2 Busy 4 Love

by Lucy Hepburn

  Christy did as she was told. There, covering the entire back cover, was a list of addresses. Along the top of the back cover was the line, ‘Clint’s—the East Coast’s Finest Dining Experience. And along the bottom, the words, Proud Owner: Aaron Stockland.

  Christy looked up at him. She felt her eyes growing huge. “You own all of these restaurants?”

  He nodded, clearly very proud. “I do, yes.”

  “That’s wonderful! And if this one’s anything to go by, they must be a real addition to any community.”

  “Thank you. But listen, Christy—may I call you Christy?”

  “Of course.”

  “I asked Duncan a few questions about you, and he was very helpful once I convinced him I wasn’t after your honor.”

  “Hey!” she giggled, warming to him even more.

  “And I think the sort of service you offer with Doorman dot com is just what my business is lacking.”

  “Oh, really? What can I do for you?” She got out her trusty pen and paper and got herself ready to write down the details of the assignment.

  “No, no, you don’t understand. I’m not saying that I need you to do anything specific; it’s something more general, more permanent. I’m not making much sense, am I?”

  “Not really,” she said, in the politest way she knew how,

  “I need a fixer like you, Christy, to look after issues like the supply one today, whenever they come up.”

  “I can do that, sure.” This sounded promising—good, regular business.

  “Only this time I want your help across the entire chain.”

  What?

  “How does that sound?”

  Christy could have leapt for joy. “How does that sound? Aaron, it sounds great! That’s just the sort of thing I do, and do well, if that doesn’t sound arrogant.”

  “Not remotely,” he grinned. “Listen, it’s a big commitment I’d be looking for. You work on your own, right? My requirements might be too much for just one person. You’d probably need an assistant, maybe even more than one.”

  Christy’s head was spinning, but she knew one thing: if today had taught her anything, it was the value of having help. Human help. And growing her business had always been her dream—only she’d never dared hope it would happen as fast as this!

  “Leave it to me, Mr. Stockland.” She adopted her most businesslike tone. “Doorman dot com would be more than happy to be of assistance. You won’t be disappointed, I promise.”

  They shook on it. “I know,” her newest, biggest client replied. “And please, call me Aaron.”

  7:45 p.m.

  Warmed a little by the new business and the glass of wine, Christy strode through the wet, bustling streets back toward Penn Station, where, it seemed, all of her troubles had begun. Her mood seesawed between euphoria about the Clint’s contract and severe gloom about losing her beloved apartment. And then, of course, there was always Will. What of Will?

  Her insides churned when she thought about him. No sooner had she left Clint’s than she wanted to call him and share with him the wonderful news, just as she had wanted to call him to unburden her disappointment the moment Mr. Simpson had told her he wasn’t going to reserve an apartment for her after all. He would have understood both the high and the low, she knew that. And she couldn’t call him.

  She didn’t have his number.

  She could get in touch with him via Annie, of course, and she’d need to at some point to thank him for all his help. But for now, in terms of continuing their non-existent relationship, it was time to back off. It seemed such a deflating prospect.

  Penn Station had an eerie feel about it when she finally got there at around 7:45. At first she couldn’t work out what it was, but then she saw: all of the train information boards had blacked out—there was nothing to tell anyone which train went where, or from what platform, or at what time. People were milling around like lost sheep, cell phones clamped to their ears, darting this way and that, searching for information.

  “No!” Christy wailed aloud. “I’m never going to make it to the party.” She knew, with a disgusted shake of her head, that her iPhone would have provided her with all of the train information she could ever want at the touch of a couple of buttons. It was as if the entire technological community was conspiring against her to make her day—and now her evening—as hard as possible.

  She tried to recall which platform she’d left from that morning, but there were trains standing at every single one, and not one of them advertised a destination that she recognized on the illuminated signs above their driver’s windows.

  So she stood in the center of the platform and let the world roll around her. Almost, but not quite, ready to scream.

  But then a thought came to her. What was that she’d seen on her iPhone this morning? Didn’t Mrs. Dallaglio’s son work here? What was his name again—Pietro?

  “Right!”

  Nobody paid her any attention as she shrugged her purse high up on her shoulder, marched toward the door marked ‘Strictly Staff Only,’ and knocked hard upon it.

  The Asian man who opened it looked none too happy to see her.

  “We know nothing,” he growled. “Wait for the boards to reboot like everyone else, lady.”

  Christy was suddenly quite thrilled to find that her volatile state of mind had metamorphosed, in the nick of time, into the guise of a woman not to be messed with. She drew herself up into her most imposing stance and addressed the man as though from a great distance.

  “Sir, I need to speak to Pietro Dallaglio. It’s important. Please.”

  Astonishingly it seemed to work. The man backed away almost immediately with barely a sneer, half closing the door as he did so. A choking stench of cigarette smoke followed him.

  Pietro Dallaglio was a different sort altogether. Around nineteen years old, he was slightly built and geekily handsome. He saw her and, after a flash of confusion crossed his face, smiled in greeting, revealing perfect teeth.

  “Hey, do I know you?”

