Regrets Only (5 page)

“No,
no, sweetie,” Suzanne said. “Gregory is most definitely right.”

Meredith
blushed. “So do you think you’ll be available, if he does ask me?”

“For
what?”

“The
wedding? You are an event planner, right?”

“Oh,
honey, I’m so sorry. I know your wedding would be the
most
fun to plan,
but I just don’t do weddings.”

“Why
not?”

“I
just don’t. It’s a lot of things. The hours, the family drama. Working every
weekend. You know.”

“But
weddings are so romantic, don’t you think?”

“Sure.”
Of course. What kind of monster doesn’t like weddings? If you don’t like
weddings they take away your Girl Card or something, right?
Suzanne looked
closely at the vendor contract, pretending to be confused by something there.

“I
bet you’re going to be the most beautiful bride when you get married,” Meredith
said, rather dreamily. “I mean, you’re so pretty and always so…put together. I’m
sure your wedding will be flawless.”

“Well,
I don’t know about that,” Suzanne said. “I actually have never really wanted to
get married.”

Meredith
seemed shocked. “I thought you had a boyfriend or something?”

Suzanne
snorted, remembering how she’d slunk out of Rick’s hotel room the other night.
“Not exactly…” She flipped a page she’d already read and pretended to look for
a pen. She desperately wanted to change the subject, but was having trouble
thinking of a work-related question to which it wasn’t obvious she already knew
the answer.

When
she looked up, however, Meredith was looking at her with an intense sort of
concern. “Suzanne, I’m sorry. I just assumed—I didn’t know.”

It
was as if she’d just told Meredith she had a terminal illness or something. Her
voice cracked a bit as she answered, “It’s okay.” To her utter surprise, her
eyes were filling with tears.
What the hell?

She
stood and straightened her skirt. “Well, I’d better go check in with Chad
before all those boys start showing up. Can I connect my laptop to the Internet
from the box?”

“Of
course,” Meredith said with genuine, kind eyes. Suzanne wanted to punch her
just a little bit.

#

By
the time Dylan Burke entered the box, the game was in its second inning. The
box was already almost at capacity, because in addition to the twenty-something
friends for which Suzanne had planned, there were about the same number of
attractive young girls she couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to her would
also be there. They were slurping down margaritas like water, and the Fat
Matt’s staff had already had to call back to the restaurant for more barbecue.
She was pretty sure she owed that restaurant about a zillion favors by now.

Dylan
sauntered in with three additional girls in tow, fished a beer from one of the
icy tubs, and made his way directly to Suzanne, reaching out to shake her hand.
Considering she was in the corner of the box farthest from the door, she found
this impressive.

“It’s
certainly my pleasure, Mr. Burke. How’d you know it was me?” She tried to say
this with an ingratiating, saucy smile, but their first conversation was burned
on her brain and made her too nervous to flirt.

“I
have my ways,” Dylan said, looking her over, smiling.

Suzanne
reddened. “I guess I’m the only girl here not dressed for the game.” She had
originally planned to wear a khaki skirt and red cotton blouse with her Braves
cap and cute earrings—standard uniform for events she planned at the stadium.
But considering how she’d gotten off on the wrong foot with Dylan, and on the
off chance Yvette would be in attendance, she decided to play it more
conservatively with a gray pencil skirt, white blouse, and black pumps. No one
was going to add “unprofessional dress” to her list of transgressions.

Dylan
smiled at her three-inch heels. “Well, there is that. But I was just thinking
you are the only one not having fun.”

 “I’m
having a great time, Mr. Burke. And about the other day, please accept my most
sincere—”

He
dismissed her apology with a wave of his hand, turning slightly toward the
field. She was losing him. She touched his arm lightly with her fingers and
leaned microscopically forward, so that her cleavage was almost visible from
his vantage point.

“Well,
I just want you to know that I am usually the soul of discretion with all my
clients,” she said, making her voice just the tiniest bit husky and drizzling
the Southern accent like warm butter. “This week has been exceptional.”

