Cheri on Top by Susan Donovan

couldn’t go much longer without talking to him about what the hell had really happened with Tanyalee and why—God, why —he had blamed Cherise for their divorce. It was driving her crazy. But J.J. had managed to avoid her all morning, almost as if he knew Cherise was on to him.
    It made perfect sense, of course. Jackasses rarely enjoyed being called on their jackassish-ness.
    “Where do you want me to put these?” Gladys asked, bent over by the weight of the documents, which did wonders for the view of crinkly flesh down the front of her peasant blouse. Cherise averted her eyes. She jumped from her desk chair, relieved Gladys of the stack, and placed it in the far corner of the room. With all the accumulating paperwork, the office was already in a state of disorganization, but with the addition of the painting supplies, ladders, and drop cloths, it had advanced to chaos.
    “You sure you want this room painted gray?” Gladys asked, looking around. “Won’t it be depressing?”
    Cherise chuckled softly, knowing the wall color was the least of her depression-causing concerns. She gestured to the paint can. “The color’s called Tradewind Azure.”
    “Funny name for gray. Here.” Gladys held out the nameplate Cherise had given her the day before. “You left this on my desk by accident.”
    Cherise raised her hand, palm out. “Actually, I left it for you along with a note asking that you correct the spelling error.”
    She frowned. “I thought you meant there was an error on the ad sales summary. I’ve been looking for a misspelling all morning!” Gladys adjusted her bifocals and held the shiny brass up to the light. “I don’t see anything wrong with this.”
    “It’s just that I prefer Cherise. C-h-e-r-i-s-e. Would you mind arranging for a reorder?”
    Gladys shrugged. “You’re the boss. But it’s gonna take a couple weeks. I’ll have to redo all the business cards, too, I suppose.” She put a fist on her hip. “That’s why I did all this in advance, you know, so you’d feel welcome, so you’d walk in and know where it was you were supposed to sit and all.”
    Cherise smiled again. “That was very kind of you.”
    “Just doing my job.”
    “Gladys, could you stay for a minute? There’s something I want to discuss with you.”
    The secretary nodded, moved aside a large canvas drop cloth, and sat in a chair across from Cherise’s desk. Her skirt rode up, displaying a complex web of varicose veins and a pair of platform ankle-strap heels more often seen on women one fourth her age. Gladys crossed her arms over her low-cut peasant blouse.
    “You probably want to talk to me about the Barbara Jean Smoot case, right? Because I was working here in 1964 and I remember that day—complete pandemonium.”
    Cherise hadn’t expected that offer. “Uh, no. I mean, not really. I’m not a reporter. But you could tell J.J. what you remember from that day. I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”
    “Already did.”
    “All right.”
    “So this is about my outfits, then?”
    Cheri pulled her head back in surprise. “Excuse me?”
    “I told Garland I was fine with you steppin’ in as publisher and all, but that I wasn’t about to stop dressin’ the way I like to dress, the way that makes me feel beautiful, so don’t even start with me about that.” She raised her heavily penciled brows, waiting for a challenge.
    “Uh.” Cherise paused, trying to collect herself. “I just wanted to ask you about the way the financial records are kept here at the Bugle .”
    “Oh.” Gladys waved her hand through the air. “Ask away, then.”
    Cherise had to stop herself from laughing out loud. For six months now, she’d really believed that she’d been in the thick of doing her penance. All this time, she thought the bill collectors, the empty studio apartment, the crappy car, the sparse wardrobe, the temp bookkeeping jobs, the worry, the embarrassment, the regret—she’d thought that was the price she would be