Vanity Fare (9 page)

And then I saw her, really saw her. Blond, leggy, thin, fashionably dressed in a Schiaparelli pink cocktail dress that looked as if it cost more than my entire wardrobe. She smiled, flashing flawlessly white teeth. Worser and worser.

She looked like Lissa, only more polished, more confident, and definitely more well read. I bet she even considered
The Ambassadors
fluffy reading.

And John thought she couldn’t hold a candle to me? His candle standards must be pretty high.

“Hi, Hugh,” I replied, finally forcing the last lump of dumpling down my throat.

“This is Molly?” the vixen said in a low, husky voice. Even her vocal cords were sexier than me. She held out her hand, slender, slightly tanned, and waited for me to reach up to clasp it. “I should have known, Aidan looks just like you,” she continued in a pleasant tone. I had to give her points for trying.

“Yes. You must be Sylvia,” I said in as noncommittal a tone as I could muster.

Hugh gave a little nervous yelp and looked anxiously back to Sylvia, as if he were concerned I would leap over him to throttle her. As if I blamed her.

No, I blamed
him
. It wasn’t her fault he was a faithless bastard.

“Hi, Hugh, Sylvia.” John moved closer to me. “I didn’t realize you guys would be here, I thought Mike had you out of town.”

John knew her
schedule
? I hoped to God my mouth wasn’t literally hanging open because there were probably weird sticky bits of Brie dangling from the roof of it. Why did he know her schedule?

Mike clapped a bearlike paw around Sylvia’s waist. “This one wrapped up a big project even earlier than we expected, so she was able to make it tonight. I felt bad making her miss the opportunity to show off her new boyfriend.”

Hugh smiled weakly.

As he did most things. Meow!

Sylvia turned to me. Was it my imagination, or was her look just a little bit condescending? “I’m sure neither Molly nor John needs to hear about all that, Mike,” she said in a honeyed tone. Not my imagination, then. “John, how’s your little company doing? I heard Natalie has joined you?” Her eyebrows arched in surprise.

I could have sworn I heard John’s jaw snap. “My company is doing well, thank you, Sylvia,” he said through gritted teeth. “We got the Simon Baxter account. Natalie was working on it, but she and Simon didn’t quite get along.” He made it sound as if she couldn’t take the pressure or something. Funny how a savvy businessman could spin anything he wanted.

Sylvia’s smile grew more brilliant. White teeth flashed in a face filled with antipathy. “Simon is usually an excellent judge of character. A shame about Natalie. She and Simon, well, they . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Hugh turned to Sylvia, muttering something into her ear. Her eyes flashed blue fire, then she turned back toward us. “Hugh and I are going to get something to drink. Excuse us,” she said, grabbing Hugh by the wrist and practically dragging him to the other side of the room.

“Sylvia’s a ball breaker, that’s for sure,” Mike said proudly. John shot me a quick glance, then cleared his throat.

“Molly, would you like to go watch the orchestra play for a while?”

Will it drown out the voices in my head?

“Sure. Sounds great. Nice to meet you,” I said to Michael, watching him down another glass of straight liquor.

“See you in a bit, Molly,” he replied, looking me up and down like he was inspecting me for defects.

We walked toward the corner of the room where the band was playing. As soon as we were out of earshot I spun around and stared at John. “You never said you knew her. You said you had met her, but not that you knew her. I mean, there is a difference. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know they’d be here, Molly, honestly I didn’t,” John said, holding his hands out in an apologetic gesture.

“That’s not what I asked, John.” Damn it, he was supposed to be my friend. I was tired of being so darn nice all the time. “I asked why you didn’t tell me that you knew her. Have known her, I’m guessing, since graduate school.”

He bit his lip. Funny, I thought only romance heroines did that. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be upset. I’m Hugh’s friend, too, Molly.”

“Are you how they met?” I demanded.

He drew himself up to his full height and locked eyes with me. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I’m the one who introduced Hugh and Sylvia.” I think my mouth must’ve dropped open again, because he was looking at me in concern. “Are you okay?” He shook his head and stared at the floor. “Look,” he mumbled, “I had no idea she was—that they were—that.” He looked back at me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” I smiled the widest, fakest smile I could. I knew he’d know it was pretend, but I was betting he would want to drop the subject. Like every man I’d ever known.

He gave me a relieved look. “Good, because I‘ve been feeling so guilty, and that I should have told you about everything—that I’m the reason they met.”

My mind went there, right away. “Did you know they were seeing each other? I mean, before he left?”

His look said it all. He opened his mouth to speak, but I stopped him by putting my hand up. “Look,” I said, “let’s just not talk about it anymore. Still a bit painful.”

“Of course.” He sounded relieved. Perhaps because I wasn’t going to unleash the Horrific Hagan Hissy Fit. Hey, I was learning! “Mmm,” I murmured.

