Dating Game

“You can't get up yet,” Karma said insistently. “I have to settle your chakras down before I leave. Lie down. If you don't, it's like leaving all the faucets open, and you'll lose all your energy as soon as you stand up.” A daunting thought, so with a look of suspicion, and in spite of her better judgment, Paris lay down again. And Karma ran her hands above her, chanting something unintelligible with her own eyes closed. It only took five minutes, mercifully, and then she was done. But the smell in the room was so overpowering that Paris couldn't imagine how she would ever be able to sleep there again.

“Thank you so much,” she said as she hopped off the table, and Karma warned her not to bathe or shower until the morning. It would be too great a shock, both for her demons and for her. But Paris knew there was no way she would lie in her bed all night, covered in oil.

It took Karma another half-hour to wrap up, she charged one hundred dollars, which was reasonable at least, and by midnight she was gone. Paris walked back into her bedroom after letting her out, and all she could do was laugh. Some of it had been relaxing, but most of it had been ridiculously absurd. And she had nodded dutifully when Karma warned her that she'd have to have a high colonic and clean her system out before she came back again, or the therapy would never work.

Paris was still smiling to herself as she walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and dropped her robe, and then she saw her back in the mirror. There were round symmetrical bruises all over it, from the cupping. It was terrifying looking, and given the deep purplish-red colors of the marks, it was easy to guess that the result of the “cupping” would be deep blue by the next day. It was terrifying to see, and it looked every bit as painful as it had been while the woman did it. Whatever it had done to her demons, it had made a mess of Paris's back. And when she checked again in the morning, her worst fears were confirmed. She looked as though she had been severely abused during the night, and there were two red burn marks on her shoulders from the hot rocks. And the room it had all happened in smelled like someone had died. But if nothing else, it had made Paris laugh. That was something at least. And what did it matter anyway? There was no one to see her back. When Meg called to inquire about it, all Paris could do was laugh.

“How was it, Mom?”

“It was certainly interesting. Sort of a modern form of neomasochism. And by the way, I have demons in my bowels.”

“Yeah, I know, so does Peace. He got them from his father.”

“I hope you don't,” Paris said, sounding concerned. “She said I got mine from my mother.”

“Peace will be really impressed you did that, Mom,” Meg said, grinning at the thought of it. Her mother had been a good sport if nothing else.

“You'd be even more impressed if you could see the bruises on my back.”

“They'll be gone in a few days, Mom. Maybe you should try Rolfing next time,” Meg said, laughing at her.

“Never mind. My demons and I are just fine the way we are.”

The day after the Christmas party she'd agreed to go to at the Morrisons', Paris strolled into Anne's office, looking pleased.

“Did you have fun?” Anne asked her hopefully. It was the first time she'd been to a party in seven months. The last one she'd attended was her own, the night Peter told her he wanted a divorce.

“No, I hated it.” She looked smugly at her psychiatrist, as though she had proved her point. She had done everything Anne had told her to do, from massage to party, and detested every minute of it.

“How long did you stay?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“That doesn't count. You have to stay at least an hour.”

“Seven people told me how sorry they were that my husband left me. The husbands of two of my friends asked me if I would meet them on the sly for a drink sometime. And five people told me they were invited to Peter's wedding. I am not going out again. I felt like a pathetic fool.”

“Yes, you are going out again. And you're not a pathetic fool. You're a woman whose husband walked out on her. That's tough, Paris, but it happens. You'll survive it.”

“I'm not going out,” Paris said, with a look of iron determination. “I'm never going out again. And I had a massage. The woman was a nutcase, and I had bruises for days. I have demons in my bowels. And I am never going to another party. Ever,” she said, looking determined and very stubborn.

“Then you'll have to meet some people who don't know about Peter. That's a possibility too. But you can't stay home for the rest of your life like Greta Garbo. If nothing else, you'll worry your children, and you'll be bored out of your mind. You can't just sit at home. You need more in your life than that.”

“I'll go out after Peter gets married,” Paris said vaguely.

“What difference will that make?” Anne asked, looking startled.

“At least people won't be talking about the wedding. One of them was even stupid enough to ask if I was invited.”

“And what did you say?”

“That I could hardly wait, and I was going to New York to buy a new dress for the occasion. What was I supposed to say? No, I'm planning to commit suicide that night.”

“Are you?” Anne shot right back at her.

“No,” Paris said with a sigh. “Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't do that to my kids.”

“But do you want to?”

“No,” she said sadly. “I'd like to die, but I don't want to do it myself. Besides, I don't have the guts.”

“Well, if you ever reconsider that, and think about it, I want you to call me immediately,” Anne said sternly.

“I will,” Paris promised, and meant it. She was miserable, but not miserable enough to kill herself. She didn't want to give Rachel the satisfaction.

“What are you doing on New Year's Eve?”

“Crying probably.”

“Is there anyone you'd like to see?”

“I guess everyone I know is going to Peter's wedding. That's pretty depressing. I'll be okay. I'll just go to sleep.” They both knew it was going to be a tough night. There was no other way it could be.

Christmas was quiet that year. Wim and Meg spent Christmas Eve with her, and Christmas Day with their father and Rachel. Paris had gone out and gotten a tree, and decorated it before they got home from California. And five days before Christmas, her final divorce decree arrived, and she just sat and stared at it for a long time, and then put it away in a locked drawer. It was like reading a death certificate. She had never thought in her entire life that she would see her name on one of those. She didn't even tell the children it had come. She couldn't bring herself to say the words. It was over. Seven months after he had walked out on her, almost to the day. And now he was marrying Rachel. Paris had a sense of unreality about it all. Her life had become surreal.

And on the afternoon of New Year's Eve, Wim and Meg drove into the city. Paris kissed them good-bye, and said nothing to them as she saw them leave. She thought of calling Anne after that, but she had nothing to say. To anyone. All she wanted was to be alone. She made some soup for herself, watched television for a while, and at nine o'clock she went to bed. She didn't even allow herself to think about what was happening. She knew that the guests had been invited at eight o'clock. And she also knew that when she turned out the lights that night, Peter and Rachel had exchanged their vows and were man and wife. The life she had known for twenty-four years and nine months was over. He had a new wife, a new life. She didn't exist anymore, as far as he was concerned. He had blown everything they'd ever had to smithereens. And as she drifted off to sleep, she told herself she didn't care anymore, about him, or Rachel, or anything. All she wanted was to forget she had ever loved him, and go to sleep. They were leaving for a honeymoon in the Caribbean the next day, and a new life would be starting for them. It was a new year, a new life, a new day. And for Paris, whether she wanted it that way or not, it was going to be a new life too.

Chapter 10

The week after Peter's wedding became a blur for her. When Paris woke up on New Year's Day, she had the flu. By the time the kids came back from New York, she had a raging fever, she was sneezing and coughing, and all she wanted to do was sleep. Wim left to go skiing with his friends, and Meg went back to Los Angeles to see Peace. They were still seeing each other, but Meg had admitted to her mother she was tired of him. If nothing else, his health regimen, his strange eating habits, and his intense workout program were getting to her. She was bored out of her mind with Peace.

“Every time I see him, all I want to do is eat a hamburger at Burger King. If he takes me to another vegetarian restaurant, I'm going to go insane.”

Paris was relieved. And it was a week after they both left before she felt human again. It was her first morning out of bed after the flu when Natalie called, and said she had had the same flu. She was having a dinner party the following Saturday, she said, just a few old friends, and she wondered if Paris would like to come. There was nothing special about the occasion, and she didn't say a word about Peter's wedding. For a moment, Paris was tempted to decline, and then she remembered her promise to Anne Smythe. She hadn't seen Natalie since Thanksgiving. It sounded easy and agreeable, so she accepted. And when she told Anne about it, she was pleased.

“Good for you. I hope it'll be fun,” she said, sounding sincere, and Paris said that she didn't really care. But as she was getting dressed that night, for the first time in months, she realized that she was looking forward to seeing her friends. Maybe Anne was right, and she was ready. Natalie had told her that there wouldn't be more than a dozen people, which seemed comfortable to Paris. She wasn't in the mood for fancy affairs. And Natalie had said that Virginia and Jim would be there too.

She put on a pair of velvet slacks and a cashmere sweater, and did her hair in a bun for the first time in months. And she was about to put on high heels when she saw that it was snowing. In the end, she stuck them in her coat pockets and put on boots.

And as she looked out the window right before she left, she realized that she was going to have to shovel snow out of her driveway to get out. She thought about calling the Morrisons to hitch a ride with them, but didn't want to be a nuisance. If she was going to go out alone, she had to get used to taking care of herself. She put on a heavy coat, with a hood, donned mittens, and went outside with a shovel. It took her twenty minutes to get the snow out of the driveway, and the ice off her windshield, and she was twenty minutes late by the time she left for dinner. But only four of the guests were there when she got to Natalie and Fred's. The other guests had had the same problem too. It was turning out to be a heavier snowfall than expected. And when Fred found out she'd driven herself, he told her if she had called, they would have been happy to come and get her. But she laughed, and felt surprisingly independent.

By the time the last of the guests arrived, she realized that she was the only single person there, which was more or less what she had expected. They had invited four couples, and Paris. It was what she was going to have to get used to. Being the odd man out. She was relieved that she knew everyone there, and no one had the bad taste to mention Peter's wedding, although she knew some of them had been there, like Virginia and her husband.

“So how's it going?” Virginia asked her quietly. They had had lunch the week before, and Virginia said she was getting over the same flu. Nearly everyone they knew had had it. And they were discussing home remedies when the doorbell rang again, and Paris realized they had invited yet another couple. But when she turned, she saw a man walk into the room whom she didn't recognize. He was tall and had dark hair, and looked faintly like Peter, except on closer inspection, she saw that he was older and had a major bald spot. But he looked pleasant as he walked in.

“Who's that?” Paris asked Virginia, who said she didn't know him. And although she didn't tell Paris, she knew about him. He was Fred's new stockbroker, and they had invited him to introduce him to Paris. They thought it was high time she got out in the world and met someone. And although she was unaware of it, the entire dinner party had been planned around her. It was a mercy dinner, as she told Anne later.

The new addition strolled into the room wearing a blazer, a red plaid turtleneck, and a pair of plaid pants that Paris couldn't help but stare at. They were the loudest pants she had ever seen, and it was obvious almost from the minute he sat down that he had been drinking. He introduced himself to everyone, before Fred could take care of it, and pumped people's hands until their arms ached. And the moment he turned to Paris, she knew exactly why he'd been invited.

“So you're the gay divorcée of Greenwich,” he said, grinning at her, and this time he didn't pump her hand, he held it. She had to make a visible effort to get him to loosen his grip so she could reclaim her right hand. “I hear your husband just got remarried,” he said bluntly, and Paris nodded, and turned back to Virginia.

“How charming,” she whispered as Virginia winced, and saw Natalie glaring at her husband across the room. Fred had sworn that the guy was terrific. But he had only met him twice in the office. All he knew was that he was divorced, had three kids, and was, according to his own reports, a fantastic skier. It seemed enough to inspire Fred to invite him. They didn't know anyone else single, and Fred had assured Natalie he was intelligent and decent looking, didn't mishandle their account, and said he didn't have a girlfriend.

By the time they went in to dinner, he had told a series of lewd jokes, most of which were inappropriate in mixed company, and some of which were actually funny. Even Paris laughed heartily at one of them, but when he sat down next to her at the dinner table, he stepped up the volume. He had had two more scotches by then, and he was starting to slur before he got to the soup course.

