Later, Heath met up with Phoebe in the hallway outside the owner's skybox. Delaney had just headed off for the ladies' room, and Heath was chatting with Ron and Sharon McDer-mitt when the Stars' owner came around the corner. "Heath, can I steal you away for a minute?"
"I swear to God, whatever it is, I didn't do it. Tell her, Ron."
Ron grinned. "You're on your own, buddy." He and Sharon disappeared into the skybox.
Heath regarded Phoebe warily. "I knew I should have gotten a booster on my tetanus shot."
"I might owe you an apology."
"That's it. No more beer for me. You'll never guess what I thought you just said."
"Pay attention." She shifted her purse higher on her shoulder. "All I'm trying to say is that I might have jumped to the wrong conclusion when we were at the lake."
"Which of about a hundred wrong conclusions would that be?" He knew the answer, but she'd lose respect for him if he gave in too easily.
"That you were taking advantage of Annabelle. I hope I'm a big enough person to admit when I'm wrong, but you have to remember that you've programmed me to expect the worst. Anyway, every time I see Annabelle she talks about how thrilled she is to be making this match between you and Delaney. Her business is blossoming. And Delaney's lovely." She reached up and patted his cheek. "Maybe our little boy is finally growing up."
He couldn't believe it. After all these years had he cracked the ice with Phoebe? If so, he owed it all to Delaney.
As Phoebe disappeared into the owner's skybox, he pulled out his cell so he could share the news with Annabelle, but before he punched in her number, Delaney reappeared. He probably couldn't have reached Annabelle anyway. Unlike him, she didn't believe in leaving her phone on.
Annabelle had never been a big opera fan, but Delaney had box seats for Tosca, and the Lyric's lavish production was exactly the distraction she needed to take her mind off her mother's phone call that afternoon. Her family, it seemed, had decided to descend on Chicago next month to help Annabelle celebrate her thirty-second birthday.
"Adam has a conference," Kate had said, "and Doug and Can-dace want to visit some old friends. Dad and I were planning a trip to St. Louis anyway, so we'll drive up from there."
One big, happy family.
Intermission came. "I can't believe how much I'm enjoying this," Annabelle said as she bought Delaney a glass of wine.
Unfortunately, her old friend was more interested in talking about Heath than in discussing the trials and tribulations of Tosca's doomed lovers. "Did I remember to tell you that Heath introduced me to Phoebe Calebow on Saturday? She's lovely. The whole weekend was fabulous."
Annabelle didn't want to hear about it, but Delaney was on a roll.
"I told you that Heath left for the coast yesterday, but I didn't tell you that he sent flowers again. Unfortunately, more roses, but he's basically a jock, so how much imagination can you expect?"
Annabelle loved roses, and she didn't think they were all that unimaginative.
Delaney tugged on her pearls. "Of course, my parents adore him-you know how they are-and my brother thinks he's the best guy I've ever dated."
Annabelle's brothers would have liked Heath, too. For all the wrong reasons, but still…
"We'll have been together five weeks this coming Friday. Annabelle, I think this might be it. He's as close to perfect as I'll ever get." Her smile faded. "Well… Except for that small problem I've been telling you about."
Annabelle slowly released the air she'd been holding in her lungs. "No change?"
Delaney lowered her voice. "I was all over him in the car on Saturday. It was obvious I was getting to him, but he didn't follow up on it. I know I'm being paranoid-and I'd never say this to anybody else-but are you absolutely sure he's not gay? There was this guy in college, totally macho, but he turned out to have a boyfriend."
"I don't think he's gay," Annabelle heard herself say.
"No," Delaney shook her head firmly. "I'm sure he's not."
"You're probably right."
The bell rang to announce the end of intermission, and Annabelle slithered back to her seat like the miserable snake she was.
Rain pummeled the window behind Portia's desk, and a bolt of lightning split the late afternoon sky.
"… and so we're giving our two weeks' notice," Briana said.
Portia felt the storm's fury pricking her skin.
The slit of Briana's black skirt fell open as she crossed her long legs. "We only finalized the details yesterday," she said, "which is why we couldn't tell you earlier."
"We'll stretch it to three weeks if you really need us." Kiki leaned forward in her chair, her brow furrowed with concern "We know you haven't replaced Diana yet, and we don't want to leave you in a bind."
Portia repressed a hysterical bubble of laughter. How much worse could things get than to lose her two remaining assistants?
"We've been talking about this for six months." Briana's bright smile invited Portia to be happy right along with her. "We both love to ski, and Denver's a great city."
"A fabulous city," Kiki said. "There are tons of singles, and with everything we've learned from you, we know we're ready to start our own business."
Briana tilted her head, her straight blond hair falling over her shoulder. "We can't thank you enough for showing us the ropes, Portia. I'll admit, there were times when we resented how tough you were, but now we're grateful."
Portia pressed her sweaty palms together. "I'm glad to hear it."
The two women exchanged glances. Briana gave Kiki an almost imperceptible nod. Kiki fiddled with the top button on her blouse. "Briana and I were wondering-hoping, really-that maybe… Would you mind if we called you every once in a while? I know we're going to have a million questions starting out."
They wanted her to mentor them. They were walking out, leaving her with no trained assistants, and they wanted her to help them. "Of course," Portia said stiffly. "Call me whenever you need to."
"Thanks so much," Briana said. "Really. We mean it."
Portia managed what she hoped was a gracious nod, but her stomach roiled. She didn't plan what she said next. The words just came out. "I can tell that you're anxious to get started, and I wouldn't dream of holding you back. Things have been quiet lately, so there's really no need for either of you to hang around another two weeks. I'll manage fine." She waved her fingers toward the door, shooing them away, as if they were a pair of mischievous schoolgirls. "Go on. Finish up what you need to and take off."
