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“You sure you don’t want to wait inside?”
“No. It’s okay.”
“I’ll call you in a few days,” he said, kissing the back of my head and ducking back into the house.
I had to laugh.
Minutes later, my head pressed against the cold taxi window, I made another resolution: I was not going to make my life about the guy, about any guy. I was going to devote myself to Cassie’s, which was not just my business but my investment, my calling, my future, my life. I was also going to say yes to the thing Matilda had talked about, no matter what it was. After tonight, I was to be a woman about my work. I would look after my own passions. I was not going to be about a man.
At home, I threw my little red dress on the back of a kitchen chair, too tired to hang it, and I collapsed into bed. I was soon joined by Dixie, who wasn’t looking for love or affection either, just a warm body, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.
SOLANGE
January was a blur of work and carpools. Julius’s food truck business was taking off and now his schedule was the moving target. But early February meant the ramp up to Mardi Gras, and more than once, poor Gus found himself coloring on the glass coffee table in my office, killing time after school until his dad could pick him up. I had to swallow my complaints because there had been years and years of Julius picking up the parenting slack while I was chasing stories or on a stakeout that went longer than planned.
“Why’s Dad taking so long? I’m bored,” he said, playing a game on my phone in my office, the coloring books no longer capturing his attention.
“I’m sorry you’re bored, baby,” I said, peering over the half-dozen vases stuffed with flowers on my desk. “You have two busy parents doing their best.”
Were we doing our best? His dad was busy trying to get a business venture off the ground and his mom was trying to reclaim her sex life. I felt mother’s guilt spread through me in a cold wave.
I checked my watch. Matilda and I were to celebrate that night. My port lands story, the one I broke last year that landed a bunch of politicians in jail, had been nominated for a local Emmy that morning. Or rather, I had been nominated, hence the flowers.
Just then Julius rounded the corner of my office carrying a fistful of yellow roses.
“Hey! Sorry I’m late! Heard about the nomination on the radio. Way to go, Solange,” he said, grinning. When I hugged him, he lifted me right off my feet with an intimacy that turned the heads of a few people in the newsroom.
“Yes, well, thanks,” I said as he set me down again. I tucked my blouse back into my skirt.
“You’re gonna wiii-iiin,” Gus singsonged.
“What makes you so sure of that, buddy?” I asked, as Julius gathered up his son’s jacket, backpack and several toys strewn about my office floor, and I plucked my phone from the kid’s hands.
“ ’Cause you’re the Formidable Solange Faraday,” Gus said.
Julius cocked an eyebrow at me.
“Uh, I see,” I said, uncertain whether Gus meant it as a compliment. It’s true that when I wanted something I went after it at all costs; I’d taught my son that was how you achieved success. Was it wrong to be formidable?
“Okay, let’s go, bud,” Julius said, not wanting to linger on the topic of ambition a second longer. “See you in a few days, Solange. And try to have some fun tonight. Let loose. Celebrate!”
“I will, thanks,” I said, and kissed Gus good-bye. I wanted to add, I’m not all work, Jules. I play too. In fact, after my celebratory dinner, which will, admittedly, involve a bit of work, fun does await me. More fun than you could ever imagine me having.
But getting nominated for that story made me hungry for another notch in my journalistic belt, one I hoped Matilda could help me carve.
By now, we had a regular table at Tracey’s, a tippy two-top near the server area in front of the kitchen. Matilda was already waiting for me, with yet another clutch of flowers—four oversize peonies, my favorites—and two glasses of champagne. As much as I was enjoying the fantasies and looking forward to more, I was also relishing newfound female companionship. Before S.E.C.R.E.T., I had no idea how much I missed that. And because she was so smart, challenging and honest, Matilda’s company was particularly welcome. She had a lot in common with Marsha Lang, minus all the worries about staying on top and looking good while doing it.
“Congratulations, my dear,” she said, clinking her glass to mine. “Here’s to uncovering more great stories in this great city.”
More great stories. Yes! This was my in.
“Since we’re on the topic of great stories, do you know who’d be my dream ‘get’—the person I’d really like to interview?”
“Michelle Obama?”
“No, I mean locally.”
“Who?”