  “Um, no. I kind of pulled rank.” Christy quickly explained who she was and how she knew his mother, which, miraculously, did the trick.

  He rolled his eyes. “Mom wants me to be a lawyer,” he smiled, “but all I ever wanted to do was drive trains.”

  “Good for you,” Christy answered, smiling warmly. “I think my mom wants me to work in a big glass office with in-house hairdressing…either that, or be settled down in suburbia with a couple of kids.”

  “Nothing wrong with any of that,” the young man said quietly, before seeming to remember something. “Hey, I have heard of you—are you Miss Universe?”

  “Excuse me?” Christy gave him a quizzical look.

  “You are, aren’t you? You’re the girl Mom talks about who keeps her entire universe under control. Miss Universe.”

  Christy found she had no response to that whatsoever.

  “You didn’t know she called you Miss Universe, did you?”

  She shook her head.

  He made an embarrassed face. “Anyhow, yes, well, okay, did you realize I can recite pretty much the entire schedule for this station and let you in on the best offers from the lounge cars as well?”

  “No, but I’m glad to hear it,” Christy giggled.

  “So where do you need to get to?”

  “New Brunswick, please.”

  “Follow me.” He led her through the increasingly angry crowds, through a turnstile that Christy had never seen before, and directly onto a train. “Here you go, leaves in thirty seconds. Twenty-nine, twenty-eight…” he stepped off, counting down as he walked away.

  “Thank you so much!” Christy exclaimed, noting with relief that this train, unlike the morning one, was almost empty. “You are a gentleman, Pietro.”

  Pietro Dallaglio gave an exaggerated salute and was gone.

  Christy sat down and closed her eyes just as the train began to move away from the
platform with a reassuring judder. She shook her head. Was everything connected in life, she wondered? If you just switched off your phone and bothered to look around?

  8:45 p.m.

  “Hey, Annie, you brought the station wagon. Does Mom know?” Christy and her sister greeted one another at New Brunswick station with a double kiss, a habit they had begun as a joke with their school friends in high school and never managed to break. Annie stood at the driver’s door of their mother’s giant purple station wagon, cute in her minidress and pumps. She hopped back into the driver’s seat.

  “Funny,” Annie smiled. “Mine’s low on gas, so I went home to get Mom’s. Get in.” It seemed as if, like Christy, Annie was putting their argument to one side. For now.

  “Are you kidding?” Christy spluttered. “You’re not driving. I always drive.”

  Annie was saved from having to reply by her cell phone ringing, but she gave her sister her best trademark filthy look instead.

  “Antonio? Oh, hey, baby!” Annie squealed with joy and began speaking rapid-fire Italian into the phone, bouncing up and down on the seat in excitement.

  When the call ended, she leapt back out of the driver’s seat and pulled Christy into a hug, her eyes shining.

  “Mom took him home to get ready for tonight and he’s on his way now. Oh, Christy, I can’t wait to see him! Go on, then, you drive, I’m far too excited!”

  “Finally!” Christy exclaimed, though she couldn’t help smiling at the sight of her sister in such a state of bliss. Annie tossed her the keys and skipped around to the other side of the car.

  A small sense of resignation was beginning to creep over Christy, which she tried to nurture as she reasoned with herself during the drive. Okay, so she’d lost Will—not that she ever had him—and she’d lost her apartment, that much was certain. But there was nothing she could do about either scenario. For a control freak, that was hard to take. But if the day had taught her anything, it was that ‘control’ wasn’t always the available option.

  Still, she’d gained some new business and her sister was deliriously happy. For now, that would be enough. She would have to do her best to enjoy the party, she decided, give herself over to being there for Annie and to enjoying her party. She and her mother would just have to be the glamorous singles and dance with all the elderly uncles and peculiar cousins…hey, life could be worse.

  8:58 p.m.

  “Who’s that?” Annie asked as Christy steered their mother’s car up to the door of the Brunswick Park Hotel.

  Christy peered up ahead. A large, sleek black car was parked by the doorway. There was discreet writing on the side, too small to be made out.

  “Don’t know,” Christy replied, and then she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh!”

  A tall, middle-aged man was standing by the car, leaning against the driver’s door, enjoying a smoke. And then she could read the writing on the car: ‘Executive Airport Transport and City Discovery Tours.’

  “Mr. Grace,” Christy drew alongside and quickly wound the driver’s window down. “What a surprise!” Although she knew as she said it that, in all probability, nothing would ever surprise her anymore. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but, well, what on earth are you doing here?”

  He seemed delighted to see her. “Been helping deliver some of the Santori clan to the party.” He beamed. “Great people.”

  Christy gasped. “Wh…you mean Antonio brought his family with him?”

  Roger nodded.

  “Excuse me.” Nina clearly couldn’t contain herself any longer. At the mention of Antonio’s name, Nina jumped from the car and ran toward the building. “Nice to meet you, sir, and thank you!” she called over her shoulder. But then, halfway up the steps, she stopped, whirled around, and yelled at Christy.

  “Hey, sis! My red dress is in the trunk—you know, the one I always said looked better on you?”

  “Oh, I won’t need—” Christy stopped. Annie’s red dress was drop-dead gorgeous.