“Really,
forget it,” he said to her blouse. “I know my family’s not what you’d call
traditional.”

“No,”
she conceded, ignoring his leer. “I guess they’re not.”

He
redirected his gaze, after a minute, back to her eyes. He seemed to assess her,
his youthful green eyes sparkling with surprising intelligence. Suzanne
couldn’t tell what conclusions he was drawing about her, but his mouth curved
up just for a split second. “Anyway,” he said louder than before, drawing the
nearby partygoers into their conversation. “What you need to do is loosen up a
bit. Enjoy the game. I realize it’s not squash or water polo or whatever you high-society
types enjoy down at the country club, but it
is
America’s pastime.”

She
smiled at him through gritted teeth.
You little jackass
. Clearly Dylan
had picked up on her desperation to keep him as a happy client, and was now
exacting his revenge for her behavior on the phone the other day.

He
threw his arm around a petite blonde in a pink baseball cap and impossibly tiny
camouflage shorts. “See, Ms. Hamilton, you can’t always judge by appearances.
Now look there.” He pointed at the field and squeezed the little blonde closer
simultaneously. “That’s my buddy Jesse McCreary in right field. He has a
six-million dollar contract, but he ain’t afraid to get his hands dirty. I’ve
been fishing with him and he can clean a bass faster than you can fill up one
of your expensive teacups. But I guess that wouldn’t mean much to you, would it?”

He
looked expansively around at the crowd, grinning smugly. They were eating it
up. She wanted to kick him in the balls and storm out. Nothing was worth this.

“No,
I guess it wouldn’t,” Suzanne replied softly, feeling her face go red again.
She refused to break eye contact, despite her embarrassment. The two thoughts
most present in her mind were that she wanted desperately to smack Dylan in the
face, and that she wished like hell she had not chosen to wear her mother’s
pearls today. She’d been aiming for professional and refined, but to Dylan
Burke’s circle she came off stuffy and aristocratic.

Dylan
was clearly enjoying his advantage. “See there? I sure hope you learn, Ms.
Hamilton, that”—here he broke into a loud clear melody—“
scruffy don’t always
mean stupid
.” A murmur of laughter and smattering of applause rippled
through the box crowd as they recognized the lyric from one of his early hits.
He winked at her and turned toward the field, the microscopic blonde in tow.

Screw
it. Let him fire me.
“Actually, Mr. Burke,” she said, calling him back with the most sugary sweet
tone she could manage. “The reason I am not impressed by Jesse McCreary’s
fishing prowess is that it seems to detract from his performance on the field.
No offense to your friend, but he’s way overvalued. Sure, his batting average will
stay in the 300s until the end of May or so, but he’s not clutch. His stats go
down every year the closer we get to October and his percentages with runners
in scoring position is just pathetic. Those high-profile homeruns might be fun
to watch, but they won’t be enough to get us to the World Series unless he can
do it with runners on base. I admit I don’t know anything about bass fishing,
Mr. Burke. But in baseball, runs matter.”

The
group in the box didn’t know how to react to this unprecedented speech, but she
certainly had their attention. A few of them were smiling and exchanging looks
of amazement, while others looked to Dylan Burke to gauge his response before
reacting. With nothing left to lose, Suzanne went on. “And as long as we’re on
the subject of appearances, perhaps you shouldn’t assume that a Southern girl
with blonde hair and three-inch heels doesn’t know baseball, especially here in
Atlanta.”

Dylan
said nothing, his expression momentarily frozen in surprise. The girl under his
arm stared daggers at Suzanne. A sudden piercing giggle broke the silence as
Yvette Olsen rushed over. “Oh, my! Isn’t she just a spitfire? Dylan just
loves
all this witty banter. Suzanne, could I steal you away to consult about the
beverage service, please?” She put both hands on Suzanne’s shoulders and
steered her firmly toward the bar at the back of the room. “Drink up, everyone!
Enjoy the game!”

