Regrets Only (9 page)

“Shh…Suzanne,
that was a secret, remember?”

“Oh,
sorry!” Suzanne said. She meant it, too. Though at this point she was having
trouble holding on to what she meant. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Her thoughts and
words seemed to be slipping through her fingers. Out they went, almost as
though she could see them, through the white metal grid separating her from the
empty air beyond the railing and down, down, down to the ground below. People—lots
of people—were down there, milling around. She could see the tops of their
heads and black suits or bare shoulders, depending on gender.
Holy shit, I’m
far up. How have I never noticed how high up this is? Has anyone ever fallen
from here?

“Well
if it isn’t my favorite Southern belle,” another voice came through the radio,
surprisingly crisp and audible. That was odd. She held the radio out from her
face to examine it.

A
good-natured laugh sounded from her left. “I’m over here, Miss Scarlett.” She
turned to see her most famous client standing a few feet away from her on the
landing.

Even
had she felt her normal clarity, it might have taken a moment to recognize
Dylan Burke. He wore the perfectly-faded blue jeans and black boots that were
his standard uniform, of course, but with a pressed white shirt, soft charcoal
vest and a wide, tasteful maroon tie. The most surprising thing, though, was
seeing him for the first time without his trademark camouflage cap. His
hairline was
slightly
receded, as she had wondered, but the rest of his
hair was thick and had been expertly tousled into a sun-streaked, light brown
mess on top of his head. He wore glasses—round black frames that were thick on
top and thin as wire on the bottom. In spite of her addled state, she couldn’t
help but notice that he looked amazing. Sexy, even.

“Looks
like you’ve been busy since I saw you last,” he said.

This
brought her out of her reverie and she realized she’d been staring at him. “What?”

“Your
cast,” he said, nodding at her arm. She’d almost forgotten it. “What happened?
Some other poor bastard question your encyclopedic knowledge of baseball?”

“Accident,”
she said. “Weird, though, because I’m not the accident-prone one. Marci,
though, Marci is a klutz.”

“And
Marci is…?”

“My
best friend,” Suzanne said, sounding annoyed that he didn’t already have this
information. “Do try to keep up.”

“Yes,
ma’am,” he said. His smile broadened, but Suzanne got the feeling he was
smiling
at
her rather than
with
her. “Listen, can I walk you back
down?”

“For
the last time, I don’t need anyone to walk with me. I’m fine!”

“It’s
not for you,” he said. “It’s for me. If I walk down there by myself, I’ll be
drawn into a hundred different conversations and requests for autographs and
I’ll never make it to my table. I’m hungry. You’re my event planner. Walk with
me.”

She
stood, still rather wobbly, and he extended his arm. Suzanne took it, feeling
ridiculous. “Thanks,” he said benignly.

Walking
seemed to help her confused state a little. “I can’t figure you out,” she said
to the young country star as they descended, slowly, down the curving ramps to
the main floor.

“What’s
to figure out?” he said. Then, with a wry smile, he added, “I’m just your
average Tennessee boy with a crazy family and a private jet.”

“I
don’t know,” she said, ignoring the joke. Somewhere in the deep recesses of the
medication fog, a tiny but reasonable voice screamed at her to be quiet. Be
professional.
Shut the hell up before you say something stupid.
“Honestly,
I don’t want to like you.”

“Thanks,”
he said drily.

“I
mean, I don’t love country music in general, especially that oversimplified hokey
stuff about farms and tractors. No offense.”

“None
taken,” he said with a surprised laugh.

“And
you seem so obnoxious in the press.
And
in person.”

“Again,
thanks,” he said. “Do I have to pay you extra for all this honesty?”

“You’re
a womanizer, too,” she said accusingly.

“Ah,”
he said. They had reached the bottom of the last ramp and he stood back to let
her enter the lobby first.

“But
you know what’s weird?” she asked over her shoulder.

“I
bet you’re about to tell me,” he said.

“I
like you anyway.” She turned to face him momentarily. She couldn’t tell whether
he was amused or annoyed. “I don’t want to, but I do.”

