by Mia Zachary
Tina stacked the brochures and closed the folder. “Sounds too good to be true, Chris, but sign me up anyway!”
“Once you fill out all of the forms, I’ll take you into the café and show you how to start the questionnaires.”
Twenty minutes later, he was back in his office with a capocollo and Swiss on sourdough. He pushed aside the mail his office manager, Lara, had left for him to make room for the sandwich, chips and soda. Lunch Meetings had become known for entrées like spinach, mushroom and chicken quesadilla but Chris was a ham and cheese kind of guy.
He stripped off his suit jacket and loosened his tie before diving into the food. He’d had a busy morning and this afternoon would be dedicated to his private seminars, so he had to eat fast if he wanted to get some of the administrative tasks out of the way. After popping open the can of cola, he pushed the speaker button on his phone to listen to his voicemail.
Hi, Chris. It’s Andrea. Give me or Diana a call when you get a chance, will you? Mom is acting really strange. Wait until you see her hair! She’s being very secretive and won’t tell us what’s going on. If anyone can get something out of her, it’s you. Talk later. Bye.
He jotted a note to drive over and see his mother. As the only male in the house with a single mother and two older sisters, he’d quickly learned how far charm would get him—Mom had rarely denied him anything. He’d been meaning to do some yard work for her, anyway, and that would give him a chance to find out what had Drea and Di so worried. He pushed the button for the next message.
Hi, Mr. London. My name is Amy Wong and I write for the San Francisco Inquirer. I’d like to make arrangements for an interview—
He erased the voicemail without bothering to hear the rest. The tabloid had been after his story for months, trying to get the inside scoop—or more likely the dirt—on the business, anything to explain the LM phenomenon. He’d never granted them an interview and he never would to protect himself and his clients from exposure.
Christopher, I’d like my mystery novels back and I have your DVDs. Let me know when it would be convenient to make the exchange. The call disconnected with an audible click.
He and Rachel had broken up after he overheard her tell a friend that he was “the guy you have sex with, not the one you stay with.” When he confronted her, Rachel had accused him of investing more energy into other people’s relationships rather than into his own.
She was probably right. Though he’d liked her, he hadn’t loved her. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever really been in love. Lust, infatuation, but never love. He’d mail Rachel the books; she could keep the movies.
He played the last message. Mr. London, this is Andrew Johnston from Hollinger/Hansen. I have good news. Our principal investor is interested in your expansion project. However, before the Board commits any venture capital, we’d like to see a more detailed business plan. Call me at 555-4642, extension 201.
Chris dropped the last of his sandwich and played the message again. Another investment firm had turned him down two weeks ago. A wide grin spread across his face as he listened. Hot damn! It looked like he might be able to open locations in Oakland and San Jose after all.
He leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head, and gazed through the two-way mirror at the dining room and café. He’d done it!
In high school and college, fixing up his friends had been just a game. During his years at UCLA he’d parlayed his knack for matchmaking into free meals and Bruins football tickets. Eventually he’d turned a psychology major with a minor in statistics into a flourishing business. He’d taken a gamble and made it pay off not only for himself but also for his many happy clients.
It was ironic, actually, because love had nothing to do with his success. Despite his track record for others, Chris couldn’t seem to make a relationship last more than a month or so, a fact he was very careful to keep to himself. Who’d want to use a dating service run by a guy who was frequently single, a guy who didn’t believe in the idea of true love he so convincingly sold?
It all came down to science, namely mathematics and chemistry. If you presented people with a potential mate who mirrored the traits they wanted to see in themselves, the probability was high that these two people would experience infatuation. After infatuation, respect and commitment would hopefully follow.
Not that he hadn’t experienced a number of failures. His matchmaking skills hadn’t worked at all on his parents.
Chris had been eleven when his father had dumped the family, walking out on him, his mother and sisters. He’d never seen it coming. His parents had never fought, always discussing everything quietly and rationally, and his father swore there wasn’t another woman. Just some half-assed need to figure out what he wanted from life.
