I smiled and leaned in for a hug. She was right. Whenever I was dealing with something awful, I didn’t call up my girlfriends and “talk” through my problems. I climbed inside myself and took shelter in all my things—my condo, my work, my pain.
“What is going on with you? You’ve been avoiding my calls after somebody came inside your office building and killed your boss. I heard on the news that he didn’t kill himself. He was murdered. And don’t bullshit me.”
“I guess it’s just been kinda crazy.” Grace stepped inside and I closed the door behind her. Like everyone else, I told Grace the same lies—no troublemaking brother, no illicit lover. All she knew was that Aunt Vera raised me. Graduating from a prestigious prep school like Coventry had given me the perfect cover to start my new life as Ellice Littlejohn, orphan and only child from Atlanta, Georgia.
“Elliiiice.” She dragged out the end of my name like she knew I was lying. Fifteen minutes into a conversation with Grace and you could tell she could have been the first Black female president. The charismatic personality, her ability to learn fast and think quickly on her feet were the things I loved most about her. But second semester freshman year, she met Jarrett Sampson. He was a sophomore and star point guard for the Georgetown Hoyas. He told her he could give her a life better than the one she imagined for herself. She foolishly believed him. After getting recruited into the NBA straight out of college, Jarrett bought Grace the biggest diamond ring I’d ever seen in my life, and the rest is bourgeois Black history. They lived in a sprawling gated community on the southwest side of Atlanta, where a lot of Black-moneyed folks settled. He retired from the Atlanta Hawks and now owned one of the most successful Lexus dealerships in the Southeast. But Grace had grown bored with being Jarrett’s arm candy and, six years ago, she attended and graduated from Emory Law School. She never practiced law, but at the right point in a cocktail party conversation, she can work in the fact that she’s a lawyer.
Grace removed her coat and slung it across the arm of the sofa. She stood in front of me and cocked her head. “Ellice, what’s really going on?”
“Okay, okay. I was going to tell you. I was promoted to replace my boss.”
“What?! Oh my God. That’s fantastic. I mean the promotion, not your boss’s death, of course. So, you’re the general counsel?”
“Yeah, but it’s weird. The way it all came about.”
“Weird, how?”
“The CEO offers me the job the same day Michael was murdered and announces my promotion the very next day. He didn’t even give me a chance to accept or turn it down.”
“Don’t most companies announce an interim replacement? Make sure nothing falls through the cracks?”
“Yeah. But this wasn’t like that. I know this sounds crazy, but it’s almost like they had it all planned out that I would take this job when Michael died.”
“Yeah, that’s called succession planning. Every smart company has a succession plan. You’re the corporate lawyer. You should know this.”
“Hmm . . . Michael never mentioned my being in the succession plan. There are other lawyers who’ve been there longer, have more experience and stuff. It’s all just a little too convenient. I don’t know. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Whatever. I’m now the executive vice president and general counsel for Houghton Transportation. They had a party down in Savannah yesterday to introduce me to the board members.”
“Nice.”
I started to head toward the kitchen. “You want some coffee or a cup of tea?”
“Forget about that. Go get dressed. Let’s go celebrate! We’re going to brunch and then shopping. You need to get your mind off all this death and dying stuff.”
*
For the first time since Michael’s death, I was actually enjoying myself. Grace convinced me that celebrating my big promotion meant I should eat whatever I wanted. I could go back to counting carbs and calories tomorrow. We cackled over omelettes and bottomless mimosas for Grace and virgin Bloody Marys for me while Grace caught me up on all the gossip about people we knew. I don’t drink because that’s what Martha did and I never wanted to do what she did or be what she was. After, we strolled through the Shops of Buckhead, a swanky knock-off of California’s Rodeo Drive with upscale boutiques and shops.
“How’s your aunt Vera?”
I blew a deep sigh. “Same. I feel so bad, too. I need to do right by her.”