One Fine Day. Janice Sims

began to pour slowly from the tiny hole.

      She actually smiled happily.

      She pressed down a bit harder, a hopeful expression on her face.

      Then, someone loudly knocked on her door.

      She ignored it and went back to the task at hand.

      They knocked even harder, then Frannie’s voice yelled, “Sara! I know you’re in there. Open the door! Open this damn door or I’ll break it down!”

      Sara laughed at her threat. Frannie Anise was five-three and must have weighed a hundred and five pounds, tops!

      She got up and went to the door. “Go away, Frannie, I’m busy!”

      “Busy moping around that apartment. Open up. I’m getting you out for some fresh air.”

      “It’s August. There is no fresh air in the city in August. Just heat, and a lot of cranky New Yorkers complaining about it.”

      “It’s hot as hell in this hallway. The least you can do, after I’ve come all this way, is to invite me in for a cold drink.”

      “I’m not dressed for company.”

      “Who cares? If you really want to be alone, I’ll drink and run.”

      Sara was silent for several minutes.

      “I’m really hurt that you won’t even open the door,” Frannie said. “I thought I was your best friend.”

      “You are my best friend, but I need to be alone. A best friend would understand that.”

      “I haven’t seen you in nearly a month. You won’t answer my phone calls or my e-mails. What am I supposed to think? Unless I can look into your face, I’m not going to leave here. You know me. You know I mean it.”

      “Yeah, you’re as pigheaded as they come.”

      “I’ll get you for that pig remark. And I’m Jewish. We’re not known for giving up.”

      “You’re only half Jewish!”

      “Yeah, but the other half is African-American. You know we don’t give up!”

      Sara peered down at her bleeding wrist.

      She opened the door and fell into Frannie’s arms.

      Chapter 2

      Frannie made Sara shower and dress, after which they got in a cab and went across town to an apartment building on Amsterdam Avenue. On the cab ride, Frannie didn’t say a word about the thick bandage covering Sara’s wrist, for which Sara was grateful.

      She’d told Frannie that she’d cut herself while trying to split a breakfast bagel.

      The building was quite old but well maintained. It had a redbrick facade and a dark green awning over the entrance. Sara guessed that Frannie must have been a frequent visitor because the elderly gentleman at the desk in the lobby waved them past without first inquiring after their reason for being there.

      As they waited for the elevator, Frannie said, “I’ve been wanting to introduce you to this group of women for a long time but, the fact is, you haven’t needed them until now.”

      “What do you mean?” Sara asked.

      “You’ll see,” said Frannie with a mysterious smile. “One more thing, try not to stare at them. Some of them are very well known. I’m counting on your discretion.”

      “Ooh,” intoned Sara. “What is this, a secret society or something?”

      “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s simply a group of women who want to change the world by helping other women. We’re hoping that you’ll consider joining us.”

      “What if I don’t want to join?”

      “After you hear what we’re about, you will,” Frannie said with confidence.

      “I’m not big on joining clubs,” Sara said as a warning. “I was wooed by four sororities when I was in college and managed to avoid signing up with any of them.”

      “This is nothing like a sorority,” Frannie told her.

      “It’s a charitable organization?”

      “Of a sort,” Frannie said.

      A couple of minutes later, Frannie was knocking on the door of the penthouse.

      “Wow,” said Sara. “Are you sure all the funds you collect go to unfortunate women? Or does the person who lives here get kickbacks?”

      Frannie laughed. “All of your questions will be answered soon.”

      “You’re not a secret organization of call girls, are you?”

      “If I weren’t so glad to hear you cracking jokes, I’d bop you upside the head for that,” Frannie said, laughing.

      Sara was about to respond to Frannie’s threat of violence when the door was opened by the Honorable Secretary of State, Eunice Strathmore. Sara had to mentally command herself to close her mouth because it was suddenly hanging open in surprise.

      “Francesca!” the secretary of state cried, obviously delighted to see Frannie.

      The two women warmly embraced.

      A gentleman in full butler regalia closed the door and stood aside as if awaiting further instructions.

      “Ladies, we’re lunching in the next room. The food is buffet style, but Avery is mixing the drinks. What will you have?” said the secretary of state.

      “A mimosa,” Frannie said at once.

      “Iced tea, please,” Sara said, trying to keep her tone relaxed.

      “My pleasure,” said Avery, a tall African-American in his late sixties. His silver hair was thick and wavy, neatly trimmed, and combed back from a handsome coppery-brown face.

      The secretary of state watched him go. She was in her midfifties, though she looked not a day over forty-five. Trim, attractive, she wore her short dark brown hair in a tapered cut that always looked freshly styled. A minimum of makeup graced the face that was known the world over.

      Around five-five, she was rumored to jog every day and work out with weights three times a week, all to relieve stress. Sara guessed it was working for her, because her face was free of worry lines, and the twinkle in her eye appeared genuine.

      Turning to Sara, she grasped her by both hands and peered up at her. “Welcome, Sara. Frannie has told me all about you. May I express my sympathy on the loss of your husband, Billy? My heart goes out to you. I, too, was a young widow.”

      Sara remembered that the secretary’s husband had been in the military and had been killed in action more than twenty years ago. They had two children, a girl and a boy, both adults now, of course. She had chosen not to marry again.

      “Thank you, Madam Secretary,” said Sara.

      “Call me Eunice, dear. We’re all just women here.”

      Eunice warmly placed Sara’s hand through her arm and led her into the next room where perhaps twenty women were sitting on couches and chairs enjoying luncheon on china plates and drinking from crystal champagne glasses. Conversation and laughter was heard throughout the room.

      All conversation ceased, however, when Eunice reentered the room with Frannie and Sara in tow. Frannie was greeted with more warm hugs, after which she introduced Sara to everybody.

      Sara knew she would not recall all of the names of the women who formed a multicultural group. They were of African, Asian, Hispanic and Caucasian extractions. Their membership was obviously not limited to African-Americans.

      She recognized several famous faces. A couple of actresses; a CEO of a major company; a multimedia magnate who could have bought and sold all of New