“Christ, don't you hate soup at a dinner party?” he said to her, more loudly than he was aware of. “I always get it all over myself, used to get it on my tie, that's why I don't wear them.” And she could only assume that he didn't want to get it on his blazer either, since he tucked his napkin into his turtleneck, and asked Fred where the wine was. “Must be a dry state here. You still in AA, Fred? Where's the wine, boy?” Fred hastened to pour him the first glass, while Natalie looked as though she wanted to kill him. She was all too aware of how fragile Paris had been, and the fact that this was the first time she had gone out to dinner. She had wanted to be subtle about introducing her to this man. And he was about as subtle as a flood in a farmhouse, and considerably less attractive. He had a habit of taking his glasses on and off, and in doing so, messed up his hair. The drunker he got, the wilder he looked, and the lewder his jokes got. He had mentioned every possible body part by the end of the first course, every possible sexual position by the end of the second, and by the time dessert came, he was pounding the table and laughing so loudly at his own jokes that Paris couldn't keep a straight face when she looked across the table at Virginia. It was awful.

And as they got up from dinner, Natalie took Paris aside and apologized profusely.

“I'm so sorry. Fred swore he was a nice guy, and I thought you might like to meet him.”

“It's fine,” Paris said graciously. “He's actually kind of funny. You don't have to introduce me to anyone, you know. I'm perfectly happy being on my own among good friends. I'm not interested in dating.”

“You should,” Natalie said sternly. “You can't be by yourself in that house for the rest of your life. We have to find you someone.” But their first attempt had certainly been disastrous. The lone wolf had settled onto the couch by then, and was swilling brandy. He looked as though he was about to pass out, and Paris commented to Virginia that they were going to have to let him stay the night, or drive him back to wherever he came from. He was in no condition to drive, particularly in a snowstorm. It was snowing much harder than at the beginning of the evening, and even Paris was feeling cautious about driving home, but she wouldn't have admitted it. She was determined to be self-sufficient, and not a burden.

“I really think you should be a good sport, and put him up in your guest room,” Virginia said to Paris with a rueful grin. It had been quite an evening. And she was glad that Paris was still smiling. She was sure she wouldn't have been, and she and Jim had exchanged cryptic looks several times during the evening. The stockbroker was definitely not what the doctor would have ordered. And as the stockbroker patted her behind as Paris walked past the couch, her heart sank. It had reached a point where it was no longer funny. And her friends' sympathy, however well meant, was somehow degrading, as though she couldn't take care of herself, and they had to do it for her. She had to have a consort at any price, under any circumstances, so they wouldn't feel sorry for her. He was, without a doubt, the perfect nightmare escort.

“Hi, sweetie. Come and sit next to me, and let's get to know each other.” He leered at her.

Paris smiled wanly at him, and went to say good-night to her hostess. She told her she wanted to slip out quietly, so as not to break up the party. And after looking at her carefully, Natalie didn't argue with her. Paris had taken good sportsmanship to new heights that evening.

“I'm really sorry about Ralph. If you like, I'll just shoot him, before he drinks any more of the brandy. And after that, I'm going to shoot Fred when everyone goes home. I promise, we'll do better next time.”

“Next time, just invite me on my own. I'd much prefer it,” Paris said softly.

“I promise,” Natalie said, giving her a hug, and watching her as she put her boots on. She was so damn beautiful, and she looked so incredibly lonely. It broke Natalie's heart to see it. “Are you going to be all right, driving in the snow?” Natalie asked, looking worried.

“I'll be fine,” she said with a wide smile and a confidence she didn't feel. She would have walked home in the snow rather than spend another minute in their living room, with Revolting Ralph, and her friends who obviously felt sorry for her. She knew their intentions were good, but the reality of the situation was enough to bring tears to her eyes. This was what she had been reduced to. Men like Ralph, who wore plaid pants, told crude jokes, and drank enough to qualify for an AA meeting. She just couldn't stand it a minute longer. “I'll talk to you tomorrow, and thank you!” She waved as she flew out the door, praying her car would start. She would have hitchhiked rather than stick around. All she wanted to do was go home now, and take off her clothes. She had had more than enough of the evening.

And as Natalie walked back into the living room with a defeated air, Ralph looked around expectantly for Paris.

“Where's London…or Milan…or Frankfurt…or whatever her name is?”

“Her name is Paris, and she went home. I think she had a headache,” she said pointedly, looking daggers at her husband, and he retreated looking sheepish. The evening had definitely not turned out as they'd hoped.

“Too bad. I like her. She's a real looker,” Ralph said, taking another swig of brandy. “That reminds me of the story about …” And by the time he had finished, Paris was halfway home, driving faster than she should have in a snowstorm, but all she wanted was to run into her house and lock the door, and forget the evening. It had been a nightmare. She knew that whatever else happened in her life, she would remember Ralph forever. She was playing the evening out in her head, as she rounded a bend, and the car skidded. She stepped on the brake, which made it worse, as she hit a patch of ice, and slipped right off the road before she could stop. And the back end of the car got lodged firmly into a snowbank. She tried to gently ease herself out of it, but everything she did made it worse, and she sat there, feeling frustrated and helpless. She waited, and tried again, but there was no moving the car. Even her snow tires didn't help her. She needed to be towed out.

“Shit,” she said out loud, and then sat back against the seat, wondering if she had brought her AAA card with her. She looked in her purse and all she had brought was a five-dollar bill, her house keys, her driv-er's license, and a lipstick. She looked in the glove compartment then, and almost shouted with glee when she saw the AAA card. Peter had always been meticulous about things like that. And she would have been grateful, if she hadn't been so angry at him. It was his fault that she had just spent the evening she had. It was thanks to him that she was being used as fodder for men like Ralph, while he spent his honeymoon in St. Bart's with Rachel. This was all his fault.

She found the emergency number in the glove compartment too, called, and told them what had happened. They told her they would be there as soon as they could, somewhere between half an hour and an hour. And then she sat there. She thought about calling Meg to pass the time, but she didn't want to worry her by telling her she was stuck in a snowbank at midnight. So she just sat there and waited, and the tow truck showed up forty-five minutes later.

She got out of the car, while they lifted it out of the ditch, and got her on the road again. And she was home an hour and a half after she had left the dinner party. It was nearly one-thirty, and she was exhausted. She walked into her house and closed the door, and leaned heavily against it. And for the first time since Peter had left she knew that she was angry. She was so angry she wanted to kill someone. Ralph. Natalie. Fred. Peter. Rachel. Any and all of them. She dropped her coat on the hall floor, kicked off her boots, stomped up the stairs, and took off her clothes. She left them strewn on her bedroom floor, and it didn't matter anymore. There was no one to see it. No one to shovel the driveway or drive her home, or keep her from skidding in her car, or sliding into the ditch, or from assholes like Ralph. She hated all of them, but more than anyone, she hated Peter. And when she went to bed that night, she lay there and looked at the ceiling, hating him almost as much as she had once loved him. And she knew just exactly what she was going to do about it. It was time.

Chapter 11

Paris stormed into Anne's office Monday, and looked at her in amazement. “I'm leaving.”

“Leaving where? Therapy?” It was obvious that Paris was angry.

“No. Yes. Well, eventually. I'm leaving Greenwich.”

“What brought that on?”

“I went to that damn dinner party Saturday night, and they fixed me up with a total jerk, without even asking me how I felt about it. You wouldn't believe what it was like. First, I had to shovel my driveway, then he showed up in plaid pants and told filthy jokes. He got blind drunk, and patted my ass after dinner.”

“And that's why you're leaving?” Anne wasn't sure if Paris was serious or not.

“No. I got stuck in a snowbank after dinner. My car skidded off the road, because Peter always drove in the snow and I don't know how to. And I had to call AAA to drag me out of the ditch at midnight. I got home at one-thirty. That's why I'm leaving.”

“Because of the snowbank or the jerk?” Anne had never seen her look better. There was color in her face, and her eyes were blazing. She looked very healthy, and finally alive. She was back in control of her own life, as never before.

“No. Because of Peter. I hate him. This is all his fault. This is what he left me to. He left me for that little shit, and now I have jerks like Ralph to contend with, and my stupid goddamned friends who feel so sorry for me they think they're doing me a favor. I'm moving to California.”

“Why?” Anne narrowed her eyes as she watched her.

“Because I have no life here.”

“And you will in California?” She wanted her to leave for the right reasons, not just to escape what she wasn't doing in Greenwich. If that was the case, she would take all her troubles with her. A geographic cure was not the answer, unless she did it for the right reasons.

“At least I won't get caught in a snowbank on the way home from dinner.”

“And will you go out to dinner?”

“I don't know anyone to invite me,” Paris said, slowing down a little. But she was serious about moving. She had made her mind up. “But I could get a job, and meet new people. I can always come back here later. I just don't want to be around friends who feel sorry for me. It makes it all worse. Everyone here knows about Peter. I want to meet people who don't know anything about him, or what happened.”

“That sounds reasonable. What are you going to do about it?”

“I'm flying out to San Francisco tomorrow. I've already booked a reservation. I called a realtor this morning. I'm going to see some houses and apartments. I called Wim and he sounds pretty busy, but he said he could see me for dinner. I don't know how long I'll be out there. It depends if I find something or not. But I'm going to try at least. I can't go to another one of those dinners.” That had done it. But Anne thought she was ready, she had thought so for months, but the impetus to do it had to come from Paris. And it had now. She was ready to move on.

“Well, it sounds like we've turned a corner, doesn't it?” Anne looked pleased with her patient, although she was going to miss her. They had worked well together, but this was the end result she wanted. Paris on her feet again, and up and running. It had taken her eight months to get there, but she was there now.

“Do you think I'm crazy?” Paris asked, looking worried.

“No. I think you're extremely sane. And I think you're doing the right thing. I hope you find something you like.”

“So do I,” Paris said, sounding sad again for a minute. “I hate to leave. I have so many memories here.”

“Are you going to sell the house?”

“No. Just rent it.”

“You can always come back then. You're not doing anything that can't be reversed if you don't like it in California. Give it a chance, Paris. There's a whole world out there for you to discover. You can do anything you want, go anywhere you want. The door is wide open.”

“That's pretty scary.”

“And exciting. I'm very proud of you.” She told Anne then that she had decided not to tell her friends yet. She wanted to find a house first. She didn't want anyone trying to talk her out of it. The only ones she had told were Anne and her children, and all three were pleased with Paris's decision to move.

She left Anne half an hour later, and went home to pack, and Natalie called to apologize again about dinner.

“Don't worry about it,” Paris said breezily, “it was fine.”

“Do you want to have lunch this week?”

“I can't. I'm going out to see Wim in San Francisco.”

“Well, that'll be fun for you.” Natalie was relieved to hear that she was moving around at least. She knew how tough the last months had been, and she didn't see a solution for her, unless she found another husband. And with candidates like Ralph afoot, it was beginning to look less than likely. But there had to be someone. She and Virginia had made a solemn vow to find a man for her, whatever it took.

“I'll call you when I get back,” Paris promised, and then finished packing.

The next morning she was on the plane to San Francisco. She was flying first class, and there was an attractive businessman sitting beside her. He was wearing a suit, working on a computer, and looked about fifty. And after glancing at him, she read a book, ate lunch, and then watched the movie. They were only an hour out of San Francisco by the time it was over, and by then her seatmate had put away his computer. He glanced over at her with a smile as the flight attendant offered them cheese and fruit or milk and cookies. Paris took a piece of fruit, and he asked for a cup of coffee, and the flight attendant seemed to know him as she filled his cup.

