“My publisher,” I exclaim.
Chip, my asshole publisher, and Griggs Caldecott Johnson III are golfing buddies. Of course they are. A tournament photo shows them standing by a golf cart with their wives, chummy, toothpaste-ad smiles plastered to their faces.
Chip didn’t just pass on my story; he outright killed it. The whole damn thing stinks of rich white boy networks and underhanded cover-ups.
Fuck Chip and fuckThe Georgia Times.
I pull up driving directions to the Dogwood Hills Country Club.
CHAPTER 6Holly
Vodka soda, hold the soda,” I tell Byron.
He smiles at me, concern gathering in his dark eyes and at the corners of his mouth.
“You off the clock?” he asks, glancing around the empty Magnolia Bar—a new, “modern” addition, which, at Dogwood Hills, is a relative term. Instead of flocked wallpaper, this room has white wainscoting and walls painted hydrangea blue. Instead of heavy oak or mahogany antique tables, it’s filled with overstuffed leather sofas and armchairs, with marble cocktail tables dispersed throughout.
I nod, slumping onto a leather barstool.
“All right, then,” Byron tells me, tucking a crisp white dish towel under the string of his equally white apron. “I suppose you can sit up here and keep me company while I prep to open.”
I rushed straight here to hide, as soon as the official program began, still reeling from my encounters with Griggs. The first one—beside the equipment closet—shook me to my core. The second one, from which I’ve just run away? I think what concerned me the most about it was how unremarkable it probably appeared to everyone else in the room. Griggs had simply approached me to ask where the mayor was sitting, or more precisely to insist that I seat her next to him, at the head table. But he stood too close, watching me with roving eyes. I could almost see his mind calculating, strategizing his next move—deciding how long it would take to break me.
Is this how it will be now? Every day, when I arrive for work, will I worry that Griggs Johnson is lying in wait for me, ready to pounce?
I needed to stop spiraling, to gather myself somewhere safe before trying to walk through the crowded foyer and away from this place. And I knew that, with the Philanthropy Banquet in full swing, I’d find Byron alone here.
I watch, taking comfort as he falls into his expert rhythm, one that I’ve seen more times than I can begin to count.
When Byron tells the story of our first meeting, he says that he came around from behind the bar to introduce himself, and I confidently thrust out my little hand for a firm shake, all the while looking him directly in the eye, steady and resolved.
Needless to say, our recollections of that day differ. All I remember is that, terrified during my entire shift that I was leaking breast milk through my uniform, I compulsively stole glances at my tits. But we all need people in our lives who resolutely believe that we’re stronger than we really are. And for me, Byron is one of those people.
He pulls a crystal tumbler from the shelf behind him and fills it with ice.
“Looks like you could use a Belvedere,” he says.
I nod and drop my head into my hands.
He grabs the expensive vodka from the top shelf and pours me a double. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Nope,” I say as he slides the vodka toward me, two limes expertly balanced on the rim.
“Well, you know I’m here when you do.” He meets my gaze, his expression so kind that it physically hurts to look at him. I can’t drag Byron into this mess.
I squeeze both limes into my drink and then lift the glass and take a long swig. The Belvedere burns on its way down, and the burn feels good. But even this can’t keep my mind from obsessing over that secret—the one Reginald was keeping before he got fired. The one Griggs aims to use as a weapon of blackmail and harassment against me.
It was a few days after Aidan’s eighteenth birthday. We had a dozen events lined up at the club that weekend, and on Friday afternoon, the new parking valet failed to show up—no notice, no excuse. Desperate, I called Aidan and begged him to come park cars for a rehearsal dinner.
Aidan rushed over, changed into a uniform, and dutifully began to park cars while I launched myself into the ballroom and started putting out a shit-ton of little fires. It was one of those events where everything that can go wrong does go wrong, from botched seating charts to pasta for the vegetarian bride—who not only avoided carbs like the plague but also happened to be gluten-intolerant. Irma blamed it all on Mercury’s retrograde. I blamed it all on myself.
Just as the (mostly collapsed) chocolate soufflés were being served, Reginald arrived at my side, tapped my shoulder, and discreetly gestured for me to follow him.
“We have a situation,” he said as soon as he had me alone.
The cause of the situation unfolded in a long conversation between Aidan, Reginald, and me—interspersed with a vast array of creative expletives from me.
The facts: Griggs and Anna-Byrd Johnson pulled up in Griggs’s brand-new C-class Mercedes convertible. Aidan politely opened the door for Anna-Byrd, and she exited the vehicle. Aidan then walked around to the driver’s side, and Griggs moved to the passenger seat, insisting that he ride along to park the car since Aidan was a new employee.
