From this angle, I get a nice glimpse of Rebecca's cleavage. A brief smile crosses my lips.

I'm not sure what to do, but I give in to the lingering ache in my chest and step toward her. "Can I have a hug?"

Rebecca stands up and steps out of her heels, and we're face-to- face. There's a hint of worry in her eyes. "Come here, you. I could use a hug myself." She opens her arms, and we wrap around each other.

I snuggle into her shoulder. "You've had a bad day, too?"

"The worst. I've got to get some reliable help. I can't keep working like this."

I don't want to let go, but I pull back and lead her to the couch.

"Come in. Sit for a minute."

"I don't have time. I have to go home and change clothes before the dinner crowd hits. Looks like I'll either be bartending or cooking tonight." She follows anyway and collapses beside me on the sofa. I cradle her in the crook of my arm. It feels pretty good to be on this side of the hug for a change.

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Rebecca drapes her arm across my waist. "Maybe we could stop time and sit here like this for a day or two."

"Suits me." I squeeze her shoulder and touch my lips to her forehead. Her skin seems damp and feverish. "Do you feel okay?" I press the back of my hand against her cheek. It's a little too warm.

"I'm fine, just a little case of the sniffles. Nothing contagious."

I pull back and take a good look at her. Her skin is pale, her eyes hollow. "The restaurant can do without you for a while. Why don't you lie down for a few minutes?"

"Don't be silly, I'm not sick." She dismisses my concern with a casual wave and glances toward the TV. "What are you watching?"

I'm not convinced but decide to drop it. "Some made-for-TV horror movie. I'm kind of a thriller buff."

"A buff, huh? What's your all-time favorite?"

"Night of the Living Dead. Best horror movie ever made. Bet I've seen it at least fifteen times."

"I've heard of it." Rebecca picks a stray piece of lint off my flannel shirt and b.a.l.l.s it up between her fingers. "Maybe we can watch it together sometime."

"Tell you what. You need to rest on Friday, so don't worry about cooking. We'll order a pizza and watch the movie. I've got it on video."

"That sounds like a perfect evening after the week I'm having." She snuggles closer and rests her head on my shoulder.

I sniff a hint of aloe in her hair and basil on her dress, and I'm overwhelmed by the urge to kiss her. As if on cue, she raises her head and touches her lips to mine. She's so gentle. I wish she didn't have to go back to work. Maybe we really could stop time and stay like this forever.

Forever? Stop it, you idiot! There's no such thing. But I keep kissing her. We won't have forever, but we've got this minute and I'm not going to let it slip by.

After a moment, she pulls away and glances at her gold wrist.w.a.tch.

"I hate to rush off, but duty calls."

I touch her chin and make her look at me. "Take it from someone who knows, your first duty is to yourself and the people you care about.

All the money in the world won't keep you warm at night."

"Maybe not, but I've never slept in a cardboard box. I don't think I'd like it." She stands and pulls me up with her. "Call me later?"

"Count on it."

We hold hands as I walk her to the door, and she kisses my cheek before she leaves.

134.

My heart is in chaos, full of pa.s.sion, remorse, and l.u.s.t, all topped off by loneliness. It's an emotional abstract of divergent shades, culminating in absolute blackness at my core. Am I strong enough to strip away the dark, separate the light, and allow beauty into my soul again?

I wonder.

CHAPTER 27.

I was sitting in an amazingly uncomfortable straight-backed chair with no armrests, looking across a veneered desk at an old man who bore a remarkable resemblance to Uncle Joe on Petticoat Junctionbald and puffy cheeked with a cheesy smile . He wore an open-collared plaid shirt and clip-on suspenders, but I was in no shape to be handing out fashion tips. I had on a cheap navy blue suit and an imitation silk blouse, and I carried a fake leather briefcase. What a sight the two of us must have been, acting like we were doing real business.

Mr. Johnson reared back and tapped his stubby fingers on the desk.

"Drawings are good. Do them yourself?"

"No, sir. A friend helps me with the artwork, but the designs are all mine." I tried to maintain eye contact, but his gaze darted to the coffeepot in the corner, to me, to the copier by the door, and back to me. The stuffed moose head on the wall seemed more interested in my ideas.

He picked up the first sketch and peeked at the initials at the bottom of the drawing. "F.B.K?"