“Do you go to San Francisco often?” Paris asked him benignly. He was a good-looking man.

“Two or three times a month. We work with a venture capital firm out there, on biotech investments in Silicon Valley.” It sounded fairly impressive, and he looked prosperous and solid. “What about you? Are you going out for business or pleasure?” he inquired.

“I'm going to visit my son in Berkeley. He goes to school there.” She had seen him glance at her left hand, and she was no longer wearing her wedding ring. She had worn it until the divorce came, and taking it off had nearly killed her. But there was no point wearing it anymore. Peter was married to someone else. But she still felt naked without it. She had never taken it off since the day they were married, she'd been both sentimental and superstitious about it. She noticed that her seatmate wasn't wearing a wedding band either. Perhaps a good sign.

“How long will you be staying?” he inquired with growing interest.

“I don't know. I'm going to look for a house or an apartment. I'm thinking of moving out.”

“From New York?” He looked intrigued. She was a very good-looking woman. And he guessed her to be around forty. She looked young to have a son in college.

“From Greenwich.”

“Divorced?” He seemed practiced at this.

“Yes,” she said cautiously. “How did you know?”

“There aren't a lot of single women in Greenwich, and if you're thinking of moving, it sounds like you're on your own.” She nodded, but didn't ask him any of the same questions. She wasn't sure she wanted to know, and she didn't want to look anxious. And when the pilot announced that it was their last chance to get up and move around, she left her seat and waited for the bathroom. She was standing right outside the galley, as the flight attendant looked at her. It was the one who had just served them, and she smiled at Paris and approached to speak in a subdued voice.

“It's none of my business, but you may want to know. He's married, and has a wife and four kids in Stamford. Two of the women on this flight have gone out with him and he doesn't share that information. He commutes out here. I saw him talking to you, and we girls have to stick together. Of course, maybe it doesn't bother you. But it's good to know anyway. He won't tell you himself that he's married, at least he never tells us. We found out from another regular on the flight, who knows his wife.”

“Thank you,” Paris said, looking stunned as the bathroom became vacant. “Thanks a lot,” and then went in to wash her hands and comb her hair, and as she did, she looked at herself in the mirror. It was a big bad world out there full of creeps and jerks and cheaters. The likelihood of finding a good one seemed about as great as finding a needle in the proverbial haystack. Nothing was impossible, but to Paris at least, it seemed extremely unlikely, and she didn't want a man anyway. The last thing she wanted was to get involved with anyone. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would never remarry. Peter had cured her. All she could do now, in her opinion, was get used to being alone.

She went back to her seat with freshly combed hair, neatly done in a braid down her back, and carefully applied lipstick, and her seatmate looked at her appreciatively. A moment later he handed her his business card, and she took it from him and held it in her hand.

“I'm staying at the Four Seasons. Call me if you have time for dinner. Where are you staying?” he asked pleasantly.

“With my son,” she lied. But after what she'd just heard, she wasn't planning to give him any information. She knew more than enough about him. “I think we'll be pretty busy,” she said casually as she put the card in her purse.

“Call me in New York when you go back,” he said, and as he did, they landed with a thump and taxied down the runway at SFO. “Do you need a ride into town?” he asked helpfully, and she smiled, thinking with empathy about his wife.

“No, thanks, I have friends waiting. But thanks for the offer,” she said blithely. And as he saw her climb into a cab alone twenty minutes later, he raised an eyebrow and caught her eye. She waved, as they took off for the city, and as soon as she got to the hotel, she threw away his card.

Chapter 12

For the next four days, Paris felt as though she saw every house in town. She saw four apartments, and decided in short order that an apartment wasn't what she wanted. After years in a fairly substantial house, with plenty of room to roam around, she wasn't ready for an apartment. In the end she narrowed it down to two houses she liked. One was a large stone house in Pacific Heights reminiscent of the house in Greenwich, and the other was a quaint Victorian with a mother-in-law apartment on Vallejo Street in Cow Hollow. It had the advantage of being close to the water, had a view of the bay, and the Golden Gate, and what she liked most about it was that Wim could use the mother-in-law apartment whenever he wanted, and still feel as though he had a certain amount of independence from her. He could even bring his friends there. It was perfect. The price was right, and the owners were willing to rent it. And she was an ideal tenant. She was solvent and a responsible adult. The whole place had been freshly painted and looked cheerful, clean, and bright.

There were beautiful hardwood floors, and the main part of the house had three bedrooms, one on the top floor with a spectacular view, and two just below it, which she could use for Meg, and whoever else came to visit, or they could just stand empty. There was a pleasant country kitchen, and the living room looked out on a small, well-manicured garden. Everything was on a smaller scale than she was used to, but she liked that about it. She was going to have to pick and choose among her furniture, and send the rest to storage. And the realtor told her that he could rent furniture for her until her own arrived. They settled it in one afternoon. She signed the lease, and the realtor dropped off the keys to her that night at the Ritz-Carlton. She had paid the first and last months' rent, and a sizable security deposit. All she had to do now was rent the Greenwich house, but even if that took a while, there was no reason for her to wait around in Greenwich. She could move anytime she chose.

She had dinner with Wim on the last night, and then drove him over to see it. She had rented a car, and was getting used to driving around the hills. And he fell in love with the mother-in-law apartment.

“Wow, Mom! Can I bring my friends to stay sometime?”

“Anytime you want, sweetheart. That's why I took it.” There were two small bedrooms in the downstairs unit, and he shared the garden with her. It was everything she had wanted. It had charm and privacy for her, and more than enough space, and would provide Wim a nest to come home to, although she didn't expect him to come often. He was having a ball in Berkeley. From everything he had told her, he had made a lot of friends, and was even enjoying his classes, and doing well.

“When are you moving in?” Wim looked excited, and Paris was pleased.

“As soon as I pack up Greenwich.”

“Are you going to sell the house?”

“No, just rent it.” For the first time in months, she had something to look forward to, and was excited about her life. Suddenly something good was happening, instead of disaster and trauma. It had taken her eight months to get here, but she had.

She drove him back to Berkeley that night, and the next morning she flew back to Greenwich. Her seatmate this time was a very old woman who said she was going to see her son, and slept from takeoff to touchdown. And Paris felt as though she'd been gone for months when she walked into the house in Greenwich. She had accomplished a lot in a short time.

She called Natalie and Virginia the next morning, and told them what had happened. Both of them were shocked, and saddened by her news. They hated to see her go, but said they were happy for her if that was what she wanted. She didn't tell Natalie that her dinner party had done it. She had already called a realtor, and they were starting to show the house that weekend. They told her it might take a while to rent it. It was a dead time of year, as people were more likely to rent, move, or buy in spring or summer. She had already called movers, and was planning to start packing over the weekend. She had a lot of decisions to make over what to take with her, and what to put in storage. And Virginia called her later that morning. She had told Jim the news, and they wanted to give her a farewell party. And Natalie made the same offer the next morning. By the weekend, at least four people had called and said they wanted to see her before she left, and wanted to have her for dinner. Suddenly people weren't feeling sorry for her, they were excited about what she was doing, though sorry to see her go, and she loved it. It was as though she had finally managed to turn the ship around by deciding to move to California. It never dawned on her that the change in attitude and outlook was more on her part than anyone else's. But overnight the whole atmosphere of her life had changed.

And much to her amazement, by Sunday afternoon, the house had been rented. They were only the second people who had seen it, and the first ones called an hour later, and were severely disappointed that it was gone. The family who were renting it wanted it for a year, with an option for a second year. They were being transferred to New York from Atlanta, and had three teenage children. The house was perfect for them, and they were relieved that Paris didn't object to the children. On the contrary, the thought of her house coming alive again and being well lived in made her happy. And she was astounded by the rent she was able to get for it. It was going to cover the house in California and then some. So the move made sense in every way. She spent the next weeks packing and sorting, seeing friends, and saying good-bye. She was planning to be in San Francisco by the end of January, and when the movers came, she was ready.

She had booked a room at the Homestead Inn for the last weekend, and had her last lunch with Virginia and Natalie before she left. She had actually enjoyed the parties they had given her. They had invited only old friends, and no more strangers to woo her. It felt like old home week. She had never realized how many people she knew and genuinely liked in Greenwich, and for a minute or two she was almost sorry she was leaving. But in her last session with Anne, she knew she had made the right decision. There was a kind of carnival atmosphere to everything she was doing. But she knew it would have been different if she'd stayed. She would have been sitting alone in her house, depressed and in the doldrums. Although she was going to be alone in San Francisco. She still had to find a job, and meet new people. And she promised to call Anne, they were going to have phone sessions twice a week until she got settled.

She left for the airport at eight in the morning on Friday. And as the plane took off for San Francisco, she forced herself not to think of Peter. Although he knew from Wim and Meg that she was moving, he never called her. He was busy with his new life, and she had to make her own now. And if it was a disaster, and she found that she had made a mistake, she could always come back to Greenwich. Maybe she would one day. But for the next year, she was going to spread her wings and fly, or try to at least. And this time, she knew she had her parachute well in place. She wasn't free-falling through space, and no one had pushed her out of the plane. She had jumped, and she knew what she was doing and why. Moving to San Francisco was the bravest thing she had done so far. Wim had promised to come and see her that weekend. And when the plane touched down in San Francisco, she was smiling broadly to herself.

She gave the cab driver the address of her new home, and the realtor had done as he'd promised. He told her he had rented enough furniture for her to tide her over until hers came. She had a bed, and dressers, a dining table and chairs, and a couch and coffee table and some lamps in the living room. It all looked respectable when she got there. She carried her suitcase upstairs and set it down in the bedroom, as she looked around. It was early afternoon in San Francisco, and she could see the Golden Gate Bridge from her bedroom window. And as she saw herself in the mirror hanging over the dresser, she smiled. There wasn't a sound in the silent house as she whispered “Honey, I'm home!” to her own reflection, and then as she stood there, feeling giddy and hopeful for the first time in months, she sat down on the bed and laughed. Her new life had begun.

Chapter 13

There was very little for Paris to do in the new house until her furniture arrived from the East. The rented furniture was spare but adequate, and although the view was spectacular, without her own furniture and paintings and decorative accessories, it looked somewhat impersonal and cold. The only thing she could think of to do was to go to a florist and buy armloads of flowers. So on Saturday, after doing some laundry, and a long conversation with Meg, she got in her rental car and drove around. She wanted the place to look as nice as possible when Wim came for dinner with a friend on Sunday night.

She was thinking of her conversation with Meg, as she drove south on Fillmore Street, and turned right onto Sacramento, where she had seen a number of small antique shops she wanted to browse. Meg had told her that she and Peace had decided to stop seeing each other the previous weekend. She was upset but not distraught over it, and although maybe not for the same reasons, she agreed with her mother that the relationship wasn't right. They had both come to the conclusion that their interests and goals were different, although Meg herself said that he was a very decent guy. And she didn't feel the months she'd spent with him had been a waste of time.

“So what now?” Paris had asked her quietly. She liked staying current with her daughter's life, and always had. “Anyone else in the picture yet?” Paris asked blithely, and Meg laughed.

“Mom! It's only been a week! What kind of slut do you think I am?” Even though it had been a minor relationship in the scheme of things, she needed time to let go and mourn. He had been nice to her, and they had shared a lot of good times, in spite of what Paris thought of him.