“Anyway,” he continued, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his slacks, “thanks for coming tonight. You’re a good friend.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say something that would sound suspiciously like an accusation that he was anything but a good friend if he was withholding all this info from me. But I wasn’t that mean. Definitely not that inappropriate. Was I?

I couldn’t do that, though. He was a good friend, even if he made some poor choices. He had given me work and he was on my side, sort of, in the Hugh versus Molly showdown. So what if he wasn’t perfect? I sure as hell wasn’t. And besides, friends—the kind of people like Lissa or Keisha—were precious enough. Were rare enough.

So I held my tongue on that, at least. I rested my head against his shoulder. “Would you mind if we left soon? I’m really tired.”

Tired of feeling inadequate. Tired of Hugh, and the specter of our relationship. Tired of worrying about the future and how Aidan would eat and if I’d ever be with anyone again.

“Sure, I totally understand,” John replied.

We did our best to dodge Hugh and the Perfect Woman as we exited and then headed out to a diner, since that one pot sticker hadn’t really helped with my “haven’t had dinner since I had to fit into that dress” problem.

It was kinda cool, actually; now that I’d seen more of John’s own insecurities, his clear feelings of inadequacy around his buddy Mike, and gotten more of a glimpse into his past, I felt less awful about my own self.

Perspective did that for a person. And good friends.

Tart of Darkness

Obscure, faintly dangerous ingredients—Belgian chocolate, white rum, African groundnuts—combine in a swirl of flavor, topped off with a heady adventure of whipped cream. Delicious, delectable, and almost completely inscrutable, this tart reveals your most secret desires. And if Kurtz had been able to savor this, who knows how the story would have ended?

9

“HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY, MOMMY,” AIDAN SAID, BEAMING
. He held out a piece of paper with hearts scrawled all over it. It was barely 8:00
A.M.
, and I was already crying. But good tears. Definitely an improvement.

I’d spent the weekend on John’s last-minute emergency project, and it had taken both days, which meant Aidan got to watch a lot of TV. No wonder he thought I was great. It had been hard work, but it was satisfyingly hard—plus that money would really come in handy.

“Thank you, sweetie,” I replied, putting my coffee cup down on the dining room table and taking it from him. I reached for him, and gathered him up in a big hug. I was glad he was still young enough not to mind when I hugged him.

We were in the living room getting ready for school—he watching TV while I tried to cajole him to eat and put clothes on all at the same time. It was a continual miracle he wasn’t starving and naked.

“So will you be my valentine?” I asked him, peering into his little face as I held him.

He made a face. “No, you’re my
mom,
not my valentine.” I unwrapped my arms from him and glared back at him with an exaggerated expression.

“No? Well, if I’m not your valentine, who is?” I demanded in mock outrage.

“Lissa.” He smiled up at me, and it wrenched my heart. He was still my baby, but he wouldn’t be forever. And he was already falling in love with a blonde. Taking after his dad.

“She’s coming over tomorrow night, do you want to make something special for her?”

His face brightened even more. “Yeah! I’ll make her a picture with all her favorite Pokémon.” He scampered to his little desk and sat down, his face already screwed up in concentration.

“You can start on that now, but we’ll have to stop in about fifteen minutes to go to school,” I warned. No reply. “Did you hear me?”

He looked up, clearly annoyed. “Yes. Fifteen minutes. I’ll finish it up after school.”

I nodded at him, then ran down the hall to do a last check of my outfit.

Today was Tuesday. And Tuesday was Meet with Mr. Harsh day.

I had chosen my clothing with an eye toward projecting an air of sleek professionalism: black pants, black suit jacket, black camisole underneath. Either I was a New York urbanite or a really enthusiastic undertaker.

My hair was a little too long, so I pulled it back into a low ponytail, careful to choose a black hair tie. I looked . . . fine. Polished, almost. As long as I didn’t forget and stuff an action figure into my pocket, I’d be okay.

Taking a deep breath, I stalked in unfamiliar heels to the bathroom where my makeup awaited me. Eyebrows, foundation, eyeliner, mascara. No lipstick, that seemed too coquettish.

“Ready, honey?” Aidan looked up at me and his eyes widened. “Are you going to a special dinner, Mommy? You look . . . funny.” I took that as a compliment.

“No, no special dinner, just a meeting while you’re in school. Let’s go, okay?”

I met Nick outside the store.
He nodded at me as I walked up the street, checked his watch, and nodded toward the coffee shop we’d been to before.

Nice to see you again, too, Mr. Close-Mouthed.

The coffee shop’s windows were decorated with card-board hearts and heart-shaped doilies. A bulbous Cupid shot an arrow just under the
BEST GYROS IN TOWN
sign. A man was selling roses on the corner, ten dollars a rose.

