Maybe it was my blistered feet, my lack of sugar and caffeine, or the absence of my babies, but I was sure I was about to cry.
Jolly smiled sympathetically. “It’s always hard coming back.” She brightened. “I guess word has got around that you’re back, though.” She slid three pink message slips toward me. “These came in this morning—and there’s someone waiting for you in your office.”
“For me?”
Jolly nodded. “She’s a walk-in, but she asked for you by name. I told her I wasn’t sure when you’d be in—Mr. Henderson said you’re usually here much earlier—but she said she didn’t mind waiting.” She slid a clipboard around to face her. “I made her sign in. She said her name is Jayne Smith—Jayne with a Y—and she’s relocating here from Alabama.”
“Alabama,” I repeated. It had been so long since I’d shown homes to anyone that I was searching through my fuzzy head for what I was supposed to do next. And where Alabama was. I’d hoped to have the first week to get my bearings again, but the thought of a prospective client did manage to stir my adrenaline a bit.
“Yes,” said Jolly. “And, Melanie? May I call you Melanie?”
“Of course.”
She pulled out a notebook with a photograph of an alligator glued to the front cover, and opened it. Very carefully, she picked up her pencil and crossed off the first two items on a very long list. I peered at the notebook and, reading upside down, read, Give Melanie her telephone messages. Let her know a client is waiting in her office. I’d started to read the third item, Find recipe for . . .
Jolly slammed the notebook shut. With a guilty smile, she said, “I’m a habitual list maker. Pay me no mind.”
I found myself relaxing for the first time that morning. “I think we’ll get along just fine, Jolly.” I turned toward the corridor that led to the small offices and cubicles of the various agents. I supposed I should have been grateful that Mr. Henderson had allowed me to keep my office, a perk to only the top-selling agents. I hoped that meant he was confident I’d be at the top of the leaderboard soon, assuming that I’d be given a name tag.
“Melanie?”
I paused and faced the new receptionist. “Yes, Jolly?”
“Since we’re going to be working together, there’s something you should know about me.” She paused, her blue-painted fingernails playing with the dragonfly pin. “I’m a psychic. I do readings for people at fairs and festivals on the weekends, but since we’re going to be coworkers, I’ll give you a discount if you’re interested in a reading. Just let me know.”
My earlier optimism quickly evaporated. I wasn’t exactly sure how I should respond, so I just smiled and nodded, then made my way back to my office.
Jayne—with a Y—had her back toward me when I reached the door. She faced the credenza, where she was carefully organizing my magazines and journals, making sure that each was spaced apart the same distance, and that the edges lined up in a perfect parallel to the edge of the furniture. I frowned. They might be out-of-date, considering I hadn’t been into the office in a long time, but I always kept them tidy, organized by date, and with the title and issue of each volume clearly visible. And I’d left strict instructions that they weren’t to be disturbed in my absence. I found it vaguely annoying that she’d mess with my magazines, and wondered if she might be nervous.
“Good morning,” I said as I placed my bag and pink slips on the top of the desk.
The woman turned and smiled, then held out her hand to me. “Hello,” she said, shaking my hand in a firm grasp. “I’m Jayne Smith.” Her accent was definitely Southern, but not Charlestonian. Her hand felt bony, matching her thin wrists. And the rest of her body I noticed as I stepped back. The woman looked practically emaciated despite the fact that there were distinctive powdered sugar crumbs on her upper lip.
“Melanie Trenholm,” I said, trying to ignore the crumbs, but wondering how I could let her know without any awkwardness. When I dropped my hand I surreptitiously flicked my index finger over my own lip. Her green eyes widened in understanding as she reached into her purse and, after removing several candy bar wrappers, found a napkin to wipe her mouth.
“I guess that’s what I get for giving in to temptation,” she said. “There’s this wonderful bakery down the street—Ruth’s Bakery, I think—and I could smell the doughnuts from the sidewalk. I’ve never been able to turn down sugar.”