“I don't think you're a slut. I think you're beautiful and young, and men are going to be lined up ten deep at your door.”

“It's not as easy as that. There are a lot of crazy guys down here. The actors are all in love with themselves, although Peace wasn't, but he was more into martial arts and health than acting,” and he himself had said he was thinking of teaching karate instead of taking roles in horror films. He had begun to realize that acting wasn't for him. “Half the guys I meet are heavy into drugs, a lot of them want to go out with starlets and models. Everybody's got an agenda here. And the regular ones I meet, like lawyers and stockbrokers and accountants, are so frigging dull. The men my age are so boring and immature.” That about summed it up, in Meg's opinion.

“There's got to be someone, sweetheart. At your age the world is full of eligible young men.”

“And what about at yours, Mom? What are you going to do about meeting people?” Meg was worried about that for her. She didn't want her sitting in yet another empty house, getting depressed in a town where she didn't know anyone.

“I just got here yesterday. Give me a chance. I promised my shrink I'd get a job, and I will. But I'm not sure where to look.”

“Why don't you teach? You have a master's, could you teach econ at a business school, or at college level? Maybe you should look for a job at Stanford or UC Berkeley.”

It was a possibility certainly, and she had thought of it, but teaching jobs of the kind Meg was suggesting were highly competitive, and she no longer felt qualified. She'd have to go back to school herself, and the prospect didn't appeal much to Paris. She wanted to do something more amusing. And thanks to Peter's guilt and generosity, and the small inheritance she had managed well over the years, she didn't have to let salary be the main consideration. “Wim will kill me if I get a job at Berkeley. He'll think I'm stalking him. If I did that, it would have to be Stanford.” In spite of the fact that there were thirty thousand students on the UC Berkeley campus, she wanted to respect the newfound autonomy that Wim was so proud of.

“What about an office job? You'd meet a lot of guys there,” Meg said, trying to be helpful.

“I'm not looking for a man, Meg. I just want to meet people.” Her daughter had other aspirations for her. She wanted her to find a husband to take care of her emotionally, or at the very least, a serious romance. She hated knowing her mother was lonely, and there was no question, she had been ever since Peter left.

“Well, men are people,” Meg insisted, and her mother laughed.

“Not always. Some are. Some aren't.” Peter had proved that, but what he had also proved was that he was human, with the same foibles as anyone else. No one was perfect. She just hadn't expected him to do what he had. She thought they were married forever. It made it almost impossible for her to trust anyone again. “I don't know, something will come up. I was thinking about taking one of those crazy job-placement tests that tell you what your strengths are. I think they do them down at Stanford. They'll probably tell me I should be an army nurse, or a dental hygienist, or an artist. Sometimes those tests come up with some pretty crazy suggestions. Maybe they give you truth serum to do them.”

“I think you should do it,” Meg said firmly. “What do you have to lose?”

“Just time and money. I guess I ought to. When are you coming up to see me, by the way?” It was so wonderful that they had the option to see each other more easily now. It was ninety percent of why she had moved to San Francisco, but Meg told her with regret that she had to work for the next few weekends. She was hoping to come up as soon as they wrapped the current movie, but for the moment she was still up to her neck in it.

Paris was still thinking about the job situation, and her recent conversation with Meg, when she parked the car she was renting, and wandered into an antique shop on Sacramento. Her own car was on a truck on its way out from Greenwich, and was scheduled to arrive around the same time as the rest of her belongings. She bought a pretty little silver box, and then went next door to another shop, and found a pair of antique silver candlesticks she liked. She was having a great time just walking from store to store and browsing. And next to the last one, she discovered a very elegant, but small florist in an elegant little Victorian house. There were three spectacular arrangements of spring flowers in the window. She had never seen anything like them. The colors were dazzling, the combination of flowers unusual and magnificent, and the silver urns they were in were the most elegant she'd ever seen. And as she walked in, a very well-dressed young woman was taking orders on the phone. She looked up at Paris when she hung up, and Paris noticed that she was wearing a very large diamond ring. This was no ordinary florist shop by any means.

“May I help you?” the woman asked pleasantly.

Paris actually wanted to buy some flowers for the house, but it was the three arrangements in the window that had drawn her in. “I've never seen such lovely flowers,” she said, staring at them again.

“Thank you.” The woman at the desk smiled at her. “They're for a party we're doing this afternoon. The pots belong to the client. We can do flowers in your own bowls, if you like, if you want to bring one in.”

“That would be wonderful,” Paris said pensively. She had an antique silver samovar that was actually very similar to the one in the middle. She and Peter had bought it at an antique show in England. “I'm not going to have anything for a while, or a few weeks anyway. I just moved out from the East.”

“Well, just bring them in any time. And if you're doing a dinner party, we'll be happy to set you up with caterers too.” It was a very unusual florist indeed, or maybe the woman was just being helpful. Paris wasn't sure. “Actually”—she smiled again—“that's my end of things. I run a catering service, and I do a lot of work for the owner of the shop. I'm just baby-sitting for them today. The girl who usually works here is out sick. And Bixby's assistant is at a baby shower, she's having a baby next week.” The shop was called Bixby Mason.

“Is this actually a florist shop?” Paris asked, looking confused. As she glanced around, she could see that the decor was very high end, and there was a narrow marble staircase to the upper floors at the back of the room.

“It started out as one. But it's actually a lot more now. The man who owns it is an artist and a genius. He does all the best parties in town, from soup to nuts. He provides the music, caterers, decides on the theme, or works with his clients to create the atmosphere they want, from small dinner parties to weddings for eight hundred. He's pretty much cornered the market on entertaining in San Francisco. The flowers are just the tip of the iceberg now, so to speak. He does parties all over the state, and around the country sometimes.”

“Very impressive,” Paris said quietly, as the woman reached into a bookcase behind her and pulled out three huge leather-bound albums. There were at least two dozen more on the shelves.

“Want to take a look? These are just a few of the parties he did last year. They're pretty fabulous.” If the flowers in the window were any indication of his work, Paris was sure they were. And as she sat down to thumb through the books out of curiosity, she was enormously impressed. The homes he worked in were spectacular, the settings more elegant than any she'd ever seen. Mansions, gardens, beautifully manicured grounds on large estates with tents specially designed to accommodate the guests in fabrics she would never have thought of using. The weddings she saw in the book were exquisite. And there were a handful of small dinner parties he had photographed that were any hostess's dream. There were hand-painted gourds on the table in one for a Halloween party, a profusion of brown orchids in another, with tiny Chinese vases holding little sprigs of herbs, and a fifties party with so many funny decorations on the table that she smiled as she turned to the last page, and finally handed the books back, with a look of awe.

“Very, very impressive.” And she meant it. She wished she had had the imagination to do something like that in Greenwich. She had done some lovely dinner parties, but nothing in these leagues. Whoever the owner was, he really was a creative genius. “Who is he?”

“His name is Bixby Mason. He's actually an artist, well, a painter and a sculptor. And he has a degree in architecture, but I don't think he's ever used it. He's just a very, very creative man, with incredible imagination and vision, and a nice person. Everyone he works with loves him.” Paris also realized, from what she'd seen, that he probably charged a fortune. But he ought to. What he created for his clients was obviously unique in all aspects. “Somebody called him a wedding planner once, and he almost killed them. He's a lot more than that. But he does a lot of weddings. I cater a lot of them, and I love working with him. Everything goes off like clockwork. He's a master control freak. But he has to be. That's why people come back to him, because everything he touches is perfect. And all the hosts have to do is enjoy the party.” He was worth his weight in gold to the people he worked for.

“And sign a hefty check afterward, I'll bet,” Paris added. It was easy to see that the events he coordinated for them had cost a fortune.

“He's worth it,” the woman who was baby-sitting the shop said without apology. “He makes their events unforgettable. Sadly, he even does funerals. And they're beautiful and tasteful. He never skimps on flowers, food, or music for parties. He flies in bands from everywhere, even Europe if he has to.”

“Amazing.” It was embarrassing now to think of bringing her silver samovar in to have them put flowers in it. He was operating on such a grand scale that any business she could give them seemed pointless. And since she didn't know anyone yet, she wasn't planning to do any entertaining. “I'm glad I came in,” Paris said, with open admiration. “I was looking for a florist. But I don't think I'm going to be doing much entertaining for a while, since I just moved here.”

The girl handed her a card and told her to call them whenever she felt they could help her. “You'd love Bixby. He's a riot. The poor thing is going nuts right now. His assistant is having a baby in a week, and we've got weddings booked every weekend. He told Jane she may have to work anyway. I don't think he knows much about babies.” They both laughed, and as Paris looked at her, she had an outrageous thought, and wasn't sure if she dared to ask her. But as she put the card in her pocket, she decided to throw caution to the wind and try it.

“I'm looking for a job actually. I've given a lot of dinner parties, but not on this scale. What kind of assistant is he looking for?” It seemed ridiculous, even to her, to think he would want her. She had no experience in the workforce, and certainly none in his line of work, except for her own rather staid dinner parties, although some had been very pretty.

“He needs someone with a lot of energy, and a lot of spare time at night and on weekends. Are you married?” She looked as though she might be. She had that quiet, respectable, well-kept look of wives who were well cared for.

“No, I'm divorced,” Paris said quietly. She still said it as though admitting to having been convicted of a felony, and saw it as the public announcement of a failure. It was something she and Anne were still trying to work on.

“Do you have children?”

“Yes, two. One lives in Los Angeles, and the other one is at Berkeley.”

“Well, that sounds interesting. Why don't I talk to him? He's supposed to call in, in a few minutes. Leave me your number, and if he's interested, I'll call you. He's down to the wire with Jane now. The baby's going to come any minute, and her husband wants her to stop working. I thought she was going to have it at the last wedding. She looks like she's having triplets. Thank God she isn't, but it's going to be a big one. And I don't know what he's going to do if he doesn't replace her. He hasn't liked anyone he's interviewed. He's a perfectionist, and a tyrant to work for, but he does such a beautiful job, and he's basically such a decent person, we all love him.” It sounded like nothing but fun to Paris. “Is there anything else you want him to know? Job experience? Languages? Special interests? Connections?” She had none of those, particularly in San Francisco. All she had been for the past twenty-four years was a mother and a housewife. But she thought that if he gave her a chance, she could do it.

“I have an MBA, if that's of any use to him.” And then, having said it, she was afraid he'd think she was overqualified and unimaginative. “I know a lot about gardening, and always arrange my own flowers”—she glanced at the window then—“but not on that scale,” she said humbly.

“Don't worry, he has a Japanese woman who does those for him. Bix couldn't do that either. He's great at rounding up people who can though. That's what he does best. Orchestrating the whole event. He's the conductor. The rest of us play the music. All you'd have to do is pick up the pieces and follow him around with a notebook, and make phone calls. That's what Jane does.”

“I'm a genius with a phone,” Paris said, smiling. “And I have time on my hands. And a decent wardrobe, so I won't embarrass him with his clients. I've run a fairly decent house for the past twenty-four years. I don't know what else to say, except that, if nothing else, I'd love to meet him.”