"Yes, sir. It's a nickname. Her real name is Tonya Knight."

"She's talented."

"Yes, sir, she is."

It must have been ninety degrees in his office. I mopped sweat from the back of my neck, leaned toward the desk, and pointed to the third drawing. "If you look here, Mr. Johnson, you'll see how this"

"Yes, yes, I noticed that." He brushed my hand aside and stared at the coffeepot again.

"So you agree that my ideas are good?"

Mr. Johnson's stare didn't shift as he rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. "Sure you don't want a cup of coffee?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sure."

"Tea?"

"No, sir, nothing, thank you." I leaned forward again and caught a whiff of bourbon and almond-scented pipe smoke from his side of the 135.

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desk. "Getting back to this particular unit, I believe that by extending the roller I can"

"Tonya Knight, huh?"

"Yes, sir, that's her name."

"Talented girl." He stacked the drawings on the desk. "Where're the prototypes?"

I took the drawings and cleared my throat. Here came the killer. I'd said the words eighteen times over the past month, and eighteen times they'd gotten me kicked out of someone's office. However, most had been nice offices with Rembrandt reproductions and double-loop carpeting. Old Nate here had a 1981 calendar with a picture of a red convertible Corvette on the wall and a multicolored Dollar Store throw rug on the floor.

I tugged at the high collar of my blouse. "I don't have any prototypes at this time."

He hawked out a smoker's cough without covering his mouth.

"Well, little lady, you don't know for sure if these units even work, now do you?"

Disgusting old geezer had me on the defensive, and that "little lady" remark had raised my blood pressure, but I was desperate.

Johnson's name was the next to last on my list.

I forced myself to envision the nice little house I was going to buy Lora when I got this thing going. One story. Flat yard. Black shutters.

That's right, see it? But it won't happen if I don't make some sacrifices along the way.

I leaned closer to Mr. Johnson. "I don't have a prototype at this time, but with the right backing"

"Backing? You want me to put cash into something that might not even work? What're you selling here, kid, fairy dust? You got to have some kind of prototype." He looked at me with a mocking glare.

"It will work, sir. I know it."

He clenched a Sherlock Holmes pipe in his teeth and spoke around it as he tamped tobacco into the bowl. "Kid, you got nothing." He blatantly stared at my chest. "You're a pretty enough girl. Why don't you go on down to the employment office and get yourself a nice secretary job? Let your husband worry about making money."

"Mr. Johnson, I have a Bachelor of Science degree which I got in three years while working full time at Mercy Hospital," I said, jaw clenched. I stood and gathered my things and what was left of my dignity. "I will make this work. I'm only sorry that you've pa.s.sed up this opportunity."

137.

Nate Johnson was laughing as I closed the door behind me.

By the time I reached my car, I'd worked up a foul mood. Who did that old fart think he was, telling me I had nothing? My ideas were good; I knew they were. I'd spent the last year perfecting every design. Tonya had been back to the drawing board so many times she'd threatened an artist's strike. But I couldn't squelch the p.r.i.c.kle of doubt that crawled up my spine. I'd made a list of twenty potential local investors, started with the most promising, and worked my way down. So far, I'd been politely dismissed, laughed at, and sent packing nineteen times. Number twenty was waiting downtown.

If just one person would believe in me... why was it so hard? Why was I reduced to groveling to the likes of Nate Johnson to get somewhere?

I unlocked the car door, took off my jacket, and tossed it into the pa.s.senger seat. It was nearly July, and a wave of heat swam from the car, bathing me in sticky sweat. The old Datsun's air conditioner had blown the summer before, so I couldn't expect to cool off before my last appointment. Oh well, it probably wouldn't matter anyway. If Nate was any indication of what this next one would be like, I might as well skip it.

I climbed into the car, rolled down the window, and cranked the engine. G.o.d, it was hot. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. Fine droplets of perspiration dotted my brow, and I dabbed my face with a napkin from the glove compartment, but there wasn't much hope for my hair. It was plastered to my head like a bathing cap.

Nothing was working out the way I'd planned. The business office at the hospital was already overstaffed, so my chances of moving out of the archive room were slim. Plus, Spring City was the kind of place where people held on to their jobs. Most of the local businesses had an experienced staff, and I was just a snot-nosed kid with nothing but a piece of parchment. In truth, I didn't know beans from apple b.u.t.ter and was no compet.i.tion for applicants with even a year's experience in any field.

