Five of her guests were women and the two males might as well have been. They were members of progressive organizations in Verona. After meeting with them  individually over several weeks, Ruth had invited themto dinner to brainstorm. The subject: creating a networking group for the nascent progressive community in Yancey County. 

“You should have received a badge printed with your name and organization but let’s introduce ourselves and tell a little about our work.” 

While a representative from the AntiRacist Initiative of Yancey County handed out her business cards, a pudgy, middle-aged woman with improbably black hair reported the start up of a small weekly newspaper for the area’s progressive community named, unimaginatively, The Verona Progressive. 

Across from them, an educational psychologist working to end school-sanctioned religious activity distributed brochures. A local businesswoman organizing to ban the city-sponsored Christmas Festival gave out contact information for city council members. 

At the far end of the table sat a sandy-haired woman in her mid-thirties whose stern expression detracted from her pretty face. 

“My organization is a non-profit at Verona State focusing on women’s issues.” She opened a small attaché case on her lap and withdrew a stack of papers. “Here’s some material on our areas of concentration. Everybody take one.” She handed the papers to the person next to her. 

“You can see we have an extensive program. First, women in the workplace, which includes glass-ceiling and equal-pay issues and sexual harassment. Second, reproductive rights. Third, Smart-Shes, a feminist organization for young girls, an alternative to traditional groups like the Girl Scouts and Campfire Girls. “Without neglecting other areas, we are currently putting the most emphasis on sexual harassment in the workplace. This is because it’s an enormous and ongoing problem in Verona.” 

“Does anyone imagine it wouldn’t be?” Ruth said. “This town is awash in testosterone. White Christian men rule here, as they have ruled the West for nearly two thousand years. They’re the authors of everything that’s wrong with western civilization.” 

“Well, they’re in for a shock,” the woman replied. “Both public perception and the laws are changing with respect to women’s issues, especially sexual harassment. My group is pushing to have equality offices created in several major companies in this town. We plan to put a spotlight on the problem in corporate Verona, embarrass a few perps and use lawsuits to hit the companies where it hurts most—in their profit margins.” 

At that moment the partition opened and a waiter carrying a large tray full of dinner plates stepped into the room. 

“Let’s pause and enjoy our meal,” Ruth said. “We can continue our discussion over dessert.”

The information printed on the fanfolded paper was offensive and Troy Stevenson, Vice President of Marketing and Sales at Shearwater-Ingram Company, was highly offended. It also held a riddle that added discombobulation to offendedness.

He jogged the edges, attempting to neaten the stack, and started to flip through the pages again when he heard muffled footsteps on the carpet. He glanced up and saw Max Ingram, Director of Human Resources, strolling through the door. 

“Chow time,” Max said, tapping his wristwatch. “Let’s go eat.”

“I’m busy.”

“Well, take a break. I want us to stop by HR on the way so you can meet the new EFO director.”

“UFO director?” Troy said with mock perplexity. “Oh, you mean the sexual harassment lady.”

Max smiled wryly. “Better not let her hear you call her a lady. She’ll sue your butt.”

Troy didn’t return the smile and a faint line appeared between his eyebrows.

“What?” Max said.

“Last quarter’s preliminary sales report.” Troy tapped the printout with a forefinger. “Down three and a half percent.”

Max shrugged. “So? Nothing goes up forever.” 

He drummed a rhythm on the edge of Troy’s desk and sang, “What goes up, must come down—”

“Cut it out. David Clayton Thomas you ain’t.”

Both men had lived on Georgia’s coastal plain long enough to have picked up the liquid drawl indigenous to the area, but it was an overlay and their native vocabularies and accents frequently punched through—Max’s the rapid mumble of Birmingham, Alabama, Troy’s the hill-country dialect of eastern Tennessee.

The bantering eased off and a hint of concern crept into Troy’s tone. “This is the first time sales have gone down since I took over marketing. I’ve got to figure out why.”

“For cryin’ out loud, you can leave it for half an hour.” 

Troy ignored him. His long fingers worked the keys of his adding machine. He tore off the tape and compared it to the tiny figures on the printout. “It’ll be another ten, fifteen minutes before I get to a stopping place. If that’s too long, go on ahead and I’ll catch up with you. Otherwise, sit down and shut up.”

Max knew from long experience, going back to the early days of their friendship in college, that Troy had a stubborn streak and challenging it was futile. Without further discussion, he dropped into a wingback chair in front of the desk.

