“You’re a journalist?” She waved away a work colleague who paused in the doorway to hoist a coffee pot invitingly.
“Sports columnist,” he said. “Big surprise, right?”
She had pictured him still playing football somehow. His profile picture certainly indicated he was fit enough for the task.
“Anyway,” said Jason, “the only address I’ve got for you is from a Christmas card you sent a couple years back and I guess I sort of lost it. I didn't want to use one online, because I’d hate for the invitation to get lost...”
“Invitation?” Val frowned, a new wave of confusion flooding her. A small stirring of foreboding which put an end to the blushes over his sudden call.
“Yeah,” he said. “Do you remember that class reunion the school held last May?”
“Ummm…” She stalled for time. She hadn’t gone to her high school reunion for a variety of reasons, but mainly because she was still an office assistant as Corky Simmons had predicted their senior year, and was still sporting a slight spare tire around her waist which her cocktail dress didn't hide.
There was a slim chance in her mind at the time that someone like Jason might be there and that she didn't want to face him as the same old helpful, wide-eyed Val who traded papers with him in chemistry study group.
Was he inviting her to another one? She couldn’t imagine the classmates getting together for something impromptu and hoped another five years would be passing before she would face them as a group. Long enough for her to become a senior event planner, buy the perfect house in Connecticut, maybe even have a serious relationship or engagement.
“I had to work that weekend,” she said, finding the first viable excuse. “I heard it was a real blast though–I mean, some of our old classmates mentioned it on their twitter feeds.”
“Hey, I can’t speak for anyone else,” he said, “but it was pretty much the best day of my life. It’s where I ran into Heather again. You still know Heather Sykes, of course. ”
Heather. As in her best friend from grades four-through-twelve Heather. As in tall, blonde Heather with the perky smile and revolving door of admirers, from whom Val was inseparable from the moment they first played Barbies together in Forest Park's concrete playground.
“Yeah,” she said faintly. “Of course I know Heather. We still talk–” Actually, it had been a long time since their last phone or email exchange, she reflected. Over a year maybe. Heather's form of communication tended to be sporadic and flighty, centered on major events or a desire to vent frustrations.
The gymnasium sounds grew fainter, as if he’d ducked down an empty corridor. “We talked for hours and it turns out we’d both been living in Virginia since college,” he said. “Crazy coincidence, right? So after the reunion we started dating and one thing led to another and well…we’re getting married in June.”
“Wow.” Her lips felt numb as they formed the word.
Was she surprised? Jealous? Surely not–not given all the time that had passed since the three of them were gawky teenagers and high school friends. She fought back her momentary shock quickly enough to add in a warmer tone, “That’s great, Jason. Congratulations.”
“I can’t believe it either.” He was laughing now, excitement audible in his tone as he launched into his story. “There she was, standing right by the big fish tank in the recreation room. They started playing that song we all used to love so much–the one by that band something-or-other–”
“Hootie and the Blowfish,” said Val automatically, the song lyrics to "I Only Want To Be With You" popping into her head. Then blushed as she realized how weird it sounded that she still remembered.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “That’s it. So I worked up the courage to ask her for a dance, and I could tell she wasn’t exactly swept off her feet, but we took to the floor ...”
Val’s head sank slowly onto her desk as the voice on the other end continued on. Her head snapped back to attention as he finished with, “…and when I mentioned that note I gave her back in ninth grade, well, it just seemed kind of destined.”
Her heart dropped, her eyes growing wide. “The note?” she echoed. Oh, no. Not the note. Please, please don’t let it be what I’m thinking…
A Chick-Lit Austenesque Romance, A Modern Twist on Pride and Prejudice
Available in Softcover and E-book
Also Available in a special U.K. Edition for fans of British spelling, words, grammar, and slang!
Excerpt from Dear Miss Darcy (U.S. Edition)
“Miss Darcy.” A hand seized her elbow from behind. Instinctively, she yanked it away as she turned around.
“Are you Miss Darcy?” The man’s voice was sharp with urgency as he stared at her. Chiseled cheekbones and an unshaven appearance that screamed carelessness at the two o’ clock hour. He seemed familiar, terribly so; but it was not until she met the forceful grey eyes above that she remembered.
Her opponent from the Brighton Club cocktail meeting.
What on earth was he doing here? Her face flamed with a mix of emotions as the realization struck her, the thought briefly crossed her mind that he had followed her here to finish debating her column.
“I am,” she answered. “And you are?” As she moved a few steps away to create a safe distance now between them.
A pained look crossed his face. “My name is Christopher Stanley,” he answered, speaking with force. “I trust you recognize the name?”
It was her column come to life. Right down to the snobby tone and underlying rage.
“I–” she began, but made it no further before he interrupted.
“The man who wrote the letter you published,” he snapped. “Which I have come here to demand you retract in your next column.” The muscles in his neck worked furiously beneath his open collar, knotted ropes writhing beneath his skin.
After a moment’s pause, she forced a little laugh. “I fail to see what you’re doing here,” she replied. “What on earth do you care? Your name isn’t mentioned in the column at all.”
His eyes grew wider. “What do you mean, not mentioned? It’s practically written in red ink, thanks to the imbecile who left the address on it! Does no one in your department know it’s bad form to leave an address on a printed letter?”