The job placement counselor at State had advised me to relocate and get some marketable experience under my belt. That wasn't an option, though. Lora had years of study ahead of her, and she'd established herself as a star pupil at State. Asking her to break in a new university was out of the question, so I'd have to make my way in Spring City.

138.

It wasn't fair. I had great ideas and was willing to work hard, but I was busting my hump for peanuts. I seemed doomed to failure. Maybe Lora had made a mistake when she'd chosen me over Jock Richardson.

I was fuming. Desperation seeped from my pores. I slammed the gearshift into reverse, backed out of the parking s.p.a.ce, and headed toward Highway 17. For ten minutes, I cruised along the four-lane road doing sixty, letting the rushing wind blow-dry my hair. I turned left onto Main Street, cruised past Midtown Office Supply, and parked between a Mercedes and a Honda Civic.

This was my last chance. If I didn't land this son of a b.i.t.c.h, I was looking at failure. The rest of my days would be spent filing death certificates and bandaging paper cuts. I got out of the car, put on my jacket, and grabbed the sketches from the back seat. I marched down the sidewalk, eyes narrow and jaw set. My high heels pinched my aching toes. The pain urged me on.

The windowed storefront of Midtown Office Supply displayed a variety of products: fountain pens, ledger books, adding machines. A handwritten sign on the door advertised three-day delivery on rubber stamps. As I drew near, a bright ray of sunshine reflected off the gla.s.s, blinding me with purple and orange spots.

I barged through the door, and a tiny bra.s.s bell jingled above my head. A woman in a hot-pink pantsuit stepped around the counter. She had a serious case of helmet-hair and wore enough makeup to last me for three months. She smiledlipstick on her teeth. Perfect.

"Can I help you?" She clasped her hands in front of her as if in prayer.

"I'm Claire Blevins. I have an appointment with Mr. Ornduff."

"I'll tell him you're here." She looked me up and down before disappearing through an open doorway to her right.

The woman soon returned, followed by a tall, stocky man with too much black hair, but at least he was cleansmall favors. The woman retreated behind the counter while he greeted me, hand outstretched.

I pounced before he could speak. "Mr. Ornduff, I'm Claire Blevins, and I've got a proposal that will put you on the map."

He scrutinized me for a moment, then smiled. Turning to the woman, he said, "Hold my calls, will you, Mary?" He looked back at me. "Come on in, Claire. And call me Reggie."

CHAPTER 28.

It's Friday night, and despite my reservations about dating Rebecca, I'm excited about seeing her. I've visited her at Choppy's every day for lunch, but she's cautious of what she says in the restaurant. We've talked on the phone till my ears went numb, but hearing her voice isn't like seeing her, watching her eyes flicker and her lips curve into that whimsical grin.

The past week has been an emotional roller coaster. One minute I'm thinking about this fascinating woman I'm coming to know and wondering what the future might hold. The next, I feel the sting of broken promises and swear to put an end to this charade before someone gets hurt.

It would be a lie to say I don't like her, and liking her might be a lot healthier than loving her. With like, you don't sit up nights wondering where she is or what she's doing. You don't worry that a charming stranger will swoop in and take her away. And you sure don't have to put out your heart like a doormat for her to wipe her muddy shoes on.

The doorbell rings and I order Jitterbug to stay in the den, which is as effective as telling the wind not to blow. She hops along beside me to the foyer, ears flapping, tail wagging and nails clicking on the parquet floor.

When I open the door, Rebecca greets the dog first, bending down to scratch her behind the ears. "Hey, little girl," she says. But when I close the door, she turns to me. "Hey, big girl," she whispers, her eyes luring me closer.

When she puts her arms around me and grazes her lips against mine, a surprising l.u.s.t surges within me. I draw her to me, parting her lips with my tongue, savoring the sugary mint of her mouth, inhaling her breath. This is not a gentle, romantic kiss. It's l.u.s.ty and sloppy, growing from a need so primitive it defies explanation. Instinct takes over, and my hand inches toward her breast. G.o.d, I need to touch her. But somewhere between my gut and my brain, a seed of reason takes over and I return my hand to the small of her back.

139.