Chris had listened to the calmly delivered speech about things sometimes not working out the way you hope, nodding his head while his whole world imploded. He’d felt like his chest was on fire from the pressure of holding back sobs of anguish. Don’t go, Daddy. Don’t leave me. As his father turned away, the pressure bubble inside him had popped and the tears flowed freely.
It was the last time Chris ever cried.
He’d seen his father regularly, during awkward visits and strained outings, but it felt like there was a hollow space inside him. His mother had wanted her husband back, though, so Chris had done what he could—getting in trouble at school so his parents would have to meet in the principal’s office. But then later his more mature attempts also met with failure…
The intercom buzzed, shaking him off that line of thought. He listened to Lara’s voice. “Hi, Chris. Frank Lanvale is here for his one o’clock.”
He thanked her, silently reminding himself to focus on the positive. Things were looking up business-wise. Just as long as nobody found out the truth about him or the secret of Lunch Meetings’ success.
2
“YOU’RE NOT GOING out like that, are you?”
Phoebe Jayne Hollinger burst through the open door of Rei’s house in Miraloma Park at exactly nine o’clock. P.J. was always prompt about her lateness. Stepping aside, Rei looked down at the white dress shirt and plain black skirt she wore with low-heeled pumps. Judging by P.J.’s incredulous tone, her best friend didn’t like the outfit as much as she did.
“I think I look nice, thank you very much.” Rei turned and walked toward the living room where she’d been reading in her favorite chair near the gas fire.
P.J. followed, her heels clicking on the hardwood floors. “That’s the problem. You’re supposed to look sexy. We’re going to a nightclub, not a Bar Association function.”
“I’m not good at sexy.” A fact that had disappointed some of the men she’d dated. Apparently they’d expected an Asian woman to be a voracious circus acrobat in bed and a bowing doormat everywhere else.
P.J. unfastened her black satin trench coat. “You never let yourself be sexy. When we were growing up, you were always afraid your father would disapprove. Later, you were too focused on school and corporate raiding—”
“That’s the second time this week you’ve mentioned my father and I hope it’s the last.” Rei felt the muscles around her eyes tighten.
P.J. smirked and sank into the couch. “Don’t pull the Judge Face on me. I’m immune. You know you’ll have to deal with him sometime.”
“Not tonight, I don’t. He pushed me out of his life twenty years ago so I’m in no rush to schedule a family reunion.”
Her mother had died in a car accident when she was twelve. With Keiko gone, the stately Queen Anne style house in Pacific Heights had echoed with reproving silences. Only to be interrupted by frightening drunken outbursts from a father who’d been as miserly with hugs as he had been with praise.
After two agonizing years, Gordon Davis had finally decided to move on with his life. Rei had spent all of her time with her beloved maternal grandparents in Japantown while he pursued a seat on the high court bench and a young trophy wife. Once Rei left
for college, they saw each other only at the holidays.
“You’re right, honey. I’m sorry. We’re supposed to be celebrating.” P.J. twisted on her seat and dug into the pocket of her coat. She set a small silver box on the bleached wood coffee table. “Happy Anniversary.”
Rei let out a half laugh, half sob and pressed a hand to her mouth. Her vision wavered as tears filled her eyes and a knot of emotion formed in her throat. She sat down next to her friend and reached for her hand. “Thank you for remembering, Peej. And for a lot of other reasons as well.”
P.J. squeezed her fingers in return and offered a watery smile. “I’m just so glad that you’re still here. There were so many days when you didn’t think you’d make it this far, but I wasn’t about to lose my best bud.”
“God, I still can’t believe it’s been a whole year since the diagnosis….”
Ductal carcinoma in situ.
