Yankee Doodle Dixie (32 page)

When I sit back down in my chair and happen to glace at the picture of my daughters in the simple silver frame on the corner of my desk, an overwhelming sense of taking responsibility for my own actions floods my thoughts. All of the reasons I used to justify my flight of fancy to New York no longer seem valid. Through the turtleneck, I can feel the sweat drip and then pool in my cleavage—I’m too scared to look in my compact, but I’m sure my face is bright red. Despite my nervousness, the phone calls keep on coming and it takes all my focus and concentration not to entirely snap at one of the contest winners. But when Stan pops his head in my office, all cheery and nonchalant, my eyes become poisonous arrows and I shoot them his way. It’s not at all like me, but I honestly can’t help myself.

Alarmed, he scurries in and shuts my door, honking an extra large something or other up his nose. “Hello, doll. How was the Big Apple?” he says, only seconds before Edward’s voice booms through the wall. “Leelee. Would you come in here now?”

Stan’s eyebrows pop up. “Ooops. That doesn’t sound good. What’s he so mad about?”

I’m so livid at Stan I want to shake him. “You know exactly what he’s mad about,” I say, with my hands resting on my hips. “What I’d like to know is why are you such a big tattletale?”

“If you’re referring to your joyride to New York—”

“You don’t know what I did last weekend, Stan. And what I can’t figure out is, why do you even care?”

Fueled by rage, and indignant that my privacy was breached—not to mention being fed up with Edward’s general sense of unpleasantness and self-importance—I’m suddenly furious. But this time, I’m furious with myself. Not only have I allowed myself to be bullied by a domineering doofus of a boss, I let myself be lured into a bad situation by one more charming, gorgeous man, under the guise that I was treating myself to an escape, a Cinderella fantasy worthy of telling my grandchildren. All along I knew the trip to New York was taboo—even if Edward’s rules were inane, not to mention
so
hypocritical. But I let myself be convinced that this guy, Liam, would make it all okay. In reality, I’d known all along I was doing something wrong—and truthfully, I realize now that it would have been impossible to fully enjoy myself because of it.

During the first nor’easter in Vermont, I had been sans-Baker for only a matter of days—and no one had ever told me how quickly or vastly the snow would accumulate. Folks up there trade weather reports like gossip, and the town had been talking about it for days. It never once occurred to me to pay attention, though. I just assumed I’d be taken care of—that Baker, or Jeb, or
someone
would bail me out, the way Daddy always did. When the storm finally hit, the girls and I were left alone, and at first we were enchanted with the clouds of puffy snow. But when it started piling up one foot after another—to the roof in some spots—I made panicked phone calls to snowplowers begging for assistance. Naturally, they’d all been booked for days. When I finally sweet-talked one into helping me, his wife said that I’d have to shovel a three-foot alley around my car in order for her husband to clear my drive. It ended up taking me
four hours
just to shovel the way out to my car and once I’d finally made a three-foot clearance around it I noticed there was still another four feet of snow piled on top of it. It had to go somewhere and when I knocked it off in a rageful frenzy, and it filled back up my alley, I marched myself back inside and told that snowplower’s wife that she could send in an eighteen-wheeler tow truck for all I cared but I was not shoveling one more inch of snow that day or any other day. In the end I paid the snowplower to do it. After all, there’s only so much snow a girl can take.

All along I’ve been thinking I’ve grown up so much, matured, finally learned to stand up for myself. When in reality, I’ve made the very same mistakes again. I know that when I walk into Edward’s office in a few moments, I’m going to encounter a nor’easter of my own—only this time, I’m determined to be prepared. I will not let myself be buried again.

“Shut the door and have a seat, Ms. Satterfield.” Edward, who is already seated behind his desk, scoots his chair in tightly so he can rest his elbows on the desktop and clasp his hands together. My lips are silent but the pounding of my heart speaks for me as I settle down into the chair. I’m rubbing my thumbs together so hard I’m afraid I might rub off the skin.

With lips tightly pursed he stares at me a long time before ever uttering a word. Finally he says, “I have received a very disturbing report on you, Leelee.”

