I’ve obviously forgotten, and I open my mouth to beg off, but Olivia shakes her head. “I’m not letting you out of this. The city will never feel like home if you don’t give it a chance.”

She does have a point, and I could use a new home. I can’t remember the last time I really felt as if I belonged somewhere. “Give me just a second,” I say,, pushing away from my desk and heading for the ladies’ room, where I do a painful inspection.

Pale. Lumpy. Frumpy. My God, I look tired.

I rummage in my purse, search for something to help revive the face, and find an old lipstick—a brownish shade that does nothing for me—and apply some. Hmmm. Brown lipstick, a black turtleneck, lavender circles beneath the eyes. Not exactly a come-hither look.

Maybe some hair would help, so I lift my limp brown ponytail, pull on the elastic, freeing hair that becomes limp brown hair with a slight kink in it from the hair elastic. I fluff the hair. Comb the fingers through it. The ends stick out. Doris Day crossed with Chewbacca.

Irritably I pull the hair back into a ponytail again before wiping off the brown lipstick. Just get the hell out of here, I think, particularly since I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I’m not in the same league with Olivia. Olivia’s friends are all city girls. Sophisticated, urban, glam. I’m one step removed from country, and it shows. I wasn’t raised on a farm, but I know my farm smells. They call Highway 99 the scratch-and-sniff drive because it’s all sulfur, dairy, and manure. But the 99 leads home. Or to what used to be home.

Olivia’s waiting at the front door with Sara and a couple of other girls who work in various City Events departments. “You look great,” Sara says with a big smile.

We both know she’s lying, but that’s how we women are. Practical and impractical. Helpful and cruel.

We leave our loft office, take the elevator down, and exit from the building, and Olivia’s cell phone rings before we’ve even crossed the street.

“The Barrio,” she says into the phone, “and if we’re not there, then try Lucille’s.”

The phone rings three more times during our five-minute walk. She gives the same info each time. Try the Barrio, and if not the Barrio, then Lucille’s. Olivia always makes the decisions, but then, she is the queen, and everyone wants to know the queen and they want to keep the queen happy.

We reach the Barrio. “How many people are coming?” I ask, as the club’s salsa vibe pulses out the windows and the Laffy Taffy purple front door.

“Five, ten, fifteen.” Olivia shrugs.