Plum Girl (Romance) (37 page)

She moved toward him, about to offer some consoling words—okay, and to size up his character a little more—but he turned around before she got the chance. He darted down the hall and out of sight.

She pushed purposefully on the glass doors and boarded the elevator, never so grateful for odorless air in her life. The ride down to the lobby was quick, although when the display screen flashed floor 20, some lovelorn angst clutched her chest without warning. Then she got angry.
Toughen up,
she thought.
It's over with Dominick. Get used to it.

Chapter 27

Twenty minutes later, Lonnie came back up the same elevator with two skim cappuccinos in her hands, and she felt a lot better. Nothing like some artificial stimulation to create a natural good mood. She headed down the hall to Macey's office.

"Macey?"

"Lon? Is that you?" Macey was normally too formal for nicknames. But then, she'd already seen the way good spirits could transform Macey into a bubbly creature who says "natch."

"Yes," Lonnie said, and gently nudged the ajar door all the way open. "Hi. I thought you might like a cappuccino."

"Oh, thank you!" Macey's voice sang across the office, and she flashed a wide, enthused smile before adding, "Lon, you are so precious.
You,
I'm going to miss." She shot across the room and swept the cappuccino out of Lonnie's hand. She took a long, luxurious sip, and smiled again. "Thanks. This is fab!"

Lonnie let a laugh slip out because Macey's giddiness was a little contagious, and she made her feel so appreciated that it put a refreshing, uplifting spin on her day. "Sure, no problem." Then she noticed what Macey had been doing before she'd interrupted. She'd been packing.

There were large cardboard boxes lined along her back shelf, and half her bookcase was empty. Her minifridge was wide open, defrosted and bereft of Snapples, and the sight was not only jarring; it was deflating.
Macey's leaving.

"What's going on?" Lonnie asked, even though she knew.

"Oh." Macey followed Lonnie's eyes to the boxes behind her, and said, "I'm leaving earlier than I'd expected. It was unplanned, but I just got the most terrific call from Sandy. Her firm is looking for a new legal advisor. I'm moving to London! Yay!" She did a little dance in place, and completed the behavioral anomaly by clapping her hands together excitedly. "Yay me!" she squealed, and captured Lonnie in a hug.

Lonnie hugged her back ambivalently. Eighty percent of her felt saddened by the news that Macey was leaving the firm, while twenty percent of her didn't want to be suspicious but was. It just seemed so sudden. And leaving the
country
? Lonnie scolded herself for being too paranoid, but still wasn't completely convinced that she was.

"Lon, I'm sorry to leave with no warning, but you don't need me here anyway."
Yes, I do.
"You're strong and smart and you've got what it takes."
To do what?
"I talked to Emma this morning, and she said Maine Bay loved you."

"They did?"

"They were very impressed."

"Really?"

"They thought you were bright, articulate, and innovative."
Me?
"You're in, Lon!" Macey continued cheerfully. "Of course, I shouldn't be telling you this, but Emma told me they're going to offer you a two-year instructor position."

"Really?" Excitement of her own started pooling in Lonnie's chest.

"That's not all," Macey said, took a breath, and then blurted in spite of her conscious attempt at composure, "There's a possibility for free doctoral courses. You could earn your Ph.D. while you're working there!"

"Oh, wow." Lonnie let out a held breath and realized she was temporarily speechless. She'd thought the interviews had gone well, but she couldn't believe they'd gone that well. What incredible news, and so fast! Unfortunately, saying good-bye to Macey was taking some luster off the moment. Her mentor was leaving, going across the Atlantic Ocean, and she'd probably never see her again. Why did good things always have to happen in sync with bad ones?

They talked for twenty more minutes, and then finally, Lonnie realized Twit would be missing her, so she turned to go. Right before she left, however, she told Macey about Ann Lee and Mabel Wills. She didn't know why, but she wanted to get Macey's feedback. Of course, what Lonnie couldn't reveal was that she'd only talked to them because she'd been investigating Lunther's death.

"I don't get it," Lonnie said. "Those women didn't seem the least bit affected by the way Lunther had propositioned them. They didn't even think it was a big deal."

