CHAPTER 8

It was a scene at once familiar and comfortable, and yet one that left Chris feeling, well, somehow removed from it. He had to think why that would be, this sense of disconnection. After all, here he was at his own penthouse with his mother and Veronica. And the three of them were engaged in their normal routine: He and Ronnie took his mother out to supper once a week—Wednesday night this week, the day after Faidley’s—and then the three of them came back here for coffee and dessert and catching up. That was where they were now, or were supposed to be. Coffee and dessert were done, but Veronica had closed herself off in his office to do some last-minute work. And his mother now occupied herself with worrying the fish in Chris’s saltwater tank. All of this left him alone on the sofa with only his thoughts for company.

Pretty soon, Chris knew, he would take his mother home, while Ronnie cleaned up the kitchen. And then she would stay the night. Like he’d said, routine. Again, in his mind, he saw himself and Ronnie earlier when she’d come over before they’d gone for his mother. She’d brought her overnight bag along and a couple changes of clothes on hangers, which now hung in his bedroom closet. She’d used her key, opened the door, and called out, “Knock, knock,” as she always did. And as he always did, he’d stepped out of his home office, gone to greet her, and they’d kissed. Pecked was more like it.

And that had been okay. A twinge of guilt suddenly tugged at Chris. Wasn’t he supposed to be feeling this grand passion for Ronnie now that he’d made up his mind that she was the one? Where were the heat and the yearning and that whole primal passion thing you read so much about? Not going on here. Maybe it was because he’d known Ronnie for so long and was comfortable with her. Yeah, that had to be it.

Anyway, she’d come in earlier and had proceeded to bend his ear telling him all about her trying day. This defendant and that plaintiff and this rotten judge and that idiotic defense attorney and how busy she was and how she had to leave early tomorrow for court, so he wasn’t to expect much from her tonight, please. Kiss, kiss. Then off she’d gone to change out of her power suit and into her slacks and a silk blouse. Chris shook his head, chuckling at his own expense. Apparently Ronnie wasn’t feeling any grand passion for him, either.

But then again, she wasn’t yet aware of his intention to ask her to marry him. Chris wondered if she would behave any differently once he’d asked her and she’d accepted. Wait a minute. She will accept, right? He frowned, thought about that, and finally convinced himself that of course she would. Why wouldn’t she? Didn’t they already behave like people who’d been married for years? Yeah, they did. So, okay, then this was the way it would be after they got married. Chris checked in with his emotions to see how he felt about that. Not bad. He’d lived with their easy way of dealing with each other for about four years now, so it was doable. Doable? Sounded like a business deal. Or maybe like he was settling.

Not liking that notion one bit, Chris slouched down on his sofa’s comfortable cushions as he stared out the large windows at Baltimore’s nighttime skyline. But that vague sense of dissatisfaction refused to go away, telling him his problem was he wasn’t where he really wanted to be. And, worse, he wasn’t with the one person he really wanted to be with—the person who, tears in her eyes, had all but fled from him yesterday at Faidley’s.

Uncomfortable now in the extreme, Chris shifted his position on the sofa. Man, I cannot keep this up. Maybe I’m lying to myself—

“Honey, my grand-fish look a bit peaked. Did you call those people to come see about them?”

His feet up on the ottoman and a mug of coffee next to him on the end table, Chris leaned his head back on the sofa cushions and stretched his neck until he could see his mother. Dressed in a dark green polyester-looking pantsuit and lots of big jewelry, she stood over by the wet bar and faced the large saltwater tank. Her back to him, she had her hands at her slim waist. “The fish are fine, Mother. The guy came today and checked everything out. He said they’re okay.”

She made a tsking noise that served as notice that she, Mrs. Penelope Winthrop Adams Eve, widow of the late Harold Eve and the even later John Adams—not of the presidential Adamses, but you couldn’t, and didn’t dare, tell her otherwise—was not satisfied. “Hmph. What does he know?”

“Everything. It’s his business.”

“They said that in the seventies, too, about pet rocks, and that they were a business. They even said that young man who discovered them was an expert. But do you see those around anymore?”