Bored and annoyed, he glanced around the slate green walls. There was nothing here to relieve his boredom, nothing he had not seen a hundred times before—framed actions shots of Troy as an All-American halfback for the Alabama Crimson Tide, his university degrees in modest document frames, portraits of his wife and kids....

Max shifted in the chair and picked microscopic lint off his suit. Propping his ankle on his knee, he jiggled his foot, glanced at his watch and yawned theatrically. 

It was going to be a long ten minutes.

Shearwater-Ingram’s administrative offices were housed in a two-story red brick building in Mirabel Office Park located east of Verona between Interstate 75 and old Highway 41. 

Vaguely post-modern in design, boxy and substantial, it featured large windows and a wide swath of glass down the center of the facade. It was fronted with a neatly striped asphalt parking lot and big, dense foundation plantings. Young live oaks dotted the property and sunlight streaked through them to filligree the grounds and edifice with lacy shadows.

Inside, the large reception area suggested masculinity in color and style—warm gray walls, furniture of dark wood and stainless steel, shiny vinyl tiles on the floor in a bold, geometric pattern—the overall effect toned down with upholstered seating and clusters of large plants.

But in the individual offices, the decor was determined by the occupants.

Human Resources, located at the back of the first floor, reflected the tastes of its two female employees, Dugan Haynes and Polly Vinson. The harshness of steel desks and file cabinets was softened with yellow walls, cubicle partitions of beige fabric, lots of houseplants and personal items from small stereos to family snapshots.

As lunchtime approached, Dugan stood at the back of the room and waited for two employee ID badges to emerge from the laminator. She was in her mid-thirties, a statuesque woman with chin-length brown hair. Amiable and well-liked at Shearwater, she was ideally suited for HR work.

The badges dropped to the table and she picked them up to inspect them. People always hated how they appeared in security badge photos. Looking at these two, it was understandable. 

The first showed a hazel-eyed blond woman with short hair that fluffed about her head in spiral ropes. Her coral colored lips were slightly pursed, almost pouty. She was in her mid-twenties but looked twelve in the photo. This was Brooke Emerson who was starting work today in the Library and Record Storage Department. 

Dugan looked at the second one and suppressed a chuckle. It showed the image of a fortyish, brunette woman with a poufed pageboy. Her blue eyes were very wide, almost glaring, above wine-colored lips pulled into a smile but slightly compressed. The overall impression was of a woman about to fly into a rage. The subject of the photo was Arlene Roper, hired to head up the new Equality and Fairness Office. 

Dugan punched slots in the badges, slipped lapel clips into the slots and headed for the department’s small reception area where the two new hires were waiting. 

“Here you are, ladies. I’ve put clips on them, but if you’d rather have a lanyard, check with Polly after lunch.” She pointed toward the vacant receptionist’s desk.

“Where do people go for lunch out here in the boonies?” Brooke asked.

“There are a couple of fast food places not too far away but pretty much everyone eats in the cafeteria. It’s catered. We don’t have a kitchen, so they bring in breakfast and lunch every day. The food’s cheap and pretty good.”

“I was planning on eating here today,”Arlene said, “and I invited a guest. She should be here by now.”

“Go get her. We’ll save y’all a place.”

Arlene headed for the reception area while Dugan and Brooke walked down the back corridor. Along the way, Dugan pointed out the elevator, water fountain and restrooms. 

Brooke seemed more interested in her badge. 

“This picture of me sucks. Can I have it made over?”

“You’d have to pay for it. Only the first one’s free.”

Turning a corner, they reached the cafeteria, warm gray and stainless steel, like the rest of the ground floor, brightened with colorful, abstract murals painted on the walls. The aroma of food and the ambient hum of conversation filled the air. 

“So you’re doing a brand new department here?” Brooke asked Arlene as they squeezed dressing from plastic packets onto their garden salads. 

Dugan had ushered them to a long table—the Gossip Table, someone had called it—where a group of women sat and carried on confusing multiple conversations as they dined.

“Yes, it’s the Equality and Fairness Office,” Arlene said, “for dealing with issues of discrimination in the workplace. I’ve worked in the field for a while, but I’ve never run a department or built one from scratch.”

“Wow. Sure sounds more exciting than pulling and delivering files.”

