Talk of the Town (24 page)

She found it appealing just to pad off to the kitchen with David. Tonight everything about David seemed perfect. She put it down to the lingering sensual afterglow, which hadn’t diminished one iota.

She opened the refrigerator, bare except for what he’d brought: a bottle of Cristal, organic strawberries, and her favorite St. Andres cheese from Whole Foods.

“There’s a box with two croissants and a smaller box of chocolates with soft caramel centers here.” He pulled them out of the cupboard.

Surprised, she turned to him. “How did you know all my favorites?”

“Pauline communicates more information in the shortest possible time than anyone I’ve ever met. She should be in sales. Will you share? Like you did the roses?” He glanced toward the terrace. “I need to check on our rosebushes.”

“After we eat. Come on.”

He sat down at the dining table where they’d shared their first disastrous meal. It was so different now. She laid out white linen napkins, dishes, and crystal champagne glasses. The intimacy of their lovers’ laughter and the natural playful way she and David ate off each other’s plates delighted her. It was almost like they were old marrieds, so comfortable and so much in love.

Wait a minute! Am I opening up too soon? Too fast? I’m setting myself up for more pain.

Now terrified at her thoughts of domestic bliss with this man, she stomped the fantasy to the ground and tried to concentrate on what he was saying.

“Jasmine has called three times to say how much she appreciates the massage and fresh flowers. I have you to thank for that thaw.” The warmth in his voice was contagious. She could feel it seeping into every cold, empty hollow in her body.

“The boys and Jasmine are coming to Chicago for Thanksgiving. It’s been a few years since we’ve had a real holiday together. I want you to meet them.”

Still in sensual overload, she laughed. “I’d love to meet them. Why don’t I cook Thanksgiving dinner here for everyone?” The instant the words left her lips, she knew she’d become deeply deranged by great sex.

David’s luminous face made her descent into madness worth it. “That would be great. The kids would like a home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner. Especially from a great cook like you. I’ll be traveling in New York for the next few weeks. By the time I get back, I’ll know their itinerary.” He glanced at his Rolex. “The jet is scheduled to take off at six-thirty tomorrow morning. Let’s take a look at those peaked-looking rosebushes before I leave.”

The terrace lights revealed several new blooms and dozens of buds.

“They’ve made a remarkable recovery tonight,” she declared innocently.

He pressed a kiss on her forehead and a hot flash of sensation made her weak. “I feel the same way,” he said with a laugh.

All the way to the front door he kept his arm casually around the area where her waist was located beneath her bulky robe. In the foyer he bent to pick up the plant food, which must have fallen to the floor in their mad rush to embrace.

He handed it to her with great ceremony. “Remember, TLC. I want those rosebushes to live to a hundred and ten.”

I must remember it is just a figure of speech.

She wasn’t a thirty-year-old like Shannon, weaving fantasies about her dream man. David was flesh and blood, and she was old and wise enough to luxuriate in these feelings for as long as they were both enjoying the relationship. No more. No less.

“I hate to leave. I’ll call you soon.” He lifted her chin with his thumb and tilted her head back. Her lips parted for his kiss.

In that moment, she fearfully acknowledged she was enjoying this way too much for her own good.

“You offered to cook Thanksgiving dinner for David’s family?” Harry’s wonderfully chiseled jaw dropped open, and he leaned back against his kitchen counter like he was too weak from shock to stand without support.

“Don’t look at me like I’ve lost my mind.” Rebecca continued to putter around the kitchen like she did every Sunday afternoon, assisting Harry, the
real
cook, with the recipe for Wednesday’s Food section.

“Come here, sweet pea.” He straightened, placed his hands on her shoulders, and, his face very serious, studied her. “A glitter in the eyes. Peachy flushed skin. Lips slightly swollen. Yes, you’re definitely giving off a vibe of sexual satisfaction.” He burst into a smile. “All symptoms of having had fabulous sex. Lucky you. David is a sly one, using sex to talk you into cooking Thanksgiving for a cast of thousands.”

She smiled back, her body tingling with that satisfaction. “Including you and Kate and Pauline and the girls, it’s only ten people.”

“Your oven hasn’t worked in months. How can we cook a turkey dinner for ten in your kitchen?”