Chris grinned. “Only every time I look at the ground. Those pesky rocks are everywhere, smiling up at me. Scary.”

“Fine, you want to be smart. But these fish look peaked to me.”

“You said the same thing about Veronica.”

“Well, she does. She works too hard. Even now she’s been at it in your office for the whole hour we’ve been here. She said she’s working on a brief. Well, it doesn’t seem very brief to me. Son, you need to marry her so she can quit work and have children. I need real grandbabies, Chris, so I don’t have to call these scaly things over here my grand-fish.” She tapped at the aquarium glass with a fingernail and cooed to the startled fish.

“Careful. Don’t let them hear you talking like that. They think you care.” Chris tried to picture Veronica pregnant—and happy about it. He bit back a chuckle. No, he didn’t think she’d be too amused. In fact, she’d probably try to figure out a way to have him, much like a male seahorse, carry the baby for those nine months.

“Don’t be silly, Christopher.” His mother was talking about his comment regarding the fish, of course. But it was a pretty good comment on his pregnancy thought, too. “They’re fish,” his mother reminded him. “They don’t have feelings.”

“So far as we know. But another thing, Mom, should Ronnie and I marry”—Chris suddenly realized that though this was the perfect opportunity to tell his mother of his proposal plans, he didn’t want to, not yet—“and I’m not saying we will, but if we did—”

“Point taken, son. Go on.”

Chris grinned. His mother was used to his procrastinating on this subject. “Anyway, I don’t think she would want to quit. She went to school for a lot of years and worked hard to get where she is. She enjoys her career, and I wouldn’t ask her to give it up.” That sounded really noble, and he meant what he’d said. He respected Veronica tremendously. Only the whole truth was a little more complicated than that. Meaning, he couldn’t picture the two of them, himself and Ronnie, being around each other all day, every day, without personalities and tempers wearing pretty darned thin in a hurry.

“All right, so she’ll continue to work after the two of you—and I’m also speaking hypothetically—marry. Say you have children. Who will be staying home with my grandbabies?” Evidently this was pretty important to her because by the time she had her question out, his mother had rounded the end of the sofa and was now standing in front of Chris and blocking his view of Baltimore.

Chuckling, he met her gaze. “Okay, Mom, you’re getting ahead of yourself. But to answer your question, I guess I’d be the one home with the kiddies.”

Penelope Eve cupped her cheek with a hand. “Good Lord, I just knew it. My grandchildren will be as peaked as those poor fish. Or worse.”

“Oh, come on, Mom, I hardly think I—”

“Honey, I love you dearly, but you can’t keep a houseplant alive on your own. What are you going to do with real children?”

More amused than offended, Chris played along. “I don’t know. How hard can it be, though? Feed and water them. Hose them down when they’re dirty. Sit them near a window to get some sunlight on their little—”

“Never mind.” His mother waved a dismissive hand at him. “I see what I have to do. Move in with you and help. No, wait. I don’t want to give up my house and the Garden Club. And I have to write for the newsletter. Oh, dear, and there’s the Annual Newcomers’ Party.” She sighed, defeated by her own full life. “I suppose you and Veronica will have to move in with me. It’ll be easier. Save you coming all the way across town to get me every day and then taking me home at night.”

She could drive just fine. And had a nice car to prove it, one he’d bought her, along with the matching house in historic Original Northwood, which was only about fifteen minutes away. Chris chuckled at his mother. “You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you? Here I am already married, a father, and Mr. Mom.”

“Well, it’s a better life than the one you have here by yourself like this.”

“I like being here by myself.” That wasn’t totally true. He’d loved having Dianna West here. She fit nicely with the décor. And he meant that in the best possible way, a high compliment—like saying she belonged here. Fun, smart, easy to be around, yet sexy and exciting, no doubt about that. A grand passion. The phrase just popped into his mind, tensing him against the surprise of it.

His mother carried on unaware. “Well, you won’t think being alone is so grand when you’re a lonely, bitter, old man of eighty, if you don’t get married and have a family.”

“Damn. Sounds bleak.”

