Regrets Only (3 page)

Suzanne
took the latte to her workstation and began retrieving voicemail messages: seventeen
since she’d checked in on Saturday. The routine questions and confirmations
from vendors she forwarded to Chad. She’d have to handle herself the several semi-panicked
messages from Dylan Burke’s squeaky manager, Yvette.  When anxious, Yvette had the
shrillest high-pitched voice Suzanne had ever heard. She groaned as she jotted
things down on several sticky notes, lining them up in order of priority as she
went through the voicemails. Yvette apparently never slept, never took a day
off, and never stopped worrying about her young boss’s desires and reputation.

Dylan
Burke, twenty-six, was the quintessential small town Tennessee boy made good.
Known for his gritty persona and anthem-style country-rock, he had become country
music’s latest rising star. He’d had several chartbuster hits in the last two
years, including “Country Rules” and “Sticking Up for the Sticks.” Each of
these featured plays on words, guitar solos, and rhythms that seemed to have
been designed with line dancing in mind. His most recent hit, “Duct Tape Fixes
Everything,” was a cutesy ballad-type song that featured a young boy trying to
repair his parents’ broken marriage. Suzanne, not a country fan, had never
listened to it, but the mere mention of the song sent Marci weeping.

Women
loved Dylan Burke for his winning smile, tight jeans, and ever-present faded camouflage
baseball cap. The mainstream media loved taking pictures of him with an
acoustic guitar in beauteous settings, gossiping about his endless stream of
busty young girlfriends, and chronicling his fairly predictable rebellious
behavior. The tabloids loved his large and conspicuous family most of all.

The
Burkes were Nashville’s take on the
Brady Bunch
. Dylan’s rough,
outspoken mother had moved to Nashville from a rural Georgia trailer park,
hoping to make it as a singer and dragging her two young daughters with her.
She had met and married Dylan’s father, a divorced music producer who had two teenage
daughters of his own, while waiting tables at a diner. Dylan and his younger
sister Kate had come along shortly thereafter. By the time Dylan was eight,
Donna Burke had abandoned her own hopes of a singing career in favor of her
talented only son.

It
seemed to Suzanne—as she and Chad pored over articles, researching their famous
client together—that after Dylan’s career began to take off, his family had a
competition to see who could ride his famous coattails farther while embarrassing
him the most. Every other week it seemed that his mother or one of his five
sisters said or did something ridiculous, and nearly always there was
photographic evidence to document it. Dylan must have a terrible publicist,
because not only did their behavior never seem to faze him, he continued to be
seen with them at even his most prominent award ceremonies and press
opportunities.

She
suspected that the gala in Atlanta was designed to soften all of that—as well
as to demonstrate Dylan’s more urbane side. Even before reading
People,
Suzanne
knew that Dylan was making a foray into acting, having been recently cast across
from Reese Witherspoon in a romantic comedy set in Atlanta. The benefit at the
High was supposed to show his sophisticated side, while subtly promoting both
the movie and his current album,
Fireflies
. A tall order, but Suzanne
had every confidence she would be able to pull it off.

The
evening was a “cowboy meets culture” kind of event, and the biggest deal to hit
the High in a long time. The guest list was loaded with an eclectic mix of
celebrities—everyone from Travis Tritt to Gore Vidal, along with Dylan’s
verbally uncouth mother, well-connected father, and the more attention-hungry
of his five sisters. And of course, several other artists from country music’s
freshman class of wild boys would make an appearance, accompanied by a gaggle
of aspiring starlets. These last were mostly the stick-thin, silly types who
wore sunglasses indoors and carried tiny dogs in their purses. It promised to
be an entertaining evening.

Naturally,
several local and national media outlets had representatives attending, pretending
to be focused on style or the arts, but primarily to await the inevitable
spectacle bound to occur when black ties and boots met vast quantities of
booze.