“If this works out,” the woman said encouragingly as Paris jotted down her name and number, “he'll be your best friend. He's a lovely man.” And then as Paris handed her the piece of paper, the woman who said she was a caterer looked Paris in the eye with a sympathetic smile. “I know what it's like. I was married for eighteen years, and when my marriage fell apart, I had no job experience and no skills. All I knew how to do was fold laundry, drive carpool, and cook for my kids. That's how I got into the catering business. It was the only thing I thought I knew how to do. It turns out that I had a lot more skills than I knew. I have offices in Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, and Newport Beach now. Bixby helped me do it. You have to start somewhere, and this may be it for you.” What she said brought tears to Paris's eyes, as she thanked her. “My name is Sydney Harrington, and I hope I'm going to be seeing more of you. And if this doesn't work out, give me a call. I've been there, and I have a lot of ideas.” She handed Paris her own card, from her catering business, and Paris thanked her again. She felt as though she were floating on air when she walked out of the shop. Even if she didn't get a job out of it, she felt as though she had made a new friend. And Sydney Harrington was a good contact to have. Working for her in the catering business would have been fine too. Working for Bixby Mason sounded like a dream come true. She realized she was unlikely to get a shot at it, she had no experience in the job market, and even less with elaborate events like the ones he did. But at least it was a place to start, and she was proud of herself for speaking up and asking about the possibility. This was a whole new world for her.

Paris spent the next two hours wandering in and out of shops on Sacramento Street. She bought a set of salad plates in a pretty store down the street, and a needlepoint to do on lonely nights. And by four o'clock she was home again, made herself a cup of tea, and sat looking at the view. It had been a nice afternoon. She was still enjoying it, when the phone rang and she answered it. It was Sydney Harrington, and she had exciting news.

“Bixby asked if you could be here at nine on Monday. I don't want to get your hopes up, I have no idea what his take will be, but I told him I thought you were terrific. And he's really desperate. He rejected everyone the agency sent. He thought they were just too dull and unimaginative, and he didn't like the way they looked. You'd have to go to all the events with him, and some on your own, if he has two at the same time. He always stops in, but he can't be in two places at once, particularly if one of them is out of town, so you have to be pretty much at ease with the clients and the guests and fit in. That's important to him. As he says, his assistant is like an extension of him, his representative in the world. He and Jane have been working together for six years. This is going to be a big change for him. He should have hired someone for her to train months ago. I think he had denial about the baby.”

“Is she leaving or going on maternity leave?” Not that it mattered, Paris would have been happy to work for him, from all Sydney had said, for months or even weeks until she came back. The experience would be valuable, and the job would surely be fun.

“She's out for good. He did her wedding, and her husband says if she doesn't quit now, Bix can do their divorce. Paul says he hasn't seen Jane for more than ten minutes at a time for the last five years. He wants her at home, and she agreed. I think she's ready for it. Bix is terrific, but it's an incredible amount of work. I hope you're ready for that if you get the job.” Sydney was trying to be as honest as possible with her, there was no point being otherwise, and she had liked Paris when they met.

“It sounds fabulous,” Paris said enthusiastically, and meant it, and then asked nervously, “What'll I wear? Is there anything he likes or hates?” She wanted to maximize her chance of getting the job, and was grateful for all the information Sydney had shared with her.

“Just be you. That's what he likes best. Be open, honest, and yourself. And be ready to work an eighteen-hour day. He likes that too. No one on the planet works as hard as Bixby Mason, and he expects no less from anyone else.” He sounded like an interesting man.

“Sounds great to me. I have no kids at home, no husband, no big house to take care of. I don't even know anyone here. I have nothing else to do.”

“He'll love that. And I told him about your MBA. I think he was intrigued. Good luck,” she said with a warm tone in her voice. She had so much empathy for the situation Paris was in. She had been there herself five years before, and Bixby had turned it around for her. She was forever grateful to him, and if she could help someone else in the same boat now, she was pleased. “I'll check in on Monday and see how it went.”

“Thank you,” Paris said gratefully and meant every word of it. “Keep your fingers crossed!”

“I will. You'll do great. I have a good feeling about this. I think it was meant to be that you walked into the shop today. He was going to keep it closed because he didn't have anyone to be there, and I volunteered to keep it open for him, but it was just a fluke. Destiny. Now let's see what comes of it. And if this doesn't pan out, something else will. I'm sure of that.” Paris thanked her again, and they hung up, and she sat staring at the view from her living room with a smile on her face. All of a sudden, good things were happening. Better than she'd ever dreamed. She just hoped she didn't make a fool of herself on Monday, or say the wrong thing. She had so little to offer him, she thought, but if he gave her a chance, she was going to put her heart and soul into it. This was the best thing that had happened to her in years.

Chapter 14

Paris parked her car on Sacramento Street on Monday morning at ten to nine, and went to the black door with the brass knocker next to the shop, where Sydney had told her to go. And she noticed with embarrassment that her hands were shaking when she rang the bell. She was wearing a trim black suit, and high-heeled black shoes, her hair was neatly pulled back in a bun, and she had small diamond studs at her ears. She felt a little overdressed, but she wanted him to see that she would look proper at parties, and this was an interview after all. She hadn't wanted to underdress or overdress, and she was carrying a small black classic Chanel shoulder bag that Peter had given her for Christmas several years before. She had so little occasion to wear it in Greenwich that it looked brand-new. She wondered if she should be carrying a briefcase, but she didn't own one. All she had to offer him was her brain, her energy, her time, and her organizational skills. She hoped it was enough for him.

A buzzer sounded, and when she pushed the door, it opened, and revealed a short flight of marble stairs leading upward, just like the staircase in the shop. The house was beautifully done. She heard voices on the floor above, and followed them, and found herself in an elegant hallway, with original modern art by well-known artists, and ahead of her was a large wood-paneled room lined with books, and in it were seated a strikingly handsome blond man in his mid- to late thirties in a black turtleneck and black slacks, and a young woman who was so pregnant, Paris almost smiled thinking of Agnes Gooch in Auntie Mame. She got out of the chair with difficulty, and came to greet Paris in the hall and lead her into the room.

“You must be Paris, what a terrific name. I'm Jane. And this is Bixby Mason. We've been expecting you.” He was already looking Paris over with eyes that felt like X rays as he checked her out. She could feel him taking in everything, from her hair and earrings to the Chanel bag and the high-heeled shoes she had worn, but he seemed to approve, and smiled as he asked her to sit down.

“Great suit,” he said, as he reached behind him and grabbed a phone that was ringing. He answered a rapid-fire series of questions, and then turned to sum it up for Jane when she sat down.

“The truck is late with the orchids. They're about halfway here from Los Angeles, they should arrive before noon, which means we have to hustle when they get here. But they're going to knock something off the price to make up for the delay. I think we'll make it. The party isn't till seven, and if we get into the room by three, we should be fine.” He turned his attention back to Paris then, and asked her how long she'd been in San Francisco and why she had come. She had already thought about how she would answer him. She didn't want to sound depressed or pathetic, he didn't need to know all the gory details, just the fact that she was divorced and on her own.

“I've been here for three days,” she said honestly. “I'm divorced. I was married for twenty-four years, ran my home, took care of my kids, didn't work, gave a fair number of dinner parties. I love decorating and entertaining and gardening. And I came to San Francisco because my son is at UC Berkeley, and my daughter lives in L.A. And I have an MBA.” He smiled at the rapid recital, and although he looked sophisticated and elegant, there was something warm in his eyes too.

“How long have you been divorced?”

She took a breath. “About a month. It was final in December, but we've been separated since last May.”

“That's tough,” he said sympathetically, “after twenty-four years.” He didn't ask what happened, but she could see that he felt sorry for her, and she tried not to give way to tears. It was always harder when people were nice to her. Their kindness always made her cry, but she forced herself to think of what she was doing there, and kept her eyes firmly on his. “Are you doing okay?”

“I'm fine,” she said quietly. “It's been an adjustment, but my kids have been great. And my friends. I just wanted a change of scene.”

“Were you living in New York?” He was interested in her.

“Greenwich, Connecticut. It's a fairly opulent bedroom community, and has kind of a life of its own.”

“I know it well.” He smiled. “I grew up in Purchase, which isn't very far away, and is pretty much the same idea. Tiny little communities full of rich people who know each other's business. I couldn't wait to get the hell out after college. I think you did the right thing coming out here.” He smiled approval at her.

“So do I.” She smiled broadly at him. “Particularly if I get a job working for you. I can't think of anything I'd like more,” she said, almost shaking as she made her brave little speech.

“It's a lot of very, very, very hard work. I'm a pain in the ass to work for. I'm totally manic, and obsessive about everything. I want everything perfect. I work a million hours a day. I never sleep. I'll call you in the middle of the night to tell you something I forgot and that you have to do first thing in the morning. Forget having a love life. You'll be lucky if you see your kids for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and probably not then either, because we'll have parties to do. I promise to run you ragged, drive you crazy, teach you everything I know, and make you wish you'd never laid eyes on me at least ninety percent of the time, if not more. But if you can stand all that, Paris, then we'll have a hell of a lot of fun. How does that sound to you?”

“Like a dream come true,” she said honestly. It was all she wanted to do. It would keep her busy and distracted, make her feel useful, the parties and events they did had to be exciting, she would meet new people, even if they were his clients and not her friends. She couldn't think of a better job for her, and she didn't care how hard she worked. She wanted to. “I think, I hope I can do a great job for you.”

“Want to try it?” he asked with a look of excitement in his eyes too. “We're only doing four dinner parties this week. One tonight, two tomorrow, and a good-sized fortieth-anniversary party on Saturday night. If you survive all that, you're on. Let's see how we both feel about it by the end of the week.” Then he looked at Jane with a stern expression. “And if you have that baby before that, I'm going to spank it and strangle you, do you understand, Mrs. Winslow?” He wagged a finger at her, and she laughed, rubbing the enormous Buddha belly that looked like it was going to explode out of her dress at any minute.

“I'll do my best. I'll have a talk with him and tell him that if he shows up before the weekend, his godfather will be extremely pissed.”

“Exactly. No inheritance from me, no trust fund, no graduation party, no presents for Christmas or birthdays. He's to stay where he is until Paris and I figure out if we can work together, understood? And in the meantime, I want you to teach her everything you know.” In a mere five days. Jane didn't flinch.

“Yes, sir, Captain Bly, Your Honor. Absolutely.” She saluted him, and he laughed at her as he stood up. And Paris was startled by how tall he was. He was at least six foot four, incredibly handsome, and she was almost certain he was gay.

“Oh, shut up,” he said to Jane, laughing at her as she stood up too, though with considerable difficulty. She needed a crane to get her out of the chair. And then he turned to Paris with a mock-severe expression. “And if you get pregnant, in or out of wedlock, you're fired on the spot. I can't go through this again.” He looked meek and boyish then, and they both laughed. “This has been very hard on me. You may have stretch marks,” he said to Jane, “but my nerves are stretched a lot tighter than your stomach!”

“Sorry, Bix,” she said, looking anything but contrite. She was thrilled about the baby, and she knew he was happy for her. In six years of working for him, he had become her mentor and best friend.

“On second thought,” he said to Paris then, “have your tubes tied. How old are you, by the way?”

“Forty-six. Almost forty-seven.”

“Really? I'm impressed. If I didn't know you had kids, I would think you were in your late thirties. When you said you had a son at Berkeley, I figured you for forty, tops. I'm thirty-nine,” he said easily, “but I had my eyes done last year. You don't need a thing done, so I won't bother to give you his name.” He was very generous with his praise, and she was touched by what he said. And then he looked serious as he glanced at the mountain of papers on his desk. There were files scattered everywhere, photographs, fabric swatches, blueprints, designs, and Jane's desk in the next room looked considerably worse. One entire wall of her office was cork, and there were a million notes and messages pinned to it. “When can you start?” he asked Paris bluntly, seeming to rev his engines suddenly. She could see what a dynamo he was. But he had to be. He had a lot on his plate.