“It could be. Now, move your feet over and let me sit on this ottoman. I want to ask you something that’s got me worried.”

Though instantly apprehensive, Chris complied, moving his feet over. He watched his mother delicately perch next to them. He had no idea what to expect. “You okay, Mom? What is it?”

She inhaled, exhaled, and then blurted, “You didn’t order the crab cakes tonight, Chris. You always order the crab cakes.”

Talk about coming right out of left field. Chris barely stopped himself from doing a double-take, but he did give in to a chuckle of affectionate disbelief. “You kill me, Mom. You’re worried about me and crab cakes? Well, rest assured that I’m fine. I didn’t order them this time because I had them yesterday for lunch at Faidley’s.”

His mother raised an eyebrow. “You went all the way down there in the middle of the day?”

“Faidley’s isn’t far from where I live. It’s far from where you live.”

She pursed her lips in that don’t-you-take-that-tone-with-me-young-man way she had. “Maybe so. But what were you doing at Lexington Market? I thought you had to be here all the time for that global consulting thing you do on your computer.”

Still amused, Chris raised his eyebrows. “‘All the time’? I love how you speak in absolutes. But I’m not chained to the computer, and yesterday was a business lunch.”

“That sounds nice. Business with who?”

Chris stared at his mother. The woman honed in like a laser when she began questioning someone. Well, he’d certainly set himself up nicely, but no way was he mentioning Dianna. Got to lie. Note to self: Call Rick tomorrow and tell him he had lunch yesterday with me at Faidley’s. “Business with Rick Hampton.”

A fond smile claimed his mother’s face. “Oh, I like him. He’s the one who just got married, isn’t he?”

And they were back to that. “Yes.”

“Now, what was it that was different about his wedding?” His mother tapped her cheek with a finger, as if this helped her think. Chris sat tensely by, unwilling to jog her memory. Suddenly his mother pointed at him. “No, wait, it wasn’t the wedding. It was the way he proposed or something, wasn’t it?”

Keep your expression neutral. Give her no help. “Yes.”

“Well? What did he do? I forgot what it was.”

Chris’s frustrated exhalation of breath spoke volumes about how irritated he was with himself for not ordering the damned crab cakes tonight. All this aggravation over an entrée. “He used a proposal service, Mother.”

“That’s it,” she cried. “What’s it called, again?”

No. Not giving that name up. Wondering what lay behind her questioning, Chris cocked his head in curiosity. “Why is this important to you?”

“Honey, isn’t it obvious? I think you ought to go there and get some help. You’ve been with Veronica for years now—and yet … nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say it was nothing.” Chris heard the defensive tone in his voice. “We’re committed. We’re good together. And neither would I say we’re going nowhere.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. At least you have a thought to your future. Mind, if you don’t make something happen soon with Veronica, you’re going to lose that girl. You’ll look up one day, and she’ll be gone.”

Chris could only shake his head in wonder. “Why do you believe all of a sudden that I’m just drifting along?”

“It’s not all of a sudden. I spend a lot of time thinking about you, you know. You are my son. My only child.”

Chris nodded his head. “Acknowledged. Come on, Mom. What gives?”

His mother looked down at her lap, picked at her slacks a bit, and then settled her gaze on Chris. “I don’t want to bring up painful memories, honey, but is it because of, well, Mary marrying Joe?”

Hurt and anger warred inside Chris, tightening his jaw. “Is what because of Mary and Joe?”

“Well, to use your words, your just drifting along like you are.”

Chris exhaled sharply. “I said I’m not drifting. And Mary and Joe are not the cause of anything I do or don’t do.”

Chris’s mother put a hand on his leg. “Son, I know that was a hard thing to get over, your fiancée marrying your best friend like that.”

Hard? It’d been hell. Pure hell. Chris shifted about on the sofa, inadvertently dislodging his mother’s hand from his leg. “That was nearly eight years ago. And I’m over it. I have been for a long time. Besides, Mary and Joe are happy, still together, and have three kids. So it worked out for the best.”

“For them, maybe.”

