POWER SUITS

Note: This one is perhaps a bit out of order, but a conversation in the Rocks group made me remember that I'd written it ages ago and tucked it away somewhere when something else drew my attention.

"I'm gonna take it back," Amanda said, turning the signet ring on her little finger. "It's too much."

Francine's perfectly arched brows shot upwards as she put her menu down at the end of the table. "Too much what? Didn't you just get a nice raise?"

Amanda let out her breath in a long hiss. "Yes."

"And it was on sale."

"Yes."

"It's gorgeous, Amanda, and you look amazing in it. And didn't you go shopping this morning because you needed it?"

"Francine —"

"Amanda." Francine set down her menu and stared at her dining companion, equal parts surprised and frustrated. Amanda looked… uncomfortable didn't seem the right word. About to flee back to Nordstrom with the garment bag hanging in the back of her car definitely seemed like a real possibility.

"I don't think it's really me, is all."

"Oh for God's sake. Of course it's you. It's classic and well made and you shouldn't feel even the teeniest, tiniest bit guilty over buying it. Your husband sure wouldn't. In fact, I bet he sends you out again for the brown one." She sipped her water. "It's perfect for the meeting on Monday."

Amanda's shoulders slumped.

Francine narrowed her eyes. This woman across the table from her had been a source of exasperation from the first day they'd met, when she'd waltzed into The Agency with her homemade charm and cast a spell over first Billy, then Lee, and — as much as she had once hated to admit it — her, too.

A strong enough spell to make her offer to help Amanda buy a new suit for her new job, for which Francine had recommended her as a candidate.

It was almost too much, really. Or it would have been if it didn't seem like the most satisfying kind of power move she'd pulled in at least a year. And it had nothing to do with her.

No, power move was the wrong word. Though she always liked to see women move up in the Agency ranks. It was something else. She knew Amanda sold herself short far too often, and it was deeply satisfying to her now to give her friend a nudge forward when she needed it. She and Billy had conspired on this one together, comparing notes over morning coffees and marveling at Amanda's ability to manage a team of territorial, cynical agents as if she were running a team of bake sale volunteers.

Francine gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of Freddy Doyle, in particular, who seemed to exist for the sole purpose of acting as a thorn in Francine's side. She had seen glimmers now and then of Doyle softening in Amanda's presence. It was inevitable, because for all her sweetness and light Amanda always seemed to eat through any hardened exterior given enough time. Like battery acid.

"What's up?" Francine demanded. Objectively, the suit was everything Francine had said. It had lovely clean lines and the fine wool, charcoal gray, hung beautifully. It had pants and a pencil skirt, which made it practical as well as attractive. The cost per wear was reasonable, something she knew appealed to Amanda's deeply ingrained cost-consciousness (which Francine now knew was born of years of penny-pinching as a single mother). It hadn't even needed alterations, since Amanda's willowy height meant almost everything fit her off the rack (Francine tried not to be jealous about that and failed almost every single time).

"Up? Nothing."

Francine rolled her eyes. "Seriously. Amanda. You look like I suggested you wear it to a date with a firing squad."

Amanda sighed. "I guess I'm nervous, is all."

"About the presentation? That's silly. You know every single person in the room and you've got that thing laid out to the tiniest detail."

"What if I don't?"

"Is this about getting it perfect so Doyle doesn't call you out?"

Amanda's nose wrinkled. "No," she scoffed. "I'm not afraid of Freddy Doyle."

"What, then?"

Amanda rocked in her seat. She shook her head. Francine could see she wasn't going to get anywhere with this line of questioning, so she changed tacks.

"It's time to take off the training wheels," Francine said.

"I like the training wheels," Amanda admitted, studying her coffee cup as if it held all the secrets of the universe.

Francine smirked. "You don't need them. I don't even do anything in those meetings except get Doyle's back up."

"That's not true," Amanda insisted. She let out a long breath. "Anyway, I guess I have the jitters. I always think of you as a professional and me as a… well. Not a professional."

"What? Why?" Francine caught herself. "Okay, because I used to say catty things when you started? We both know you proved me wrong, about a thousand times over. And anyway, that was five years ago and look at you now. Billy practically created the job for you, you're so good at it."

"He did not," Amanda said, her face flushing.

"No, you're right. Smyth did."

"Stop it. He definitely did not."

