Dancing Naked in Dixie (2 page)

The broad, easy grin is the same. But the hair is now a little more salt than pepper. The face, more weather-beaten than I remembered.

“I told them you’d be surprised.” David’s face flashes from smug to slightly apologetic.

I say nothing. It’s the understatement of the year.

“They talked me out of retirement,” David folds his arms across his chest and leans back. “Said they
had
to have me.”

“I’ll bet,” I offer with a cool nod.

His face reveals nothing. “Not going to be a problem, is it?”

Of course, it is!
I dig my fingernails into my palm, shake my head, and manage to force up the corners of my mouth.

“Good.” David slides his feet off the desk and thumbs through a pile of magazines.

I stand motionless, watching his hands work. The familiar flash of gold is gone. I glower at his bare finger, incensed to the point of nearly missing all that he is saying. I watch David’s mouth move; he’s gesturing.

“…and so, we’re going to be going in a new direction.” He narrows his gaze. “Julia?”

I wrench my eyes up. “A new direction,” I repeat in a stupid, sing-song voice.

David frowns. With a smooth flick of his wrist, he tosses a copy of
Getaways
across the desk. He motions for me to take it.

“The latest issue,” he says.

Gingerly, I reach for it. And choke.
That’s funny
. I purse my lips.
Funny strange.
The cover story was supposed to be mine. My feet start to tingle. I want to run.

Instead, I force myself to begin paging through for the article and stunning photos I’d submitted—shots of the sapphire-blue water, honey-gold beaches, and the lush green landscape.

With forced nonchalance, I search through the pages.
Flip. Flip. Flip.
In a minute, I’m halfway through the magazine. No article. No Belize. No nothing. My fingers don’t want to work anymore. I feel sick.

“Julia, what is it? You seem a little pale,” David prods. He leans back in his chair and stares at me with an unreadable expression.

I continue looking.
Where
is my article? Buried in the middle? Hidden in the back? More pages. I peek up at David, who meets my dismay with a steady gaze.

What kind of game is he playing?

I yank my chin up. “No, nothing’s wrong,” I say lightly, “not a thing.”

Inside, I’m screaming like a lunatic.
There must be a mistake.
My bottom lip trembles the slightest bit. I blink. Surely, I’m not going to…lose my…

“It was junk. Pure and simple,” David interrupts, the furrows on his forehead now more pronounced. He jumps up and folds his arms across his chest. “Bland, vanilla. The article screamed boring. It was crap.”

Crap? Don’t mince any words, David.
He might as well have tossed a bucket of ice water on my head. I shiver, watching him.

“Let me ask you this.” David stops walking back and forth and puts his fists on the desk. “How much time did you actually spend writing and researching the article? Just give me a rough estimate. In hours or days?” David’s finished making his point. He sits down and begins glancing through a red folder.

My mind races. Last month? Right. Trip to Belize.

Focus. Try to focus.

I fidget and tap out an uneven rhythm with my shoe. Excuses jumble in my head, swirling like my brain is on spin cycle.

David clears his throat. He opens a manila envelope, thumbs through the contents, then gazes at me with the force of a steam-driven locomotive. “Are you taking care of yourself? Taking your … prescriptions?”

The words cut like a winter wind off the Baltic Sea.

I grope for words. My thoughts fall through my fingers.

My attention deficit isn’t exactly a secret. Most everyone knows it’s been a problem in the past. But, things are under control … it’s all been fine.

Until now.

I start to seethe. David continues to gaze intently and wait for my reply.

What are you, a psychiatrist?
I want to spout.
Not to mention all of the HR rules you’re breaking by asking me that.

“I’m off the medication. Doctor’s orders. Have been for several years,” I answer, managing to give him a haughty
the-rest-is-none-of-your-business
stare.

David backs off with a swivel of his chair. “Sorry. Just concerned,” he says, holding one cuff-linked hand in the air. “So,
exactly
how much
time
did you
spend
on the
article
?” David enunciates each word, stabbing them through my skin like daggers.

“Five hours,” I blurt out, immediately wishing I could swallow the words and say twelve. “Maybe seven.”