“For me, too, Mother. Let it go, okay?”

His mother’s expression became the same one she wore when she’d sat bedside with him whenever he’d ever been sick as a kid. Total maternal concern. “I wish I could, son, and I want to respect your wishes, but I’m your mother so I get to take liberties. And I say that whole experience—your best girl and your best friend falling for each other and marrying—is holding you back. I think what they put you through has left you afraid to make that final leap in the love and marriage department. Now, you may call yourself happy with the way things are now, but you don’t look happy to me. And you don’t act happy.”

“Well, hell, what do you want me to do, Mom? Perform some back flips? Run away and join the circus? Become a clown?”

Penelope Eve slumped. “Oh, now I’ve made you mad. I didn’t mean to.” She tilted her head, smiling warmly. “I guess I just want to know you’re okay. No, I need to know you are, or I can’t be happy, son.” She patted his leg. “You’ll understand one day when you have children of your own.” Her smile asked for his indulgence of her.

How could he stay mad? She was his mother. Chris reached out and took her hand, holding it. “It’s okay, Mom. I love you. And I am happy, all right? I’m okay. Well, I’m working toward being okay.”

Love shone from her eyes. “Oh, good. I won’t press you anymore, but that’s all I really wanted to know.”

Well, he’d made her feel better. But Chris wasn’t certain that he did. He didn’t look or act happy? What was that about? He was a man in love, a man about to pop the question. But did that mean he was supposed to lose his mind and act stupid? Then he suddenly recalled how he’d behaved—lost his mind, acted stupid—when he’d successfully wrangled that second appointment with Dianna. What could that mean?

“Chris? Where are you?” His mother tapped at his leg. “You didn’t even hear what I said to you, did you?”

He blinked back to the moment, shifting his weight atop the sofa cushions, as if that would help dislodge his introspective funk. “No, I guess I didn’t. I’m sorry, what’d you say?”

“I said I hope Veronica doesn’t inconveniently pop out of your study right now.” Having said that, she leaned to one side and craned her neck to look beyond Chris and the sofa.

Chris resisted the urge to look behind him. “I think she’s still working.”

“I do, too, but I still want to make sure she isn’t coming around the corner.” Chris’s mother—Pen, to her friends; an attractive woman with short gray hair and an indomitable spirit—suddenly directed her considerable maternal attention her son’s way. Surprising Chris was that her dark eyes radiated censure. “I have to be honest. I’ve been upset about something else and that’s had me doing all this thinking.”

“Here we go.” Chris scrubbed his hands over his face and then smiled bleakly. “Go ahead. What is it?”

“Well, it’s not something I can just blurt out, Christopher. It’s embarrassing.” She inhaled deeply and said, “But I guess I have to. I want to talk to you about that—” She leaned in toward him, whispering now. “That prostitute you had over here not too long ago.”

“What?” Chris jackknifed to a sitting position, lifting his legs off the ottoman and putting his feet on the floor. “Mother, what the hell? A prostitute? What prostitute?”

“Don’t act like you have no clue. I mean the one on the phone a little over a week ago. I talked to her myself.”

Staring at his mother, Chris ran a hand over his mouth and thought back—and remembered. Dianna. They could not talk about her, not with Veronica close by—or at any other time, either. Chris kept his voice low but warned, “I thought we’d already dealt with that. I told you she wasn’t a prostitute, for God’s sake.”

Penelope Eve raised her chin—a clear warning that she would not be put off. “That’s what you said. But you never would tell me who she is and what she was doing here. What am I supposed to think?”

“Mom, look,” Chris began, striving for firm and reasonable, “I’m all grown-up now. And I could just say this is none of your business—and it isn’t. But, without going into details, I will tell you that everything was cool. Nothing bad.” He sat back now, allowing himself to be insulted. “A prostitute? Come on, you know me better than that.”

“I thought I did. No, I guess I do. At any rate, it’s all very mysterious, you have to admit, so it’s no wonder I’d think about it. The truth is, I can’t get any straight answers from anyone. About the only thing I know is that woman said she knows Veronica. Is that true? Are they friends?”