Her doctor had said she was lucky—lucky?—the tumor was less than one centimeter, they’d found it early, and the cancer hadn’t spread to the lymph nodes. Rei’s immediate reaction had been disbelief—the ultrasound tech must have screwed up because there was no history of cancer in her family. She’d been stunned and confused and sorry as hell that she hadn’t gotten regular mammograms as she was supposed to.
Then she’d been terrified. She would never forget the knife jab of fear that wouldn’t go away. Sure, in the abstract, everybody had to die sometime. But, not her. Not now. After that came anger, a lot of anger. At her body, at the universe, at her father who acted like it was contagious and at Jack, another of her arrogant, opinionated ex-boyfriends, who had walked out when she most needed comfort and reassurance.
After lumpectomy surgery she’d endured radiation treatment and chemotherapy sessions that had left her exhausted and nauseated. The glossy black hair she’d always been so proud of had thinned out and she’d lost fifteen pounds from lack of appetite….
Then, as suddenly as she’d been diagnosed, she’d finished with the treatments. There had been no formal exit from sick to well, just the slow physical and mental recovery until one day she woke up and the cancer wasn’t the first thing on her mind. Of course, she would continue to take the Tamoxifen for another four years and have a follow-up visit every six months.
Rei had survived and in surviving had reevaluated her priorities. She’d gotten rid of a soulless renovated flat in North Beach and bought her house; taken up yoga and a healthy diet and tried to appreciate every day of the rest of her life.
Not to mention the people in it. Rei kissed P.J.’s cheek and tucked one leg up on the couch. Reaching for the box, she unwrapped it to find a silver charm bracelet. Holding it to the light revealed that each of the twelve clear crystals had a tiny pink ribbon inside.
“Oh, Peej, it’s beautiful.”
“A little classier than a rubber band, I thought.”
Rei fastened the delicate chain around her wrist. “I love it. Thank you so much.”
P.J. cleared her throat then cheerfully clapped her hands. “So, are you ready to go party with wild abandon?”
She sighed and rubbed her neck. “Actually…I had a bad day at court and I don’t think I’m up to screaming to be heard over a syncopated drumbeat. Why don’t we just go out for a late supper and talk?”
“Nope. You don’t need talk, you need action.” P.J. wiggled her brows suggestively.
Rei responded with a tiny twinge of interest. It had been awhile—a long while—since she’d had any “action.” Lately there’d been an almost constant tension inside her, a restless frustration that she couldn’t meditate away. Like her body was too small for the spirit within.
“We are overdue for a night on the town, but I’m not sure a nightclub is such a good idea. I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”
P.J. crossed her arms beneath her ample bust, straining the limits of her bra top. “The whole point of this Break Away Night is to celebrate our friendship, to be a little daring and have some irresponsible fun.”
That sounded so tempting. It wasn’t as if she were a nun or anything. However Rei was never anything but responsible—to her family, to her kids at court and to herself. She had to be taken seriously in order to succeed. But maybe throwing caution to the wind was exactly what she needed. Just for tonight.
“I bought a mango.” P.J.’s forehead crinkled. “You what?”
“I bought a papaya, too.”
“Oo-kay…” P.J. sat on her coat, bewilderment clouding her light eyes.
Rei felt warm spots of color on her cheeks. “I read an article in a women’s magazine that suggested taking two risks a week. You know, creating a little adventure in your life. Well, I never tried those fruits before so I bought them.”
“What did you think?”
She shrugged. “I liked the mango, but wasn’t crazy about the papaya.”
“I’ll bet it felt terrific to get out of your apple-grape-banana rut.”
Rei laughed. “It was oddly satisfying. Silly yet audacious. I can cross ‘try exotic fruit’ off of my List now.”
“You’re starting with the safe ones, I see.” P.J.’s expression became as quiet as her voice. “How long is that list now? Wouldn’t you like to shift some more items into the Done That column?”