This
was why Suzanne had been hired, in fact. The High didn’t have the internal
staff to handle all the intricacies of dealing with the event itself along with
the press, agents, handlers, and celebrities. Suzanne’s insane dedication to
perfection and diplomatic skills, along with her experience at the museum, made
her the perfect choice. When Betsy Fuller-Brown had called Suzanne personally
to request a bid, she’d suspected they were pretty desperate to hire her and
put in for twice her normal project fees on a whim. To her shock, they had not
batted an eyelash, much less tried to talk her down.

Three
months later, Suzanne realized she had already earned every penny of her fee
and then some. Apparently, Dylan Burke and his staff knew he was the hottest
thing going and planned to make the most of it by being the highest-maintenance
celebrity entourage ever. Starting the first week after she’d taken on the
project, Suzanne had received reams of faxes from Yvette every week detailing
special requests for the event. A boot-shaped ice luge that dispensed Southern
Comfort into chilled shot glasses. Mason jars full of live fireflies as
centerpieces—promoting Dylan’s
Fireflies
album. Several large suites at
the Four Seasons for Dylan’s family and friends, as well as a VIP lounge area
at the museum. As Yvette enthusiastically described Dylan’s apparently very
specific vision over a breakfast meeting, Suzanne thought,
This is why I
don’t do weddings. The brides.

Today’s
crisis had apparently been brewing over the weekend. Yvette’s high-pitched
voice was especially shrill. “Suzanne, it’s Yvette. Listen, we are having some
major issues here with the seating arrangement. Donna Burke is insisting that
she needs a table near the stage, but you already have the VIP tables full for
the major donors and the partner sponsors. I also need a press table on the
right side of the stage so that the photographers can capture Dylan’s left
profile for the pictures.”

Suzanne
dialed back Yvette’s number and, of course, reached her voicemail.
If this
is so important
, she thought,
answer your damn phone
. “Hi, Yvette,”
she trilled as sweetly as she could. “Suzanne here. Just got into the office
and got your messages. I totally appreciate your concerns; thank you for
voicing them so well. Why don’t you just buzz me back and we’ll talk?”

“Ick,”
Chad said, putting a file on her desk as she finished her message. “Just
promise me you’ll never talk to me like that, okay? If I annoy you or
something, just tell me. Don’t do the whole sweet Southern girl,
smile-through-your-teeth-while-you-stick-the-knife-in-my-back routine.”

“You’re
annoying me,” she replied flatly. He grinned and turned back to his desk.

“You
told her about the problem with the press table?” Chad called over his
shoulder.

Shit.
Suzanne knew she probably
should’ve left that on the message so Yvette could talk to Dylan before getting
back to her. Otherwise they’d have another long, exhausting conversation to
come to a mutual decision that would then be overturned by Dylan anyway. She
picked up the phone again.

“Hello?”
A man’s voice. She paused.

“Oh,
I’m sorry. I must’ve dialed the wrong number.”
Wait, didn’t I just hit
redial?
She was about to hang up when the voice returned.

“Not
if you were calling Yvette Olsen, you didn’t. Can I, uh, can I help you?”

Suzanne
thought she remembered Yvette mentioning that she had a new assistant. Maybe
she had started trusting him with phone duty. “Well, is Yvette available?”

“I’m
sorry, she stepped out. Is there something I can do for you?” She heard voices in
the background—other men—and for a second she thought she heard suppressed
laughter.

“Well,”
Suzanne sighed. “I’d just left her a message a few minutes ago responding to
some concerns she had about the benefit —”

“We
were actually just meeting about that, so your timing is great.” His voice
sounded farther away now.
Had he put her on speakerphone? Who else was in
the room?

“Okay,”
she started tentatively. “I just remembered that I had an additional question
about the press table, so if you’ll just have her call me when she gets back,
that would be great.”

“Why
don’t you just ask me the question?” he said.

“Well,
it’s complicated.”

“The
question is complicated, or the reason you can’t ask me is complicated?”