To Chris’s surprise, he found he didn’t like his mother calling Dianna “that woman.” But he could hardly correct her, not without raising more suspicions on her part. So what he said was: “Yes. They know each other. Sort of. At least, they’ve met.” He was recalling Ronnie and Dianna’s run-in at Tamborello’s. “But they’re not friends, Mother, and I’m not playing some twisted version here of Mary and Joe. I mean, I’m not seeing one friend and cheating on her with her best friend. So, come on, give me some credit here.”

“I give you all sorts of credit, Chris. But I just wanted to be sure.” His mother primly folded her hands together in her lap. “And I think I have some room to talk. After all, since the Mary and Joe thing, in your subsequent relationships, son, you haven’t always been the most constant of men.”

Okay, so he’d been with one woman, only to have his eye caught by another. When that had happened, he’d broken it off. He’d had women do the same thing to him. Such was modern romance. A life of serial monogamy. Something he was getting darned tired of. It was a different world now, and he wanted a lifetime commitment. “Hey, like I said, I’m all grown-up now, Mother. And I didn’t care then like I do now—about those women, I mean. This one I care about.”

“Are we still talking about Veronica?”

Chris sniffed, kept seeing Dianna’s face in his mind, and had to blink to clear away her image. “Yes. Veronica. Definitely Veronica.”

His mother firmed her lips together and raised her eyebrows. “So I’m just to trust that you have some innocent reason for having that woman over here at night without Veronica’s knowledge?”

That did it. Chris snapped out an unthinking answer. “Quit calling her ‘that woman.’ She has a name.”

“Oh? I see. Well, fine, then. Dianna West, it is.”

“Dianna West? Who’s Dianna West?” And this was Veronica, who’d obviously and very silently slipped up on them undetected.

Chris suffered an oh-shit moment. How much had she heard?

Intelligent, blond, perceptive, she stood by the end table closest to where Chris sat on the sofa. A questioning, perhaps suspicious, smile on her face, Veronica divided her gaze between Chris and his mother. “Anybody? Dianna West?”

*   *   *

The weekly Thursday-morning staff meeting of Popping the Question was now in order. Or as close to order as one could achieve when dealing with such personalities as Melanie, Paula, and Mrs. Windhorst. Dianna had made the executive decision to succumb to spring fever by convening outside on the elegantly decorated, wood-floored verandah. This had been met with cheers, followed by the women arranging themselves in a circle comprised of the floral-print padded chairs. In their midst squatted a rectangular, glass-topped wicker coffee table, atop which sat such diverse items as the women’s coffee cups, muffins, notebooks, pens, and business cell phones.

The porch proved to be a very soothing location shaded by the wide overhanging eave, which sheltered the huge hanging baskets of ferns; three-tiered plant stands graced with tiny clay pots of spring daisies; assorted white wicker furniture; and little tables topped with decorative bric-a-brac. Not the usual corporate fare at all. But so what? This was her business, Dianna had decided, and she would conduct it however she felt best.

And right now, being outside on this warm, cloudless, blue-skied day, with its soothing breeze, was exactly what they all needed. But maybe especially Melanie did. She had flounced around all morning, looking troubled. Or maybe she was just more into her overwrought Southern-belle mode than usual. It was hard to tell with her.

Anyway, and this was Dianna’s point, who cared who Chris Adams wanted to marry? It was no skin off her nose. Not with the trees greening, the flowers blooming, and the birds singing. No doubt, off in some green pastures somewhere, baby horses, cows, and lambs were being born. All in all, it was a good day to be alive … as long as she didn’t think about Chris Adams and no one present asked her about him.

“Okay, so now we know when everyone’s vacation days are scheduled for the next three months.” Her smile benign, Dianna turned to her secretary for corroboration. “Before we move on, did you get all that, Mrs. Windhorst?”

“I did. And I will type it up, make copies, and distribute the schedule to everyone.” She shifted her focus to Melanie and Paula. The two of them faced Dianna and Mrs. Windhorst across the intimate width of the table. The older woman peered at them over the top of her Ben Franklin reading glasses. “Please, ladies, try not to make changes after that point, as it only makes more work for me and is very confusing to your coworkers.”