“Whenever you like,” she said calmly.

“All right then, now. Will that work, or do you have plans today?”

“I'm all yours,” she said, and he beamed, and Jane invited Paris to come into her office with her.

“He loved you,” she whispered when they sat down across the desk from each other. She was going to show her everything she could. She thought this was going to work. “I can tell. Everyone else he's seen was out the door in about two minutes. ‘Hello, good-bye, thank you very much, get lost.’ He hated them all. But he liked you. You're just exactly what he needs. Also, no husband, no kids, you're new in town. You can follow him around everywhere, if that's okay with you.” Jane looked as hopeful as she felt.

“It sounds like a custom-made job for me. It's everything I wanted. And I like him too. He seems like a nice man.” Beyond the elegance and the good looks, and the sophisticated style, she could sense that he was decent, real, and down-to-earth.

“He is,” Jane reassured her, “he's been incredible to me. I was supposed to get married right after I came to work here, and my fiancé walked out on me, literally while I was standing in the church. My parents were furious, they had spent a fortune on the wedding. I was a mess for about a year, but it worked out for the best. The marriage would never have worked. And as Bix says, he did me an enormous favor, although it didn't feel like it at the time. Anyway, then I met Paul, and we got engaged in about four months, which shocked everyone, and my parents refused to pay for the wedding. They said I was marrying him on the rebound and it would never work, and they had already paid for one wedding, so to hell with me. So Bix put on the most sensational wedding you've ever seen. He flew in a band from Europe, Sammy Go, who is fabulous. He gave it at the Gettys' house, with their permission of course. It was incredible, and he paid for everything himself. My parents were embarrassed, but they let him do it anyway. Things were pretty tense between us for a while. And now Paul and I have been married for five years, and we're having this baby. I put it off as long as I could, because I hated to leave Bix in the lurch, but Paul finally put his foot down, so here we are. And Bix just hasn't wanted to face it. He couldn't find anyone he liked, and he didn't really look. And I swear, I don't think the baby will hold out till the weekend, so you'd better learn everything quick. I'll do whatever I can to help you.” It was a lot of information in one short speech, and when she said she was thirty-one a few minutes later, Paris realized that she was the same age as the girl who had married Peter. And Jane seemed almost like a child to her, although she was obviously extremely capable. It made Paris wonder briefly if Peter and Rachel would have a baby too. The very thought of it made her feel ill, but she didn't have time to worry about it now, she had far too much to do.

They spent the whole morning going over files, important details about their best clients, how their resource system worked, who to count on and who not to, and who to use anyway. And then they went over a seemingly endless list of upcoming events. Paris could barely fathom that many parties in one town within a short span of months. There were several in Santa Barbara and L.A. as well, and there was a large wedding tentatively planned in New York in the fall, but the couple was not yet officially engaged. The bride's mother had already called, just in case.

“Wow!” Paris said as they sat back after a few hours. There was enough there to keep ten assistants busy, she couldn't begin to imagine how Jane had done it all. “How do you keep it all straight?” Paris asked, looking worried. She was beginning to wonder if the job was too much for her after all. She didn't want to turn his business, or his parties, into a mess. It was a herculean job. And she had huge respect for both of them.

“You get used to it after a while,” Jane said reassuringly. “It's not magic, it's just work. The key is using really good resources that don't let you down. It happens sometimes anyway, but very rarely. And Bix only lets it happen once. If they screw up, or let him down somehow, he never gives them a second chance. Our clients just won't put up with it. Perfection is the secret to his success. And when something goes wrong, the client never knows about it. We work our butts off to fix it, or improvise so it still works.”

“He really is a genius,” Paris said admiringly.

“Yes,” Jane said simply, “but he also works like a dog. And so do I. Are you okay with that, Paris?”

“Yes, I am.” And she meant it.

They spent the rest of the afternoon going over more files, the orchids for the dinner party that evening arrived, as promised, and by three o'clock, Jane and Paris were at the site of the dinner. It was a large imposing house on Jackson Street in Pacific Heights. And Paris had heard of the client, he was the head of an internationally known biotech firm in Silicon Valley. It was a formal dinner for twenty. The house itself was exquisitely done by a well-known French decorator, and the entire dining room was done in bright red lacquer.

“Bix doesn't like to do the obvious,” Jane explained.

“Anyone else would have done red roses in here, and I think a lot of people have. That's why he went with brown orchids.” Their own staff was doing the cooking that night, and Bix had bought perfect little silver bells with each guest's initials engraved on them as party favors. His ingenious party favors, from teddy bears to copies of Fabergé eggs for each guest, were one of his trademarks. People loved coming to his parties.

He had arranged for a dance band afterward, and some of the furniture had been cleared out of the living room to accommodate it. And as Jane and Paris stood by, a truck arrived with a baby grand piano. There was not a single thing he did by half measures.

Bix arrived himself about half an hour later, and he stayed until nearly dinnertime. By the time he left, everything was set up and in perfect order. He had pulled and tugged and tucked and tweaked the flowers himself, and at the last minute he changed one of the silver bowls they were in because he didn't like it. But one thing was certain, the evening would be one that all the guests would remember.

Jane ran home herself then to put a black cocktail dress on, and she was planning to be back before the first guest arrived. She liked to be on hand to be sure that everything went smoothly. With small dinner parties, she usually stayed until the guests sat down, with larger more complicated ones, she stayed until they were dancing after dinner. It made for long workdays and longer evenings. She had told Paris she didn't have to be there that night, but Paris had insisted that she wanted to join her, and see how she coordinated the evening. When caterers were used, she kept an eye on them, and made sure the service was impeccable. She made sure the guests were greeted properly when they arrived, their escort cards were handed to them, the musicians were at their stations, the flowers still looked right, and the valet parkers knew what they were doing with the cars. There was not a single detail overlooked by Bixby Mason or any of his employees. And when press coverage was appropriate, they wrote the releases.

Paris drove home as quickly as she could, and ran a bath, as she pulled a short black dress out of her closet, and let her hair down to brush it. She hadn't stopped since nine o'clock that morning. And this was only the beginning.

She dialed Meg quickly as she foraged for something to eat. She had less than an hour to dress and meet Jane back at the party, before the first guests came. Meg was still at the studio when she answered her cell phone.

“I think I have a job,” she said excitedly, and then told Meg all about Bixby Mason.

“That sounds terrific, Mom. I hope you get it.”

“So do I, sweetheart. I just wanted to tell you, I'm working. This is so exciting!” She told her about what she'd done all day, and then Meg got called back to the set. And Paris called Anne Smythe in Greenwich.

“I found the perfect job, and I'm trying out this week,” she said excitedly when she reached Anne at home. She felt like a kid who had just made the team, or was at least trying out for it. “I love it!”

“I'm proud of you, Paris,” Anne said, beaming on her end. “That was fast work. What did it take you? Three days?” As quickly as she could, Paris told her all about it. “If he has any sense, he'll hire you in a hot minute. Call and tell me.”

“I will,” she promised, and then slipped into the bath and closed her eyes for five minutes. She had really enjoyed what she'd done all day, and one of the things she liked about it was that they could see their concepts and hard work executed and completed. There was a tremendous sense of accomplishment in watching the events unfold. Paris could already see that.

She arrived back at the house on Jackson Street five minutes before Jane did, and they left at precisely ten-thirty, once the guests were dancing. Everything had gone smoothly. And the hosts had been pleasant and welcoming when they met Paris. She looked every bit as elegant as the guests in a simple black cocktail dress. She had been careful to wear something covered up and distinguished. The idea was to blend in, not to draw attention to herself, which she understood completely. Jane thought she was perfect, mature, sensible, capable, hardworking, resourceful. When one of the valet parkers had created a problem with one of the guests, Paris had told the head of the team quietly and firmly to call their base and replace him. She hadn't waited for Jane to give her directions. She'd been busy in the kitchen working out the schedule with the chef, to make sure the soufflés they were having for the first course wouldn't fall before they got the guests to the table. Every piece of the puzzle had to fit, and like a corps de ballet, they all had to move with infinite precision, even more so when they managed enormous weddings. This was just a taste of what the rest was, but Paris had stepped right in and handled it with grace and competence. Jane knew she was exactly what Bixby needed.

“You must be exhausted,” Paris said to her sympathetically as they left the house on Jackson Street. She was nine months pregnant and had been on her feet for fourteen hours. It was not exactly what her doctor recommended, or her husband wanted.

“I told the baby I don't have time for him to be born this week,” Jane said, looking tired as they stopped at her car and she smiled at Paris.

“When's your due date?” Paris asked warmly, she genuinely liked her. Jane gave her all and then some to Bixby. It was definitely time for her to pass the baton, Paris just hoped that Bix would let her take it from her.

“Tomorrow,” Jane said with a rueful smile. “I'm trying to pretend I don't know that. But he does,” she said, rubbing her belly. The baby had been kicking her all night, and she'd been having contractions for two weeks now. They were just practice runs, she knew, but the final performance was coming. “I'll see you in the morning,” she told Paris, as she slid behind the wheel with difficulty, and Paris felt sorry for her. This was no way to put your feet up and wait for a baby. Her schedule would have killed most women who weren't pregnant, and it was easy to see why her husband had insisted she quit and stay home with her baby. She'd done this for six years, and it was time to stop now. For her sake, and the baby's. “You did a great job today,” she told Paris, and then drove off with a wave, as Paris got in her car and drove home to the house on Vallejo. And she realized as she walked in, and set down her handbag, she was exhausted. It had been a long, interesting day, followed by a successful evening. She had been acutely aware during all of it that she was concentrating constantly in order to learn everything she needed to know as quickly as possible. But nothing she had done that day seemed out of the ordinary to her, or impossible to accomplish. She knew that she could do this. And as she stretched out in her bed that night, all she wanted was to land this job as Bixby Mason's assistant. And God willing, if it was meant to be, she would do that.

Chapter 15

The next two days, as Paris learned the ropes from Jane, were a whirlwind. They had two parties to do on Tuesday night. Bixby spearheaded one of them, the more important of the two, and Jane handled the other, for a slightly less demanding client. One was a remarkable event in an art gallery, which involved a light show and a techno band, and a lot of complicated technical details. The other was a black tie dinner party for old friends of Bixby's. And Paris went back and forth between the two, helping where she could, and learning whatever they could teach her. She had fun at the art gallery, but she enjoyed being with Jane at the black tie dinner party too. Jane wasn't feeling well that night, and halfway through the evening, Paris sent her home and handled the remainder of the dinner party for her. And Jane still looked a little rough the next morning. There was no question, the baby's arrival was coming closer. She was a day past her due date.

“Are you all right?” Paris asked her with a look of concern, as they settled down across the desk from each other in her office.

“I'm just tired. I couldn't sleep last night I had so many contractions. And Paul is mad at me. He said I shouldn't be working. He thinks I'm going to kill the baby.” Paris didn't entirely disagree with him, at least in that she thought Jane should be resting, and not pushing herself as hard as she was, but Jane wanted to give Paris a chance to settle in, and she had promised Bix she'd finish the week, if she didn't have the baby.

“You won't kill the baby, but you might kill yourself, at this rate. Here,” she said, pushing a velvet stool toward her, “put your feet up.”