The list was actually written in a bound journal her support group had given her after the lumpectomy. On the cover was a quote from Thoreau, ‘Go confidently in the direction of your dreams.’ Each woman in the group had received one; the idea being to create a Life List and believe those dreams could come true. Rei’s book was half filled already, but with almost no check marks beside the entries.
“So, how about it, Rei? You need to cross ‘dance like you don’t care if anybody is watching’ off the List. But not in that outfit.”
And just like that she realized it wasn’t only her clothes she needed to change, but also her attitude.
When she’d gotten sick, she had withdrawn into herself, organizing her life to the minutest detail. She’d thought if she could control her environment, that if she scheduled each day and always knew what she was doing, somehow she could control the rapidly dividing cells inside of her.
It was time for her to lose a little of that self-control. Over 365 days had passed since her diagnosis, six months since her doctor had declared her in remission. She deserved to celebrate. She’d earned it. Her hesitation vanished, quickly replaced by an eagerness that surprised her.
“Oh, what the hell. Let’s go out and get a little wild.”
With a victorious grin, P.J. grabbed her hand and pulled her off the couch. Together they went upstairs to the master bedroom and P.J. headed straight to the closet. “Take all of that off while I find something more like my outfit.”
Rei looked at P.J.’s hot pink bra, sheer black blouse and hip-level skirt that barely covered her butt. “There’s a fine line between ‘sexy’ and ‘slutty’ that I’d rather not cross.”
“No guts, no conquests, I say.”
“Hey, I just broke up with Derek yesterday.” Rei unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it.
“So? It’s the twenty-first century. We’re not only allowed to have sex with men, but also like men.”
“You mean without commitment or guilt? Do it then roll over and fall asleep?” She unbuttoned her shirt and tossed it into the laundry hamper.
P.J. turned to stare at her, obviously seeing through her sarcastic humor. “Are you telling me you’ve never had an orgasm?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
Rei climbed onto her bed, sitting cross-legged in her white lace bra and panties. “Okay, maybe sex hasn’t been that great for me. Sometimes it was nice, but in the end it always felt like there was something missing.”
“Yeah, a lover who made an effort to please you.” P.J. went back to rifling the clothes hanging in the closet. “You need to add ‘have amazingly fantastic sex with multiple screaming orgasms’ to the List.”
>
“It’s already on there.” Rei reached for the journal on the bedside table and opened it on her lap. Knowing that she’d be the only person to ever read the List, she felt free to express her secret desires.
P.J. shot her a mischievous look. “Really? In those exact words?”
“Um, no.” Multiple screaming orgasm sex probably required that both partners be fantastic lovers. She didn’t qualify. “Something more along the lines of ‘get swept into a passionate affair.’”
“So why don’t you make that the next dare?”
Rei shook her head before P.J. even finished. “I doubt that’s what the magazine article had in mind.”
“Oh, come on. What could be more of an adventure than acting out a sexual fantasy?”
With the men she’d dated, lawyers in a relatively small community where her father was an Associate Justice for the Appellate Court, a part of her had held back, unable to fully give or accept pleasure. The last thing she’d needed in her bid for Commissioner was any kind of locker room talk about how she acted in bed.
But with a sexy stranger who didn’t know her and therefore couldn’t judge her, maybe she’d be able to let go and lose some of her self-control. With her fantasy man, she could discover and explore her sensuality. She could be a bad girl indulging in decadent pleasures.
Just the thought made Rei’s pulse jump and her nerves tingle. She wanted to feel the sensual thrill of a man’s hands and tongue and body touching her, stroking her, pleasing her in exactly the way she desired. To finally experience the hot, primal excitement of wild, uninhibited sex. That would be the most daring adventure of all….
Rei set the List aside. “I don’t know if I could actually go through with an affair, but I’ll at least be open to the possibility.”
“Okay, that’s a good start.” With a surprised gasp, P.J. pulled a red and black outfit from the closet. “Oh, yeah. I forgot about this. This is what you should put on for tonight!”