“Not to mention your boss,” Dianna threw in, smiling pointedly at Paula to forestall her saying something provocative like how much easier their working lives would be if they came out of the medieval tower populated by electric typewriters and actually joined the space age of computers. When she got no argument, Dianna moved on. “All right, then. Now to the important stuff. Paula, tell us what you have working right now.”

“Okey-dokey, boss lady.” Much like a boneless cat, Paula uncurled herself from her chair and leaned forward, retrieving from the coffee table her schedule book. She settled back, pulled her pen out from behind her ear, adjusted her glasses on her nose, and leafed through a few pages. “Okay. Here we go.” She ran a finger down the lines on the page. “Got a guy who’s a sports nut, and luckily so’s his girl. So I’ve set him up to pop the question this weekend on one of the promenades behind the outfield at Oriole Park.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Melanie chimed in, sounding more perfunctory than her usual titillated state.

“Nice choice,” Mrs. Windhorst added. “Camden Yards is particularly lovely this time of year.”

“Right.” Paula tugged her blue-framed eyeglasses down and stared at her associates. “Lucky them, there’s a home game this weekend, too. So they’ll have that whole parking-lot ambiance going. Sweaty jocks and screaming fans. A stroll through the memorabilia shops while wearing your favorite team’s jersey and eating barbecue. Nothing could be more romantic. But, hey, it’s not my life.”

Dianna cleared her throat, drawing her employees’ attention her way, yet focusing on Paula in particular. No sense in allowing her to get started on a sports harangue. Athletics were too much like exercise to appeal to sedentary Paula. “Anyway,” Dianna began, “I assume your client, at least, is happy and you got the proper permissions from the team?”

Paula’s nod greeted Dianna’s question. “All in place. Everything done. Everybody happy. Oh, and my little old man and his Bingo World honey got engaged last night, so … bingo for us! Our hundred-percent record is still in place.” She flipped another page in her schedule book. “Okay, now here’s one that’s more like it. I’ve chartered the Black-Eyed Susan—you know, that new 1930s-style Art Deco yacht—for a private party thrown by an older guy who has invited all his and his lady friend’s friends. It’s her sixtieth birthday this weekend, so she’ll be expecting a party anyway. I suggested that they all do this Great Gatsby thing and dress à la F. Scott and Zelda. He loved it. So, pretty darn cool, no? There’ll even be champagne, a big band, dinner, the works.”

“Oh, very good, Ms. Capland,” Mrs. Windhorst said. “Outstanding.”

“Glad you think so, old girlfriend.” Paula winked at her, adding, “And with that”—she flipped her schedule book closed—“I am done here. That’s me for the week. Except for some new clients coming in tomorrow.” She propped a skinny elbow on her chair’s arm, plunked her chin down on her palm and smiled broadly at Melanie. “You’re up, Miss O’Hara, ma’am. What’s happening down on the plantation, my little honeysuckle?”

Dianna sat up, alert to Melanie’s mood and ready to jump in if necessary. But Melanie totally ignored her associate. Dressed in some concoction that fell just shy of a ball gown with a full hoop skirt, she flipped back and forth through her schedule book, apparently looking for the correct page. “Now, let me see. Where am I? I do declare, things just tend to get away from me.”

Batting her eyelashes now, Paula offered: “They do? You mean like your tiny little brain, for instance, sugar?”

Dianna exchanged a glance with Mrs. Windhorst, her being the one who had pointed out to Dianna that Melanie didn’t seem herself—or whoever she thought she was—today. Dianna opened her mouth to tell Paula to knock it off, but Melanie was quicker.

“You poor thing, Paula. I just feel so sorry for you, honey. I truly do,” she said, a white and pampered hand fluttering to her ample bosom. “Why, it must be awful to suffer from such a lack of breeding and manners.” Her expression radiating sympathy, Melanie reached out to finger Paula’s fuchsia-flowered sleeve. “But I’d like to help you. Why don’t I put you in touch with a nice school of fashion and design? I think they can save you from continuing to look like a French fashion show runway-model horror, sweetie.”

