Georgia on Her Mind(35)

Suddenly Jillian jumps in front of me.

I bang into the wall trying to get out of her way. “Jillian!”

“Sorry to scare you, Macy.” As always, she’s hiding behind a manila folder. I take a deep breath and start walking again.

Jillian walks backward in front of me. “Welcome back. How was Kansas?”

I stop. “It was a one-horse town, and the horse recently died.”

She tee-hees. Something’s up. “Little bird, what have you been up to now?”

“Me? Nothing.” Her expression is strained and out of shape. “Gorgeous boots, Macy! Did you get those at Carrington?”

“Yes, and you’re not getting these.” I step around her. “You get the Guccis.”

“Sure, whatever.” She shuffles in front of me, blocking my path again.

“Okay, out with it.” I stare down at her.

“There’s something you should know.”

“Obviously. Did Roni fire me?”

“Oh, no,” she says with a giggle. “She’s not that crazy. Just paranoid.”

“Then what?” I push past her.

“Your office has been moved.” There, she said it.

“What?” I ask, as if I really need her to repeat it. I heard her loud and clear the first time. “Where?”

“Over…there.” She motions with her pen to a black hole beyond her shoulder.

I peer around her. “Can you be more specific?”

She twists her arm back and points down the hall. “Down there. At the end.”

“I didn’t even know we had offices in this part of the building.” I’m trying to be cool about this. I am, but to what Borg cube have they banished me? I have Carrington red boots. I refuse to be assimilated.

“We do now,” she says.

“Lead on.” I motion to the “wherever” of my office.

We walk and we walk and we walk. This is like the opposite end of the universe. I resist the idea that I’m the unwanted stepchild and try to maintain professional dignity in front of Jillian, but I admit, my bottom lip quivers.

“Did Mike move into my office?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Jillian stops in front of the janitor’s closet. “Here you go.” She steps aside for me to pass.

“The janitor’s closet?” I shriek.

“No, there.” She points to a second door.

The door creaks when I shove it open. Sure enough, my stuff is crammed into this hole-in-the-wall. Literally.

“This was the only office available,” Jillian explains, hiding half of her mouth behind the folder.

“This pillbox qualifies as an office? There are no overhead lights!”

“I’ll call maintenance.” She dashes away.

Light from the hall filters into the tiny room. I step inside with caution. I let my laptop case slip from my shoulder to the floor and drop my purse on the desk. It plops onto a big pile of loose papers and topples to the floor, taking half the stack with it.

Great. Just great.

My too-large desk is wedged into a too-small office. My floor lamp is tucked into a corner and my retro ’60s chairs sit on either side of the filing cabinet—which I don’t need anymore.

There’s barely enough room to turn around, let alone work. Ten years of pictures, mugs, travel souvenirs and knickknacks are strung all over the office floor, along the wall and in the chairs.

What a mess. Should’ve dropped most of it off in the room next door.

I inch around to the minifridge. What this moment needs is a nice cold Diet Coke. I crack my knee against the desk’s edge and yelp. Since I’m in outer space, I figure no one can hear me. So I yelp again.

I pop open the little door with the toe of my red boot. Warm air floats up and water sloshes all over my fine-leathered toe.

“Ah, no!” The smooth, beautiful top of my boot is awash with defrosted ice. “Drat.” Do what you will to me, but do not harm my new red leather boots.

I stare at the fridge with my hands on my hips. When they moved it, they forgot to plug it in. Imbeciles. The iceberg wrapped around the minifreezer melted. I drop to my hands and knees, looking for a plug.

“Welcome back, Macy.”

I lift my head to see over the mountain of junk on my desk and hit the edge. I don’t yell this time, but grit my teeth and press my palm against the pain.

Mike Perkins stands in the doorway. “Hi, Mike.” I crawl into my chair. My morning confidence and cheeriness are deflated.

“Veronica wanted my old office for a small conference room, so…” He steps inside, trying to act casual, unsure what to do with his hands.

“Can’t ever have too many conference rooms,” I murmur. I dig around under the pile on my desk for the tissues. I need to dab the water from my boot.

“How was your trip?”

“Grand.” I wipe my boot dry, wad up the tissue and toss it to my trash basket—which is not there, so the blob falls to the ground. My head throbs from the desk banging and I desperately need my wake-up Diet Coke.

“We haven’t had time to reroute your phone number yet.”

“Okay.” It’s all I have heart to say. I feel nervous, as if I might cry.

Mike motions to the piles of stuff on my desk, on the floor and along the wall. “I guess I’ll leave you to this.”