The
we
was not lost on her. She flung herself against his chest for a quick hug. “Thank you, darling. I knew I could count on you.”

“Always. Now let’s plan the perfect menu.” He pulled cookbook after cookbook out of his library. Thumbed through them and made copious notes in his food journal.

While he happily debated the merits of different sweet potato recipes, she called to have her oven fixed.

Two hours later, Harry was still totally engrossed in recipes. Rebecca laughed. “Harry, I haven’t seen you this happy since you went to Paris last year for your medical convention.”

“I’m thinking about going back to Paris, sweet pea.” He looked up and smiled gently. “There’s a cooking program I want to attend. The information arrived yesterday. It’s there on the desk. Take a look at it.”

While she read through the booklet on the Cordon Bleu in Paris, she felt a hard catch of old fear about being abandoned. She’d be lost without Harry.

“What are you planning to study?” she asked, trying to adopt a mature attitude.

“Haute cuisine, nouvelle.” He glanced up and saw her face. He placed the cookbook on the counter and carefully marked the page. He walked to her and removed the booklet from her hands. “I’m not deserting you. It won’t be forever. I can’t be away from my practice for more than four months.”

“I’m sorry, darling.” She hoped her wobbly fake smile hid the dull, heavy pain in her stomach. “If it’s something you want to do, you absolutely
should
pursue it. I read that we baby boomers reinvent ourselves every three to five years.”

He looked down at the booklet and twisted it in his hands. “These days I’m happier cooking than with medicine.” He shrugged. “I still get great satisfaction when I can help someone who has had a catastrophic event to their face. But much of plastic surgery has become about injectable products. Botox. Collagen. Restylane. Radiance.”

He reached out and took her hand. “If I go, it doesn’t mean everything will be different. We won’t be different.” A wicked grin curled his mouth. “Except I’ll be better. Change will recharge the old brain. I’ll be more fascinating than ever.”

“I know, darling.” She squeezed his fingers and held on. “I know. It’s just old me. Being afraid of losing the people I love.”

Chapter 18

O
n Monday morning, exhausted from a fitful, unrestful night of thinking about Harry leaving and already missing David, Rebecca walked into the
Daily Mail
lobby to find a blissful Pauline.

“Oh, what do you think?” Pauline twirled around so Rebecca could see the sleek, shiny, brilliant red hair that now only brushed Pauline’s shoulders, instead of hanging down her back. Not a curl in sight except for the ends turned under perfectly.

“It took me an hour to blow it dry. My new stylist showed me how. She’s the one who cut it. I decided to do something for myself with the extra money from my raise.” A frown twisted her plump, glossed lips. “Don’t you think that’s okay, to do something for myself?”

“Absolutely! You look stunning. Love it! Turn around again.”

Laughing, Pauline twirled, looking dazzling.

“Have you lost weight, too?” Rebecca asked, her mouth curling into a conspiratory smile. “Looks like you’ve decided not all men are bastards like our ex- husbands and you’re on the hunt.”

Pauline blushed. “Maybe. Oh, Rebecca, you found Mr. Sumner. He’s wonderful. It’s given me new hope that there’s someone for me to love. Like the way you guys feel about each other.”

Warmth filled every pore of her body just thinking about David, but she tried to be discreet. “Well, that’s not
exactly
the way it is.”

“Oh, sure. Stop!” Pauline rolled her eyes. “What about the rosebushes? If that wasn’t the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen, I don’t know what is. And the way he looks at you!”

“Yes, we have become closer friends lately.” Rebecca tried to sound nonchalant, but even she could hear the thrill in her voice.

“See. I’ll bet you’re not worried this time that he’s gone and so is Shannon.”

“Again?”
She’d accomplished her goal with George, and her own heart repair had taken quite a different delightful path, but she still had to confront Shannon. “Didn’t she just take a vacation?”

“Sick days.” Pauline leaned closer, and her new sleek hair fell charmingly across her cheek. “Maybella told me Shannon is suffering from a severe migraine. She’ll probably be out the rest of the week. Something traumatic happened to her over the weekend to bring it on.”

Rebecca knew from personal experience that reality was a nasty dose to swallow. There was no other choice but to wait until Shannon returned for her woman-to-woman talk. Rebecca didn’t have the heart to accost someone prostrate in their bed with a headache and a heartache.

