she could talk herself into it, might mean finally tripping over a decent guy. Yet “one more time” never seemed to happen.
As they entered, Tam saw that there was a tiny waiting area that opened into two directions: toilets to the right and a lounge to the left. There, among the flower-scented dignity of potted plants, silk flowers, burgundy carpet, chintz upholstery and a gilded mirror, waited a group of women. Dressed in business clothes, they sat on the couch and matching chairs, leafing through the estrogen-inspired magazines on the mahogany coffee table, chatting and laughing.
On the middle of the table stood a glass vase, its etched designs catching the soft light, making it glimmer. Shaped like a cowboy boot, it held, not flowers, but a bevy of small white papers.
Business cards?
“Hey!” Danica said to the group.
Everyone jovially said hello, not seeming to mind that Tam was in their midst. A sultry woman with black hair and equally dark eyes, her long body draped like silk over the couch, welcomed the new arrivals in a voice that was polished with the hint of an exotic accent. Tam knew her name: Mercedes Estevez, the owner of Indulge.
Self-conscious in the face of this woman’s beauty, Tam went back to fidgeting with her skirt, expertly drawing Mercedes’s attention away from her crazy hair, her homely face. Today she sported a shimmering silk blouse rolled to the elbows; it complemented her skirt and was accentuated by a long, delicate silver chain that draped over her hips like webbing. Earrings that dangled like rainfall, plus matching pumps that had chains as straps, rounded out her artful fashion arrangement.
“Everyone,” Danica said, “this is who I told you about last week. Tamara Clarkson.”
“Welcome to our Sisters of the Booty Call meeting,” said a woman with leopard-skin pumps and spiked brown hair.
When she motioned toward the glass boot vase, everyone laughed. Tam guessed it was because of her “Oh, that’s what Danica meant by booty?” look. She pumped up her smile wattage.
Another woman shook Tam’s hand, her green eyes friendly. She wore her blond hair in short, chin-length layers—a model of urban hip. “I’m Milla Page. Tenth floor, from that tiny office of Web geeks.”
“MatchMeUpOnline.com is one of your sites,” Tam said, shaking Milla’s hand in return. She was a fan of the site, with its club, restaurant and hot spot suggestions. Perfect for singles planning a night out.
As the other women greeted her and introduced themselves, Tam settled into a seat, meeting Danica’s gaze. Her coworker’s eyes were hopeful, as if she was holding her breath that Tam would fit into the crowd.
Heck, Tam was wondering how it would go, too. But…so far so good, right?
As other women entered and made themselves comfortable, they all small-talked, drawing a few personal details out of Tam. She’d graduated from UNLV over three years ago. She’d become a perpetual temporary worker until she could find the job of all jobs because she wasn’t about to settle for anything less, like the one she had at Dillard Marketing. Her most recent noteworthy relationship had been one year ago, lasting an amazing two months….
When the women seemed surprised at Tam’s lack of a love life, she quickly added that she was a commitmentphobe. True, it was a simplified explanation for her much deeper issues, but they bought it.
In the middle of it all, The Boot waited, gleaming under the light.
A woman who’d introduced herself as Julia Nguyen caught Tam’s curious glance.
“Shall we?” she asked the others, gesturing toward the vase and then Tam. She was slender and sat upright in her chair, her speech flavored with the cadence of Little Saigon.
“I think she’s perfect for us,” said the woman with leopard-print pumps.
Before Tam could even smile in response, Danica bounded to her side, taking a seat on the arm of the couch. “Great!” Glowing, she turned to Tam. “Just promise one thing—that you won’t breathe a word about our Monday meetings outside this lounge. That’s a requirement.”
Bursting at the seams for answers, Tam nodded.
“We don’t bring our office work in here, and we don’t bring what goes on in here to the office,” said Julia Nguyen, clearly the group taskmaster.
“Got it.” Tam glanced around the room. “So why’s there a glass boot on the table, and why is it full of business cards?”
A regally husky voice behind Tam spoke up. “I’ll just make this long story short, if you girls don’t mind.”
Tam’s attention swiveled to a woman with platinum ringlets who leaned against the wall, one long leg crossed over the other, arms loosely folded over her chest. She’d already introduced herself as Pamela Hoff. Statuesque and lean, she was the queen of the lounge.
When she caught Tam’s eye, she grinned, eyebrows arching devilishly as she leaned forward. Without even a word, it was obvious that this was a tale the lady loved to tell.
“This all officially started when I went out with a man who was some kind of urban cowboy—I mean, imagine a guy from Detroit dressed in a bolo and a Shady Brady who uses a Roy Rogers lighter and talks like John Wayne. A real charmer who kept spitting tobacco into his champagne glass like it was no huge breach of social etiquette. And that’s when it hit me.” She held up her hands in a motion of epiphany. “I couldn’t take the disappointments anymore. So I told the guy that I wasn’t going to be around for a second date, then went home and made serious plans to go celibate.”
Tam could pretty much relate to that.
The woman with the leopard-print pumps snorted in patent disbelief. Teena. Yeah, that was her name. Fifteenth floor financial consultant. She’d already spelled “T-e-e-n-a” for Tam in her Southern-fried accent.
“Really, Teena, I was this close.” Pamela measured a tiny space between her thumb and forefinger. “Then the guy started calling me, as if our date had gone really well and he couldn’t catch a clue even if it was running straight at him. That was the final straw. I knew I wouldn’t last another second dating in this city if this was how it was going to go every time. I felt like I had no control anymore. So I took it back. When he sent me flowers and asked me out yet again, I responded in the only way he’d understand.”
In her lush accent, Mercedes Estevez pointed to the glass vase and said, “When he showed up at the office to see if she’d gotten the flowers…”
Everyone but Tam joined in, like it was a communal punchline. “She gave him the boot.”
They all laughed together.
“He just wasn’t getting the hint over the phone,” Pamela continued, so energized by her story that she’d pushed away from the wall, eyes sparkling and voice raised. “So I tucked his posies into the waistband of his Wrangler jeans and followed them up with this vase full of water to cool off—” her hands searched for words in the air.
“—his little cowpoke?” Teena provided.
Tam couldn’t help laughing along with everyone. A fun crowd, she thought, thinking it was good to be a part of one. For the first time, she had an inkling of what it would be like to be among her own kind.
“From that point on,” Danica added, “Pamela created a sort of dating service.” She pulled a card out of her blouse pocket. “Every week, we meet here to pool resources. You know how you go to a bar or a social event and you hit it off with a guy? He usually gives you his business card. Well, we’re putting them to good use now. If I meet a man and I know that he isn’t quite my cup of java but he still seems like a good catch, I accept his card, then write a note on the back—‘Great sense of humor, but I am morally opposed to men wearing Bugs Bunny ties.’ That sort of thing. Then I come to work on Monday—” Danica deposited her card in the vase “—put the card I acquired in The Boot, then draw a different one for me. If I like the description of the man,