He pushed the door open for me and I stepped in, the odor of coffee and hamburger grease greeting my nose. It was empty except for a single man sitting at the counter, so I directed a questioning look at Nick, who gestured toward the booth farthest from the door. I walked toward it, slipping my coat off—it was too warm inside—and trying to surreptitiously shake out the wrinkles in my suit jacket. I slid onto the padded bench and placed my bag next to me. Nick sat down and nodded again. I withdrew my notebook as the waitress—the same one from last time—bustled over and handed us menus. For once, I was too anxious to even think about eating.

I pushed the menu aside as I opened my notebook to my page of notes and handed it across the table. Nick put his menu aside and began reading.

There was a long silence.

Just when I was about to confess to being an idiot, he spoke.

“You think this is a sustainable marketing approach?”

Nick raised his eyes and gave me a skeptical look. I immediately started to sweat.

“What can I get you?” It was the waitress, her pencil poised at the ready.

“Coffee. Black. Oh, and a piece of pie, too,” he said.

“Cherry, lemon meringue, or chocolate cream?”

“Chocolate cream, definitely,” he said, smiling at her.

Apparently it was a deadly smile, judging by the waitress’s reaction. She looked at me, her mouth turned down a little. Guess I didn’t have such a nice smile. Whatever. “You?”

“Coffee, light with one sugar.”

“That it?”

“Yes.” She took our menus and left us. Alone.

“Hm.” He frowned, looking down at the list of names I’d presented. Then he chortled, which made me jump in my seat.

“I like this one: Bread Badge of Courage. I’m not sure how you’d be able to do Fry the Beloved Country, though.” He continued scanning the page, his blue eyes narrowed in concentration. I took the opportunity to stare at him while he was directing his lasered focus on something besides me and my perceived inadequacies.

His harsh, angular features made him look dangerous, raffish almost. Like the hero of a romance novel where the heroine isn’t quite sure if the hero is a hero or a villain. At least not until he saves her from some horrid situation and gets all noble and stuff. The jury was still out in real life what he’d end up being.

He raised his head and trapped my eyes with his. “So. Sustainability? Clearly you’re creative and clever. Think about it.”

It should have been a compliment, but he delivered it as if it were an order.

“Oh, sure.” I let my mind wander. “Um . . .”

“Yes?” he said, raking a hand through his hair. It made him look vulnerable, at least more vulnerable than I had seen him before. Which was Not Vulnerable at All.

I shrugged. “I think as long as there are books and puns, you can keep the concept going forever. I mean, the star of the bakery isn’t going to be the marketing and clever catch-phrases anyway; that’s just the gimmick to get people into the store. The real draw is, of course, Simon’s baking, right?”

He nodded, as though surprised I’d had a good idea. Heck,
I
was surprised. “You’re right. And this”—he tapped the notebook with his hand—“is really a unique approach. Good work, Ms. Hagan.”

Hey, Mr. Frosty thaws!

I blinked at him again. He was going to think I had a twitch. “Thank you.”

He looked back down at the list, then let out another bark of laughter.

“Far from the Fattening Crowd. For the Atkins crowd? Have you read Thomas Hardy?”

Blink, blink. Now
I
was beginning to think I had a twitch. “Yes, but honestly, I find him a little depressing.”

He caught my eye and frowned, as if he were lecturing me. “Aren’t most literary classics depressing? I mean, other than Dickens or Shakespeare or someone. And even in those, someone usually gets their just deserts.”

“Just Desserts would be a good name if the store were planning on selling . . .” I stopped for a dramatic pause.

“Just desserts,” he finished, chuckling. His expression returned to its normal stoic lines. “But unfortunately, it’s not.”

The waitress returned with our coffee, placing his gently in front of him and slapping mine down as if she’d like to slap me.

I took a sip and settled the cup back on the saucer. “
Jane Eyre
?” I offered. “That has a happy ending.”

He took a bite of pie. “Even in that, the hero has to go blind before they can be together again.”

He read Dickens? Shakespeare?
Brontë
? Be still, my heart. Next he’d be telling me he read Jane Austen. I would’ve guessed he’d only read Machiavelli’s
The Prince,
at least when he wasn’t perusing
The Arrogant Guy’s Guide to Total Intimidation
. Funny how impressions could change. At least a little bit.

“Did you major in English?” I asked him, stirring my coffee. I took a sip and leaned back in my seat.

“No. Philosophy,” he answered tersely, as if he regretted his brief moment of openness. Then he surprised me by continuing. “People just aren’t hiring philosophers these days,” he said with a wry smile, “so I ended up going to grad school for my MBA.”

He passed the notebook back to me. “I assume you’ll be fleshing these out for tomorrow’s meeting?” Again, it was not a suggestion.

