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Authors: Stephanie Bond
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her malaise. Thank goodness Perry and his truck were nowhere in sight—off to the barbecue place, she assumed. A few children played in the yards of the larger homes across the street. The ship, ship, ship of a sprinkler that she couldn't see filled the cooling air, and the sun was beginning its slide.
She used a disposable camera to record her beloved car's injuries and told herself this was why one had auto insurance. She then resigned herself to the trunk. She removed the violated tire and leaned it against the bumper, then divided the nonessential items between the garbage and the garage. Back into the trunk went the tire and the two crates of reference material that she vowed to carry to her cubicle tomorrow. After all, soon she might have a bigger office.
She discounted the sudden pain in her stomach as hunger pangs.
When she opened the car door, Downey promptly jumped inside and made a nuisance of herself while Belinda rummaged under the seats for the waylaid organizer.
"I know you're hungry," she muttered to the yowling cat. "So am I."
Hungry, and minus an organizer, she admitted a few minutes later. She didn't recall having used it at the office, although as preoccupied as she'd been the rest of the day, she might have. Hopefully it was in her cubicle somewhere, because it contained not only her address book but her personal and business schedule as well.
She pulled the car into the garage and shooed Downey through the door leading inside. "Let's eat, my friend." But she had no sooner poured kibbles into a bowl than the phone rang again—her mother, no doubt. Obsessing over Suzanne's package and conveying a checklist from her father for the car tune-up.
"Hello?"
"Is this Belinda Hennessey?"
She tensed for a telemarketing spiel. "Yes."
"This is Lieutenant Wade Alexander of the Atlanta PD."
Her mind froze.
"We were involved in an accident this morning, ma'am."
Recognition slammed into her. "Oh. Of course." Libby's remark clanged in her memory. He got your address—I bet he'll call you at home. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"
"I believe you left something in my cruiser."
Her organizer. She winced. "Yes. What a relief, I thought I'd lost it." She recalled removing items from her purse to find a hairbrush while sitting in his car—how careless. "How can I arrange to get it back that would be convenient for your schedule?"
"My schedule is pretty erratic the next couple of days." Fatigue weighted his voice. "How about I drop it by your office?"
"That's very kind of you."
"Just doing my job, ma'am. Where do you work?"
"At the Stratford Plaza building on Peachtree, Archer Furniture, eighth floor."
Silence resounded on the other end.
Belinda frowned. "Hello?"
"I'm familiar with the place," he said slowly. "I'll get it to you as soon as possible."
"Thank you." She pressed her lips together. "Lieutenant Alexander... I hope you made your meeting this morning."
More silence, then, "Yes, ma'am. Goodnight."
Belinda replaced the handset and groaned. If the man didn't think she was an idiot before, he certainly did now. Hopefully he would leave her organizer with a receptionist, and she wouldn't even have to see him.
Well, until traffic court, that is.
From across the room, her briefcase loomed large. I'll take another look at those numbers. Easy to say when she'd been alone today with Margo—so why did she suddenly feel the need to procrastinate?
She downed two ibuprofen tablets for her sore neck and ran her hands through her overlong, flattened hair. Another to-do item: find a hairstylist. As if finding a new doctor, dentist, ob/gyn, and insurance agent wasn't bad enough. She'd have to ask the girls to recommend someone convenient and not outrageously priced. Meanwhile, a scrunchie might be in order.
The weather was too clear for the television to pick up anything but fuzz—a new set was definitely second on her shopping list behind a couch—so she found an R&B station on the radio. (Talkin'
She used a disposable camera to record her beloved car's injuries and told herself this was why one had auto insurance. She then resigned herself to the trunk. She removed the violated tire and leaned it against the bumper, then divided the nonessential items between the garbage and the garage. Back into the trunk went the tire and the two crates of reference material that she vowed to carry to her cubicle tomorrow. After all, soon she might have a bigger office.
She discounted the sudden pain in her stomach as hunger pangs.
When she opened the car door, Downey promptly jumped inside and made a nuisance of herself while Belinda rummaged under the seats for the waylaid organizer.
"I know you're hungry," she muttered to the yowling cat. "So am I."
Hungry, and minus an organizer, she admitted a few minutes later. She didn't recall having used it at the office, although as preoccupied as she'd been the rest of the day, she might have. Hopefully it was in her cubicle somewhere, because it contained not only her address book but her personal and business schedule as well.
She pulled the car into the garage and shooed Downey through the door leading inside. "Let's eat, my friend." But she had no sooner poured kibbles into a bowl than the phone rang again—her mother, no doubt. Obsessing over Suzanne's package and conveying a checklist from her father for the car tune-up.
"Hello?"
"Is this Belinda Hennessey?"
She tensed for a telemarketing spiel. "Yes."
"This is Lieutenant Wade Alexander of the Atlanta PD."
Her mind froze.
"We were involved in an accident this morning, ma'am."
Recognition slammed into her. "Oh. Of course." Libby's remark clanged in her memory. He got your address—I bet he'll call you at home. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"
"I believe you left something in my cruiser."
Her organizer. She winced. "Yes. What a relief, I thought I'd lost it." She recalled removing items from her purse to find a hairbrush while sitting in his car—how careless. "How can I arrange to get it back that would be convenient for your schedule?"
"My schedule is pretty erratic the next couple of days." Fatigue weighted his voice. "How about I drop it by your office?"
"That's very kind of you."
"Just doing my job, ma'am. Where do you work?"
"At the Stratford Plaza building on Peachtree, Archer Furniture, eighth floor."
Silence resounded on the other end.
Belinda frowned. "Hello?"
"I'm familiar with the place," he said slowly. "I'll get it to you as soon as possible."
"Thank you." She pressed her lips together. "Lieutenant Alexander... I hope you made your meeting this morning."
More silence, then, "Yes, ma'am. Goodnight."
Belinda replaced the handset and groaned. If the man didn't think she was an idiot before, he certainly did now. Hopefully he would leave her organizer with a receptionist, and she wouldn't even have to see him.
Well, until traffic court, that is.
From across the room, her briefcase loomed large. I'll take another look at those numbers. Easy to say when she'd been alone today with Margo—so why did she suddenly feel the need to procrastinate?
She downed two ibuprofen tablets for her sore neck and ran her hands through her overlong, flattened hair. Another to-do item: find a hairstylist. As if finding a new doctor, dentist, ob/gyn, and insurance agent wasn't bad enough. She'd have to ask the girls to recommend someone convenient and not outrageously priced. Meanwhile, a scrunchie might be in order.
The weather was too clear for the television to pick up anything but fuzz—a new set was definitely second on her shopping list behind a couch—so she found an R&B station on the radio. (Talkin'
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