Totally not insulted, instead laughing and bright-eyed, Paula shifted in her chair until she was facing Dianna and Mrs. Windhorst. “Do you just love her or what? I’m saying, is she totally cool or is it just me?”

“No. It’s not you,” Dianna assured Paula, who truly did find Melanie a constant source of never-ending amusement and entertainment. “I don’t know why she hasn’t wrung your neck yet, but she is definitely cool.”

Barely responding to this praise—not the first primp or smug look—Melanie focused again on her schedule book. “Now, let’s see. Things I’m working on. Oh. Here we go. I just had a call this morning from that nice young man, Mr. Lansdon. He told me of his happy outcome. He asked his sweetheart last evening at the Ladew Topiary Gardens to marry him and got a yes answer. Isn’t that darling?”

“Totally,” Paula assured her. “In fact, I’m orgasmic, it’s so darling.”

Mrs. Windhorst sucked in an offended breath, and Dianna sat forward, ready to verbally smack Paula, but again Melanie beat her to the punch.

“Orgasmic. That’s nice, honey. Good for you,” she said, patting Paula’s arm dismissively and continuing on. Using a finger to mark her place, she stared at the open page of her schedule book. “Oh, my. Oh, dear. I just don’t know what to do.”

Dianna frowned, not even certain that Melanie realized she was speaking aloud. “Are you okay, Mel? Is something wrong?”

Melanie shook her head no, but her expression crumpled as she covered her face with both hands. Not a sound issued from the woman, but her shoulders shook with emotion.

With her two other employees’ eyes wide with concern and focused on her, Dianna immediately stood up and crossed the porch. Once at Melanie’s side, she put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “Melanie? What is it?”

“Yeah, girlfriend,” Paula said soothingly, sincerely, leaning over from her chair to rub Melanie’s arm sympathetically. “So, what’s wrong, huh? I was only kidding you. You know I wouldn’t kid you if I didn’t like you. Ask Mrs. Windhorst. I tease her all the time, and she thinks I hate her. But I don’t.”

“You don’t?” This from the surprised-sounding Mrs. Windhorst.

Just then, Melanie raised her head, showing a face puffy and reddened with emotion. “It’s not you, Paula.” Her voice was hiccupy with tears. “I’ve been trying to hold back, but I just can’t. I thought I could live with it. I thought I could put the experience behind me and pretend it never happened.” She applied the back of her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “I hoped you’d never have to know, Di. But I find I can’t keep it to myself. It’s just too—”

“Blanche DuBois?” Paula supplied, her expression still one of puckered concern. “Tennessee Williams? A Streetcar Named Desire?”

Dianna made a sound of irritation. “Paula, please.”

She of the French fashion show runway-model horror sat back. “What’d I do? I’m trying to help. She loves being these Southern heroines. You know, depending on the kindness of strangers and all that crap.”

“I am nobody’s heroine,” Melanie wailed brokenheartedly—and loudly. “In fact, I am a villain of the worst sort. I have betrayed you all.”

Dianna immediately squatted down beside the distraught woman’s chair. She patted her employee’s back, but directed her attention to her secretary. “Perhaps a cup of water, Mrs. Windhorst?”

The older woman nodded and got up, hurrying inside to comply. Dianna nodded for Paula to follow her. She did, muttering about Kleenex and Prozac for all this blubbering.

Finally alone with Melanie, Dianna tried to draw her out. “Come on, now, what’s wrong? You know you can talk to me. What’s all this talk about betraying us? How could you possibly betray us? You’re everybody’s sweetheart, Mel.”

“Not anymore, Di.” Melanie wrenched around in her chair and—surprise!—threw her arms around Dianna’s neck in a very effective chokehold that had Dianna gasping and tugging on Melanie’s locked arms. “You are the best of women, honey. I just love you, and I am so sorry. But you should fire me. Or have me locked up in an attic somewhere. I have committed the worst of all sins. I have engaged in a sexual indiscretion with a client.”