“Thanks, Paris.” They went over the rest of the files then. And bookings for two more weddings came in that morning. Paris saw how she handled the details, who she made notes to call. It was a very carefully done setup. There was a secretary who came in twice a week to type things up for them, and a bookkeeper who did the billing. But the responsibility for all the rest of it was on Bixby and Jane's shoulders, and hers if he hired her. And Paris knew she was going to really miss this, if he didn't. She was loving every minute of it, and by Thursday afternoon, she felt as though she'd been there forever.

On Friday they handled the last details of the Fleischmann anniversary party. It was their fortieth, and they were having a black tie dinner party for a hundred on Saturday in their home in Hillsborough. It was apparently a palatial estate on a hilltop, and Mrs. Fleischmann said she had looked forward to the event for an entire lifetime. Bixby wanted everything to be perfect for her. She had an unfortunate weakness for pink, and he had convinced her to have a tent made that was so pale, it almost wasn't. And they had flown in the palest of pink tulips from Holland. He had managed to rescue the celebration from bad taste and metamorphose it into something exquisite. Mrs. Fleischmann was planning to wear pink, of course, and her husband had given her a pink diamond ring for the occasion.

When Paris met her on Saturday, she was an adorable little round woman in her late sixties, who looked ten years older. She had three sons, and thirteen grandchildren, all of whom were coming, and it was obvious that she was crazy about Bixby. He had done one of her grandsons' bar mitzvahs the year before, and Jane told Paris they had spent half a million dollars on it.

“Wow!” Paris said, impressed.

“We did one for two million in L.A. a few years ago, for a famous producer. They hired three acts from the circus, and literally had a three-ring circus, and a skating rink for the kids. It was quite something.”

By the time the guests arrived for the Fleischmanns' anniversary party, the Bixby Mason team had everything in full control, as usual. Mrs. Fleischmann was beaming from ear to ear, and her husband looked thrilled with the party Bixby had created for them. And when Oscar Fleischmann led his wife onto the floor for the first dance, a waltz, Paris stood there with tears in her eyes, smiling.

“Cute, aren't they?” Bix whispered to her. “I love her.” He loved most of his clients, which was how he was able to create such magic for them. He had to really care about them to do it. There were those he didn't like, of course, and he did his utmost for them too, but it never had quite the same feeling as it did when he liked them, or had a special fondness for them.

Paris was standing near the buffet, watching the scene, in a simple navy blue silk evening gown, as a man walked over to her, and began chatting. The dress was pretty on her, and she'd worn her hair in a French twist, but she was being careful not to look showy, or wear bright colors when she was working. She tried to blend into the woodwork, the way Bix and Jane did. Bix almost always wore black, like a puppeteer or a mime artist, and he had a quiet elegance about him. Jane was limited to one black cocktail dress these days, and one black evening gown that was straining at the seams. But she'd been in good spirits all day, and seemed to get a second wind halfway through the evening. By then, the baby looked beyond enormous, and the doctor had said he was going to be a ten-pounder. She looked it.

“Nice party, isn't it?” a gray-haired man in a dinner jacket commented, as Paris glanced over her shoulder. He was standing just behind her. And when she turned, she couldn't help noticing that he was very handsome. He looked to be somewhere in his late forties, and seemed very distinguished.

“Yes, it is.” She smiled at him blandly, trying not to pick up the conversation, while still being polite to him. She didn't want to encourage him. She was working. She just didn't look it. She was better looking than most of the guests, most of whom were a great deal older. But the Fleischmanns' sons were there, and a handful of their friends. Paris assumed the man with the gray hair was one of them.

“Fabulous buffet.” There was an entire table devoted to caviar, which had been doing a considerable business. “Do you know the Fleischmanns well?” he asked conversationally, determined to engage her. He had bright blue eyes the color of Peter's, and much as she hated to admit it, he was better looking. He looked lean and athletic and in good shape. And he was so handsome he could have been an actor or male model, but in this crowd, she was sure he wasn't.

“I just met them today,” she said quietly.

“Really?” he said, assuming she was someone's date. He had checked out her left hand for a wedding ring, and there was none. “They're lovely people.” And then, with a smile that was nearly dazzling, he turned to her. “Would you like to dance? My name is Chandler Freeman. I'm a business associate of Oscar Junior's.” He had taken care of the full introduction as she smiled at him, but made no move toward the dance floor.

“I'm Paris Armstrong, and I work for Bixby Mason, who organized this spectacular event. I'm not a guest. I'm working.”

“I see,” he said, not missing a beat, as his smile grew broader. “Well, Cinderella, if you dance with me until the stroke of midnight, I promise to look for you all over the kingdom, until I find the matching glass slipper. Shall we?”

“I don't really think I should,” she said, looking amused but embarrassed. He was very appealing, and very charming.

“I won't tell if you don't. And you look far too beautiful to be standing out here on the sidelines. One dance won't hurt anything, will it?” He already had an arm around her, and without waiting for a response, he was leading her toward the dance floor. And much to her own amazement, she followed. She caught Bix's eye along the way, and he smiled at her and winked, which seemed to suggest he had no problem with it. So she let Chandler Freeman lead her onto the floor and sweep her away. He was an expert dancer, and it was three songs later when he led her to his table. “Would you like to join us?” He was there with several friends, and was in fact sitting with Oscar Fleischmann Jr., who was a handsome man about Paris's age with a very pretty wife, who was covered in diamonds and emeralds. The family had made their fortune in oil in Denver, and then moved to San Francisco. It was Oscar Jr.'s son who had had the bar mitzvah, Jane told her later.

“I'd love to,” Paris said, in answer to his invitation to join them. “But I have to get back to my team.” She didn't want to be inappropriate and overly familiar with the guests, and make a bad impression either on their client, or on Bixby. She had no problem keeping her place, and had no intention of picking up the guests, however handsome. And there was no question, Chandler Freeman was a knockout. She wondered who his date was, and how she had felt about his dancing with Paris. But she couldn't identify anyone at the table who looked as though she was with him. As it turned out, his date had canceled at the last minute.

“I had a great time dancing with you, Paris,” he said, nearly in her ear so no one would hear him. “I'd love to see you again.”

“I'll leave my number in the glass slipper,” she said as she laughed. “I always wondered why the prince didn't at least get her name. It has to make you wonder about him.” Chandler laughed at what she said.

“Paris Armstrong. And you work for Bixby Mason. I think I can remember that,” he said, as though he fully intended to call her and see her again. But she wasn't counting on it. He was just a very charming, very handsome man. It was good for her ego, for a minute or two, but she didn't expect or want more than that.

“Thank you again, have a lovely evening,” she said to the table in general and drifted off, and as she did, she could hear Oscar's wife say in a loud voice “Who was that?” and Chandler answer “Cinderella,” and everyone at the table laughed. Paris was still amused when she got back to Bixby and Jane.

“Sorry,” she said to Bixby apologetically. “I didn't want to insult him by not dancing with him, and I escaped as soon as I could.” But Bixby didn't look in the least concerned, except about Jane, who was finally sitting down, and looked as though she were about to pop.

“Part of the secret of our success is knowing when to mix with the locals, and when to back off and work. You did it just right. People like it sometimes if we mingle with them for a while. I do. And I think it's just fine if you do a bit of that too. As long as we keep an eye on how the event is going. There are plenty of parties we do where I'm on the guest list,” he said, smiling at her. As far as he was concerned, Paris was not only efficient and competent, but she was socially adept, and he wanted her to know that. “By the way,” he said with a gleam in his eye, “that looked like a good one,” he said mischievously, referring to Chandler. “He's very nice looking. Who is he?”

“Prince Charming,” she said blithely, and then looked down to notice Jane rubbing her lower back.

“Are you okay?” Paris asked her, looking worried.

“I'm fine. The baby is just in a weird position. I think he's sitting on my kidneys.”

“How pleasant,” Bix said, rolling his eyes in mock horror. “I don't know how women do it. That would kill me,” he said, pointing at her stomach.

“No, it wouldn't, you get used to it,” Paris said, smiling.

“Your son is very well behaved, by the way,” he said to Jane, as some of the guests finally started leaving. It had been a long evening, and they had nearly an hour's drive back to the city. Bix had hired a crew to take down the tent, and oversee the undoing of the party, so they didn't have to stay there. “I told him not to come until after the Fleischmann anniversary, and there's no sign of him yet. Excellent manners, Jane, I commend you. My godson is a little prince. I would have spanked him if he'd come any sooner.” They all laughed, and Bix went to chat with Mrs. Fleischmann until the last of her guests had collected their cars, and she was finally alone with her husband, Bix, Jane, and Paris.

“It was everything I had dreamed it would be,” she said happily, looking like a vision in pink, as she gazed adoringly at her husband, and then gratefully at Bixby. “Thank you, Bix. I'll never forget this.”

“It was beautiful, Doris, and so were you. We had a good time too.”

“You all did such a good job,” she said warmly. She liked Paris too, and thought she made an excellent addition to the team.

Bix went to get his briefcase, and the clothes he had changed out of when he put on his tuxedo. He had been working there all afternoon. The Fleischmanns went into the house arm in arm, and Paris was walking to the car, when she heard Jane give a soft moan. She didn't know what it was at first, and when she turned to look at her, Jane suddenly bent over, and there was a rush of water that splashed onto the grass where she stood.

“Oh my God,” she said, looking at Paris with wide eyes, “I think my water just broke,” and within seconds, she was doubled over with a terrible pain.

“Sit down,” Paris said firmly to her, and helped her to sit down on the grass so she could catch her breath. “You're okay, it's going to be fine. Well, it looks like the baby did just what Bix said. He waited till after the party. Now let's get you home.” Jane nodded, but the contraction she was having was too strong for her to speak. And when it ended, she looked up at Paris miserably.

“I think I'm going to be sick.” Paris had had labors like that, fast and hard, vomiting everywhere, and too many things happening all at once. But in her experience, it had meant that the baby came quickly too. Jane was throwing up when Bix came back to look for them.

“Good lord, what happened to you? What did you eat? I hope it wasn't the caviar or the oysters, people were gobbling them up, saying how good they were.” But Jane just looked up at him, mortally embarrassed.

“I think she's in labor,” Paris said quietly to him. “Is there a hospital near here?”

“Now? Here?” Bixby looked horrified, and Jane interrupted immediately.

“I don't want to go to a hospital here. I want to go home. I'm okay. I feel better now.”

“Let's discuss it in the car,” Paris said sensibly, and helped Jane into the backseat so she could lie down. There was a towel in the trunk, and Paris set it next to her, and got into the front seat. Bix had driven them, and he took off his tuxedo jacket, put it in the trunk, and a moment later they took off. By then Jane had called Paul, and told him what was happening. She promised to call him back in five minutes. “I think you should call your doctor too. When did the contractions start?” Paris asked, as Jane dialed her obstetrician's number.

“I don't know. I've been feeling weird all afternoon. I thought it was something I ate.” She got through to her doctor's exchange then, and they patched her through to him. He told her to go straight to California Pacific Medical Center in the city. He thought driving back would be fine. And if anything changed dramatically, he told her to stop and go to a hospital along the way, or at the very worst, call 911. He was relieved to hear that she wasn't driving back alone, and she was lying down. She called Paul back then and told him where to meet her, and to bring her overnight bag. It had been sitting in the front hall for three weeks. And as soon as she finished talking to him, another contraction hit. It was another major one, and she couldn't talk for three or four minutes.