David makes a noise. Then, I realize he’s laughing. At me. At my enormous fib.

My face is scarlet, glowing hot.

Head bent, David flips through a set of papers. He pauses at a small stack. I recognize the coffee stain on one edge and the crinkled corner. My article.

“Let me quote verbatim to you, Ms. Sullivan,” he says, his tone mocking. “Belize offers the best of both worlds, lovely beaches and a bustling city full of good restaurants. Visitors can find fascinating artwork and treasure hunt for souvenirs downtown.”

He stops.

Surely, my article was better. He must have the draft. Oh, there wasn’t a draft. Oops. Because I hadn’t allowed myself much time. Come to think of it, I banged most of it out on the taxi ride from the airport. I accidentally threw away most of my notes in a shopping bag, which wasn’t really my fault. I was late for my plane. And then…

“So, I killed it.” David ceremoniously holds the papers over the trash can and lets go.

I watch the white papers float, then settle to their final resting place. Maybe I should jump in after them? My legs start to ache. Why did I wear these stupid Prada boots that pinch my left heel?

“But, all is not lost,” David says dramatically. “I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself.” He drums his fingers on the desk. “If you can up the caliber of your writing. Spend some time. Put your heart into it.”

I don’t say a word. Or make a sound. Because if I do, I’m sure to sputter out something I’ll regret. Or, God forbid, cry.
Redeem myself? Put my heart into it?

Deep breath. Okay, I can afford to work a teensy bit harder. Give a tad more effort here and there. But, the criticism. Ouch! And coming from David, it’s one hundred times worse. The award-winning super-journalist who circled the globe, blah, blah, blah.

David cracks his knuckles. “Look, I know it’s been tough since your mother’s illness and all.” His tone softens slightly. “Her passing away has been difficult for everyone.”

I manage not to leap over the desk and shake him by the shoulders.
Difficult? How would he know?
My blood pressure doubles.
Stay calm. Just a few more minutes.
Doesn’t he have some other important meeting? An executive lunch?

David drones on like he’s giving a sermon. I try to tune him out, but can’t help hearing the next part.

“Julia, it’s affected your writing. Immensely. And look at you. You’ve lost weight. You’re exhausted. I want you to know I understand your pain—”

“You
don’t
understand,” I cut in before I can stop myself. My mother died two years ago. She was sick before that. I still miss her every day.
Damn him.
Get out of my personal life. And stay out.

We stare each other down, stubborn, gritty gunfighters in the Wild West.

“Fine,” David says evenly and breaks my gaze. “So, as you’ve heard, the magazine is going in a new direction. The focus group research says …” He glances down at some scribbled notes. “It says our American readers want to see more ‘out of the way’ places to visit. Road trips. A Route 66 feel, if you will.”

Focus groups. I forgot all about that obsession.

David pauses to make sure I’m listening. For once, he has my undivided attention.

“According to the numbers, they’re saturated with Paris, London, the Swiss Alps. They want off the beaten path. Local flavor. So, we’re going to give it a shot. We’ll call it something like ‘Back Roads to Big Dreams.’”

What a horrible idea. I swallow hard. Our readers don’t want that! Who did he interview in these focus groups? The Beverly Hillbillies?

David continues, immensely pleased with the concept. “The emphasis is going to be on places that offer something special—perhaps historically or culturally. But the town or city must also be looking toward the future. Planning how to thrive, socially and economically. It’s going to be part of a new series, if it turns out well.” David puts emphasis on ‘if’ and shoots me a look. “What do you think?”

Is he joking? He doesn’t want my opinion. Does he honestly think I like the idea?

David pauses. Apparently, he expects a response. An intelligent, supportive one.

“Sounds … interesting,” I manage to squeak out and shift uncomfortably. I predict that I’ll be spending a full day spinning half-truths. I’ll likely be offered a lifetime membership in Deceivers Anonymous if I don’t die first.

David snatches up his glasses.
Glasses?
When did he start wearing glasses?

“I know you’re our token globe-trotter, but I’d hoped you’d be more enthusiastic.” He taps his Mont Blanc on his desk calendar and then points to the enormous wall atlas. “I’m thinking Alabama.”

