It wasn’t the death knell of her career, but people would hear that she’d lost the swimsuit issue. Soon, not this year but probably next, her contracts would start to go down instead of up in both money and frequency. She hadn’t worked this hard to become second-rate. Even if Victoria’s Secret renewed her as their signature model, the writing was on the wall.
She moved along the edge of the room to find a chair in which to sit, her équilibre was not being reliable at the moment.
Russell, of course, chose that moment to emerge from around the gently flickering fireplace and step in front of her.
She sighed and strengthened her shields.
“Wow! You look like you’ve just been gut-punched, Melanie. What’s up?”
Russell. Of course. The one person who could see when she was upset. Kind, frequently oblivious, and married to Cassidy Knowles instead of to herself. Russell didn’t know everything about her but he knew more than anyone else ever had. Ever. Including how to read the Ice Queen’s true emotions if her guard had slipped in the slightest.
There was a time that hadn’t been true, but her single failure at making their relationship a lasting one had changed everything, and now he could read her when no others understood. She had been the one to make the mistake of falling in love with him; he had been the one to not notice and leave her behind.
“I appear to have just lost my boyfriend and the next swimsuit issue in the same ten minutes.” The shock of saying it aloud cut her inside, despite wearing her cloak of calm for the rest of the world.
“Carlo dumped you? Where is that shit? I’ll kick his damned ass for being so stupid.” Russell was tall, taller than she was if she hadn’t been wearing heels, and began scanning the crowd looking for him.
“Already on his way to Italy, I fear.”
“Does he have any idea what he just threw away? Asshole.” He sounded truly pissed on her behalf.
Melanie smiled to herself. Although Russell had done the same to her, worse because she’d been in love with him as she’d never been with Carlo di Stefano, he was ready to leap to her defense. She pulled Russell close for just a moment, to share an instant of his strength, then kiss him on the cheek.
“Hey, no falling for my husband.” Cassidy came over to join them, she said it with a smile.
“Excusez-moi. Too late.” Melanie could have bitten off her own tongue. Not that it was a secret, for Melanie had told Jo and whatever one of the three friends knew, they all knew. But the truth behind her words shifted her light joke over closer to envy.
Cassidy’s gentle hand of sympathy on Melanie’s arm made it both better and worse. The understanding was kind though, and Cassidy was always kind to the very core.
“What’s going on that’s made Russell so angry?”
Melanie told her.
“You lost the swimsuit contract?” Cassidy sounded deeply shocked on Melanie’s behalf. She at least understood which bit of news was actually important.
“Wait,” Russell spun to face her from his continued search for the departed Carlo. “You what? Crap! Is Sue even dumber than Carlo?” Melanie had met Russell while working on a swimsuit issue, had become a key model for Russell Morgan Inc., and shared his bed for almost a year. “I’ll give her a call and—”
“And,” Cassidy interrupted his growing tirade, “ruin any chance of her ever working with Sue again. No, Russell.” Though she was half a head shorter than Russell and looked even more slender than she was when compared with his broad-shouldered frame, it was clear that Cassidy was indeed the right wife for him. She smoothed out Russell’s hair-trigger emotions so effortlessly that neither of them probably noticed. They were that much in sync. Like Perrin and Bill, they were each so much better together than apart. Melanie would have gotten right up in his face and they’d have gone at it.
Once again, Melanie felt the stab of envy. Would she ever find a man to love her that much?
“Now what the hell am I supposed to do?”
Silence. No one answered. Because no one was there.
Josh Harper stood at the doorway and listened to the odd quality of his voice echoing about his empty Chelsea condo on New York’s Lower West Side. No wife, not anymore according to last week’s small sheaf of papers and a court ruling. No lawyer, done and paid off the following day. Not even a realtor, “Just leave the key on the counter. The new owners will be changing the locks tomorrow anyway.”
