* * *
THE NEXT MORNING the phone woke Chloe and for a flashing moment she wished and hoped. But even before picking up the receiver, in her heart of hearts she knew better.
“This is a warning call,” Tess said, hurriedly. “Rosie’s in tears and she’s going to call you. I have to go to work, but I told her you’d be available today.”
Chloe looked at the clock. Five forty-five. Who the hell had died?
It wasn’t precisely a death, but as near to one as Rosie could handle. Or in her case, in the immediacy of her crisis, not handle. She was sobbing so hard when she called a second later that Chloe had to say, like they do in movies or in therapy sessions, “Take a deep breath, Rosie, count to three, and then tell me what happened.”
“The bastard,” Rosie said in a hiccupy little half-sob.
Must be Markie Mark, Chloe thought. The description fits.
“I went to surprise him with breakfast this morning before he woke up to go to work and found him—”
Loud, heaving sobs resumed and Chloe figured out the end of the sentence. “In bed with another woman,” she filled in.
“The fucking bastard!”
That was better. The sobs had been replaced by outrage. “Do you want to come over?” Chloe asked. “I’ll go get us some lattes from the coffee shop on Marshall. I’m home today, anyway,” she added, when she really should work. But Rosie and Tess had been there for her in every crisis of her life since the third grade. It was the least she could do.
“Do you mind? I can’t go to school today with my eyes so red. The little kids would wonder.”
Rosie taught kindergarten and adored children. “I don’t mind at all. I’m between things right now, anyway,” Chloe lied. “By the time you get here, I’ll be back with the lattes. A chocolate croissant or an almond-paste one?”
“Both.”
“Sounds good to me. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.” Chloe leaped out of bed, threw on some sweats, ran the two blocks to Marshall, returned at a more sedate fast walk with the coffees and food. Setting everything out on the small table in her sunporch, Chloe went back downstairs to wait for Rosie outside.
When Rosie pulled up and got out of her car, she burst into tears.
Chloe hugged her tight, helped her upstairs, got her seated on the sunporch, handed her a croissant and coffee, pushed the box of Kleenex closer and said, “Men can be such bastards.”
Rosie nodded, tears streaming down her face, her mouth filled with chocolate croissant.
“You’ll find someone better, sweetie.” And Chloe meant it with all her heart. Markie Mark was the biggest asshole she’d ever met. An up-and-coming lawyer who prided himself on his buff body—hence hers and Tess’s derisive nickname—he’d been cheating on Rosie forever—since their first date in college. Mark Olson had brought Rosie, who was already in luvv, back to the dorm and then gone to pick up a girl he’d met in the bar. Everyone knew it but Rosie. And his cheating had only escalated as he’d become increasingly successful.
“I have to give back his engagement ring,” Rosie said with a sigh, pulling out a Kleenex from the box and wiping her eyes. “I told him I never wanted to see him again.”
“Keep the ring. He owes you. I think Miss Manners might okay you keeping it too. We could check if you want, but don’t rush into giving it back.” Chloe viewed the ring as a partial payment—like five dollars for every time the horse’s ass had cheated. Rosie’s two-carat diamond was worth maybe twelve–fifteen thousand, which would be just about right, she guessed, at five bucks a shot.
“It was terrible, Chloe,” Rosie whispered, her bottom lip beginning to tremble again. “He just looked at me like—what are you doing here? Like I didn’t have the right.”
“You have every right to be there; you’ve been engaged for a year. He was just blustering because you caught him in the act. It’s not your fault, sweetie.” Leaning over, Chloe patted Rosie’s shoulder. “No way it’s your fault that he’s screwing around with another woman.”
Rosie sniffed and sighed again. “You’re right. I know you’re right. He’s just been a part of my life for so long. Since sophomore year . . .”
Rosie was a pretty little blonde, one of those curly-haired, petite women who smiled a lot and always said nice things about people and didn’t deserve a schmuck like Mark Olson. “Look. We’re both single now. I got over Sebastian. You’ll get over Mark and we can do a little clubbing now. It’ll be fun.”
