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hadn’t heard back from Paul, either, damn him, not since she’d called him the night before. And with Reenie still missing…
    As Ali screwed up her courage to let go of the words and make her humiliation public, tears were very close to the surface. But Sister Anne beat her to the punch.
    “I know about your job,” she said. “I saw it in the Times yesterday. What’s the matter with those guys? Are they nuts?”
    Ali looked around the store and was grateful that they seemed to be alone. The news was out, and out in a big way, so at least there was no need for her to go around telling people about it.
    She sighed. “That’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you this morning,” she said, “besides dropping off the clothing, that is.”
    “What do you need?” Sister Anne demanded.
    “An attorney actually,” Ali said. “Know any good sex-or age-discrimination attorneys?”
    “You’re going to sue the station?”
    “I’m thinking about it.”
    “What about using one of your husband’s high-powered friends?” Sister Anne asked. “Seems to me they’d be chomping at the bit to take the case.”
    “That’s part of the problem,” Ali admitted. “If I go after the station, Paul isn’t going to like it, and neither will most of his friends—whether they’re attorneys or not. He has a lot of clout in this town, and he isn’t afraid to use it.”
    “Well then,” Sister Anne said, “it so happens I do know of one. Her name’s Marcella Johnson. We were teammates back in college. Marce is short, only five ten or so, but she was a scrapper, and believe me, she plays to win.”
    “Winning’s good,” Ali said.
    “She works for Weldon, Davis, and Reed on Wilshire. I’ve got her cell number. Want me to give her a call?”
    Without a word, Ali handed over her phone, which was how, two hours later, she found herself waiting to meet Marcella Johnson in a secluded corner of the Gardens Café at the Four Seasons Hotel. Even though she thought she was fairly well out of the way, several people glanced in her direction and nodded in recognition as they were shown to their own tables.
    Feeling self-conscious and wanting to while away the time, she ordered coffee and then called the Sugarloaf on her cell even though she knew her parents would be up to their eyeteeth in the lunchtime rush by then.
    “Any news about Reenie?” she asked.
    “Not that I’ve heard,” Edie Larson said. “Have you talked to her husband?”
    “He was busy when I called,” Ali said. “I don’t want to bother him.”
    “Call anyway,” Edie said. “Howie won’t be bothered. That’s what friends are for. How are you doing?”
    “Hanging in,” Ali returned.
    “You don’t sound like you’re hanging in,” Edie pointed out. “You sound upset.”
    Ali was upset. Strangers from all over southern California somehow managed to know that she’d lost her job, some of them even before the station had made whatever official announcement had ended up in the papers. But none of her friends—make that none of her supposed friends—had bothered to send even so much as an e-mail, and none of them had called to check on her, either. And then there was Paul. Where was he? Why wasn’t he calling her back? He sure as hell wasn’t playing golf twenty-four hours a day.
    Ali sighed. “I am,” she admitted to her mother. “I’m upset about Reenie, and I’m upset about my job situation, too. I’m in a restaurant right now, waiting to audition an attorney.”
    “To go after the station?” Edie wanted to know. “To sue them?”
    “Yes.”
    “Great!” Edie said. “Your father will be thrilled. For the last three days that’s all he’s talked about, that you should sue their something or other off, if you know what I mean.”
    Edie Larson didn’t say “asses” unless she was referring to the four-legged kind. Bob Larson’s language tended to be somewhat more colorful.
    “I’m just talking to an attorney,” Ali cautioned.