  “Okay, I might just visit the powder room before I hit the party!” she called back before climbing out of the car and running around to greet Roger properly.

  “Thank you so much,” she smiled, kissing his cheek shyly. “For all you’ve done for us.” Then she reached into her bag, drew out his phone, and returned it to him. “It was a lifesaver,” she said earnestly. “Truly.”

  “A pleasure,” he reassured her. And then, after a short pause, he made as though to get back into his car.

  A flash of alarm overtook her. “Don’t go!” she cried. “Come to the party—at least introduce me to Antonio’s family, for one thing.”

  “You sure?” She could tell he was wrestling with himself.

  “Of course I’m sure. Please?”

  He nodded. “Then I’d love to. Just let me put the car around back and call my daughter—she worries about me.”

  Hearing this, Christy knew that her first impressions of him were right—he was a nice guy. She’d met a lot of them today.

  9:10 p.m.

  Christy came out of the bathroom, where she’d quickly shimmied into her sister’s dress and reapplied her makeup, and was accosted by her mother. “Christy! You made it! Here, have your right arm back.”

  Her mother rushed over to greet her, pressing her precious iPhone into her hands. Christy felt its beloved contours in her palm and smiled. Thank goodness. She felt whole again.

  But hang on…no, she didn’t. There was something missing. She wasn’t quite so happy to have her phone back as she thought she would be.

  She couldn’t think about Will, not this evening. But the phone was like a link, a connection. He’d been holding it all day, talking to her through it, and now? Now she didn’t have any connection with him at all.

  “Look, sweetie, over there.”

  At the edge of the room, in the only quiet corner, Annie and Antonio were kissing. Christy caught her breath when she saw them. They were clearly so very much in love—it almost made her day worthwhile.

  Almost.

  Despite herself, despite the joy she felt for her sister, there was still a hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach that she just couldn’t shake off.

  It was Will, she had to admit it. She wanted him. If only he were here, too—it would have been fitting somehow, after the day they’d shared.

  She shook her head to try and dispel the thought. A nice guy…a moment in time…a brief encounter…maybe she’d send him a card, or something, in the future, but really, when everything was said and done, there was no practical reason for them ever to meet again.

  There was that gnawing pain again.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  WILL

  9:10 p.m.

  Typically, Carl had slipped away. After he and Will had arrived at the Brunswick Park Hotel along with Antonio and his parents, he muttered something to Will about ‘something he had to check up on,’ pulled his tattered leather briefcase from the trunk of his car, and disappeared. But he hadn’t left the building; Will could still see his car from his vantage point in the quiet corner where he stood, nursing a drink. Alone.

  Maybe he should have gotten on that train home after all.

  Only minutes before, both he and his father had been mobbed by enthusiastic partygoers, all of whom wanted to congratulate and thank them for getting Antonio and his family safely from the airport. Will had tried to shrug off the praise or at least deflect it on to his father. It was his dad, after all, who had supplied the transport, and Will—well, he had other reasons for tagging along to the party. Now he felt like a fraud.

  As soon as he politely could, he had ducked away from the crowds. And, half hidden by the very same plant that he had earlier evicted from its pot, he felt embarrassed and stupidly nervous.

  I haven’t felt this way since high school, he realized, catching sight of his reflection in the darkened window. He looked exactly how he felt: tired, dejected, standing on the s
idelines, imagining a faint air of desperation clinging to him like an old coat. What was he doing, tagging along tonight? If Christy had been interested in seeing him again, no way would she have sent her mother to the airport in her place. She would have come herself.

  “It was all in your head, Will,” he whispered aloud, shaking his head and wondering whether just to leave quietly by a back exit. He took another big swig of his drink. The decorations had been completed in the function room: balloons, streamers, ribbons, and flashing lights were all around him, champagne sat on ice, tables were set for dinner, and the glitter ball above the dance floor revolved in a shimmering enticement to hit the floor and boogie to the music.

  And what music! Right now it was The Gypsy Kings, and, in the short time that Will had been standing in the room, the mood had not shifted from that heavy, Latin rhythm. One minute it was Gloria Estefan, the next some Spanish—or could it be Italian?—salsa beat that got even Will’s reluctant foot tapping. This was not the sort of party to be at without a dance partner.

  And then, suddenly—there she was. Will had to look twice, then a third time, to make sure he wasn’t imagining things.

  No, that was definitely Christy. And she looked a hundred, a thousand times more beautiful than his memory had allowed himself to recall. That red dress—wow! Just…wow…

  He took a step out of the shadows and then stopped, feeling even more awkward, which hardly seemed possible. What would he do? Getting to her would mean crossing the empty dance floor, unless he skirted around the side, clinging to the walls like some sort of spy.

  No, that would be weird.

  Another swig of his drink gave him valuable thinking time. My, she was a gorgeous girl. Right now she was looking kind of flushed and radiant—like someone who’d had quite a day. But…so…beautiful!

  Okay, he had to go see her. This minute—why else was he here? Courage!

  Straightening his back, he downed his drink, set his glass down on the earth beneath the plant he’d been hiding behind, and began to stride toward her.