Let It Go (32 page)

“‘Back in black. I hit the sack. I’ve been too long, I’m glad to be back. Yes, I am. Let loose. From the noose. That’s kept me hanging about,’” she sings under her breath. Equipped in a form-fitting black turtleneck, black leather pants and black six-inch stilettos, her freshly blow-dried hair is full and wild, springing boldly off her shoulders with each purposeful step. “Time to put your big girl panties on,” she coaches, flinging the door open, her path set straight for Willodean’s office.

“Whit-whew!” Tami Lynn whistles upon seeing Savannah round the corner to their cubicle. “Somebody’s got their game face on.”

“It’s the two-minute warning at the Super Bowl.” Savannah maintains determined, bypassing their friendly square, headed to the battleground.

“You!” a high-pitched female voice sounds. A distressed Candida Wooten makes her way through the office, her shrill calling the attention of curious eyes to peek up over their computer screens and out around cubicle walls.

“Oh great,” Savannah mutters. Never losing stride, she can’t help but make mention of the early morning veranda scene. “I see you found the time to change out of that frilly little housecoat.”

“You may have won this round,” Candida begins, following alongside Savannah, her jaws flapping akin to a Chihuahua’s bark. “I assure you this is not over. I always get what I want.”

“You can have him,” Savannah dismisses, assuming she speaks of one trolling gym boy. Her gait longer than the cougar’s, she quickly surpasses her, nothing swaying her course from Willodean’s office.

“Ooh!” Candida exhausts, slapping her hand down on the ledge of a cubicle, the one at the end of the office corridor belonging to Larry. “What are you staring at?” she snips, swinging her arm, swiping his
Dungeons & Dragons
trolls from the top of his desk, knocking them to the floor. “Get back to work. All of you!”

Tami Lynn bumps into her accidentally on purpose, the latte she holds in her hand dumping down the front of Candida’s expensive blouse. “Oops. Sorry,” Tami Lynn bites, a pernicious smirk appearing.

“Ooh!” Candida shudders, stomping her feet, her hands at shoulder level are balled into shaking fists. “And what is your name, you blundering klutz?” she demands through gritting teeth, a regular yet attractive Cruella deVil.

Tami Lynn grabs up a Post-it note from Larry’s desk. Neatly writing her full name, Tami Lynn Puma, on the little yellow square, she slaps it sticky-side down on Candida’s latte-covered blouse. “Puma. Like the clothing brand. Or the cougar. You know all about that, now don’t you?” Tami Lynn winks at her.

“You may as well clear out your desk, sweetheart,” the powerful underwriter threatens, her finger poking into Tami Lynn’s chest.

“Ooh,” Tami Lynn jousts in a spooky sarcastic tone, fully enjoying her last day of employ at
The Times
before her transfer to
The Courier.

“Kindly remove your hand from my fair Raven Queen.” Larry stands, his chilly palm grasping Candida’s wrist firmly, maneuvering it away from Tami Lynn.

“Don’t touch me, you animal!” Candida pulls her wrist from his hold. “You’ll be getting a bill from my cleaner, alley cat,” she says, a derogatory play on Tami Lynn’s last name. Stuffing the yellow Post-it note in her ridiculously expensive handbag she struts away, jutting her nose in the air.

Larry spins Tami Lynn around facing him, his hand wound about the back of her neck. “You were amazing,” he whispers, completely smitten. His lips seize hers, firm and pressing, their first real kiss.

“You like that?” Tami Lynn purrs, coming up for air, her parted mouth flirty and seductive. “An assertive woman?”

“Most arousing.” His hazel eyes deeply afflicted, he kisses her again passionately, having momentarily forgotten about his aversion to crowds.

The office space breaks out with catcalls and rolling-tongued
yips
and
yelps,
followed by a barrage of waded up paper balls. “Get a room!” a co-worker yells playfully.

Savannah pushes through the large glass-paned door to Willodean’s office, her usual urge to knock awaiting approval completely cast aside. “Willow,” Savannah addresses, “we need to talk. And no, it cannot wait.” Her words trailing off as she realizes she and Willow are not alone.

“Ms. Bondurant,” a stately gentleman rises from the chair in front of Willow’s workspace to greet her. “I recognize you from the wood art exhibit,” he says.

Willow stands from her desk circling around in front of it. “Savannah, this is Edgar Wooten. Of Wooten Real Estate and Business Law,” Willow’s voice presses, fully enunciating the moniker, hoping Savannah will pick up on the primary benefactor of the newspaper.