“Edward,” I say, jumping in before I lose my momentum, “I owe you an apology.” Immediately his eyebrows rise. “I lied to you last week about having the flu, and instead took a trip to New York City with Liam White to hear him perform.” I never meant to tell on myself to this degree but since it’s all out in the open now I might as well proceed with my head held high.

Bursting with offense, he starts to expel what I imagine he’d been hanging on to all weekend, “I know all about it. Nothing around here gets past me—”

I cut him off. “I know. And you were very explicit that I was not to act like a star fornicator—and I bent the rules.”

His eyes pop out of his skull.

“
Not literally!
” I say indignantly, standing up from my seat. “Just figuratively.” Slowly I settle back down. Inside I’m dying to lean over his desk, point my finger in his face and say, Edward Maxwell, for your information,
you
are the biggest star-fornicator of them all! Instead I calmly say, “I’m sorry for going against your policies—I can only say, not that it matters, that I behaved with dignity and never did anything to reflect poorly on the station.” I pause for a moment. Between the heat from my fury and this dang turtleneck I can feel a bead of sweat escaping my forehead, trickling down my cheek. And another. And another. I reach behind me and knot my hair to get some air on my neck before resisting the urge to fan myself with a
Billboard
magazine that I’ve spied on the edge of his desk. I’m not sure what to say next. Do I beg for my job? Do I tell him all the things I’ve wanted to scream back at him for the past few months? Or do I just quit? The more I look at his sun-dried tomato lips pressed tightly together and consider the anxiety he causes me on a daily basis, not to mention the vast amount of eggshells I must tiptoe across every time I step into his office, I realize it’s not worth it. Working alongside Edward Maxwell falls in my “life is way too short” category. Dealing with him is not worth the exorbitant amount of distress required to wade through his daily dish of pompous malarkey. It’s time to stand up for myself and find a new job.

“Edward,” I say, surprised at my courage. “I feel I’ve learned a lot from this position; and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed working with many of the staff. But to be honest
,
I don’t think we work well together—and I think my trip to New York was a way of showing that. Therefore, I’m tendering my resignation.” As soon as the words escape my lips I grab the
Billboard
magazine off the corner of his desk and begin to fan my face. It’s all I can do not to lift my sweater and fan up under my turtleneck. Confrontation is certainly not my strong suit.

Edward, naturally, had more to say—and clearly wanted to have the last word. I’m certain he was expecting tears and begging; and his displeasure at having been undercut was apparent—his face was nearly as red as mine had been moments earlier. I calmly listen as he reiterates everything I’ve done wrong. He goes on and on about issues of human resources and e-mails and leaving company information secure. All I can focus on are the neatly polished platinum records hanging on the wall behind him—the way his head is positioned, it looks as though he’s been framed, next to his idols. It takes all my strength not to laugh out loud at the irony. In the end, we part as coldly as the day we met.

When I rise from the chair and abruptly swing open Edward’s door, Stan tumbles in on top of me. Without uttering a sound, I step around him and walk calmly back to my office.

While gathering the few personal items I have in my desk, Sarah and Issie’s faces pop into my mind. When I think about how I’m going to support them the actuality of my choice to go to New York grabs hold. At once I feel ashamed and can’t help but question my motives, my choices, and even my ability to mother my daughters. But that’s the good thing about finally owning up to yourself—if you admit you were wrong, there’s really no point in beating yourself up over it. All I know is that I’ve got a ton of proverbial snow to get out from under—but at least I’ve got my shovel pointed in the right direction.

Stan appears in my doorway. “This is not my fault.”

Completely ignoring him, I glance around my office one last time for any other personal belongings. I may have had a moment of enlightenment, but I know myself. I’m one calm breath from throwing my Southern upbringing out the window and taking a high heel to Stan’s bustle of a rear end. Scooping up my purse, I head down the hall with Stan huffing behind me. I stop in front of the control room to say good-bye to Johnny and Jack but when peeping through the small window on the door I see the back of Edward’s head and change my mind. So without saying good-bye to one soul, I push open the door to the back steps that lead directly out of the building.

Stan’s trailing right behind me. “I’m sorry,” he says, halfway down the stairs. “I got insanely jealous when I learned you were in New York with Liam White.”