He didn’t know anything anymore. The underpinnings of his life had been abruptly pulled when the woman he’d adored had decided she was no longer interested in men, or being married to one. No acrimony. No alimony, their incomes were near enough identical. No hurt, at least on her side, just sadness and apologies and a chaste kiss to end the five happiest years of his life.
With the wondrous and painful insight of perspective, he could now see what she meant, who she really was that neither of them had noticed. But that did nothing to ease the pain. Rather it only added to his sense of feeling foolish. He’d been naïve...or dense…or stupid enough to marry and love a woman who…wanted another woman.
He ran a hand over the Gaggenau cook top where they’d made a thousand meals together, the big double oven that had delivered turkeys and pies to large gatherings of friends. Mostly her friends, he could now see. Mostly women, though she swore that hadn’t been conscious.
Josh still couldn’t understand the echoing emptiness that had so recently been his cozy home. That had included his wife. Worse, she’d known for over half a year but had delayed telling him because she couldn’t figure out how to approach the subject without hurting him.
At least she didn’t have a girlfriend yet, she’d always been true to him just as he had to her.
One thing was clear, he needed a fresh start.
A completely fresh start.
And he could afford one. With his half of the money from the sale of the condo and furnishings, added to his half of their savings, he was set for a while. For several years if he was careful.
Josh pulled out his phone as he stood there at the door with his computer bag over his shoulder, his only constant companion. He’d left a dozen or so boxes, mostly cookbooks, with a storage company that would ship them if he ever figured out where they should go. His other belongings hadn’t even filled the trunk of his BMW waiting for him downstairs. Perhaps he’d been too severe in shedding his past, but that was done now too.
He hit speed dial on his phone. When Shirene answered, he kept it simple.
“I quit.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Joshua. You can’t. You’re my senior editor. Your prose is part of what makes Gourmet Week hum.”
“You have my four emergency articles already on file in case I was sick or something went wrong. Well, it’s gone wrong. Consider them and my unused vacation as my thirty days’ notice.”
“No, Joshua, my friend. For ten years you’ve dedicated your life—”
“To reporting about food. And it was fun. But it’s not what I set out to do in the beginning. It’s not what I want to be doing ten years from now. Call Elric, he’ll come aboard happily and do a great job for you. Give you a fresh viewpoint.”
“But Joshua—”
“I’m so done, Shirene.”
There was a long silence before she finally responded, “If you ever need a job in the industry, I get your first call?”
“You do.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“And if you need a friend to talk to, you call me anytime, day or night?”
“You’re the best, Shirene.” A friend to talk to. That finally gave him an idea of where he was going. “If you’re ever in Seattle, give a shout.”
“Seattle? What the hell’s in Seattle?” Spoken like a true New York publisher.
“Me. Bye.” Josh hung up, tossed the keys on the counter, and closed the door behind him without looking back.
“Josh, buddy! What the hell are you doing here?”
&nbs
p; Josh had chosen a quiet corner in his favorite restaurant, Angelo’s Tuscan Hearth Ristorante in Seattle.
“Eating lunch? How about you?”
“Cooking it. Rush is over now, so I’m taking a break before we switch over to dinner prep.” Angelo scanned the last few occupied tables and dropped dramatically into the opposite chair as if totally wrecked with exhaustion, which he belied a moment later by sitting up quickly and asking, “Why didn’t you come in the back?”
Graziella, the pretty woman who ran front of house, had suggested the same.
Josh shrugged. He’d wanted to just sit. For two years he’d been coming here each time he was in the city. He’d seen it when it was a typical upscale restaurant, and again after Angelo and Russell had transformed it into a Tuscan hearthside with gas fireplaces, understated décor, and Russell’s photography of cliff-side vineyards and quiet donkey-wide Italian streets. Angelo’s cooking had been the only other element needed to rocket the place into the restaurant firmament. His own reviews had been a part of that process.
