like to believe.'
'I get a few days off now and then.'
'I came in today because of him.' She gestured toward her computer. 'Little Miss Granger can wine and dine him for all she's worth, but I'm the one who'll find his wife.'
'Probably.'
She perched on the edge of her desk. 'Tell me about the women he's dated in the past. He's not very forthcoming.'
'I don't want to talk about Heath.' He moved to the window, gazed out at the street, then pulled the drapery cord. The panels closed in a soft whoosh. He turned back toward her, and his eyes-so pale and remote they should have turned her to ice-felt like a warm balm to her shriveled soul.
'Take off your clothes,' he whispered.
Chapter Seventeen
The week after the disastrous Wind Lake retreat, Annabelle immersed herself in work to keep from obsessing over what had happened. The Perfect for You Web site was up and running, and she received her first e-mail inquiry. She met separately with Ray Fiedler and Carole, who weren't going to be a love match but had learned something from each other. Melanie Richter, the Power Matches candidate Heath had rejected, agreed to have coffee with Shirley Miller's godson. Unfortunately, Jerry was intimidated by her Neiman's wardrobe and refused to ask her out again. A few more senior citizens arrived at her door, taking up too much of her time and doing nothing to improve her bottom line, but she understood loneliness, and she couldn't turn them away. At the same time, she knew she needed to think bigger if she intended to make a living wage. She examined her bank account balance and decided she could just afford to throw a wine and cheese party for her younger clients. All week, she waited for Heath to call. He didn't.
On Sunday afternoon she was listening to vintage Prince on the radio while she unpacked some groceries when her phone rang. 'Hey, Spud. How's it going?'
Just the sound of her brother Doug's voice made her feel inept. She envisioned him as she'd last seen him: blond and good-looking, a male version of their mother. She stuffed a bag of baby carrots into the refrigerator and flicked off the radio. 'Couldn't be better. How are things in LaLa Land?'
'The house next door just sold for one-point-two mil. On the market less than twenty-four hours. When are you coming out to visit again? Jamison misses you.'
'I miss him, too.' Not exactly true, since Annabelle barely knew him. Her sister-in-law had the poor kid so overscheduled with play dates and toddler enrichment classes that the last time Annabelle had visited, she'd mainly seen him asleep in his car seat. As Doug rattled on about their fabulous neighborhood, Annabelle imagined Jamison showing up on her doorstep as a twitchy, neurotic thirteen-year-old runaway. She'd nurse him back to mental health by teaching him her best slacker tricks, and when he grew up, he'd tell his children about his beloved, eccentric Auntie Annabelle who'd saved his sanity and taught him to appreciate life.
'So get this,' Doug said. 'I surprised Candace last week with a new Benz. I wish you could have seen the expression on her face.'
Annabelle glanced out the kitchen window toward the alley where Sherman sat baking in the sun like a big green frog. 'I'll bet she loved it.'
'I'll say.' Doug went on about the Benz-interior, exterior, GPS, like she cared. Once he put her on hold to take another call-shades of Heath. Finally he got to the point, and that was when she remembered the main reason Doug called. To lecture. 'We need to talk about mom. Adam and I've been discussing the situation.'
'Mom's a situation?' She opened a jar of Marshmallow Fluff and dug in.
'She's not getting any younger, Spud, but you don't seem to recognize that fact.'
'She's only sixty-two,' she said around the sweet gob. 'Hardly ready for a nursing home.'
'Remember that health scare she had last month?'
'It was a sinus infection!'
'You can minimize it all you want, but the years are catching up with her.'
'She just registered for 'windsurfing lessons.'
'She only tells you what she wants you to hear. She doesn't like being a nag.'
'You could have fooled me.' She tossed the dirty spoon in the sink with more force than necessary.
'Adam and I agree about this, and so does Candace. All the worrying Kate does about you and your… Why don't we just come right out and say it?'
'This anxiety about your fairly aimless lifestyle is putting a strain on her that she doesn't need.'
Annabelle ordered herself to let his dig pass. This time she wouldn't let him get to her. 'Mom thrives on worrying about me,' she said semicalmly 'Retirement bores her, and trying to manage my life gives her something to do.'
'That's not the way the rest of us see it. She's always stressed.'
'Being stressed is her recreation. You know that.'
'You're so clueless. When are you going to figure out that holding on to that house is a headache she doesn't need?'
The house. Another vulnerability. Even though Annabelle paid rent every month, she couldn't escape the fact that she was living under Mommy's roof.
'You need to move out of there so she can put the place on the market.'
Her spirits sank. 'She wants to sell it?' As she gazed around at the shabby kitchen, she could see her grandmother standing next to the sink as they did the dishes together. Nana didn't like messing up her manicures, so Annabelle always washed while she dried. They'd gossip about the boys Annabelle liked, about a new client Nana had just signed, talking about everything and nothing.
'I think it's pretty clear what she wants,' Doug said. 'She wants her daughter to step up to the plate and live responsibly. Instead, you're freeloading.'
Was that what they called the rent money she barely managed to scrape up every month? Still, who was she kidding? Her mother would make a fortune if she sold this house to developers. Annabelle couldn't take any more. 'If Mom wants to sell the house, she can talk to me about it, so butt out.'
'You always do this. Can't you, just once, discuss a problem logically?'
'If you want logic, talk to Adam. Or Candace. Or Jamison, for God's sake, but leave me alone.'
She hung up on him like the mature thirty-one-year-old she wasn't and promptly burst into tears. For a few moments she fought them, but then she grabbed a paper towel, sat down at the kitchen table, and gave in to her misery. She was tired of being the family outcast, tired of coming up short. And she was afraid… because no matter how much she fought it, she was falling in love with a man who was just like them.
By Monday morning, Heath still hadn't contacted her. She had a business to run, and as much as she might want to, she couldn't roll over and play dead any longer, so she left him a message. By Tuesday afternoon, he hadn't replied. She was fairly certain her Oscar-winning performance had convinced him at the time that he'd only been her sex therapist, but more than a week had passed since then, and he seemed to be having second thoughts. It wasn't in his nature to back away from confrontation, and sooner or later he'd contact her, but he'd want their showdown on his terms, which would put her at a disadvantage.
She still had Bodie's cell number from the day they'd spent with Arte Palmer, and she used it that evening.
An early morning jogger clipped past as she wedged Sherman into a miraculously vacant parking space a few doors down from the Lincoln Park address Bodie had given her the night before. She'd set her alarm for five-thirty, a fine time for Mr. Bronicki and his cronies to hop out of bed, but hell on earth for her. After a quick shower, she'd slipped into an acid yellow sundress with a corset-structured bodice that made her feel as though she had a bust,