“I’m quite familiar,” Savannah replies sternly. “No disrespect, Mr. Wooten, but I need to speak with my superior, alone.” Savannah stands astute, fighting the compulsion to fidget with her hands.

“I have made the time to read over your book proposal,” Willow intervenes, knowing what Savannah has on her mind, “and it’s a go. I’ve handed it over to the copy editor.” Willow claps her hands together proudly.

“What?” Savannah guffs. Although the news perfectly wonderful, she instantly feels let down. Like a solider going to war, she was prepared to fight for what she wanted, in strict battle mode, yet she has failed to fire a shot.

“‘What?’” Willow mimics. “I tell you that you are going to be a bona fide published author and all I get is ‘What?’” The end of her classic black-rimmed glasses rests in the corner of her mouth accompanied by a peculiar glance.

“Well,” Savannah exhales with a slight stomp of her foot. “It’s just that I came prepared. I had everything worked out. Exactly what I was going to say.”

Willow sits on the edge of her desk, patiently waiting. “Go ahead. If it will make you feel better, say what you came to say.” Her gaze counseling as if to remind Savannah not to say anything that might change her mind in accepting the proposal.

“What about my job at the paper?” Savannah diverts, her apprehension growing, having passed Candida Wooten in the production office. “Do I still have one?” She looks suspiciously at Edgar Wooten.

“Yes, Savannah. You’re job with
The Times
is secure,” Willow affirms.

“Okay then,” her confidence grows. “I want travel writing opportunities. I’ve been asking for those types of assignments ever since I started here. I took the relationship column because you needed it filled.” Savannah clears her throat, remembering her conversation with Vangie, hopeful she can maintain assertive under Willow’s pressing eye. “I want. I would appreciate,” she rephrases, “the opportunity for travel pieces. A chance to grow as a writer.”

“Done,” Willow agrees.

“Really?” Savannah’s voice heightens in pitch.

Willow exhales exaggeratedly, her arms crossing over the chest of yet another solid-colored designer silk blouse. “Has no one ever taught you the appropriate response to getting what you want? A ‘thank you’ might be nice, Ms. Bondurant.”

“Yes.” Savannah’s hands press together palm to palm in the center of her chest. “I guess I just got so used to being turned down, I don’t quite know how to respond to getting what I want.” She extends a humble smile. “Thank you, Willow.”

“Don’t thank me,” Willow redirects, her arm extending to her stately company. “The travel pieces are Mr. Wooten’s idea. He has several real estate properties. In rather obscure and lavish locations. He’s looking for an advantageous writer to feature the locales and vernacular fare.”

“And you want me to write them?” Savannah’s eyebrows elevate. “You may surmise,” Savannah squints, her vocabulary searching as it often does in Willow’s affluent company, “a different opinion once you talk with your wife.”

Edgar Wooten smiles keenly. “You are the perfect candidate. May I be frank?” he inquires of Savannah.

She shrugs. “Sure. So long as you don’t mind my being forthright in return,” she says, wary as to what reaction his directness, depending on its intention, may agitate in her.

“My wife and I have a peculiar relationship,” the salt and pepper haired, attractively aged man, surely Candida’s senior by two decades, begins. “She loves me for my money. I love her for the tumult she brings. It’s exciting.” He flits his hand in the air with his thought, “Some may call me a masochist.” He smiles slightly blushed. “Truthfully, it makes me feel young and alive.”

“So you propose to stir the drama-pot by hiring me to write travel exposés for you.” Savannah shakes her head. “Not interested. I have no desire to be in the crosshairs of that explosion.”

“You would be employed by the paper, as usual,” Willow corrects. “Mr. Wooten would simply provide the underwriting. For travel expenses.”

“Very nice accommodations I assure you,” he adds.

Savannah scrunches up her face, torn at the intriguing and career elevating offer. Feeling akin to Snow White, she has deep reservations about partaking of the apple. “I don’t know.”

“If it’s my wife you’re worried with, may I assure you, she will eat this up,” Edgar clarifies. “Most couples prefer dinner and a movie as their foreplay. Candy and I find power plays and betrayal most arousing.”

“Ugh,” Savannah grunts. “Too much information.” Quickly stifling any more expletives from Edgar, she turns the conversation to her shrewd boss. “What do you think, Willow?”