“You didn’t even care about Sebastian.”
How did everyone know that but she, Chloe wondered. Was it stamped on her forehead—unfeeling, callous female? “I thought I did,” she said lamely.
“You just liked his apartment at the lake and his boat.”
Why was everyone so damned insightful? “I was always nice to him,” Chloe said in way of defense.
“I know. You’re nice to everyone. You weren’t mean to him, Chloe. You just didn’t look at him like he looked at you.”
“Maybe someday I’ll find someone who knocks me off my feet.” Like last Friday, she thought, with a little lurch of her heart. “In the meantime,” she quickly added, “you and I can check out the available men in town. What’s your preference? Blonde, dark, short, tall, do you like horseback riding and tennis, long walks in the woods or cozy evenings with a glass of wine,” she teased, paraphrasing some of the single’s ads. “Personally, I like someone who’s good in bed, but if you ask, they all say they are.”
“Mark wasn’t very good in bed,” Rosie said, half under her breath.
Holy shit. And it wasn’t as though Rosie had scads of experience with which to make comparisons. “All the more reason to look farther afield,” Chloe suggested with the utmost diplomacy. Should she ask for particulars, or run screaming into the night?
Rosie ran her finger around the rim of her latte cup. “He never lasted very long.”
“That’s not good,” Chloe said in the tone of voice a therapist would use, bland and nonjudgmental, leaving the door open for further disclosures should the client wish.
“I hardly ever had an orgasm.”
After the hundreds she’d had that weekend, Chloe felt a great sadness—for her friend and in turn for herself. Because she wasn’t likely to be that lucky again. “I know phrases like ‘it’s for the best’ aren’t very comforting when you feel as sad as you do. But, sweetie, you deserve someone so much better.” Chloe had always felt protective toward Rosie. She’d always been so naïve and trusting—probably why she got along so well with five-year-olds. Chloe viewed the world with a slightly more jaundiced—or practical—eye, she liked to think. “Tess and you and I will scope out the dating scene and find us some fine young stuff. It’ll take your mind off your troubles.”
“Tess is all in love. She’s not going to want to go out.”
“Sure she will. Haven’t we gone out with her when we didn’t feel like it?”
Rosie smiled. “About a thousand times.”
That smile was a good beginning, Chloe thought. Sayonara, lying, cheating Markie Mark. “For instance,” Chloe murmured, with an answering smile, “Tess and Dave are going to some party Thursday at some artist’s supposedly stupendous studio on Lake Minnetonka. I say we tag along. You know those artist types. They’re always ready for something unconventional.”
Rosie’s eyes flared wide. “I’m not unconventional, Chloe.”
“I know, I know. I meant it should be fun. A great house on the lake, arty talk, drinks—what’s to complain about? You love museums.”
“I just saw the new show at the Institute. It was wonderful.”
“See? You’re all set. I’m going to call Tess right now. See what we have to wear.” On her serious quest for a man for Rosie, Chloe wasn’t about to waste any time. She called Tess at work, explained their plan and hung up three minutes later. “It’s a done deal. Casual dress, cocktails at five, a buffet at seven, boating in the moonlight if you’re so inclined. A yacht, no less. Thi
s artist must have a trust fund. I have the address. I’ll pick you up at four-thirty.”
Rosie sat up a little straighter and offered Chloe another tentative smile. “You always go after what you want. I’ve always admired that in you.”
“Sometimes. Not always,” Chloe replied, thinking of the man she desperately wanted, who she couldn’t have. Even for sex. “But hey, we’re going to have a good time Thursday night. Now what do you want to do today? Should we go shopping, go to a museum, drink away our troubles at Chino’s, watch old movies and eat truffles? You decide.”
They sort of settled on a combination, ending the day at Chino’s happy hour where Tess joined them. It was girls’ night out, although they made it an early night since everyone had to work in the morning.
