She's Got Mail!: She's Got Mail! / Forget Me? Not

Perched on the edge of Rosie’s desk, Pam kicked one sandaled foot back and forth. “Six blocks away? Thought you rented a parking spot yesterday.”

“A lawyer filched it,” Rosie murmured, focusing on the sleek oak desk in the corner. That’s where William Clarington, aka Mr. Real, had plied his trade writing the immensely popular “A Real Man Answers Real Questions” column.

As she’d speed-walked to her desk a few minutes ago, she’d wondered where William, never Bill, was. Every morning he arrived promptly at 8:10, carrying a latte and a bran muffin to his desk. Slightly stooped, with a pencil-thin mustache William referred to as his “cookie duster,” it astounded Rosie that he even knew anyone named Boom Boom, much less ran away with her. The thought of them jetting off to some exotic locale, where they were probably feverishly playing bongos and dusting cookies, unleashed within Rosie an unexpected, wild rush of yearning.

“What’re you thinking about, Rosie?” Pam asked.

Rosie met Pam’s concerned gaze. “The wildest thing I’ve ever done is fly to Chicago. Prior to that, I once tipped a cow.”

“I hope not more than fifteen percent. Cows are notorious for bad service.”

“No, in Kansas ‘tipping a cow’ is literally tipping it.” Rosie made a pushing motion with her hands.

Pam stared at Rosie’s hands. “If that’s what you did for fun,” she said with a chuckle, “good thing you moved to Chicago, and better yet, became pals with me.” Pam was city savvy and had helped Rosie survive the culture shock of moving from a small-town farm to a metropolis apartment. Pam leaned over and helped herself to a tissue on a neighboring desk. “Please don’t tell me you were tipping this morning, though.”

“Why?”

“Because you have mud on your forehead.” She brushed at Rosie’s right temple. “All gone.”

Rosie groaned. “I had mud on my face?”

“Better than egg.” Pam tossed the tissue into the metal trash can next to Rosie’s desk.

Rosie dropped her head into her hands. In a woebegone voice, she said, “I strode, full steam, into a lawyer’s office and called him a thief. If I’d known my face was covered with a mud pack—”

“Mud speck—”

“I’d have wiped it off!” She rolled her eyes. “Mud on my face. No wonder he gave me those odd looks.” And she’d hoped those had been looks of heated interest. Maybe if she dated more often, she’d know the difference between a heated look and an odd one.

Pam’s gaze dropped. “Dirt on your legs, too. Good lord, girl! What’d you do before work? Practice mud wrestling?”

“Mud sloshing. That’s when you step grandly into a pothole filled with mud and gunk. After that, I argued with a trucker, confronted a lawyer and stole a coffee mug.”

Pam nodded slowly, fighting a smile. “Okay, I’ll accept everything but the theft. Stooping a little low, aren’t we, to steal a coffee mug?”

“I accidentally walked away with it, but I was so flustered at the time….” She sighed. Nothing had gone right with Benjamin Taylor, P.C. She’d felt so in control—so self-righteous—when she’d barged into his office. But she’d left with a seriously unbalanced libido, receiptless, and worse, after accusing him of being a thief, a thief herself. “You’d think,” she said, looking at the family portrait that sat on her desk, “that after growing up with four brothers, I’d know how to handle a man.”

“Honey, we all know how to handle a man. Worrying about that right now, however, is not the proper channel for your energy.” With a wink, Pam picked up a miniature windup dinosaur, dressed in a cheerleader skirt and holding tiny pom-poms, from Rosie’s desk. It had been a going-away gift from one of her brothers, who’d said to remember he was always with her in spirit, cheering her on in her new life. Winding the toy, Pam shot Rosie a knowing look. “Wonder who’s going to fill in for Mr. Real?”

Rosie got Pam’s drift. They were both assistants at Real Men magazine—Pam in Marketing, Rosie in Editorial—jobs that were one step above the mail room. They’d made pacts to escape “assistant gulch” before the end of the calendar year, which meant they needed to move fast on any job opportunities.

“My last, uh, volunteer efforts didn’t go so well,” she reminded Pam. “I think I need a dose of your big-city, big-office wisdom. Want to come over to dinner tonight? I think I have some leftovers.”

