Page 16 of February

“I wasn’t given an address for your destination,” the chauffeur said once he was behind the wheel.

“Oh, one second,” she said. She pulled out her phone to check the email that had the address in it and handed it to him. “Here you go.”

“Oh.That’swhere you’re going?”

“Is there a problem?”

“No, it’s just that it’s right over there.” The chauffeur pointed ahead. “About a block and a half away.”

Monica looked through the windshield to try to follow his finger and saw a building that looked to be about three stories.

“That’s it?” she asked.

“That’s it.”

Monica sighed and asked, “Can you just take me? I’m too tired to walk, and I am incredibly late already.”

“Sure,” he replied, putting the car in drive.

A whole minute and a half later, the car pulled over to the sidewalk. Monica felt like an idiot, and a lazy one at that, but she was grateful for the AC and the fact that she didn’t have to walk even the short distance in this humidity. When the chauffeur opened the door for her, Monica got out and looked down at her foot when she felt something squishy.

“What the hell?” she said.

“Oh,” he replied apologetically. “Um… Yeah… The horse-drawn carriages take the tourists through here sometimes.”

“Horses?”

“They go around the city. Usually, though, not all the way over here, which is probably why no one’s picked that up yet.” He pointed down to the horse poop she’d stepped in. “I might have a rag or–”

“Yes. Whatever it is, yes,” she huffed out.

Monica sat back in the back seat of the car, removed her beautiful red heel, and stared at the bottom of it, covered in a muddy brown now. The chauffeur was kind enough to use a bottle of water and a rag of some kind to clean it for her while she texted her assistant to make sure to tip this man well because he definitely deserved it. When he was finished, he handed her the shoe back and helped her over the pile of manure.

“You’re my hero,” she said, meaning it.

A few seconds later, Monica opened the door to the office building, carrying her bag in her free hand, and looked for the suite where she was supposed to be meeting the current owners. There were no numbers on the doors or walls next to them, which was odd, so she checked the floor directory and guessed that she should be turning right, and it would be there. She pushed open the door and found a small, open office space with old furniture and a few employees milling about.

“Can I help you?” a young man in his twenties asked.

“I’m looking for Southern Hospitality Greetings.”

“This is it,” he said. “Can I–”

“Miss Arnette,” an older man said as he headed her way.

“Yes. Monica is fine,” she replied, holding out her hand for him to shake.

“I’m Dale Musgrave.”

“It’s nice to meet you. I apologize for being so late.”

“You’re late?” he asked as he shook her hand.

“You didn’t notice?”

Monica wondered if that was one of the reasons why they were struggling: no one here could keep time.

“We’ve been busy around here,” the man replied with a chuckle. “Come on in. This is our satellite office, so we only have a few people here, but we have a conference room where you, my wife, and I can chat privately.”

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