As I pulled out of the parking lot, my heart felt lighter. That brief conversation with my dance mates reminded me how blessed I was to be retired from my legal assistant work with Thomas Rawlins Calhoun, a Charleston blue-blood attorney branded by his ancestors.
Mr. Calhoun was a Confederate, and I was a Virgo. I’d juggled all my plates and his . . . too well. Each morning, I knew I’d find a flustered boss rifling through well-ordered drawers. I’d join him beside a file cabinet, resigned to the fact that I’d eventually fetch a mysteriously missing file. As he’d step aside, I’d go to the “S” tab, find the “Smith” file, and pluck at a manila folder like a captured mouse with my thumb and pointer finger. He’d shake his head and chuckle before he’d saunter off without so much as a thank you. I’d fake indifference.
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