Excerpt from Sensible Shoes

“Tess, can you come here a second? I have an
opportunity to discuss with you.”

Lord, help me. An opportunity. Those are never
good.

Heaving a huge sigh, I left my gray cubicle at the
Dallas Tribune and rounded the corner, entering my
boss’ slightly bigger gray cubicle.

“You bellowed?” I asked, comfortable enough with
our boss-sycophant relationship to tease her a little.

Ruth Wiseman grimaced as she did often. She was
short and stocky, with a shock of over-dyed red hair and
huge black glasses perched on her generously
proportioned nose. The lack of a cigar hanging from her
lips was the only thing distinguishing her from a mob
boss. New Jersey-born and bred, she was all about the
newspaper, but in spite of her gruff exterior, she had the
proverbial heart of gold.

I liked to think of Ruth as a burnt marshmallow—
hard and crusty on the outside with a gooey, sweet
center.

She would have hated the comparison.

“Tess, sit down.”

Yet another bad sign. Sitting means explanations.
Explanations mean convincing. Convincing means bad
news.

“What’s up?” I ventured.

“Well, I’m sure you heard Sylvia is leaving.”

“Yes, getting married. Again.” Sylvia wrote the
fashion column for the paper. She was flashy and buff
and sexy and fell in love with all the wrong men.

“Right, and Bruno wants to take her back to Brazil
to meet his family. She’ll be gone several months.”

A creeping dread spread throughout my nervous
system. “And?”

“And I want you to take over her column until she
gets back.”

The creeping dread wrapped its tentacles around my
throat and squeezed really hard.

“You want me to write the fashion column?” I
squeaked. “What about the Home & Garden column?
I’m starting the series on grubworm eradication.”

“Summer’s almost over, Tess. This is the perfect
time for your column to take a little hiatus.” Ruth smiled
as if she were handing a sucker to a small child.

“And just skip the fall Harvest Season? We always
do a big story on the many ways to use gourds. You want
me to ignore that?” I implored, clutching at editorial
straws.

“If you’re worried, we can rerun last year’s columns
for a while. Not much changes from year to year.”

“My God, Ruth, have you completely forgotten
about the pumpkin shortage last fall? I was working day
and night.”

The look she gave me made it clear she saw through
my lame argument. She was right; the Home & Garden
column almost wrote itself. I even had enough free time
recently to put notes together for a book on
environmental gardening. Although I’d probably never
write it, the idea nudged me once in a while. But to walk

away from gourd season for fashion? No one could ever
think that was my career path.

I leaned in a little closer to Ruth, trying for intimacy
and understanding on a woman-to-woman level. “You
must be kidding. I can’t write the fashion column. Look
at me.”

When the paper had loosened its dress code years
earlier, I switched from shorter skirts with jackets and
three-inch heels to longer skirts with tunics and comfy
crepe-soled shoes. Since then, I had eased into comfier
leggings and long, boxy tunics in an array of reliable
colors. But lately I noticed everyone wearing short,
summery dresses and strappy sandals showcasing
painted toenails and tiny toe rings.

I sighed and glanced down at my unadorned feet,
ensconced in sturdy red flats that made a patriotic picture
with my navy leggings and flag-waving white tunic. The
only person in the building who was less a fashionista
than I was Ruth, who now leaned back in her chair,
fingers tented in front of her scowling face.

“Tess, Tess, I’m not expecting you to write like
Sylvia. I’m not even expecting you to write about
fashion. What I have in mind is a column to women, for
women, about women. Real women. Like one of those
influencers on the Internet. You know…funny, wise,
poignant, and… relevant.”

The creeping dread, now fully formed, tossed a
grenade into my stomach. She might as well have asked
me to write like Shakespeare. “You want me to be funny,
wise, and poignant and…relevant? Are you insane?”

Okay, I may have stepped over the line with that last

bit, because Ruth’s face twisted a little in the ominous
way I had seen so often just before she pounded her fist

on the desk. “Just write the damn thing, Tess. I don’t care
if you’re funny, wise, poignant, or what was the other
thing?”

“Relevant,” I murmured.

“Relevant, for God’s sake. Just do it. I need a
column for the women’s page starting next week, and
you’re it. Write about what you know. Family. Food. The
laundry. A library book. You’ve got family. You’ve got
laundry. It’ll be a cinch.”

“But—”

“No buts. Just do it. It’ll be good for you. You need
to get out of your rut.” She turned her attention to her
computer screen.

As if in a trance, I rose from the chair and turned to
leave.

“Oh, Tess?” She said, without looking at me.

“Yes?” Maybe she’s changed her mind; she saw my
outfit, and she changed her mind.

“Happy birthday.”