Page 18 of Road Trip
“Oh, hell naw,” Kaitlyn shot back. “Tell your uncle to hand over the coffee can money.”
“We tried. He says it’s my mom’s final wish, and he won’t go against that. So that’s that.”
“What are you going to do? About the house?”
“It’s not up to me. Everything gets divided between me and Therese, such as it is. As far as I know the house was the biggest asset, along with LeBeast.”
“Beast? Your mom had a dog?”
“A car. A gas-guzzling ’eighty-three LeBaron, which Therese has already laid claim to. I’m guessing we’ll do some basic upgrades and then try to rent the house to help defray the cost of the mortgage and taxes. It’s something she and I will have to work out, but of course, she blew out of here shortly after we got the bad news. No telling where she’s gone or when she’ll be back.”
Kaitlyn let out a long sigh. Maeve gnawed at the cuticle on her right thumbnail. It was already bleeding.
“You know what? I think you sue the college. This is sex discrimination. That bitch Janelle literally handed your job—and your office—over to a guy. Who is sonoteven close to having your experience or academic reputation.”
“Doesn’t matter. The jocks love him, and Janelle loves that they do. He doesn’t make waves. He makes accommodations. On top of everything else I guess I’ll have to start looking for a new job. Not something I had on my Bingo card for this year.”
“Or you could go back to working on your novel.”
Maeve did a double take. “How do you know about that?”
Kaitlyn laughed. “You forget, my office has been right next doorto yours for years. You left a couple chapters of your manuscript on that printer we share.”
Maeve’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. She’d never told anyone about the book she’d been writing in secret for years. “Please tell me you didn’t read those chapters. They don’t mean anything. Just some idiotic half-baked ideas.”
“Of course I read them. They’re not half-baked, they’re great. I mean, sure, they need polishing, but I loved your protagonist. What was her name? Laurel? The voice was so clear, and arresting. I’ve been dying to read more, but I didn’t want to freak you out.”
“I am officially freaked out right now. I never meant…”
“Just stop,” Kaitlyn said. “I’m a tenured English professor, remember? I actually know good writing when I see it, unlike that twatwaffle Janelle. Look, I realize this is a huge blow, losing your job the same week you lose your mom, but maybe this is a sign. Maybe it’s the universe telling you to roll the dice and take a gamble. Finish your book. Stop hiding your light under a bushel basket.”
“Or maybe it’s just the universe flipping me off. Some sort of cosmic practical joke.”
“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,” Kaitlyn said. “Call me when you’re done with the self-loathing. We’ll do nachos and come up with a plan to burn down the patriarchy.”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“In the meantime, I’m gonna start thinking of ways to make Pratt’s life a hellscape,” Kaitlyn said.
CHAPTER 8
She was emptying out the kitchen junk drawer. Packets of duck sauce from a Chinese restaurant that had been closed for decades, matchbooks, rubber bands, expired grocery coupons, a pair of pliers, and a pocket calendar from 1998, along with half a dozen Blessed Sacrament church bulletins. Maeve tossed it all in the trash, but something about one of the church bulletins caught her eye.
The back page of the bulletin encouraged parishioners to patronize its advertisers, whose ranks included insurance agents, Realtors, an orthodontist, a funeral home, and at least three different law firms. The largest display ad was for the Childress Law Firm. A black-and-white photo showed the firm’s founder, Chandler S. Childress, and his junior partner, Chandler “Scott” Childress Jr.
Maeve carried the bulletin over to the kitchen table and stared at it while trying to come up with an excuse not to do what her sister had been urging her to do. Finally, she picked up her phone and called the number in the display ad.
An hour later, she was sitting in the reception area of the law firm, which was located in a circa 1870 restored townhouse on Troup Square in downtown Savannah.
Not much had changed here since the year she’d turned eighteen and had begrudgingly taken a summer job as a file clerk—a job that had been offered by old man Childress as a favor to Mary Helen.
The same English hunting prints hung on the walls, which were painted dark green, and the leather sofa upholstery was as stiff and cracked with age as the face of the ancient receptionist, Shirley Galloway, who sat at a desk just inside the front door, glaring at anyone who dared enter without an appointment.
Maeve shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and was about to apologize, again, for her impromptu appearance, but was saved when Scott Childress emerged from a hallway, beckoning her to follow him.
“Maeve,” he exclaimed, taking her hand between his. “Come on in. I’m so glad you called.”
“Scotty,” the receptionist piped up, “you’ve got the Bradleys coming in any minute now.”