TEN
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, CHLOE WAS IN her office by seven. Her voicemail was overflowing, several messages from Bill Martell in the mix, which had come after she’d left yesterday. His tone had sounded a little desperate by the last message. Diversified was adding a contest to their Crunchies web site and needed her to come in and talk to them ASAP.
She immediately called him; he was in his office at seven-fifteen.
An hour later, dressed in a black linen skirt suit—not too short—and simple black pumps—not too high—she was pulling into the parking lot at Diversified Foods. Bill and several colleagues explained what they needed and the urgency of their timing and asked how soon they could expect a mock-up.
The money was good. She could shift her other projects. “I’ll have something for you by Friday.”
They were definitely beaming when she left. Not only lost in her thoughts with several ideas for the web site jostling in her brain, but digging in her briefcase for her car keys, she accidently bumped into someone as she walked out of Bill’s office.
“Sorry.” She spoke automatically before she looked up, her smile of apology half-formed on her face where it froze. “I wasn’t . . . looking—I mean—” Her voice trailed off. She’d never seen Rocco in a suit; he could have graced the cover of GQ. Navy-blue pin stripe, white shirt, a tie in a gorgeous shade of celadon, the soft silk melting into a Windsor knot, and of course, his handsome face—now wearing a shocked and/or wary expression.
“If you think I’m following you or stalking you, I’m not,” she said quickly, his silence intimidating.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“That look. I could tell.”
“What look?” Rocco’s expression went completely blank.
“I just had a meeting with Bill Martell. He called me yesterday for a rush order. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”
“Bill never mentioned it.”
The “or” was left unsaid, she thought. “The meeting went well,” she blurted out and immediately wished she’d not spoken.
“Good.”
Feeling clumsy and maladroit, particularly before the polished executive who was a complete stranger from the man she’d known this weekend, she half-lifted her hand in a wave. “Well—nice seeing you.”
“Sure.”
The awkwardness was palpable; he hadn’t moved.
“See ya.” Clutching her briefcase, she turned away, wishing she could disappear into the floor and not have to walk all the way to the elevator under his gaze. She’d taken two steps when she remembered his money clip. Swinging around, she said, “You forgot your money clip at my place.”
“That’s all right.”
“There’s quite a bit of money in it. Would you like me to send it to you?”
He didn’t answer for another awkward moment. “No. Just forget it.”
Well, that was a brush-off if she’d ever heard one. He was leaving six hundred dollars behind because he didn’t want anything more to do with her. “Okay.” She could be blasé too, and turning, she strode away.
If she would have looked back, she would have seen him watching her.
But she didn’t, because she was saying “fuck you” in a heated undertone all the way to the elevator.
He waited until the elevator doors closed on Chloe before he moved, as though needing a three-inch steel barrier to keep him from giving in to temptation. He should have been more cordial, less stiff. He should have said, “Sure, send my money clip back,” like it didn’t matter. But the last two days had been so harrowing, he hadn’t dared relax his guard or have the slightest contact with her.
Since Monday morning, he’d thought of Chloe nonstop. He’d picked up the phone a hundred times to call her. His mind had been so distracted by memories of their weekend together, by the torment of his yearning, that his secretary had asked him more than once whether he was coming down with something when he didn’t respond to her. He’d made some vague response about feeling a little under the weather. What the hell could he say? That he might be in love with a woman he’d met four days ago? That he was as mixed up as an adolescent with a first infatuation? That all he could think about was making love to a woman who viewed sex with the same degree of casualness as he? He hated that thought most because it made him wonder who she was with—now. Or who she might be with tomorrow. He was eaten up with jealousy and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
Anthony and Mary Beth were counting on him. He couldn’t jeopardize their or his huge financial commitment for sex with someone he’d met last Friday.
He wasn’t that stupid.
He wasn’t that desperate.
He had enough self-control to stay away from Chloe.
Because, let’s face it, even if it was love—and he wasn’t willing to admit something so really fucking bizarre—this wasn’t the time to indulge himself.