“Insanely jealous?” I say, scurrying down the last few steps. “Why? It’s not like we’re a couple.”

“But we could be! I could make you the happiest woman on earth.”

I hurry through the exit door and walk briskly toward my car. Stan’s right beside me now, trying his best to woo me as I pave my way through the parking lot.

Once at my car, I peer over at him and with my hand on the door latch I say, “Stan, I’m going to do you a big favor here. And I’ve got to tell you, normally I’d be the last person that could ever say something like this. But someone needs to tell you and it may as well be me—since we won’t be working together any longer. First, I will say, there are some nice things about you. You have the potential to make a woman happy. But here’s one piece of good advice. You can take it or leave it. I’m
not
trying to be mean, but if you don’t stop honking snot up your nose, you are going to have a hard time making a girl feel like she’s the happiest woman on earth. Go into the
bathroom,
for goodness sake, and use a
Kleenex
. You’ll be surprised at how that one simple change can affect the romance in your life. Now go on back inside … bless your heart.”

After settling down into my seat I flutter my fingers in his direction and back out of the parking spot.

While driving away a wave of clarity washes over me. It’s as if I had been nearsighted and suddenly given contacts. Everything was more clear. I had made the perfect decision—I left on my terms, with dignity, and more importantly I took responsibility. I doubt I’d be able to get a stellar letter of reference from Edward, but at least I’d be able to walk around town,
and the club,
with my head held high. Sure, I’m sad about leaving FM 99, there’s no doubt about it, and I may not know what’s next in my life but I do know that I’ll be just fine. I’ve stood up to two bullies in the last year and with the way I feel right now, I could do it again tomorrow.

Chapter Thirteen

In the four weeks since quitting FM 99—a move that sent Alice’s chardonnay out through her nose. “Oh shoog, I never thought you had it in you,” she’d said when I was done reenacting the scene and her wineglass had been refilled. I opted to dip into what was left of my savings and take a long hard look at what to next—personally and professionally. I’d reread
What Color Is Your Parachute?
, visited my pastor, and polled the girls each time we had lunch at the club. Currently, I’m finally succumbing to my absolute last, last resort—the one thing I’ve refused to do. Therapy. It’s not so much that I don’t believe in it—Richard and Alice swear by it, for example—it’s just that I wasn’t raised to share my opinions. Now that I think about it, no wonder I ended up in Vermont running a bed and breakfast—it never occurred to me to tell Baker I didn’t want to do it.

My friends have always been my therapists, we tell each other absolutely everything with no judgment whatsoever. And most importantly, it’s all vaulted in wine-fueled secrecy; I can’t really see why I need to talk to a “professional.” But they’ve finally convinced me to seek real help—“Fiery, you don’t even take our advice when we give it to you anyhow,” said Virgy—and now I’m in my car driving down Poplar Avenue past the quaint office building I’ve ignored for practically my whole life. I’ve driven past the blond brick building for as long as I can remember but have never stepped a toe inside. Until today.

I locate her name on the downstairs information board and step onto the elevator, riding only two floors up. I’d have rather walked but saw no sign of a staircase. Frances Folk’s office is down the hall, all the way to the end. Once I reach my destination, I turn the knob but it’s locked. So I tap on the door lightly.

“Be there in a moment,” I hear a cheery voice say from behind the door.

“Oh, no problem,” I answer, and wait a few feet back.

It’s hard to believe I’m actually seeing a therapist. I take that back. It’s hard to believe I’m having to spend one hundred and twenty dollars for
fifty
minutes of seeing a therapist. It’s like having to spend money on a new air-conditioning compressor. Who in the world wants to do that?

When she opens the door, only a couple of minutes later, I meet a sweet round-faced lady, probably in her early sixties, who can’t be more than five feet tall.

“Leelee? Won’t you come in?”

I follow behind her and she points over to a flowery couch. A box of Kleenex is the only item on the brown coffee table in front of the sofa. Frances sits directly across from me in an overstuffed chair with a small analog clock on an end table next to it. There is a desk on the other end of the room with a phone and a bookcase brimming with books. By the names of the titles, I can tell they are mostly psychology related.