Pie Girls

Chapter 4

My cell vibrates with an appointment reminder. I'm due for a date with my personal shopper, Lucinda, at Saks Fifth Avenue.

         Lord knows I need the distraction, but how can I focus on my summer wardrobe when Alton's gone missing again? I rub my temples with my thumb and forefinger, trying desperately to soothe the thoughts ricocheting in my brain. Where is he? What on earth is he doing? Why didn't he leave a note?         

         Swallowing hard, I stalk into the foyer of our apartment, and stare at my face in the huge beveled mirror. I am shocked at my reflection. All of this nonsense is taking its toll. My usually creamy skin seems pale; my green eyes are bleary gray. I smooth a stray strand of my blonde hair and tuck it behind my ear.

         Then, I square my shoulders, think quickly, and decide on a plan of action.

         First, with a shaking hand, I speed dial my husband. The phone connects and rings endlessly. No Alton. No familiar cheery voicemail message. Not even a generic cellular phone message asking callers to leave a name and number.

         My heart lurches when the phone clicks off. I stare at the black screen, desperately waiting for a message to appear. A quick text. An explanation. Anything.

         The cell stays black.

         Fine. I'm on to Phase Two:  Alton's office. My husband doesn't leave loose ends. If he's pursuing this bizarre idea of quitting his job, there must be out-processing paperwork, forms to sign, meetings to wrap up. I squeeze my eyes shut and decide that Alton probably overslept, sprang out of bed, hair rumpled, and rushed into work without seeing my note.

         I check my watch and decide there's enough time to make a brief stop at Andrews & Quentin first. Alton's advertising firm is housed in a glass skyscraper downtown, not far from Saks Fifth Avenue and my personal shopper.

         I can be late for my appointment. Finding Alton is paramount.

         The sooner, the better.

        

In the past hour, the sky has gone from bright blue to overcast and stormy. A few fat splashes of water hit my windshield as I navigate toward Buckhead's Marta station. Dodging raindrops, I park my BMW and dash inside to grab the Red Line southbound to Five Points.

Secretly—and I’d never mention it to my friends—I don’t mind public transportation at all; it's so much better than navigating the nightmare that is six lanes of downtown Atlanta traffic in the pouring rain.

         As I settle against the hard plastic seat, I busy myself with the latest People magazine, absorbing the latest Tori and Dean scandal.

         We jerk to our first stop at the Arts Center and a rush of people zigzag in and out of the rail car. With a hiss and grind, the double doors slide shut again, and we bump along toward Midtown and North Avenue.