“You get what you want in travel assignments. I get what I want in adding a new dimension to the paper. Mr. Wooten gets what he wants,” Willow reasons. “I say, ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,’ Ms. Bondurant.”

“And to entice the deal, how about I include a few first-class tickets for a companion, should you choose to take a certain wood-sculpting male suitor to the more romantic destinations,” Edgar infers to Brody.

“Is that your way of keeping him clear of your wife?” Savannah bites, the repulsive image of a shirtless Brody and a sexy housecoat-clad Candida still fresh in her mind.

“Brody?” Edgar chuckles. “He’s the only one of her
suppliers
I don’t have to worry with. He wouldn’t bed my wife if his life counted on it. He’s got too many scruples, that boy. Not for her lack of trying,” Edgar admits. “And don’t you know, that really gets under her skin.” His lip curls into a satisfied smile.

“But. This morning. I saw them. On your veranda. The one overlooking your office,” Savannah rebukes.

Edgar nods his head. “I saw you, too. Running off down the street as if you had found him out,” he narrates the deceptive storyline. “If you had stayed put, you would have noticed I was there as well. I hired Brody to refinish the hardwood floors in the apartment.”

“But he didn’t even have a shirt on. His hair was all disheveled. And your wife was in that skimpy little housecoat. And who goes to work at five-thirty in the morning?” Savannah fires away, yet to be convinced.

“Have you ever refinished hardwood floors, Ms. Bondurant?” Edgar smiles. “It’s a dirty job. That’s why I hired Brody to do it. I assure you, your hair would be a mess if you were to undertake such a project. It was a balmy morning, that would explain him being without a shirt,” he checks off her questions one by one. “As for my wife and her
skimpy little housecoat,”
Edgar accentuates her words. “For that I have no explanation. She dresses like that all the time, in front of everyone.” He rolls his eyes. “And as far as working at five-thirty in the morning…that’s what motivated young people do, who are attempting to further their careers and their checking accounts. He’s a hard worker, Brody. That’s an honorable trait.” He looks at her encouragingly, his age accounting for the disciplinary tone of his voice.

“Oh,” Savannah whispers, torn between believing him and feeling a fool for jumping to conclusions.

“Well, I have a late business lunch that needs tending.” Edgar eyes his gold Rolex.

“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Wooten.” Willow walks him to the door. “Thank you for the fine opportunity.” She eyes Savannah, clearing her throat supervisorial.

“Thank you,” Savannah calls after him as he exits the office.

“I’ll have a look over your schedule. We’ll have to work the travel assignments in gently, as I expect you will continue to keep up with your column,” Willow returns to business.

“Yes Ma’am,” Savannah complies. “About that. Do you think we could consider finding a replacement for me, for the column as time goes on?” she presses. “I would like the opportunity to cover local events in the future, too. I think I’ve said nearly everything I can about relationships.” The topic surely growing mundane for the writer over the years.

Willow looks at her, slightly cross. “We’re feeling awfully brave this afternoon, aren’t we? Don’t press your luck, Ms. Bondurant. One thing at a time,” she counsels, fully asserting her authority.

“‘Squeaky wheel gets the grease.’” Savannah smiles at her coyly, feeling quite proud of her newfound insistence.

“Hello ladies,” Noah greets happily, walking into Willow’s office unannounced.

“Hey,” Savannah salutes timidly, hopeful Willow will not be put out by his uninvited presence. “I was just headed back to my desk. You want to come?” she inquires, attempting to pull him protectively from the dragon’s lair.

“Actually, I’m here for a lunch date,” Noah informs, his glance trailing from her to Willow who demurely primps her stylish jet-black bangs.

Savannah’s eyes flex, her head cocking to the side, putting two and two together, suddenly realizing his presence was expected.

“I’m in town for some recruitment sessions, and I thought Willow and I could catch up where we left off.” Noah raises his eyebrows at Savannah, the dutiful older brother making good on his offer to schmooze her smitten superior.

“Your timing couldn’t be better. I’m famished.” Willow grabs up her Diane von Furstenberg designer handbag.

“You can leave that here. My treat.” Noah flashes Willow a charming smile.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with you accepting my book proposal, does it?” Savannah questions, her hands gesturing back and forth between Willow and her devoted brother.

“Ha!” Willow chuckles. “I never figured you for a narcissist, Savannah,” she dismisses, a casual warning that her pleasurable interest in Noah has absolutely nothing to do with work.