“Oh, yes. I’m really looking forward to the challenge.” Arlene waved a hand toward a woman seated next to her. “This is Jessica Grant from the Women’s Assistance Group. She’s going to help me organize the department and write the policies.”

Jessica’s sandy hair was pulled back from her face and caught by a barrette at the nape of her neck. She was dressed in a severe black suit that matched her severe demeanor. The hardness in her voice completed the ensemble. 

“We’re consultants on women’s issues,” she said curtly. 

“Women’s Assistance Group,” Dugan said. “I don’t think I’m familiar with that.”

“It’s a nonprofit organization started by some women at the university a number of years ago. I was a student then and volunteered to help but the problem is just as bad today. Men don’t like their control and their position atop the hierarchy threatened and it manifests as unequal pay, the promotional glass ceiling, sexual harassment, and so on.”

“Is all that stuff really a problem here?” Brooke asked.

“Yes,” Jessica told her, “because it’s a problem everywhere.”

Brooke's eyes darted around the cafeteria. “It looks like there’s more women in this crowd than men.”

“Yes, but men hold the positions of power,” Jessica explained with an exaggerated show of patience. “That’s the nature of patriarchy.”

At that moment, Brooke saw two men—executives, members in good standing of the patriarchy, for sure—walk in from the corridor and head for the serving line. Halfway there, one of them, a nice-looking fellow with brown hair and wearing a light tan suit, tugged at the other one’s sleeve and vaguely pointed toward the rows of tables. They changed course and came into the dining room.

He was Max Ingram, Director of Human Resources. Brooke recognized him because he had stopped by HR last week when she had come to apply for a job. Although he was a touch on the hefty side, he still possessed boyish good looks, his full face set with blue eyes that exuded frivolity—the face of a man who never outgrew junior-high level pranksterhood.

But it was the other one who attracted her attention. Taller, slimmer, broad-shouldered, he sported a gray suit that showcased a knockout physique. His longish, angular face was so handsome she found herself staring, unable to pull her gaze away. A mane of thick, almost black hair, conservatively styled, brushed his collar in back and swept the tops of his ears—My gosh, I never realized ears could be sexy!—and framed thick, beautifully arched brows above dark eyes that snapped with magnetic male energy.

An odd excitement jolted her when he stopped nearby.

Max looked around the table and said, “Hello, ladies.” He got several hi’s and hello, sir’s in return. 

“Troy, this is Arlene Roper, the new EFO director. Arlene, Troy Stevenson, vice president, marketing.

“Mrs. Roper.” Troy’s smile was both perfunctory and stunning. 

“How do you do.” Her smile all-business, Arlene stood for the introduction. 

A red insulated lunch bag printed with the word Alabama dangled from Troy’s right hand and he transferred it to his left to offer a handshake. Brooke watched, awed. His stance, his grace of movement, the tilt of his shoulders all combined to make an alluring display out of the simple act of shaking hands.

“Troy’s a Neanderthal,” Max told Arlene. “He’s opposed to your department.”

Arlene’s brows went up. “Oh?”

“Yeah. He’s a serial sexual harasser and he hates to see it coming to an end.”

Troy gave his companion an oblique glance but said nothing. He didn’t have to. Snorting and tsk-tsking went around the table like a stadium wave. Somebody sitting near Brooke murmured, “Oh, brother!” and the dark-haired pixie across the table—Claudia, from billing, is it?—rolled her eyes. 

Max looked around the table with comic surprise and broke into a grin. “Okay, so I’m kidding. But he is a throwback—a traditionalist who thinks women should be wives and secretaries.”

“Really.” Arlene looked at Troy. “Is there anything to what Max says?”

This time, Troy smiled in genuine amusement and it was a sight to behold. “Mrs. Roper, after you’ve been here a while, you’ll find out there is seldom ever anything to anything Max says.”

Arlene glanced from one to the other and evidently decided to let that one go. “So do you have any problems with women being paid what they’re worth?”

“No,” Troy said. “I just think any new positions created right now ought to go to the departments that actually produce for the company—mine, for example, or Research and Development.”

Brooke listened, fascinated. He didn’t speak with the true grits-n-gravy drawl she’d heard so much since arriving in Verona; there was some other dialect she couldn’t place influencing his pronunciation, which was delivered in a distinctive mid-range baritone. But his timbre and accent were ear-pleasing and perfect matches for his looks. 

“He’s a filthy capitalist, too,” Max said. “All he cares about is making money.”