Macey nodded and patted Lonnie's arm affectionately. "I know you wanted to help them."

"But they didn't need my help—"

"No, maybe not individually. Those women are tough, they're strong, and they do their best to control their own destiny."

"But—"

"They're
not the problem. The problem is people like Lunther." She looked around, as if searching to find the right words, and said, "Quite simply, he was a lemon tree."

"Oh... wait... what?"

"How can I explain this?" She took Lonnie's hand in her own. "I'm saying that just because women take lemons and make lemonade, doesn't mean the lemon tree is off the hook. The fact that so many lemons get dropped into women's work lives is a problem. It is
the
problem. Do you understand?"

"I—I think so," Lonnie said.

"See, the problem is, working women have become so proficient at developing coping strategies for all the unjust predicaments they face that people barely notice how unfair it is to
have to
cope with those predicaments."

"Oh. I understand exactly what you mean," Lonnie said, because she did.

"Just remember, I'm only an e-mail address away, if you ever need anything."

"You've done enough for me already!"

"Or if I ever need anything."

"Oh, of course. Of co—"

"That's how it works."

Lonnie smiled at Macey—as sincerely as Macey was smiling at her—and said, "I've got it now." They hugged one last time before Lonnie walked back to her desk, feeling a disturbing, but strangely life-affirming swirl of emotions. As soon as she sat down, her phone rang.

"Beauregard Twit's central headquarters for financial litigating prowess. Whom shall I tell Mr. Twit, Esquire, is calling?"

"Oh, please. That's the most ridiculous greeting I've ever heard in my life. He's actually making you say that?"

"Hey, Peach," Lonnie said, pleased to hear her sister's voice. "Yep. It's a miracle I even remember it half the time. What's up?"

"Nada. I'm just waiting for Iris's second coat to dry, and then I put on clear."

"Huh?"

"Her toenails."

Lonnie cringed and clicked on her e-mail icon, hoping Dominick had sent her a message. Preferably one confessing his sincerest apologies for their misunderstanding and declaring his undying love. But she'd settle for a lunch invitation....

"So now you're giving Iris pedicures? Peach, what kind of job
is
this?" No lunch invitation. No message from him, period.

"I don't mind. It's easy. Although I could've done without sanding her calluses first thing in the morning, but—"

"Yuck, I don't want to hear any more."

"Okay, okay."

"You're an artist," Lonnie said. "I think you should be looking into having your hands insured, not... not..."

Peach giggled. "You're acting like it's manual labor."

"Well, it's twisted. At least concede that point." Lonnie closed her empty inbox with palpable disappointment. She was beginning to detest e-mail.

"Okay, okay," Peach said, and giggled some more.

"By the way, what's up with Cheryl and Jean-Paul?"

"Still going strong."

"Really?"

"Yep. Although Cheryl mentioned that at first J-P felt a little self-conscious about his age, because he's fifteen years older than her."

"Oh, wait," Lonnie interrupted, just realizing. "This isn't one of those father-figure things, is it?"

"No, I don't think so. I think its a maturity thing. J-P's past the age of playing games, and Cheryl can't be with someone who plays games, because she's been
out
of the game so long she wouldn't know how to win if he were to play them. Get it?"

"Yeah."
Vaguely.

"Speaking of being out of the game, have you talked to Dominick?"

"Have you talked to Matt?"

"Nice dodge. Answer the question."

Lonnie sighed, "No. But it's not like he's talked to me, either."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning: if he really cared, he'd—"

"Call," Peach finished irritably. "I know. I know."

"So you agree."

"No, I just know how your mind works," she said. "Lon, you're a total sexist. No offense."

"What are you talking about?"

"You just assume that Dominick is sitting back smugly, knowing full well he can call anytime. How do you know he's not just as unsure as you are?"

"Right," Lonnie scoffed.

"He's probably just as desperate to talk to you."

"Right."

"Right, that's why you're a sexist."

"Peach—"

"Just call him, for chrissake. You know that's what you're dying to do anyway."

"I am not. And even if I were, it's too weird now."

"Why?"