“Just wanted to sit and enjoy this wonderful place you’ve built.” Tomorrow he’d start his novel. He was gambling his life savings on his ability to pull it off. But he’d give himself one day to just sit in a corner and pretend that he belonged somewhere. Maybe he could pretend, at least to himself, that he was here to review the restaurant like old times.
Old times.
One of the last four articles he’d kept on file with Shirene was a fresh take on this one chef’s influence on the entire country’s standard for Italian-American cuisine and the impossibly high bar Angelo had raised. He’d titled it “The Gauntlet” for the challenge of excellence and creativity that Angelo had thrown down before all other chefs. It was probably coming out this week.
“So, how long you in town?” Angelo signaled Graziella as she swept by and asked her for a bowl of pasta. “Long enough for me to roust the others for a meal? Might take a bit, you missed a hell of a wedding party I threw night before last for Perrin and Bill.”
Josh actually felt the world spin. It was a little disorienting. In the past he would be in Seattle for just twenty-four to forty-eight hours with Gourmet Week’s corporate travel department making the travel and hotel arrangements. He never stayed longer because he always wanted to get back to his wife. His ex-wife. Now his car, not some rental, was parked three blocks away with all of his life stuffed into it.
“Uh, sure, long enough to arrange a meal. Anytime. This week. Next. Whatever.” He knew he wasn’t making a lot of sense, but ten days ago he’d still been in a Chelsea condo on Manhattan’s Lower West Side. Now, he didn’t even know where he’d be sleeping tonight.
Angelo looked at him a bit strangely.
“Hey Angelo,” Russell barged in through the kitchen door carrying a bowl of pasta. The last patrons startled under the abrupt assault of his big, deep voice. “Josh! When did you get in? Missed a hell of a wedding.”
“I already told him.”
Russell dragged over a chair from another table and sat on it backwards. He took a big forkful of the pasta that had probably been for Angelo. Angelo didn’t look the least surprised, he just waved a hand at Graziella as she came out of the kitchen and then indicated Russell eating his pasta. She rolled her eyes and doubled back into the kitchen.
Josh realized that he hadn’t done much damage to his own serving though he’d been sitting here for some time. He took a forkful, but didn’t really taste it.
“I took photos of the wedding buffet for you,” Russell spoke around his food with the skill of much practice. “You know, in case you wanted to do a write-up but were too late to see it all pretty. But you never showed. You did RSVP, didn’t you?” He turned to Angelo, “He did, didn’t he?”
“He did.” They both turned accusing gazes upon him, as if he hadn’t been busy losing his mind all month.
“I’m not with Gourmet Week anymore.” Okay, there was something he certainly hadn’t intended to say out loud anytime soon. It still surprised him.
“Crap, Angelo. There goes one of your biggest fans. Now we’re going to have to break in someone new.”
Angelo just shrugged. “So, who are you writing for now?”
“No one.” He couldn’t breathe; it felt like he’d just jumped off a cliff into nothingness. It was supposed to get easier to say these kind of things.
“God damn it!” Russell almost choked on his spaghetti and booming exclamation combined.
Angelo and Josh both glanced around the dining room, but the last of the midday patrons were gone.
“Did they fire you? Jerks. There’s way too much of that going around.”
Angelo shrugged when Josh glanced at him for clarification.
“No,” Josh paused as Graziella came up.
She set another bowl of pasta in front of Angelo and smacked Russell on the back of the head which only made him smile.
“I quit.”
Graziella had been headed away, but stopped and turned back to look at him.
“Fed up with it?” Russell grinned at his own pun. “Food reviewing gone sour?” He clearly thought he was on a roll.
“Something like that.” The bitterness on his tongue only supported Russell’s teasing.
Angelo and Russell nodded as if that explained everything, which was fine with him. There was plenty of explaining he’d rather not do.
Graziella on the other hand, looked immensely sad. She held up her ring-clad left hand for a moment out of sight of the two guys. It took him a moment to realize that she’d noted the white tan line on his ring finger.