Dugan from HR caught Max’s eye. “And it’s a good thing for this company and all its employees—including you—that he does.”

Troy acknowledged Dugan’s comment with an almost imperceptible nod and slight smile before turning back to Arlene. “If your department’s issues are genuine, they should be written into the regular policies manual and let HR handle them like any other personnel issue. I don’t think it’s necessary to create a separate department for them.”

“The issues are genuine, all right, and rampant,”Jessica said, her tone hard, her diction clipped. 

Everyone stared at her, taken aback by the hostility in her voice and the challenging look she aimed at Troy. 

Arlene said, “Gentlemen, this is Jessica Grant from WAG, the Women’s Assistance Group. She’s going to help me write the EFO policies manual.”

“Howdy-do, Ms. Grant from wag,” Max said, grinning. 

Troy acknowledged the introduction with a wordless incline of his head, his face neutral. Somehow, this nod was quite different from the one he had given Dugan. 

Jessica looked at both of them with visible disapproval. 

If Troy noticed her challenge, he didn’t show it. He turned back to Arlene and continued as if there had been no interruption. “But it’s Max’s department and it was his decision to make.”

“Well,” Arlene said. “At least you’re candid about it. And I respect that.”

Brooke saw several women exchange glances and firm their lips to suppress laughter. She had to do the same thing. Roper was a bit ... officious ... and probably had no idea she was coming across that way. 

The conversation wound down and Max took in the faces arrayed before him. “So long, ladies. Y’all enjoy your lunch.”

See ya’s and bye’s echoed around the table as the men walked away. 

Jessica Grant’s eyes followed them and a look of disgust came to her face. “That man, Stevenson, is exactly why departments like Arlene’s are necessary. Insufferable chauvinist.”

“What?” Dugan said, frowning, and the other women looked askance at the WAG director. 

“If he’s not a serial sexual harasser, it’s only because he hasn’t had the opportunity. I’ve been in this business a long time and I know the type. I can spot ’em a mile away.”

Brooke riveted her eyes on her plate. Oh, my. Sexual harassment by that hunk? Where do I sign up?

Somebody down the table gave a derisive snort and said, “Not him.”

“Absolutely right,” Claudia the pixie chimed in. “It’s a lot more likely that one of us would waylay him in an empty corridor and put lipstick all over his face.”

“Indeed. Just look at that,” said an older woman in an appreciative tone.

Everyone followed her gaze to Troy sauntering toward the serving line. 

“Goodness gracious sakes alive....”

“Mmm, mmm, mmm....”

“Poetry in motion....”

Striving for nonchalance, Brooke said, “He’s a Bama fan.”

“Oh, he’s more than a fan,” Dugan replied. “He’s an alumnus and that’s an understatement. In the early Seventies, he was the Crimson Tide’s star halfback. Max says he was an incredible runner. Broke all kinds of records. Still holds a couple.”

Claudia nodded, watching Troy with a dreamy look in her eyes. “All-American body, movie star face.”

Dugan smiled archly at her moonstruck table mates and said, “Bible Belt mentality, fairy tale marriage.”

Soft groans rose around table and somebody muttered, “Dugan, you spoilsport,” just as Troy and Max disappeared behind a partition adjacent to the serving line.

“Just injecting a little reality into the conversation.” 

Jessica harrumphed. “Reality is that he’s just another privileged Southern white man, all about money and power.”

That produced another frown from Dugan, who looked at Arlene and said, “What is it with your friend?”

The EFO director, caught between her mentor and her new co-workers, was unable to formulate an immediate response, but Dugan didn’t wait for one. She leaned forward to see around Arlene and gave Jessica a pointed look. 

“Privilege? He comes from a family of West Virginia coal miners. He grew up in a mobile home in Tennessee. Football paid for his education, which got him his career. He could have made a lot more money staying at Commander Industries in Atlanta, but he wanted to raise his kids in a small town like he grew up in. Despite the decrease in his earning potential, he says he’s blessed.”

Brooke listened intently to the short biography, but she was also intrigued by the subtle interplay between the two women. It was plain that Jessica found the conversation annoying and did not like being challenged. It was equally plain that Dugan was determined to challenge her.

“Troy respects women probably more than any man in this company. I worked in his department two and a half years before I transferred to HR—before and after his promotion—and his behavior toward me was never anything but cordial and respectful.”

She looked at Arlene and said, “Your friend’s barking up the wrong tree.”