He
opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. He seemed to be trying to
decide something. After a moment, his puzzled look changed to concern. Only
when he grasped her elbow did she realize she’d been teetering dangerously to
one side. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “but you don’t look so
good. I really think you should sit down.”

Suzanne
was searching for an appropriate response, and thinking that Dylan was probably
right, when the tiny bleached-blonde from the baseball game, now in a
skin-tight fuchsia cocktail dress, came from nowhere and flung her arms around
him. She leaned close and cooed in Dylan’s ear. “Come on, baby. You promised
you’d buy me something from the auction before you go on stage.” Suzanne must
have made an involuntary noise, because the girl wrinkled her nose. “What’s the
matter with
her
?”

Focusing
on the girl’s face was difficult, swimming as it was in Suzanne’s vision, with
the stark white walls of the main lobby behind her. But she tried to smile
anyway. “Oh, nothing,” she heard herself say. “I’m fine. You guys enjoy the
auction. Have a great time.”

Dylan
looked unconvinced. “You need to sit down, Miss Scarlett,” he said. “I’m going
to get you some water. Misty, stay with her.”

They
sat on a bench, and Suzanne tried to apologize to the girl in fuchsia for the
disruption of their evening. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s happening,” she
started.

But
Misty was in no mood for conciliation, apparently. “Listen,” she said harshly,
in a far more country-sounding accent than she had been using moments before.
“I know what you’re doing and you can just go ahead and give up. No matter what
kind of stupid game you’re playing to get his attention, there’s no way I’m
letting him go. Besides, if you were half as smart as you think you are, you’d
know that Dylan
never
dates older women.”

“What?”
Suzanne said, thoroughly confused. Before she could defend herself, however,
Dylan had returned with a bottle of water and suddenly Misty was dragging him
away.

When
they were out of sight, Suzanne stood, threw away the water, and flagged a
passing waiter. She downed a flute of champagne in seconds. She heard it: the
tiny warning voice, screaming that this was a bad idea, that something was
seriously wrong and she ought to find Marci and a place to lie down. But the
voice was so muted, it was as though it were coming to her through ten feet of
solid concrete. She talked to herself instead.

Head
up. Keep smiling. On with the show.

It
took some time to get to the main tent area. Suzanne had to stop once or twice
to sit down, she was so dizzy. By the time she got there, she was sweating and
her cocktail dress clung to her. To avoid being pressed into problem-solving
service by her staff, she veered along the edge of the seating area against the
white canvas to the back, where she could check the status of the event
undisturbed.

The
Christmas lights and tiny mirrors Jake and Chad had so painstakingly draped as
a backdrop to the stage had been worth every minute of their time. They
twinkled behind Dylan, sitting on a leather and chrome barstool with his
guitar, singing something soft and low. Among the soft lights, the jarred
fireflies, and candles scattered around the tent, the whole place looked
magical, and everyone seemed rapt by the performance.

The
song sounded familiar, and she strained to allow it into her brain and connect
it with a title. Eventually she realized it was Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful
Tonight,” and that Dylan’s twangy voice gave it a rough-hewn sound that
actually made it even more elegant. Several couples were slow-dancing near the
stage. She was proud that things were going well. If only she didn’t feel so
dizzy and restless.

A
sudden wave came over her and Suzanne was overwhelmed with an urge to be
out
.
Away from the tent, the crowd, the lights. Anywhere but where she was. Her feet
could simply not stand in that spot another minute. She staggered back toward
the exit of the tent, feeling dizzier by the minute. She couldn’t help but  step
on several coats and purses as she went. She excused herself as quietly as
possible as she passed behind people, trying to avoid bumping into anyone with
her wavering gait and hard-shelled arm.

It
seemed to take forever to get out of the tent, and it was especially difficult
to get the canvas out of her way. Her clothes were too tight, the six-hundred-dollar
cocktail dress scratchy and uncomfortable. Even though she was the same perfect
size six she’d been for years, she’d had to use the best Lycra had to offer to
make sure the lines were smooth beneath the satiny dress. Now she regretted it,
because she could barely breathe as she made her way out to the museum lawn.
After tonight, she vowed never to torture herself with a bustier and lacy biker
shorts again.