"Because its Thursday. Its been almost a week; it seems weird now."

"Call him," Peach commanded, as if Lonnie were Cheryl, just waiting for the next directive.
I don't think so.... Well, maybe one call wouldn't hurt.
"I gotta go," Peach said. "I'm being summoned."

"To apply the third coat?"

"No, to change the channel. The batteries on the remote died. Oh, that reminds me! I've gotta pick up some double As at lunch. All right, I'll see ya at home." After they hung up, Lonnie thought about Peach's advice for another minute before yanking the phone off its cradle and punching Dominick's number so hard her fingertips hurt.
You're pathetic,
she thought, and then mentally implored,
Please answer. Please answer.

Dominick's voice mail picked up, and she set the phone back down before she could leave an embarrassing message. She checked her e-mail once more before resigning herself to all work and no play, and dove into the latest stack of papers Twit had left in her inbox.

* * *

Her stomach growled ferociously at exactly 1:35. She felt like throwing Twit's notes across the room. He'd left her about a hundred different letters to type—all of them needed "A-SAP," of course. Meanwhile, he'd taken the rest of the staff out to lunch, as one last hurrah before Lyn Tang started to work at the firm. Lonnie sensed a divide-and-conquer thing going on with Twit, who was obviously already anticipating a power struggle with Tang. Not only was Lonnie left out, she had a feeling she'd be filling out Diners Club reimbursement forms into the following week. Oh, joy.

She pushed away from her desk and headed for the kitchen, which—all too often in her life—seemed like the right thing to do. She opened the refrigerator to get the orange muffin she'd bought from the Atrium that morning. Only it wasn't there. Lonnie looked behind every expired creamer and tin-foiled blob that was labeled with a do not touch Post-it. Still no muffin. Disappointed, she shut the refrigerator door and turned to leave. That's when she saw her muffin in the trash basket. It was just sitting on top of a soiled-napkin heap, still wrapped in its decorative Atrium cellophane.

Her stomach knotted. This was just plain cruel! It hadn't even been eaten—just tossed out, unopened. Only one person at Twit & Tang would be capable of sadism this early in the day. And Lonnie just wished she had it in her to give it back to that lycra-clad, acrylic-clawed bitch!

But she didn't.

In general, she wasn't really into revenge. She'd admit it was often deserved, but she just didn't have the patience or aptitude for devising retaliatory schemes. Basically, she subscribed to that "living well" theory out of sheer laziness. Nevertheless, it was more than that this time. Quite simply, she was too heartsick over Dominick to go ballistic over a damn muffin.

As she headed back to her desk, she thought about Matt. She hadn't seen him since he'd grilled her about Peach that morning. He was probably at lunch with everyone else, but she'd swing by his office anyway, in case he'd stayed back. Now seemed like just as good a time as any to pump him for more information on B.J.

On her way to Matt's office, she heard a drawer slamming and another being yanked open. Then there was a manic rustling of papers, and she realized it was all coming from Bette's office, which was right next door. Bette didn't go to lunch? That didn't seem right; missing company events wasn't her style. She wanted to steal a peek inside, but the door was closed.

Suddenly she heard chattering in the distance—the staff was back from lunch.

The sounds from inside Bette's office got louder and more frantic. And a familiar croon coming from down the hall got closer and closer: "Juliet! Darling, I'm losing you—are you on the boat?" Well that settled that—obviously Bette
wasn't
in her office, going through her own drawers like mad. But she was headed right this way.

Lonnie rounded the corner of the nearest cubicle so she'd be inconspicuous but still at a good vantage point to watch Bette's door.

"Oh, Juliet dear, the reception from the yacht is just dreadful. I can barely make out what you're saying. I'll ring you later to check on my little gorgeous angels. Give them kisses for me!"

The door swung open. Lonnie hunched down lower and peered over the partition wall as B.J. bolted out of Bette's office clutching a blue folder in hand and looking panicked. He cut a quick right, and avoided Bette, who cluelessly strolled into her office several seconds later. And while B.J. escaped down the hall with brisk strides, Lonnie was left wondering what on earth it all meant.

Chapter 28