Being
hustled away by the squeaky manager, Suzanne managed a quick glance over her
shoulder. The partygoers were all returning either to their previous
conversations or to the game itself. She heard the loud pop of a bat and the
corresponding gasp of the crowd, followed by a collective sigh. A pop fly,
perhaps, or a close foul ball.

At
the back near the bar cart, Yvette was nearly apoplectic. She couldn’t,
however, seem to find the words to express it. “Do you—how can—I’ve never—” she
spluttered. Then finally, “Do you treat all your clients this way?” The
khaki-clad bartender looked around uncomfortably and pretended to need
something on the other side of the room.

Keep
smiling, no matter what,
Suzanne’s mother commanded in her ear. She obeyed. “What do you mean, Yvette?”

Yvette
stammered for a moment, trying to put her finger on exactly what Suzanne had
done wrong. In her mid-forties, Yvette had worked her way through the ranks of
several B- and C-list singers, mostly Christian musicians with limited
audiences, and landing a huge star like Dylan Burke a few months back had been
the opportunity of her career. Hiring Suzanne had been one of her first major
decisions since coming on as Dylan’s manager. She knew managers and agents
who’d found themselves suddenly unemployed for much less than this kind of
disrespect. How could she make this young, thin
Steel Magnolias
cast-off
understand?

“I
think everyone is having a good time,” Suzanne offered, to fill the silence.
She gestured at the room full of people talking, laughing, and most important,
drinking. As she did this, she thought she saw Dylan glance her way with a
smirk.

“Yes,”
Yvette replied tentatively, gazing around. Her beady eyes narrowed as she
returned her gaze to Suzanne. “Just keep in mind, please, that your performance
is a direct reflection on me. I take that very seriously. Okay?”

Suzanne’s
phone buzzed in her purse. Probably Chad—a glance at the clock reminded her
she’d promised to check in half an hour ago. She flashed a final winning smile
at Yvette. “Of course, Yvette, I understand completely. Could you excuse me,
please?”

She
flipped open the phone on her way out the door. “This is Suzanne.”

But
it wasn’t a complaining Chad who greeted her. “Suzanne? It’s Rick.”

Her
heart sank. She let the door to the luxury box close behind her and kicked
herself for not checking the number before answering. “Hi, Rick. How are you?”
Her voice was an octave too high as she tried to summon dignified politeness.

“I’m
okay,” he said. “Listen, I feel kind of weird calling you about this, but I
have…something you left in the hotel room the other day.”

The
panties. Suzanne felt suddenly, oddly vulnerable.

“Oh,
you can just—” she hesitated.
Throw them out. Burn them. Whatever
.

“I
thought maybe we could meet so I could get them back to you?” He sounded mildly
embarrassed. Whether it was because of the undergarments or his transparent
attempt to see her again, she couldn’t tell.

“Oh,
Rick, I’d love to but—it’s just I am so busy. The gala is a few days away, and—”

“Of
course. I understand. I’ll—”

“Could
you mail them?” she asked quickly. Asking him to throw them out left too much
room for creepy doubts. Besides, they were her favorite pair of thirty-dollar underwear.

“…hang
on to them until—” he was saying simultaneously. Then, “Oh, right, mail them.
Of course. I’ll be happy to.”

“Thanks,
Rick. My office address is on my business card. Do you still have it?”

“Er…no.”

“Well,
it’s on my website. I’ll have my assistant send you a check for the postage,
okay?”

His
voice switched from seemingly embarrassed to firm. “Suzanne, please don’t
insult me. I’ll pay the postage. Take care of yourself.”

Before
she could respond, the line had gone dead.

#

The
next evening, she and Chad sat on the floor of her apartment, sticking
customized labels on five hundred auction programs and folding in a sheet with
last-minute additions to the auction. A half-bottle of wine and a bowl of
popcorn sat on a tray between them, and
My Fair Lady
was on the
television.