The
rest of the evening came to her in flashes. The humid night air. The feel of
damp grass. Marci and Chad calling to her from far behind. Thinking Marci and
Chad were hilarious. Feeling suddenly elated, free. Running. So much running. A
funny house. Water. The smell of men’s deodorant. And the bright, ominous flash
of cameras. Then darkness. Sleep.

“Are
you ready?” Marci said, handing Suzanne a mug of hot coffee.

She
had been staring out the kitchen window of Jake and Marci’s home in Alpharetta,
examining with detached criticism the blankness of the nearly empty yard,
unremarkable wooden fence, and the pale-neutral backs of the houses behind
theirs. Jake and Marci lived in a four-bedroom home, with a basement, in a
recently constructed neighborhood in the far-flung suburbs—the last place
Suzanne had expected them to settle.

Under
the circumstances, they really ought to try to make the rear of the houses look
as nice as the front
,
she thought uncharitably.
That would at least improve the aesthetics a
little until the trees grow in
.

“Suze?”
Marci prompted.

“Yes,
I’m ready. Sorry,” Suzanne colored, embarrassed by her thoughts. Who was she to
judge anyone?

Three
days had passed since the debacle at the High, and—except her second emergency
room visit in a twenty-four-hour period—she had been hiding out like a fugitive
at Jake and Marci’s ever since. They had put her up in the spare bedroom; Marci
had confiscated her phone and kept her away from the TV and newspapers. She’d
even written an email to Chad on Suzanne’s behalf, giving him a script to
follow for incoming calls from clients and the press. Both Stillwells had been
kind enough to ignore the occasional sobbing that emerged from the guest room.

Suzanne
had no siblings, but if she had, she could not imagine they would do better for
her than Jake and Marci. Yet, to her shame, instead of appreciating their
generosity, she was scrutinizing their neighborhood. What’s more, if she were
very honest, Suzanne would have to say that she resented just about everything
about Marci and Jake’s happy damn life, and couldn’t wait to leave later that
day.
What a horrible, ungrateful friend I am.

 As
usual, her best friend seemed to read her mind. “You’re being hard on
yourself,” Marci said gently. “Come sit down.”

On
Jake and Marci’s kitchen table were piled several local and regional
newspapers. In the wee hours after the event, a friend in the Style department
at the
Atlanta Journal & Constitution
had tipped Suzanne off via
text message that her “episode” had been recorded in both picture and video
format by all the press on hand. The association with Dylan Burke had launched
the event onto gossip pages nationwide.

Now
that it was Tuesday and she’d had time to stabilize, Marci was going to allow
her to look at the papers. With one quick glance at the Sunday edition of the
AJC
,
Suzanne had to agree Marci had made the right call to hide them from her. The
sight was horrifying.

Above
the masthead on the front page of the paper—the same paper that had landed in
her parents’ driveway for forty years—was a tiny picture of Suzanne from the
torso up, bare breasts pixilated for decency, being restrained from behind by
someone in a tuxedo jacket whose face was out of frame. Her hair was wet on one
side, falling out of her elegant up-do in stringy chunks. She seemed to be
yelling at someone far away, trying to break free from whoever was holding her.
The teaser headline next to it read “Chaos at Dylan Burke Gala, Page 6A.”

She
flipped to 6A, where her name had long been associated with glamour,
celebrities, and charity, to find a photo essay of humiliation. Thirty-two
pictures filled the page: blurry images of Suzanne looking crazed, stripping
out of her dress and shoes, running across the front lawn of the High. In one
shot, her six-hundred-dollar dress hung off her arm cast like a garbage bag,
and in the next it was gone. The pictures showed her in the black bustier and
Spanx, hiding gleefully behind Roy Lichtenstein’s famous
House III
sculpture
while Marci and Chad approached from either side, trying to hem her in.