A guilty flush covered her cheeks, even as her voice grew louder to match his own. “I can assure you that the Post’s staff is as informed as the rest of the city press, Mr. Stanley. I dislike the implications of your tone.” They were drawing the attention of the crowd on the steps now; she saw a look of unease cross his face as he noticed a few curious staffers were no longer engrossed in phone calls.
“This is my reputation at stake, Miss Darcy,” he hissed. “You have no right to publish that letter and expose me to ridicule–”
“I have every right,” she retorted. “That letter became my property the moment it arrived at my desk, whether you like it or not. And as to ruining your reputation, that’s rubbish. You expressed an opinion and I expressed one: thus far, we are equal.”
“Certain people I know will identify the ... details you mentioned in your column with me,” he said, lowering his voice despite the urgency in his tone. “I wrote a letter requesting you curtail your enthusiasm and instead you publish it for the world to see, linking my name with some ridiculous allegations.”
His eyes slid away from hers with this last statement. Guilty as charged, she thought.
“I realize you have a reputation of getting what you want,” she answered. “So many people have told me so at this point that I don’t doubt it for a second. But in the future I would suggest you show people more courtesy to avoid the unpleasant side effects of the press.”
She turned away from him, climbing the steps to the building entrance. “I’m sure Miss Cottingley would agree with me,” she added over her shoulder, taking care that her statement was audible to the rest of the crowd. Surely this would be enough to send him packing for good.
With a speed th
at astonished her, he took the steps two at a time and cut her off before she reached the door. “Will you or won’t you issue a retraction?” he demanded. The scowl on his face was meant to frighten–and probably did, when it came to the business bargaining table.
Mustering her courage, she allowed a spark of defiance to creep into her voice. “I can’t understand how someone as arrogant as you has charmed hordes of women into spending an evening in his company,” she replied.
For a moment, she thought she detected a slight hesitation in his face. Pushing past him, she took the opportunity to disappear inside, the door swinging closed behind her as she crossed the lobby in swift steps towards the stairs. Not risking the lift in case he chose to follow her all the way to her desk with his complaints.
Glancing back, she saw him standing in the same spot as before, head bowed towards the pavement as one hand raked through his hair in frustration. Without bothering to look towards the door, he brushed past two curious coworkers and stormed down the steps to the street below.
For his sake she hoped no one had recognized him. It would be one less threat to gnaw at his precious reputation.
Excerpt from New Year’s Resolutions:
Her hair was light, almost aglow in the theatrical haze from above; he could see the profile of her face, the upturned nose and lips in dark plum. After a moment, he realized he had been staring at her for several minutes. She glanced from the stage towards the balcony seats, her head angled towards the box above. Henry felt as if she might look into his eyes at any moment and reproach him for his rudeness. Hastily, he withdrew, sitting upright with a sudden motion that jarred Seth.
“What, man?” His friend kept his voice low, still prompting a shushing sound from someone in the seat behind him.
Henry flushed, despite the cover of darkness. “I think this girl below thought I was staring at her,” he whispered.
“Were you?” Seth asked. There was no surprise in his voice, although there was a hint of curiosity.
Henry hesitated. “Maybe,” he answered. “I mean, yes–I guess I was.”
He leaned forward again, aware that Seth was leaning with him, as if the two of them were studying the stage more closely. Seth’s eyes peered into the darkness below with interest.
“To the left,” Henry whispered. “Next to the woman in the sequined jacket.”
“Which one?” Seth asked. By now, more than one person was making shushing noises, including Dolores. Henry could see Seth’s focus trained on a narrow-faced woman in a white jacket studded with clear beads before his eyes shifted to the girl in blue.
“There,” whispered Henry. Below them, the woman in the blue dress was whispering to the couple next to her, no longer paying attention to the opera onstage.
“Not bad,” said Seth. Henry snorted.
“It’s dark–you can’t even see her face,” he answered. A sharp tug on his jacket sleeve pulled him back, Dolores giving him an exasperated glance.
“Sorry,” he whispered to her. Onstage, the soprano’s plaintive voice rose to a crescendo in return for an enthusiastic round of applause. Henry rose dutifully, although he had hardly noticed the quality of the performance. A glance to the side showed him that Seth’s date was now asleep, her program slipping from her fingers to the pool of maroon fabric at her feet.
“Hey, isn’t it almost break time–” Seth began, raising his voice louder to be audible over the applause.
“Intermission,” Henry corrected.
“Whatever,” said Seth. “Anyway, you should look for her. Out in the lobby. Maybe she’ll talk to you.” A hint audible in his voice, although Henry avoided his friend’s eyes as he kept his own trained on the stage.
As the song warbled its way to the end, the curtain lowered. The lights brightened to reveal a restless audience rising from their seats, including Dolores with her handbag.
“Pardon me,” she said, squeezing past Henry and casting a frowning eye at Seth’s dozing companion. Seth reached over and plucked Henry’s sleeve.
“Come on,” he said, tugging him towards the box’s doorway. “Let’s go find her before they turn off the lights again.”
“This is crazy,” said Henry, “I can’t wade through a crowd looking for a stranger–”
“Hey, she’s pretty, you’re single, maybe it’s meant to be,” shrugged Seth. “Come on, let’s go meet her.” By now, Henry was letting himself be towed towards the stairs, the crowd of patrons filtering to the main floor.
To his surprise, he felt a strange tingle of excitement. Almost as if Seth’s crazy plan might be the spark his love life really needed.
Best Man Page 14