ELEVEN
THURSDAY WAS ONE OF THOSE DAYS.
First, she had to get Bill’s web-site contest screen more-or-less finished because he wanted it Friday. And if she was going out Thursday night with Rosie, she might not feel like getting up at the crack of dawn to put any finishing touches on it.
Which meant she’d gotten up at the crack of dawn today.
It was now three in the afternoon, and Tess had only called twenty thousand times about the evening ahead. You’d think she was the hostess. But apparently she was concerned about impressing Dave—not much of a problem there, Chloe would have thought, considering the guy never wore anything but jeans. Nevertheless, Chloe had to assure Tess that she and Rosie would not only dress properly, but behave properly. She promised not to hang from any chandeliers or take off her clothes—hardly in her repertoire . . . well, maybe that once when they’d skinny-dipped at a college party, but Tess had been right behind her—or discuss her mother’s propensity for collecting salt-and-pepper shakers from every state in the Union. Which reminded her; her mother had also called twenty thousand times today. Something about Aunt Grace and the pool boy at the club which almost made her want to say to her mother, “Good for Aunt Grace.” But of course, she wouldn’t say that when her mother was so upset.
So it had been a day from hell.
But she’d finished the contest page for the web site, and if she said so herself, it looked damned good.
And as an added bonus, she’d been so busy working and taking phone calls that she hadn’t had time to think of Rocco more than, say, a hundred eighty-two times.
Really—practically—hardly at all.
She glanced at the clock.
Now to peruse her wardrobe and select something suitable to pass Tess’s stringent standards tonight.
She chose a chartreuse pique halter-top dress, utterly simple in design. Not a ruffle or button or bow anywhere. She picked out a pair of lavender strappy heels and placed a bunch of silk lilac flowers at her waist. No earrings, no jewelry, she debated a bag and decided against it. The evening was casual. What the hell did she need that she couldn’t leave in her car?
Rosie was ready at four-thirty when Chloe picked her up.
She was sort of stiff-upper-lipped, but not crying, and dressed in a white linen pantsuit with braid t
rim that made her look suitably nautical for boating.
“I’m in a good mood,” Chloe said. “I finished my web page today. I’m allowing myself to have two drinks tonight. Tess has given me orders.”
Rosie smiled wanly. “Thanks for taking me.”
“You look like you could use a drink, and I’ll bet Tess didn’t call you and warn you about overdrinking.”
That brought a real smile. “I never overdrink.”
“Perhaps, therein lies the problem,” Chloe said facetiously. “Although, I’m afraid tonight such behavior is verboten. Orders from Tess Carlson and her newly acquired moral code. Doesn’t she know Dave drinks like a fish?”
“Everyone else knows.”
So Rosie wasn’t a complete babe in the woods after all. Chloe had never quite understood whether she chose to overlook Mark’s infidelity or didn’t realize he was unfaithful. “It’s so hard to find that perfect man, isn’t it,” she teased.
“We’ll see what’s on the market tonight,” Rosie said, with a new lightness to her voice. “I might have more than one glass of wine after all.”
“Tess said this artist’s house is huge so he throws really big parties. We should be able to find someone interesting in a crowd that size. And there’s always the band. Tess claims he knows every musician in the Cities. You play the piano better than anyone I know. Maybe the piano player will be cute.”
Rosie sat up a little straighter. “I met a piano player at Nye’s one night who was really good and sooo handsome.” She grimaced. “But Mark made us leave early.”
“Because you were having fun—that’s why. You and I can have fun tonight and do whatever we like.”
“I’m not the same do-whatever-you-like type as you, Chloe.”
“I’m not saying we have to do the same things. But freedom’s nice—you have to admit. No one to tell you what to do. No one to please. No one to say, ‘Do you really want to see that movie?’ when you do.”
Rosie smiled. “You’re talking about Sebastian, aren’t you?”
“No kidding. I love movies, and all he ever wanted to see was special-effects science-fiction shit. If I went to his movies, you’d think he could have gone to mine.”
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