Effie and Lyman had been married for quite a while, but she’d never actually visited his office before. No wonder the receptionist didn’t recognize her.
Trying to keep her patience, Effie said to the receptionist, “I’m here to see Mr. Etheridge.”
The receptionist squinted at Effie, sizing her up. This woman was definitely a stranger; she’d never seen her before.
These days, men like Mr. Etheridge—handsome and wealthy—were rare gems, and women flocked to him like bees to honey. The receptionist figured Effie was just another one of those obsessed bees.
She replied coldly, “Do you have an appointment? No appointment, no entry.”
“I don’t have one,” Effie answered, “but I know Mr. Etheridge and Luther. Would you please let them know I’m here? They’ll want to see me.”
A glint of mockery flashed in the receptionist’s eyes. “Oh, sure, you know Mr. Etheridge. But does he know you? Everyone who comes here says the same thing. In the few months I’ve worked here, I’ve lost count of how many people like you I’ve had to send away. Shameless.”
Effie’s eyes narrowed, irritation flickering across her face. “I’m not trying to force my way in. Can’t you just let them know I’m here?”
“No, I can’t. If you’re so close to them, why don’t you call them yourself? Why should I do it?”
“Isn’t that your job?” Effie snapped back.
“My job is to serve Mr. Etheridge, not random people off the street,” the receptionist replied, just as snippy.
“Fine. I’ll call them myself.”
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