“Sure. We’ll brainstorm while eating. And as to your past volunteer efforts—” Pam made a no-big-deal gesture, her beaded bracelet jangling with the movement “—you were green. Didn’t know the ropes. That was months ago, anyway. Nobody’s going to remember.” She arched one eyebrow. “By the way, have I mentioned you’re looking thinner?”

It was a line they tossed at each other when one or the other needed an ego boost. It was silly, but it always coaxed a smile. Grinning, Rosie checked her leather-banded watch, a going-away gift from another brother, the misguided one attending law school. “Paige is probably still in that powwow….”

“Paige? Our indomitable managing editor? Now there’s a woman who knows how to channel her energy properly.” Still clutching the dinosaur, Pam lifted the telephone receiver. “Jerome’s extension is four-three-three. I’ll dial.” She tapped in the number for Jerome, Paige’s assistant.

Before a stunned Rosie could say “I’m still in mud-and-mug recovery,” Pam was handing her the receiver. Swallowing hard, Rosie accepted it. Raising it to her ear, she said cautiously, “Jerome?”

“Yeah.”

He always copped a tough-guy attitude when Paige was out of the office. Like a Johnny Depp wanna-be. But when Paige was in, he became Mr. Sweet-and-Light himself, a young Prince Harry. It was like dealing with Jekyll and Hyde—except with Jerome, it was Johnny and Harry.

“This is Ro—” She cleared the frog from her suddenly clogged throat. “Rosie—Rosalind—Myers. I’d like to set up a meeting with Ms. Leighton today.”

“She’s booked.”

It was obvious he hadn’t even checked her appointment book—or computer form or whatever medium Superwoman used to schedule her life. Rosie exaggerated a sneer to Pam, indicating Jerome was being less than cooperative. Pam held up the dinosaur and made it dance in the air, cheering Rosie on.

“Perhaps she has a few minutes available between appointments?” Rosie suggested, sweetening her voice with even more sugar than she’d put in her coffee.

“Nah.”

Rosie made a “gr-r-r” face to Pam, who picked up a stray quarter on the desk and waved it.

“Can I give you a quarter?” Rosie said into the receiver.

Pam mouthed a big “no” and mimicked eating.

Smiling, Rosie nodded vigorously. “Can I give you some food?”

Shuddering dramatically, Pam grabbed a ballpoint pen off Rosie’s desk and scribbled “lunch” at the top of Rosie’s week-at-a-glance calendar.

“I meant lunch,” Rosie quickly corrected “Can I treat you to lunch?”

Pam punched the air with a big thumbs-up.

“You’re in luck,” Jerome answered, his voice oozing sweetness and light. “She just got out of a meeting. If you hurry, you can catch her before she leaves for her ten o’clock. And I like Focaccio’s.”

“Great,” answered Rosie. “I’ll be right there. And we’ll set up a lunch at Furca—Forcha—whatever. Bye.” She quickly hung up the phone.

“You got an appointment with She Who Rules?” asked an elated Pam.

Rosie brushed a curl out of her eyes. “Yes. And in the too near future, I’m buying lunch for He Who Blackmails.”

“I knew that’d work with Jerome. But it’s a small price, girlfriend. Wish I wasn’t tied up with meetings the rest of the day—I’ll be dying to know how your Paige encounter went. Tonight, over dinner, you’ll have to spill all.”

“Deal.” Rosie stood, smoothing her hands over her skirt. “How do I look?”

“Take off those stockings in the ladies’ room. Otherwise, you look…like Mr. Real.” With a wink, Pam set down the dinosaur, which rattled a path across the desk, the pom-poms rising and falling.

ROSIE STOPPED at the women’s bathroom down the hallway from Paige Leighton’s office. Slipping inside, she scrambled out of her splattered leggings and started to stuff them into her skirt pocket, then changed her mind. She didn’t want to look as though had a lump on her thigh—not in the elegant Paige Leighton’s inner sanctum. Rosie tossed the hose behind the trash can to retrieve later. I really should carry a purse instead of relying on pockets.

She closed her eyes and told herself to relax, to breathe. Opening her eyes, she checked her reflection in the mirror. She had an eerie blueish glow, which she hoped was due to the fluorescent lights. Maybe her mother was right—maybe she should wear makeup.

Poking at the chaos of curls that framed her face, she scrutinized her overall presence. To combat the blue and the anxiousness in her eyes, it was time to adopt a goddess. I’ll stick with Artemis. Goddess of the Hunt, Artemis always aimed for her target, knowing her arrows unerringly reached their mark.