Something massive and thick catches in my throat. My head swivels to the lower portion of the map. I begin to cough uncontrollably.

Ever so calmly, David waits for me to quit.

When I catch my breath, my mind races with excuses. The words stumble out of my mouth, tripping over themselves. “But, I have plans. Tickets to the Met, a fundraiser, a gallery opening, and book club on Monday.” I don’t mention the Filene’s trip I’d planned. Or the romantic date I’ve been promising Andrew, my neglected boyfriend.

David waves a hand to dismiss it all. “Marietta can handle the magazine-related responsibilities.”

From the top drawer of his desk, he produces an airline ticket and a folder with my name on it. He sets them on the edge of his desk. Something I can’t decipher plays on his lips.

I keep my voice even. “What about Bali?” I had planned to leave for the South Pacific a week from Friday. “It’s on my calendar. It’s been on there…”

David shakes his head. “Not anymore.”

The words wound me like a thousand bee stings.

“Alabama,” David repeats.

I swallow, indignant. He’s plucked me off a plum assignment without a thought to my ability and my schedule. My new boss is sending me to who-knows-where, and he looks perfectly content. I narrow my eyes and fold my arms.

“Seriously David, you’re sending me on an assignment to…Alabama?
Alabama
?” I sputter, searching my brain for an appropriate retort. “I’d rather—I don’t know—
dance naked
for my next assignment than go to Alabama!”

The announcement comes out much louder than I intend and reverberates through the room. Dolores probably has her ear pressed to the door, but the phrase bounces off my boss like a cotton ball.

David smothers a chuckle. “Suit yourself.”

“It’s a done deal, isn’t it?” I finally manage, my voice low and uneven. The answer is obvious. The airline ticket and folder are within my grasp. I don’t move a centimeter toward them. For all I know, the inside of one of them is coated with Anthrax. For a brief moment, I picture myself, drawing one last ragged breath, on the floor of David’s brand-spanking-new office carpeting.

“It’s your choice.” David swipes at his glasses and settles them on his nose. “Deadline’s a week from today. That’s next Wednesday. Five o’clock. Take it or leave it.”

I stifle an outward cringe at his tone, and the way he’s spelling it out for me. Syllable by syllable, like I’m a toddler caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

Take it or leave it.

Not the assignment. My job.

It’s your choice.

David’s fingers hit the keyboard. Click-clack. “Oh, and leave your notes on Italy with Dolores. I’ll write the article myself.”

That’s it. The meeting’s over. I’m fuming. Furious. I want to rip up the papers an inch from his face and let a hailstorm of white scraps fall to the carpet.

Take it or leave it.

I start to turn on my heel and walk out like we’d never had the conversation. David will come around, won’t he?

Then, I stop. It’s a joke. An awful, terrible joke. Do I have other job prospects? Do I want to change careers? What about my apartment? What about the bills?

Fine. Okay. Have it your way, David.

I catch myself before I stick my tongue out. He probably has surveillance cameras set up on a 24-hour loop.

David knows I’m beaten.

So, I bend, ever so slightly. In one quick motion, I reach out to tuck the folder and ticket under my arm. In slow motion, the papers slip through my fingers like water between rocks in a stream.

Damn!
I think I’ve said the words out loud, because the clatter of David’s awkward typing stops.

So much for a smooth exit.

On the ground lies a square white envelope and matching note card. I swoop down to gather my mess.

Though I’m trying not to notice, I can’t help but stare at the delicate pen and ink lines on the front of the card. There’s no lettering, just thin strokes of black that form the outline of a majestic mansion and its towering columns. Before I can stop myself, I flip open the note card, expecting a flowery verse or invitation. Some event I’ll be expected to attend for the magazine? A party?

There are only a few sentences inside, barely legible, scrawled in loopy, old-fashioned writing.
David, Please help
, I can make out. Underneath, a scribbled signature. An
M
, maybe?

Hmph. There’s no end to what people will do to get a story. Gifts, money, flowers, I’ve seen it all. Traded for a snippet of publicity.

I refold the note and hand it across the desk. It must not be particularly important, because David takes the card and sets it aside without glancing at it.