He jerked his own left hand under the table, he still felt naked without the simple circle of gold.
She rested her hand over her heart for a moment and looked incredibly sympathetic. He had told her on his last visit about his wife and how much he loved Constance. He and Graziella had been seated side-by-side the last time he’d been out for a meal and he’d stayed to close the place.
Then she walked up behind Angelo and Russell, smacked them both on the back of their heads at the same time, before returning to other tasks.
While the two guys rubbed their heads and looked after her curiously, Josh did feel rather better.
Chapter 2
Melanie sat in Perrin’s design studio because, sadly, she had nowhere better to be early on a Wednesday afternoon.
It was soothing to at least be surrounded by the process of fashion design: her high stool at the green rubber cutting mat-topped table, the sewing machines lined up along the wall, the wall of cubby holes filled with hundreds of fabrics all neatly folded and organized by the rainbow, the bright steel rolling rack of designs in progress, and the small changing area behind a gaudy Victorian screen. Even the designer sitting across from her doodling away at her sketchpad made it feel so normal when her world was so impossibly not.
Perrin looked elegant, she always did. No matter how crazy her designs, the tall slender blond made her clothes look exquisite and sexy. And Melanie had not missed that the two of them looked enough alike that what looked enticing on Perrin looked good on her as well. Melanie had a bit more chest and a couple of inches in height, but they were much the same. She’d worn a number of Perrin’s pieces that had garnered attention, including the fabulous gown for the opening night of Carlo’s opera just four weeks before.
Perrin looked far better than Melanie felt: dressed in a French peasant blouse, a modern-sleek skirt, and mid-heel sandals, she looked so alive and youthful. In that outfit she shouldn’t, but she did. Was it the simple headband the same color as the skirt? Or the contrast of the styles? Melanie wasn’t sure. But this look that no designer in their right mind would put together was light and fresh.
“You would have made a good model, Perrin.”
Perrin vibrated with a vivacity that would play well on the runway.
“No. As much as I enjoy being a spectacle sometimes, I actually don’t enjoy being in front of crowds like that. I like to gra
b their attention at a restaurant or on the street, but what you do…” she made a mock-shiver with her shoulders, “I’ll leave that to someone else.”
Melanie had always liked the runway. Enjoyed knowing that she could absolutely command the space so that viewers were dazzled and unable to look elsewhere. Some walkers felt they should be merely perfect “hangers” for the clothes they were paid to display. Melanie didn’t agree. It was her job to make a designer look so exceptional that the show ended with people lined up to place orders.
“I like that énergie of throwing myself into the walk. It is the magic of a twenty-second declaration of power and control. There, I can unleash that which I must hold under such careful control in the rest of my life.” Though she was grateful that she had no show at the moment. Or a shoot. One of the reasons she was so marketable was that she could take that twenty-second runway energy and provide it on demand throughout an eight-hour session in front of the camera. Right now, she didn’t know if she could even bring that energy up for a candid.
She felt as if she never would again. As if… The next images were so morose that Melanie really needed a subject change. The last thing she wanted was to impose on her friend.
“You know to throw me out if I’m in your way?”
“Why would I ever do that? You’re always welcome here. Actually, I’d love to work on some designs with you again. That dress we made for you for the opera opening, that was so much fun.”
“It was,” Melanie agreed. Perrin had made her the smash of the opening. And, in turn, Russell made sure that the dress received national attention as part of his marketing support for the opera and for Perrin.
“Besides, you aren’t bothering me at all.” Perrin began drawing a sketch of something that might have been a large hamster. “I just can’t focus to save my life. I never thought I’d be married at all; not really. Always figured I’d find a way to screw up any relationship before it really stood a chance. Now, suddenly I have a husband, two kids, and a dog. I now can’t imagine how I lived without them all these years.”
Where Dreams Are Written Page 2
