“The man is a sap for worn-out metaphors.” Nina waves a hand dismissively. “Look, you have no evidence of wrongdoing. For all we know, the old man signed this deed and forgot to tell his family. There’s nothing illegal here. Sad? Yes. Unfair? Yes. Criminal? You’ve got nothing.”
“So that’s it?” I ask, unable to accept what I’m hearing. “I can’t just call these people and tell them…” I trail off, suddenly overcome by the image of Little Mishel and Abelardo playing in the yard, laughing carelessly into the afternoon sun. I clear my throat, blinking away the surprising sting of tears. And, as a general rule, I don’t cry in front of people. This news business, after all, is not for wimps. “Tell them what? That we don’t care about their lives? I can’t do that.”
I think back to the first time Gloria and I met in the dead of night in the newsroom, when I asked her what she wanted me to do with the information she’d given me.Investigate, she said.Isn’t that what journalists do? Be a voice for people like us.
“Nina, just tell me what I need to do to make someone like Chip care about this family. Hell, you know I love a challenge.”
Nina exhales audibly. “I can’t keep protecting you, Luisa. I’vebeen trying to get you to drop this story for weeks now and you’ve paid no heed. I’m sorry, but—” She pauses, her lips tightening into a thin line as she fixes her dark brown eyes on a point in the newsroom, past the glass walls of her office. “Chip wants you out. He says your work is not up to the newspaper’s standards. The newsroom’s attorney agreed.”
I follow her gaze, and that’s when I see him—Chip—leaning all too casually against the newsroom’s assignment desk. Watching us. Watchingme.
A clammy sense of dread claws its way up my back. “And is this what you think, too? That my work isn’t up to snuff?”
Nina doesn’t say a word.
“Well, tell Chip to explain all the awards hanging above my desk, then. Or the insane number of stories I’ve broken for this paper!” I lean forward on her desk, my sweaty palms resting on the glass surface.
Silence.
“Nina?” I plead. “What’s going on?”
“Luisa, you’re fired.”
CHAPTER 2Holly
I wind through this posh playground for Atlanta’s multigenerational families of wealth and status. The bridge ladies convene on the flower-strewn veranda that overlooks the pool deck, shuffling cards amid the clinking of tea glasses. A lifeguard blows his whistle, signaling the start of toddler swim lessons. Society moms in tennis dresses chat amiably and head toward the courts, passing by the distinguished gentlemen who gather in carts near our world-renowned golf course, puffing on cigars while they prepare to tee off.
But it’s not just another Friday morning. It’s the morning of Anna-Byrd Johnson’s annual Baubles Brunch, where her go-to jewelry designer shares the latest shimmering trends with a select group of “girls in the know.” And so here I am—on my precious day off.
During my eighteen years working at this club, including five years managing events, I’ve successfully served countless cocktails to Coca-Cola’s founding families and organized elaborate weddings for hundreds of discerning guests. I’ve planned and executed dinners to honor governors and mayors, the sort of people who will, in fact, be here tonight, for the city’s annual Philanthropy Banquet. But still: Anna-Byrd Johnson’s Baubles Brunch for twelve sends my heart into palpitations. She is the absolute worst of this place’s prim and judgy society ladies, all bright smiles and effervescenthow aaaaahhhhre yous with the other ladies at the club—until they turn their backs. Then it’s a litany of razor-sharp judgments, covering everything from their tennis skirts to where their toddlers go to preschool. No one is safe, not even her (purported) best friends. She and her lecher husband,Griggs Caldecott Johnson III, are a perfect match—made in hell. They are Atlanta’s Golden Couple, the city’s country club royalty, and crossing either one of them has extreme consequences that I’m not willing or able to endure. I have a kid to feed.
Every single detail of this brunch must go precisely as Anna-Byrd planned, or that woman will have my head. Which is why I’m storming through the double doors into the kitchen.
“Ohmygod how could I not remember this?” I desperately call out to whoever might be within earshot. “And where the hell are my notes? Do the Davis sisters drink Bollinger or Taittinger?”
“Not your fault,” Irma replies, slipping on red oven mitts. “Neptune’s swimming through your tenth house of career, making details a little murky. You’ll come through it.” For Irma, the club’s sous chef and amateur astrologer, everything’s written in our stars.
“Before or after Anna-Byrd Johnson chops her head off?” Justine replies from the walk-in. She’s not wrong. The Davis sisters are Anna-Byrd’s closest friends and partners in crime, and perennial guests at the Baubles Brunch. Their every wish must be my command.
“I’m just sayin’.” Justine shrugs, coming out of the fridge with four gallons of sweet tea balanced in her arms. “You’d better fucking get it right.” Justine—the Dogwood Hills Country Club’s head waitress and chief surliness officer—acts as sweet as tupelo honey when she’s out serving club members, but back here, she’s a drill sergeant. And I adore her.
“Taittinger,” Byron announces from the other side of the room as he casually slides on his white bartender jacket. “Loula Davis Babb hates Bollinger. She thinks it’s too bubbly.”
“Too bubbly?” Irma replies with mock horror, pulling a tray of the club’s signature crackers from the oven.
Can champagne be too bubbly?I shove the question from my mind, focusing on the task at hand. If the Davis sisters want mildly bubbly champagne, that’s exactly what they’ll get.
“And, by the way,” Byron adds, gesturing toward the prep table, “I believe your beloved tablet is hiding under that tray of canapés.”
“Bless you,” I exclaim, rushing over to retrieve it. It’s absolutely fitting that Byron has swooped in to rescue me. He is, without a doubt, the most consistent and reliable man in my life.
I tug my tablet out from under the canapés, open it, and scroll through my event notes.
Lavender hyacinths?Check.
Champagne flutes smooth, NOT cut glass?Check.
Taittinger, NOT Bollinger?Check.
