By Stephanie Gayle
At the present time is Monday. The calls don't come as ahead of. Weeks elapse among them, and whilst I solution the telephone there's no overlap of voices, simply my mother's. She spends a lot of the dialog keeping off point out of the red elephant trumpeting in the course of the room. The red elephant will be my defection to Georgia. while I telephoned with the inside track of my drawing close relocation my father requested, "Georgia, as within the Republic of Georgia by way of the Black Sea, or Georgia as within the Peach State?" He was hoping I intended the previous simply because that Georgia promised designated possibilities to increase the democratic reason behind justice. What may possibly Georgia, former land of the Confederacy, provide? Convicting arsonists and thieves in Macon, Georgia, used to be by no means Harvard legislations grad Natalie Goldberg's dream. The pay is abysmal, the paintings is onerous, and the humidity is hell for a girl with curly hair. but if a steamy romance along with her high-powered long island boss went undesirable, Natalie jumped on the first activity provided, packed her luggage, and headed south. Natalie's leftist Yankee heritage manufacturers her a conspicuous outsider during this insular neighborhood. Her father, a recognized civil rights legal professional, refuses to simply accept her occupation change—or seek advice from her. Her ally begs her again domestic, and Natalie retains pondering she sees her former lover in all places. yet Natalie's no longer thoroughly on my own. There are a garden-obsessed neighbor, a former attractiveness queen–turned–defense legal professional, and a good-looking colleague who has a worried tic each time she will get close to. after which there is a capital case that has her consuming antacids via the truckload. Yep, it will be one heckuva lengthy, sizzling summer time. . . .
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Assisting, as if I’m a first-year intern. ” 40 My Summer of Southern Discomfort He rubs his beardless chin and rests his substantial weight on his back foot. He looks at me as though he is in the market for a house and I am a real fixer-upper. I allow myself the luxury of crossing my stiff legs, which draws his gaze down in Pavlovian predictability. Ben removes his reading glasses from his dress shirt pocket and begins wiping at them with a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth. ” He knows it is.
So short, in fact, they don’t deserve the name shorts. They are sho’s. Wine and cheese and crackers for dinner. The wine is ChoreyLes-Beaune “Vieilles Vignes” Dubois, a vintage recommended by Lacey who dated a sommelier from Le Cirque. The cheese is Brie de Meaux, from Anne’s Organics on the corner of Third and Cherry. The crackers are Ritz. I set the plate on the coffee table and my glass atop a coaster. My butt squeaks against the pine boards of the living room floor as I slide forward. One more squeak brings me to the box labeled #11, smith college.
The fake Henry backs up another step. Did he see the fury in my face? Does he know I was about to hit him? “Sorry,” he says, but sounds relieved. This is not the first time. I have seen other Henries in other places, parking outside the video store, mailing a package at the post office, driving past the grocery. Nine months ago, while shopping for shampoo, I mistook a man no older than myself for Henry. It was the way he was reading the label on the back of a bottle of hair gel. Henry read everything with fixed attention: flyers, grocery lists, and law briefs.