Chapter 37 Luisa
I pull up to the Dogwood Hills Country Club’s iron gate, then flash my deactivated Georgia Times badge at the guard.
“I have a meeting with Holly Simmons,” I say, my voice so self-assured that he doesn’t question me.
I don’t have a meeting, in fact. I thought about calling, but groveling over the phone didn’t feel like the right thing to do.
Not after how things ended between us. So I got in my SUV and drove to Midtown, praying she wouldn’t have me escorted off the grounds.
I check in at the front desk, where Janey does a double take, asking if we’ve met before.
I’m certain she’s picturing the nonexistent María in her head.
I did my best to stay clear of the club’s staff during the gala, but Janey has the optical dexterity of a scallop, with two hundred tiny eyes gathering information from all directions.
“The annual Philanthropy Banquet—” I say, trying to divert her recollection. “I covered the event.” Satisfied, she leads me down a corridor to Holly’s new office.
Janey is a journalist’s dream. She runs her mouth unprompted, telling me about the old GM’s ill-fated accident and Holly’s interim appointment.
The woman could start her own Chismosa Social Club.
But what she doesn’t know—and I don’t say—is that, unless Griggs is dead and buried, Holly won’t be able to retain the position.
Not now, when there’s no hope of outing his evil machinations.
We find Holly sitting behind a monstrous cherry desk, like something borrowed from the Oval Office.
“A reporter is here to see you,” Janey says eagerly. “She said you’re expecting her?”
I stiffen, hovering by the doorway, studying Holly’s reaction.
“Huh?” Holly glances up from her computer screen in confusion. She looks at Janey, then to me. I offer a tentative smile and a pleading gaze. To my surprise, Holly responds with her most genuine, rosy-cheeked, thousand-kilowatt smile. Relief floods my entire body. I’ve missed her so much.
“Oh yes,” she exclaims in Janey’s direction. “Luisa is working on a piece about…” Her voice trails off, eyes cutting to mine.
“Buttered saltines,” I interject helpfully. “I’m doing a comparative taste test at all the clubs in Atlanta.”
“Well, I’ll be. Are you really?” Janey’s eyes widen before dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper.
“Did you know our recipe was stolen from the Altamaha Country Club?” She nods vigorously as if sharing a state secret.
“Back in the early seventies. The sous chef at Altamaha had run out of oyster crackers and came up with the buttered saltines. Word got around.”
“I’m going to need a copy of that recipe,” I say, matching her conspiratorial tone.
“Of course! We can arrange that.” Janey is quick to oblige, but seeming to remember Holly is now the boss, she adds cautiously, “If that’s okay with Holly.”
“Thank you, Janey,” Holly says, standing. “I can take it from here.” She steps around her desk to usher her out, then closes the door to the office and turns to take me in.
“Are you okay?” she asks, closing the space between us. “I’ve been worried sick.”
I have a whole apology speech prepared, but before I can get one word out, Holly has her arms around me, pulling me into a hug.
“It’s been almost a week.” She exhales over my shoulder. “I was starting to think I’d never see you again. Why didn’t you call me back?”
I lean back, staring at her stupefied. “Because I was horrible to you,” I cry out, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. “I was cruel and a shitty friend.”
“I was a shitty friend, too,” Holly cuts in, in a tone that implies our blowout, for her, is water under the bridge. “I’m just so happy you’re here.” She beams back at me, holding on to my arms.
“Seriously, Holly,” I urge, a little annoyed that she’s not more upset. “I was a fucking nightmare. Just let me apologize!”
“Okay. Fine,” she says, releasing her grip on me.
“Let’s apologize.” She waves one hand in the air.
“But for the record, I think we were both freaking out, worried sick about Eli, and we took it out on each other.” She holds on to herself, the memory of that night darkening her expression.
“All I’m saying is, we can’t judge others by their worst day, and judge ourselves by our best intentions. ”
I tilt my head sideways, flummoxed by her words. “Are you really quoting President George W. Bush right now?” I bark out a laugh.
“Maybe?” she says sheepishly, then gestures to the wall behind us, where one of those derivative office quote posters hangs.
“It was the old GM’s,” she explains. “Ol’ Dennis loved W.
” The former president smiles down placidly at us.
“It’s true, though—we can’t just throw away our friendship over one argument on one disastrous day. ”
Holly leads me to a tufted dark leather couch, and we sit. Everything about this office, from the oversize furniture to the collection of muskets displayed in a glass cabinet to the tweed wallpaper screams hypermasculine.
