still out on whether you’ve hit puberty. Damn it, Luci, you’re thin and have never had kids. If there’s a body underneath all that polyester, show it, don’t hide it beneath all those layers—and what’s up with all those scarves you can’t seem to live without? It’s forty degrees in Charlotte, not minus twenty in Buffalo.”

“I thought I needed a little color.” I adjust the scarf around my neck when she makes a face. “It’s elegant.”

Her scowl deepens. “Yeah, I’m sure all those seventy-year-old men at church get hot and bothered every time they see you strutting into a pew.”

“I don’t attend church.”

“Then stop dressing like that’s where you’re headed.” She thinks about. “Or maybe you should attend. At least then I’d know you do something with your weekends.”

“I do things on weekends.”

“Oh, yeah?” she asks. “When was the last time you had a date?”

“October,” I admit.

“You’re kidding.”

That’s actually pretty good for me. “All right, when was your last date?”

“Last night,” she replies.

“Oh,” I answer.

“Why haven’t you had sex since October?”

“I, um, didn’t exactly have sex.”

She blinks back at me as if I’m speaking another language. “I don’t understand. Was he cute?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have a penis? Strike that, clearly you didn’t get that far. But if he was cute, that’s usually good enough for me.” She thinks about it. “Okay, maybe he has to be nice and employed, too. He was nice and employed, right?” At my nod she asks, “So why didn’t you?”

I shove the paperwork into a manila envelope and sigh. “It wasn’t a good time.”

“Wait.” She pushes back her hair over her shoulder and knits her brow. “Are you talking about that blond guy I saw you with at Tajos?”

I nod, surprised she remembers. “Yes, that was him.”

“What happened? He wasn’t cute, he was damn hot, nice ass, too.” She drops her hand. “Did you tell him you didn’t screw on the first date or some crazy shit?”

“No, even though I don’t sleep around.”

“I didn’t say anything about sleeping. You could have kicked him out the minute you finished your orgasm.”

“Kee-Kee,” I mumble.

“Just tell me,” she says.

No one needles me like Kee-Kee, but she’s a good friend, and despite embracing her stereotypical New York City persona like a beast, she has a tremendous heart. “We were having a good time, or so I thought, until he saw his ex-girlfriend walk in with another man,” I explain. “He spent the remainder of the night crying about how she broke his heart and tossing back more bourbon than should be humanly possible.”

She places both palms on the desk and leans in. “Luci, for the love of God, tell me you left. No, tell me you called him an asshole loser and then left. Do not tell me you stayed and listened.” She groans when I don’t answer. “Come on, Luci. You’re better than this.”

I cover my face. “He was really upset—”

“Oh, hell,” she says pushing away from the desk.

“I felt bad for him.” My hands slap against my lap. I know how pathetic I sound. “And then he was really drunk and I couldn’t just leave him.”

“So you stayed, and you listened, and you drove his drunk ass home, didn’t you?”

I don’t answer. I also don’t tell her how he threw up all over the back seat of my car.

She frowns. “He puked on you, didn’t he?”

“No.”

“Well thank heavens for small favors—”

“He puked in my car,” I mutter, coming clean.

I wait for Kee to yell at me. She simply shakes her head. “And you wonder why I took Riley the whiner’s side.”

“Kee-Kee!”

“Luci, your last name is Diaz not Door Mat. He trekked his dirty and pussy feet all over you, and you just let him.”

“I couldn’t leave him,” I repeat.

“You know what your problem is?” she asks.

“I’m too nice?” I guess. It’s what she and Mr. Ballantyne always tell me.

Kee shakes her head, appearing sad. “No. Your problem is you deserve more than you expect from yourself.” She motions to the clock on the wall. “It’s five o’clock on Thursday, the night before New Year’s Eve. The building is officially closed and won’t open again until Monday. Go home.”

I motion to the pile of assignments on my desk, but Kee’s reprimanding stare silences me. “Work can wait. The good things in life can’t. They’re out there, Luci. Find them and enjoy them before you lose your soul saving everyone else.”

I watch her leave. For a long few moments all I do is sit and stare at the rows of cubicles laid out in front of me. One by one, the staff pile out, some hurrying to catch up with their friends, others speaking excitedly into their cell phones.

My hands shift through the stacks of projects in front of me. I need to skim through the designs the interior decorator prepared, or at the very least email her to say I’ll be in touch after the holidays. I want to keep busy. I have to, even though I barely feel anything at all.

Riley’s words struck a blow, but Kee-Kee’s hit me harder. Kee is a real friend and real friends point out things you’ve ignored for too long.

It takes me a moment to gather my things, by the time I’m done, the entire floor is empty. I’m the only one on the elevator and the only one crossing the lobby. I hurry to the coffee stand when I see the workers closing down. It’s early for them. But like everyone else, they appear ready to embrace the long weekend.

I put in my usual order, an egg and cheese bagel sandwich and three large waters. Belinda, the owner, moves quickly, filling my bag and another packed with bagels.

“Take them,” she says when I hesitate.

If they were all for me, I’d feel bad and refuse. But she knows they’re not which is why she offers. “Happy New Year, Luci,” she says.

“Thank you, Miss Belinda,” I reply. “Happy New Year.”