Francine pursed her lips and tore open a packet of sweetener. "So, what are you going to do instead? Go back to the field? Sit behind a desk on the ninth floor, in a subterranean cubicle, and write suspect profiles? Oh, I know!" Her eyes widened and she held up a finger as if she'd just had a brilliant idea. "Steno pool."

"Please don't," Amanda muttered, irritable.

"Well you're being ridiculous, and the women in Steno would say so, too," Francine said, laughing. "Look, Amanda, you've worked hard. We all know that. Every single person who knows you knows how much effort you put into things. This is going to be great. You're perfect for it."

"That's just it, I guess. What if I'm not? What if I let L — everybody — down?"

Ah, there it was. Lee. She hadn't said the word but Francine had been an agent long enough to know when someone was catching themselves. And Amanda had definitely been catching herself.

"Do you really think it's even possible for you to let Lee down?" Francine said.

Amanda sighed. "I don't know, Francine. He'd probably say no but…." Amanda sighed. "I overheard him talking with his uncle the other week and he just — he's convinced I can do anything. He said it to Robert — whatever the universe throws at Amanda, she has her catcher's mitt ready."

"That's lovely." Not for the first time, Francine felt a little flutter of pride for her friend. Once upon a time she'd wondered if he was up to the task of being a supportive spouse and partner, but he'd exceeded her expectations. He was certainly not the Lee she'd once had a fling with. "What's the problem? I mean aside from the fact that a catcher's mitt would look terrible with that suit."

"I guess I started to panic." She lifted the coffee cup to her lips then set it down again without taking a sip. "What if I can't do it? What if I blow it?"

"Amanda." Francine closed her eyes in frustration. "You are not going to blow it."

"You don't know that. Sometimes I feel like I'm still just a – a housewife from Arlington. I don't know half of what that group knows. I'm ten years behind all of them, at least. While they were out in the field or studying law or whatever they've been doing I was at home raising kids and planning coffee klatches for Suburbanites Anonymous."

"Excuse me, but does your Suburbanites Anonymous group read international security briefs before bed every night, so they can throw out some unbelievable tidbit of information in the morning briefing?"

Amanda rolled her eyes.

"Do they comb through archives and put together a comprehensive profile of an elusive international terrorist within an hour of him showing up in a 7-Eleven in Baltimore?"

'Francine." She shifted in her seat as if Francine were pressing on a nerve.

"Have they ever —" Francine leaned forward in her own seat. "Have they ever brought down an international trafficking ring because their kid is tall enough to ride the roller coaster at the Three Pines amusement park and knows, for some inconceivable reason, how the entire thing actually works?"

"Okay, fine, no. But the only reason Jamie knew that was because he was anxious and knowledge makes him feel better, and —"

"Amanda, just fake it. Just keep doing what you're doing and acting like it's the most normal thing in the world and I guarantee you, you'll be running the team before Freddy Doyle can say —"

"I don't want to run the team," Amanda protested. "That's the last thing I want."

"Do you want Doyle to run the team?"

"I don't care if Doyle runs the team. I don't care who runs the team. I care about doing a good job and not looking ridiculous up there on Monday morning."

"Well, step one to that not happening is that gorgeous suit in the back of your car," Francine said, sipping her coffee. "With that nice cream silk blouse you bought today. It has 'serious business' written all over it."

Amanda scowled at the closed menu on the table in front of her. "It's a costume."

"And? You think I don't wear one? You think Doyle's starched collars and pencil skirts aren't one?"

"Gosh, you drive me crazy sometimes."

Francine leaned back in her seat with a smug smile. "I know. My unconditional moral support is a real drag."

"It's hardly unconditional." Amanda set down her mug, and leaned back in the booth, thoughtful. "As much as it pains me to say this, though, I guess you're right."

Francine smirked. "I know that, too. You're keeping the suit."

Amanda sighed. "I'm keeping the suit."

"And I'm having a piece of chocolate tart," Francine said. "If they had gin I'd get one of those. Or maybe two. This guidance counselor bit is really taking it out of me."

Amanda rolled her eyes.

She was halfway through her dessert, enjoying the way the smooth-as-silk filling of the chocolate tart contrasted with the perfectly crisp pastry and thinking that maybe it was better than gin, after all, when Amanda set down her fork. "Francine," she said, suddenly.

"What?"

"Thanks." She reached over and laid a hand over Francine's, where it rested on the table. Her fingers were cold. "You're right."

"I know I am." Francine ate another forkful of tart and grinned across the table. "Now, you need to think about shoes."