Rebecca arrived in her office to find a short stack of mail on her desk. On top was a blue envelope addressed in large, flourishing handwriting.

It was a thank-you note from Martha Bartholomew, raving about the birthday gift and gushing that every time she used the silver bookmark she thought fondly of Rebecca. It ended with hopes from both Martha and Charlie that they would see one another soon.

She tapped the note against her desk, debating her choices.

“Rebecca,” Kate said from the doorway. “I’m sorry to interrupt. You appear deep in thought.” She walked into the office.

Feeling guilty for fraternizing with the enemy on
Daily Mail
time, Rebecca slipped the note under her pile of mail.

“I need to hand over a few assignments to you this week.” There was a new freshness to Kate’s walk.

Rebecca thought she knew why. “Did you get the voice mail I left you early this morning? Your finance column in this morning’s paper was brilliant!”

Kate’s eyes looked brighter, more rested. “Thank you. I did get it. Several other people called or sent e-mails, too.”

“I’m not surprised. I called my banker this morning and changed two of my accounts because of your column.”

Kate’s laugh sounded fuller and deeper than Rebecca had ever heard it. “That’s funny. Two of my other callers told me the same thing.”

“You’re the baby boomers’ new financial guru. Since we’ve vowed to stay young forever, we need the money to do it. You should write a book,” Rebecca declared, warming to the idea.

The light went out of Kate’s eyes. “Actually, I had a book contract before my breakdown. The project is outlined, researched, ready to be written.”

“Then you should write it, Kate.”

“The contract was canceled. My stay at the hospital was longer than expected. There was also the fact I no longer had my power base at
Wealth Weekly
behind me.” Kate shrugged as if wanting to shake off those memories. “Yesterday’s news. Now, for Friday, I need an article on the ultimate hostess gifts. And for Saturday, the best ways to store your summer clothes for the winter.”

“Of course, I’ll take care of the pieces. Don’t give them another thought.”

It gave Rebecca comfort to give in to her natural inclination to take care of others. It felt
right
to help Kate for as long as she needed her.

Harry didn’t need to worry about Rebecca not taking care of her own needs. Like her quintessential heroine, Scarlett O’Hara, she’d think about what was good for herself tomorrow.

On Saturday afternoon Rebecca had to give serious thought to taking care of her own well-being. She caught the first wave of flu sweeping through the newspaper office.

Feverish, head pounding, her chest feeling like an elephant was sitting on it with the trunk wrapped around her throat, Rebecca lay spread-eagled, miserable on her bed.

The phone rang, and with a groan she rolled over to answer it. “Hello,” she croaked, her voice nearly gone.

“Rebecca? You sound awful.” David sounded very far away.

“I have the flu. Where are you?” She tried not to cough into his ear.

“On my jet. I’ll be in Chicago for five hours tomorrow before I leave for the West Coast. I’ll come see you.”

“No!”
The thought of him seeing her lank, oily hair, red, blotchy skin, and weepy eyes and nose made her feel sicker. “I’m contagious.”

“Who’s taking care of you?” He sounded alarmed, like he
truly
cared.

She curled up in a fetal position, feeling incredibly happy for someone with a hundred-and-two temperature. “I am. Pauline and Kate both have the flu, too, and Harry’s got several surgeries scheduled this week. Can’t take germs into the operating room. I’m fine.”

“Stop talking. I can hear how much it’s hurting you. I’ll be in touch.”

The phone rang early Sunday morning and woke Rebecca up. She didn’t mind, because she thought it might be David.

She cleared her throat, hoping her voice would sound stronger.
“Hello.”
She still sounded like a sick frog.

“Miss Covington? This is Malcolm. There’s a Miss Gilda Parlinski from the Loving Hands Nursing Agency down here who says she’s supposed to take care of you.”

“What?” she croaked and sat up. She felt so light-headed. If she hadn’t been in bed, she would have fallen down. “I didn’t call any nursing agency. I only have the flu.”

“She says to tell you Mr. Sumner hired her. She has a message from him for you.”

Is this how it feels to be swept off my feet?
If she could see herself, would her eyes be sparkling with this beautiful, joyous feeling of being cherished? Or was it just the fever making her hallucinate? “Send her up. Thanks, Malcolm.”