I clutch the bags and hurry out, burying my face into my scarf when I push through the revolving door and the wind picks up. I step onto the busy Charlotte streets. The entire city is bustling with activity, drivers honk their horns, irritated by the long row of cars barely crawling through traffic while pedestrians rush by, anxious to get home or to the nearest bar.

The heels of my boots stomp across the sidewalk in quick succession as I head toward the park, my heartbeat matching the steady rhythm. I take a deep breath and release it slowly. This is the path I both loathe and fear, and one I take almost every day. Today, however, these three blocks seem longer and more painful.

I reach the small park. During the day, mothers push strollers through the crisscrossing walkways and children play on swing sets, their little voices filling the atmosphere with laughter and the occasional cry for a snack. But once evening begins to take form, those same mothers disappear with their children, giving ample space to the tribe of people who occupy the walkways and benches, and who loiter long after the sun disappears.

It doesn’t take me long to find who I’m looking for. She’s sitting at a bench, waiting for me, her scraggly yellow coat too big for her thin frame. Greasy locks of curly hair stick out in knotted clumps from beneath her hat. I place the bags beside her and step away, unsure what mood I’ll find her in.

“Do you have any money?” she asks, her voice absurdly deep for a woman who appears so small.

I lie, steeling a glimpse at the setting sun, the bits of light it offers pushing between the bare branches of the old magnolia trees. “No, Fernie, I only have food.”

She shoves her hand into the largest bag, crumpling the paper with her dirty fingers. The sound is loud and bitter, reflecting her mood yet not quite muffling the encroaching sound of shuffling feet. I edge away. It seems Fernie brought friends. Like always, they appear to be the wrong kind of people and the last ones she needs.

A man with a long beard and tattered red beanie reaches Fernie first, his glassy eyes and volatile stare alerting me that he’s already high and seeking more than another hit. He ignores Fernie and the bagel she attempts to hand him, unlike the other man and three other women who eagerly stretch out their palms.

“Bye, Fernie,” I say. I keep the man with the red beanie within my sights without looking at him directly. Like with Fernie, I’m wary of him, and the people accompanying him.

Fernie doesn’t glance up from the bag, nor does she bother thanking me. I’m not surprised. Fernie . . . she isn’t capable of much.

“Next time bring money,” she tells me.

I don’t answer, hurrying away when the man in the beanie takes a step forward. My pace and heartbeat quicken when I sense him follow, and I reach for the mace in my pocket.

My shoulders slump and I breathe a sigh of relief when I return to the busy walkway and a police cruiser pulls in along the curb. Two officers slide out, their attention drifting from me to somewhere behind me. Almost immediately, the steps following me abruptly cease. I glance over my shoulder in time to see the man in the red beanie inch back into the park.

I don’t stop, moving ahead and away. The police officers nod in my direction. I’ve seen them before, usually around this time. While I welcome their presence and the safety they offer, I don’t welcome what the younger patrolman has to say.

“You shouldn’t be here at this hour,” he mumbles as I pass.

I have to. It’s the only way I’m sure my mother eats.

I don’t say the words out loud, and I don’t speak to anyone about Fernie. I visit her privately, hoping that one day, she’ll give in and allow me to get her the help she needs.

I wipe my eyes. After a lifetime of being pushed away and abandoned by the woman who gave me life, I should be immune to the way she treats me and accustomed to the circumstances I find her in. Like the rest of my family, I should be able to turn my back and let her go.

But I can’t. I never could.

I was six when she dropped me off on my grandmother’s front porch. She didn’t bother to knock or ring the doorbell. My grandmother wasn’t expecting me and I was so certain Fernie would return, I stood on that porch waiting for her.

It wasn’t until my grandmother walked out to throw away her garbage that she realized I was there. She hurried to embrace me, realizing what happened when I broke down crying.

Whether I want to be or not, I’m still that little girl, hoping for the mother Fernie never was.

I return to the building and take the elevator down to the parking deck. My phone rings as I crank the engine to my RAV 4. I hit the Blue Tooth, my hand and voice trembling as the memory of that day pokes me hard enough to sting my eyes with tears.

“Hello?”

“Luci, it’s Blythe. Quit blowing me off and come to Kiawah with me.”

I tug off my scarf, realizing I never responded about the party. My big plan for New Year’s was a hot bath, a warm bed, and a Stranger Things Netflix marathon.

As pitiful as it sounds, I was looking forward to three days of doing nothing, until Riley said what she did, and Kee-Kee agreed with her.

Mostly though, I think about my mother, how I constantly look for her on that bench and how there will come a day when I’ll never find her.

“Luci?”

“One drink and we leave?” I ask.

Her pause is brief. “Yes,” she adds quickly. “If you’re not feeling it, I promise we can leave whenever you want.”

“All right.”

“All right what?” she asks.

“I’ll go to Kiawah with you.”

“Yes!” she squeals. She rattles off a storm of details, telling me she’ll be at my house by nine in the morning and that this party is going to be epic.

I ease my way into the growing traffic. She’s excited, her perky voice animated. I unbutton the top of my coat, wishing I could share her excitement, but more than anything wishing my life could start like I needed it to.