“Of course.” I tucked the notebook back into my bag.

“And then, if Simon approves, we can work on the next stage of the work. We’ll have to coordinate the marketing with the actual design of the shop. So I’ll need you on retainer for a bit longer to make sure everything is as it should be.”

“Of course,” I repeated, trying hard not to bounce up and down in my chair. Maybe Aidan could get Beast after all.
And
we could afford food. Huzzah!

He lifted his fork to his mouth, then paused to meet my eyes. “This pie is amazing. You wouldn’t think so, because the coffee is awful—”

I took another sip from my cup. I felt guilty because I hadn’t noticed the coffee was kind of bitter. Oh, the irony.

“But you have to have a bite of this. Here—”

He hoisted his fork, a lumpy, gooey mess of pie balanced precariously on its tines. He held it toward me, nodding his head in an impatient way. I had no choice.

I leaned forward, opening my mouth as he slid the fork in. I closed my lips and savored the flavor. Deep, rich chocolate matched with equally rich whipped cream. Did I taste vanilla? I closed my eyes for a moment to concentrate on what I was tasting. I opened them only to see his intense gaze focused on my mouth.

He started, then pulled the fork back and rested it on his plate. He cleared his throat, as if he were unsure of what had happened, and I smiled a little. Inside. I didn’t want to make him bark at me or anything.

“You’re right,” I said, running my tongue over my lips, “delicious.”

Now that was inappropriate. Hee. It felt good.

His eyes widened a little, then his face got a hard, closed look to it.

Another customer came into the store, holding a big bouquet of flowers. Not roses, but pink geraniums. They were still pretty, though.

He spotted our waitress and headed to her, holding the bouquet out with a big grin on his face.

Wow, and she was smiling back! She was actually nice-looking when she wasn’t despising my entire self.

And it struck me with a wash of what I had come to recognize was incredibly unhelpful self-pity: It was Valentine’s Day, and I was drinking crappy coffee in a Midtown coffee shop with a guy who probably didn’t register it was a romantic day, and would likely be appalled he was with me if he did. I tried to ignore the lump in my throat.

But incredibly unhelpful self-pity wasn’t going to do anything but make me sad.

“For the meeting tomorrow,” I said, trying hard to focus on what I was supposed to be doing as opposed to what I wanted to be doing, “is there anything else I should know or be doing besides just presenting?”

He gestured to the waitress to bring our check. “Just make sure you stress the connection to the community. Simon loves that. And make sure to present some of the titles you know won’t work—”

“—Like The Bread and the Black or The Sword and the Scone?”

He nodded. “Just so Simon can shoot them down and feel superior. He loves that, too.”

The check came and the waitress had apparently been softened up enough by her Valentine’s bouquet not to glare at me. Yay.

Nick pulled a wad of cash held by a silver money clip from his pocket. I was impressed all over again. I’d never met anyone who actually used a money clip.

I gathered my bag and started to drag my coat from the pile in the corner of the seat. He stood up and took the coat from me, waiting as I turned around to help me into it.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I said, wishing it hadn’t felt so right to tease him, not to mention taking a bite of his pie. “And thanks for the tip about the presentation.”

He strode ahead of me and pushed the door open, waiting as I went through it. I caught a whiff of a strong, masculine scent, the kind that probably advertised it smelled of rustic oaks, leather, and . . . manliness. It did.
He
did. Good thing he’d made it clear what he thought about me, or my mind would be venturing into very dangerous territory. Inappropriate, even.

“Mom?”

She stood on my stoop, fumbling through her pocket-book, as if looking for keys. Keys she did not have. She looked up, and I was startled to see just how old she looked. Tired, too. Her hair was scraped back into a haphazard ponytail, and her coat was unbuttoned, revealing a sweatshirt I knew she had painted the deck in.

“Hi, honey.”

“Mom, what are you doing here?” I grabbed my keys from my bag and opened the first door wide, holding it as she stepped in with a very un–Mom-like hesitancy. I hadn’t noticed it before, but she was dragging a large duffel bag that looked stuffed to the gills.

“Would it be totally disingenuous of me to say I was in the neighborhood?” I relaxed a little when she gave a display of her normal wit.

“Yes, it would, especially since your neighborhood is a couple of hours from mine. Come on over, I don’t have to pick up Aidan for another half an hour.”

We started up the stairs to my apartment, me leading the way, her following.

“You look nice, dear,” she said in surprise. “Did you have a meeting or something?”

“Yes.” I didn’t want to tell her about the copywriting, not yet.

“What kind of meeting?” She was panting a little from the exertion of the stairs, but that didn’t dissuade her from asking prying questions.

“A meeting for work. For money, Mom,” I said pointedly. I didn’t want to be nasty, but she was the one who hadn’t explained why she couldn’t lend me any.