"Really?" Briana's eyes turned to saucers. "You don't mind?"
"Of course not," Portia said. "Why would I mind?"
They weren't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, and they rushed toward the door. "Thanks, Portia. You're the best."
"The best," Portia whispered to herself when she was finally alone. Another thunderclap rattled the window. She folded her arms on her desk and put her head down. She couldn't do this anymore.
That night she sat in her darkened living room and stared at nothing. It had been almost six weeks since she'd last seen Bodie, and she ached for him. She felt rootless, adrift, lonely to the very bottom of her soul. Her personal life lay in pieces around her, and Power Matches was falling apart. Not only because of her assistants' desertion, but also because she'd lost her focus.
She thought of what had happened with Heath. Unlike Portia, Annabelle had seized her opportunity and used it brilliantly. One introduction each, he'd said. While Portia had followed her seriously flawed instincts and waited, Annabelle had pounced and introduced him to Delaney Lightfield. It couldn't have been more ironic. Portia had known the Lightfields for years. She'd watched Delaney grow up. But she'd been so busy falling apart that she'd never once thought of introducing her to Heath.
She glanced at the clock. Not even nine. She couldn't face another sleepless night. For weeks she'd been resisting taking a sleeping pill, hating the idea of being dependent. But if she didn't get a decent night's rest soon, she'd go crazy. Her heart started its panicky flutter. She pressed her hand to her chest. What if she died right here? Who would care? Only Bodie.
She couldn't bear it any longer, so she tossed on her hot pink trench coat, grabbed her purse, and took the elevator down to the lobby. Even though it was dark, she slipped on her Chanel sunglasses in case she ran into one of her neighbors. She couldn't bear the thought of anyone seeing her like this- without her makeup, a pair of ratty sweatpants peeking out from under a Marc Jacobs trench coat.
She hurried around the corner to the all-night drugstore. As she reached the aisle with the sleeping remedies, she saw them. Piled in a wire bin marked 75% off. Dusty purple boxes of aging yellow marshmallow Easter chicks. The bin sat at the end of the aisle across from the sleep aids. Her mother had bought those chicks every Easter and set them out in her Franklin Mint teddy bear bowl. Portia still remembered the grit of the sugar crystals between her teeth.
"You need some help?"
The clerk was a chubby Hispanic girl who wore too much makeup and wouldn't be able to comprehend that some things were beyond help. Portia shook her head, and the girl disappeared. She turned her attention to the sleeping pills, but the boxes swam before her eyes. Her gaze drifted back to the bin of chicks. Easter had been five months ago. They'd be rubbery by now.
A patrol car blew past outside, its siren blaring, and Portia wanted to shove her fingers in her ears. Some of the purple Easter chick cartons were dented, and a couple of the cellophane windows had split open. Disgusting. Why didn't they throw them out?
Overhead, the fluorescent light fixture hummed. The overly made-up clerk was staring at her. With a good night's sleep, Portia'd feel like her old self again. She had to choose something quickly. But what?
The noise from the fluorescent lights bored through her temples. Her pulse raced. She couldn't keep standing here. Her feet began to move, and her purse fell low on her arm. Instead of reaching for a sleeping aid, she reached into the bin for the marshmallow chicks. A trickle of perspiration slid between her breasts. She scooped up one box, then another, and another. Outside, a taxi horn blared. Her shoulder bumped a display of cleaning supplies, and a stack of sponges fell to the floor. She stumbled to the register.
Another kid stood behind the counter, this one pimply-faced and chinless. He picked up a box of chicks. "I love these things."
She fixed her eyes on the rack of tabloids. He ran the box over the scanner. Everyone in her building shopped at this drugstore, and a lot of them walked their dogs at night. What if someone wandered in here and saw her?
The boy held up a box with a torn cellophane window. "This is ripped."
She flinched. "They're… for my niece's kindergarten class."
"Do you want me to get another one?"
"No, it's fine."
"But it's ripped."
"I said it's fine!" She'd shouted, and the kid looked startled. She contorted her mouth into a travesty of a smile. "They're… making necklaces."
He looked at her as if she were crazy. Her heart raced faster. He started scanning again. The door opened, and an elderly couple entered the store. No one she knew, but she'd seen them before. He scanned the last box. She thrust a twenty at him, and he scrutinized it like a treasury agent. The chicks lay scattered across the counter for anyone to see, eight purple boxes, six chicks to a box. He handed over her change. She shoved it in her purse, not bothering with her wallet, just throwing it inside.
The phone by the register rang, and he answered it. "Hey, Mark, what's up? No, I don't get off till midnight. Sucks."
She snatched the sack from him and shoved the rest of the boxes inside. One fell to the floor. She left it there.
"Hey, lady, you want your receipt?"
She hurried into the street. It had started to rain again. She clutched the sack to her chest and dodged a fresh-faced young woman who still believed in happily-ever-after. Rain soaked her hair, and by the time she got back home, she was shivering. She dumped the sack on her dining room table. Some of the boxes spilled out.
She shrugged off her trench coat and tried to catch her breath. She should make herself a cup of tea, turn on some music, maybe the television. But she did none of those things. Instead, she sank into the chair at the foot of the table and slowly began lining up the boxes in front of her.
Seven boxes. Six chicks to a box.
Hands trembling, she started peeling off the cellophane and tearing open the flaps. Bits of purple cardboard dropped to the floor. Chicks tumbled out along with a gritty snow of yellow sugar.
Finally all the boxes were opened. She pushed the last remnants of cardboard and cellophane to the carpet. Only the chicks were left. As she gazed at them, she knew Bodie had been right about her. All her life, she'd been driven by fear, so frightened of falling short that she'd forgotten how to live.
She began to eat the chicks, one by one.