Wow
. She thought
Chad
was a
nervy assistant. This guy was bordering on rude. If this was what the music
industry peons were like, she was going to charge more to plan their ridiculous
parties. “The question is complicated. It’s about the press table.”

“I
don’t think we should have one. Let the vultures stand.” She heard more laughter
in the background.
Man, was Yvette going to be pissed when Suzanne told her about
this
.

“Well,
that wasn’t really the question. Obviously there are enough major outlets
planning to attend—I think we have to accommodate them. It was just a question
of how to keep them separate from the Burkes—”

“Afraid
one of those hillbillies will make a scene and ruin the whole event?”

“Well,
yes, frankly. Those are the kinds of things we have to be concerned about—the comfort
of the attendees, the reputation of the museum…. You know what? Just have
Yvette call me if you don’t mind.”

“I
do mind, as a matter of fact.”

Suzanne
was completely taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“I
realize, Miss Hamilton, that my family may not have the blue-blood heritage
that yours does. We may not be conventional, exactly. But we’re good people.”

“My
family?” Holy shit.
Suzanne collapsed into her chair, mouth gaping.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. Tell
me this isn’t happening.

She
now realized why the assistant’s masculine twang sounded familiar. She had a sudden—and
belated—memory, crystal clear, that Yvette had mentioned her new assistant’s
name was Lisa. She’d been talking to Dylan Burke. For the first time.
Holy
shit.

“Mr.
Burke, I—” she stammered, gripping the phone in panic. Across the room, Chad’s
eyes went wide in shock as he put it together, too. “Please accept my apologies.
I—”

But
it was too late. “Yvette,” she heard Dylan call to the murmuring room behind
him. She heard a static rustle as he presumably tossed the phone to her. Yvette
made a startled, squeaking noise as she fumbled it. From farther away, she
heard country music’s golden boy say, “It’s for you.”

“My
career is over. Over. Ooooover,” Suzanne said, staring into the bottom of an
empty martini glass. “That doesn’t even sound like a real word anymore. Over.
Over…”

“Over
and out?” came a cheerily snide suggestion from across the table.

“Shut
up, Rebecca,” Marci said. “Can’t you see she’s upset enough?”

It
was the first time the four of them—Suzanne, Marci, Beth, and Rebecca—had been
out together in months. Marci had been holed up with some major copyediting
project for the last several weeks. Beth had been busy with her family: she was
president of her kids’ PTA or something, and her husband Ray was starting his
own car repair shop. Rebecca traveled constantly in her new job as a flight
attendant; what’s more, she had basically been on friend probation for the last
three or four years, since she had made a not terribly subtle attempt to become
the next Mrs. Jake Stillwell in Marci’s place.

Though
she had done nothing overtly mean-spirited, Rebecca had flocked to Jake’s side
when he and Marci had broken their engagement for a time. This would not have
been so terrible except that she had very obviously relished the opportunity to
get close to him, despite the pain it caused Marci. As a result, she had lost
her position as a bridesmaid at their wedding and Marci had scarcely spoken to
her for the first year she and Jake were married.

As
time went on, however, she had dogged the three of them with so many
invitations and solicitations of friendship that they had let her back in the
circle out of sheer exhaustion from the effort of keeping her out.

Now,
Suzanne glared at her with one eye through the distortion of the martini glass.
“Is it me, Rebecca,” she slurred, “or has your head gotten really tiny since the
last time I saw you?”

 “Suze,
I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Marci said.

“I
have not haved too much,” slurred Suzanne. “You’ve haved too much.”

“I
haven’t had anything, actually,” corrected Marci.

“See?
So I have to drink for both of us. That’s the tradition.”

Rebecca
snorted. “The tradition? What tradition?”

“The
‘I humiliated myself in front of a major superstar and can never go out in
public after tonight’ tradition,” Suzanne said. She followed this with a dreamy
contemplation of the ceiling at the bar. “I wonder if I’ll be happy living in
Fiji. Or is it Fuji?”