“Luisa,” Holly says warmly, reaching for my hand, “we may be about to lose everything we’ve worked for”—her eyes travel around the room—“but I don’t want to lose you, too.
” She squeezes my hand, and with it my heart.
And before I have time to retreat into myself, put up any walls, or send for emotional reinforcements, I’m ugly crying. Again.
“What in the world is happening right now?” Holly’s gone slack-jawed, seemingly stumped by a mix of concern, disbelief, and surprise. “Is the tough-as-nails investigative journalist Luisa Martín Moreno crying?”
“This is what I do now.” I motion to my face, pulling in a long calming breath, trying to regain control. “I cry in front of people.” I fan my eyes in an almost comical attempt at drying my tears. “I hate this so much.”
Holly reaches for a box of tissues on a side table, then pulls out a handful and passes them to me.
“You have to let me apologize,” I demand, dabbing at my eyes with a tissue.
“Okay,” she acquiesces. “You go, then me.”
“You were right,” I admit thoughtfully. “Something changed inside me when my dad died.” I tap at my chest with my fingers. “I keep expecting the worst, for things to go wrong or for people to disappoint me.”
“It was a traumatic event, Luisa,” Holly says in understanding. “So to cope, you learned to always be prepared, react first, be hypervigilant.” I nod, wringing the tissue with my hands. “All the traits that also make you a great journalist.”
“But it’s also the reason I try to anticipate rejection and sometimes bulldoze the people I love.
” Shame at the things I said and the pain I’ve caused spreads hot over my cheeks.
I stare at the balled-up tissues. “I pushed you and Eli away in a preemptive strike.” Fresh tears well in my eyes.
I let them fall, feeling every bit vulnerable and raw, but also open and tender.
“I don’t want to be that person anymore.
I want to be a good friend. To expect good things instead. ”
“You deserve good things, Luisa,” Holly says quietly. She covers my hand with hers, and I allow myself to be soothed by her touch, to let my friend care for me.
“We both do,” I say. “You are an incredible mom, and excellent at your job.” I look her straight in the eyes so there’s no doubt I mean every word. “You should be the fucking boss lady. For real. Not just this interim bullshit.”
“Thanks,” Holly says, two circles glowing red over her cheeks. “Is it my turn now?”
“I’m pretty sure I have no more tears left,” I joke. “But sure, go ahead.”
“I’m sorry I hurt you.” She gazes at our hands, now clasped together.
“I don’t think it’s a secret that I’ve been insecure about myself and my abilities for as long as I can remember.
” She releases a deep sigh, her shoulders relaxing a little.
“But you were right. I’m not a teen mom anymore.
I’m a grown-ass woman. I can more than take care of myself, and my son is an adult now.
It’s time for me to start really thinking about what I want and need, about what’s next for me, and to find the courage to go after it. ”
“Damn straight,” I assure her.
We smile at each other, and it feels so good to have Holly back in my life.
“I missed you,” she whispers, pulling me in for a side hug.
“I missed you, too,” I whisper back, my heart full of gratitude for my friend and for this moment.
My face is a mess, so Holly passes me a few more tissues, along with one of those toiletry boxes they keep in the women’s powder room. I hold up a small mirror to my face, then freshen myself the best I can.
“What about Eli?” Holly asks, passing me the makeup remover. “Have you talked to him?”
I shake my head in response, then cover my eyes with both hands, probably smudging wet mascara all over my face. “We had a big fight outside the jail.” I fall sideways on the couch, hiding behind Holly. “I doubt he ever wants to see me again.”
Holly jumps to her feet. “Luisa Martín Moreno,” she exclaims. “Get your ass off that couch.”
“What?” I whine. “Can I sulk for like a minute?”
“You’re not a sulker, Luisa,” she goads. “Clean your face. I’m driving you to Westlake.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be working or something?” I survey the papers on her desk. “Maybe you can get them to change out these musty carpets.”
“It’s not like I have to clock in and out,” she says, already reaching for her phone and purse.
“Remember, I’m the boss now.” She holds up a bulky metal ring with dozens of keys, including a few ancient skeleton ones.
“I’ve even got the keys to the kingdom,” she calls out in a town crier voice, jiggling the ring in midair and grinning.
“Please don’t do that anymore,” I say derisively.
“So glad you’re back.” She links her arm with mine, leading me out of the office.
“I hope you know,” I tease, my tone a warning, “I’m not leaving this club without the recipe for those buttery saltines.”