“If memory serves,” Paris said to Bix as she held Jane's hand. Jane was nearly breaking her fingers, and gripping Paris's hand in a vise as she squeezed her eyes shut and made a moaning sound that terrified Bix. “As I recall, once you can't talk during contractions, it's time to be in the hospital. I think she's further along than she thinks.”

“Oh my God,” Bix said, looking panicked. “I'm a homosexual, for chrissake. I'm not supposed to see these things, or even know about them. What am I supposed to do now?”

“Drive back to the city as fast as you can,” Paris said, laughing at him, and feeling better again, Jane was laughing weakly in the backseat too.

“Your godson wants to see you, Bix,” Jane teased, and he groaned louder than she had a moment before.

“Well, tell him I do not want to see him. Yet. I want to see him neatly wrapped in a blue blanket, in a hospital ward, and not until his hair has been combed. And that goes for you too,” he said, glancing at Jane in the rearview mirror, but he was genuinely concerned. The last thing he wanted was for something untoward to happen to her, or the baby, while he drove them into town. “Are you sure we shouldn't stop at a hospital along the way?” he asked both women, and Jane insisted she was fine. She had several more contractions, and Paris was timing them. They were still about seven minutes apart. They had time, but not much, she knew.

The two women talked softly between contractions, and Jane had a horrific one just as they cruised past the airport, going at full speed.

“Are you okay?” Bix asked, and Jane's voice was hoarse when she spoke again.

“Yeah. I think I might get sick again.” But this time she didn't, and she told Paris as they reached the outskirts of the city that she felt like she wanted to bear down.

“Don't!” Paris said firmly. “We're almost there. Just hang in.”

“Oh my God,” Bix said, “this isn't happening.” And then he turned to Paris with a nervous look. “Do you deliver babies too?”

“Is that part of the job description?” she asked, keeping an eye on Jane and her hand in hers.

“It may have to be. I hope not. And by the way…” he began as they flew through a red light on Franklin Street, and narrowly missed being hit by a car. He had never driven as fast, or as recklessly in his life. “You're hired, Paris. In case I haven't told you yet. You've done a great job this week. And you in the backseat,” he said jokingly to Jane, “you're fired. I don't want to see you in the office on Monday. Don't come back again!” They were on California Street by then, and Jane was making horrible sounds. Paris was trying to get her to pant like a dog so she wouldn't push.

“Can we stop?” Jane asked feebly. The motion of the car was making her feel sick.

“No!” Bix nearly screamed. The hospital was only a few blocks away. “I am not stopping, and you will not have that baby in this car! Do you hear me, Jane?”

“I will if I want,” she said, lying back with her eyes closed. She had broken out in a sweat and let go of Paris's hand to hold her belly. Paris knew that they would be lucky if they got there in time. The baby was definitely coming. And just as she thought it, Bix screeched to a halt outside the hospital, in the parking slots reserved for emergency vehicles. Without asking either of them, he jumped out of the car, and ran inside to find a doctor. “I think the baby's coming,” Jane said to Paris in staccato breaths, and all she wanted to do was scream.

“It's okay, sweetheart, we're here,” Paris said, as she jumped out of the car, and opened the back door to get to Jane, but just as she did, two attendants rushed out with a gurney, and Paul was with them. They got her onto the gurney as she cried, and she was sobbing as she reached for Paul with both hands. She had been very brave, but now she was frightened, and so relieved to see him.

“I was so worried about you,” he said, as he held her hand and they wheeled her inside at full speed, while Paris and Bix watched, and followed her inside. They didn't even try to get her upstairs, but took her straight into the emergency room, and Paris and Bix were still trying to catch their breath when they heard her scream. It was a long horrifying howl that was so primeval, so deep, and so profound that it went to one's very soul. Bix looked at Paris in terror, and clutched her hand.

“Oh my God, is she dying?” He had tears in his eyes. He had never heard anything like it. It sounded as though someone had sawed her in half.

“No,” Paris said quietly, as they held hands in the waiting room, “I think she just had a baby.”

“How awful. Was it like that for you?”

“With one of them. I had a C-section with the other.”

“You're a remarkable breed, all of you. I could never go through it.”

“It's worth it,” she said, as she wiped a tear from her eyes too. Thinking about it reminded her of Peter.

And a moment later one of the emergency room nurses came out to tell them that the baby was healthy and weighed ten pounds three ounces. Half an hour later they wheeled Jane past them, as Paul followed proudly, holding the baby. They were all going upstairs to a room.

“Are you okay?” Paris asked as she bent to kiss her. “I'm so proud of you. You were terrific.”

“It was pretty easy,” Jane said gamely. They had just given her something for the pain, and she was looking very woozy. And at ten pounds three ounces, Paris knew it couldn't have been easy.

“We'll come back and see you tomorrow,” Paris promised, as Bix leaned over and kissed her too.

“Thank you for not having it at the Fleischmanns' party,” he said solemnly, and all three of them laughed. He took a peek at the baby, and remarked to Paul that he looked enormous. “He looks like he should be smoking a cigar and carrying a briefcase. That's my godson,” he said proudly to one of the nurses. And a moment later, the little family they had become went upstairs to get to know each other.

“What a remarkable evening,” Bix said to Paris, as they stood outside in the starry night. It was three o'clock in the morning.

It had been an extraordinary week. She had gotten a job, made two new friends, and nearly delivered a baby.

“Thanks for the job,” she said as he drove her home. She felt as though they were old friends now.

“We'll have to put midwifery in the brochure after tonight,” he said solemnly. “I'm awfully glad we didn't have to deliver that baby.”

“So am I,” Paris said with a yawn, as she smiled at him. She knew the night had created a bond between them that might not have been there otherwise. Neither of them would ever forget it. Nor would Jane, she was sure.

“Would you like to come to breakfast tomorrow?” Bix asked as he dropped her off at her house. “I'd like you to meet my partner.” It was a compliment and an honor for him to bring her into his private world, but he felt she had earned it. She was a lovely person.

“I didn't know you had a business partner,” she said sleepily, looking puzzled, but pleased to be invited.

“I don't. I was referring to the man I live with,” he said, laughing at her. “You have led a sheltered life, haven't you?”

“Sorry, I wasn't thinking.” She giggled. “I'd love it.”

“Come at eleven. We can get drunk thinking about tonight. It's a shame he wasn't with us. He's a doctor.”

“I can't wait to meet him,” she said sincerely, and then got out and waved as she unlocked her front door, and stepped inside.

“Good night,” he called as he drove away, thinking of the events of the evening. A baby had come into the world, and he'd nearly had to deliver it, and he had a new assistant. It had been quite a day.

Chapter 16

After sleeping as late as possible, Paris took a shower, put on khaki slacks and an old cashmere sweater and her favorite pea coat, and turned up at the door next to the shop at eleven. She knew Bix and his friend lived on the two floors above the office. He had bought the building years before, and the private quarters, when she entered them, were lovely. The rooms were cozy and warm. There were books everywhere, and there was a roaring fire, where Bix and an older man had been sitting and reading the Sunday paper. The older man was wearing a tweed jacket and slacks and an open blue shirt, and Bix was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. The older man had white hair, but looked youthful and very rugged. They were a handsome couple.

Bix introduced her to Steven Ward, and Steven greeted her warmly. He looked to be in his early sixties.

“I hear you two had quite an evening last night, and you almost delivered Jane's baby.”

“It was very close,” Paris said with a grin, as Bix handed her a Bellini. It was champagne with a splash of peach juice, and when she tasted it, it was delicious. “I didn't think we'd make it.”

“Neither did I,” Bix said honestly. “I figured if I didn't kill us in the car, we might all live through it. Pretty hairy.”

“Very,” Paris agreed, taking another sip of the Bellini, and turning to Bix's partner. “Bix tells me you're a doctor,” she said easily, and he nodded.

“I'm an internist,” he said discreetly.

“Specializing in HIV and AIDS,” Bix corrected, looking obviously proud of Steven. “The best in the city.”

“That must be hard,” Paris said sympathetically.

“It is, but we're doing much better these days with medications.”

Paris learned as she talked to him that he had come to San Francisco from the Midwest, to work with AIDS patients in the early eighties, and he'd been there ever since. And as Bix made omelettes for them, Steven told her that his previous partner had died of AIDS ten years before, and he and Bix had been together for seven. He was sixty-two years old, and it was obvious that he admired Bix greatly, and they were very happy.

They sat in the dining room, eating omelettes and croissants, as Bix poured them each a cappuccino. He was a fabulous cook, and informed her that it was a good thing, because Steven couldn't boil water. He could save lives, or make people more comfortable, but he was hopeless in the kitchen.

“He tried to cook for me once, when I was sick, and he damn near killed me. I had stomach flu, and he made me tomato soup, out of a can thank you very much, and a can of chili. I do the cooking,” Bix said firmly. Their relationship appeared to be interesting and lively, based on mutual respect and deep affection. Steven talked openly about how traumatic it had been for him when his previous partner died. They had been together for twenty-seven years before that.

“Learning to live without him was a tremendous adjustment. I didn't even go out for two years. All I did was work, read, and sleep. And then I met Bix, we dated for a year, and we've been living together for six. I've been very lucky,” he said with a grateful look at Bix.

“Yes, you are,” Paris said quietly. “I was married for twenty-four, and I never thought we'd get divorced. I'm still reeling from the shock. Sometimes I think about it, and I just can't believe it happened. He's married to someone else now.”

“How long has it been since he left you?” Steven asked sympathetically. He could see easily why Bix liked her. She was a very nice woman, bright, interesting, fun to be with, it was hard to imagine why her husband had left her. She seemed to him like everything a man could want.

“It's been nine months,” Paris said sadly.

“And he's already remarried?” Bix looked shocked, and was more inquisitive than his partner. “Is that why he left you?” She nodded, but managed not to cry for once, which was at least something. Things were looking up. She was feeling better.

“She's thirty-one years old. I guess that's hard to compete with.”

“You shouldn't have to,” Bix said bluntly. “I hope she was worth it. What a rotten thing to do to you, Paris. Have you dated yet?” he asked with interest.

“No, and I don't intend to. I'm too old for that. I'm not going to make a fool of myself competing with girls my daughter's age. And there's no one I want anyway. I really loved him.” This time her eyes did fill with tears, and Steven touched her shoulder.

“I felt that way too. I swore I'd never date again. And you're a lot younger than I was when John died.”

“I'm forty-six years old, and I'm too old for dating.”

“No one is too old to date,” Steven said sensibly. “I have survivors of patients I see who are seventy-five years old and fall in love, and get married.”

“Not all his patients are gay,” Bix said by way of explanation.

“I'm serious, Paris. You have a lifetime ahead of you. You just need time. Nine months is nothing. For some anyway. Others seem to find someone in weeks or months. But no matter how you do it, grieving the loss of a loved one or a relationship is never easy. It took me three years to find Bix, and I never thought I'd feel this way again. We're very happy,” he said, and Paris was touched by their honesty and compassion. What they were sharing with her was valuable information. It made no difference to her if they were gay or straight. The feelings about relationships were the same.

“And it's a lot harder to find someone worth having in the gay world,” Bix said bluntly. “Everything is about looks and beauty and youth. There's nothing harder than getting old alone in gay life. If you're not young and beautiful, it's all over. I was back out in the dating world for two years after my last relationship, and I hated every minute of it. And I was only thirty, and I already felt then as though it was all over for me. I met Steven when I was thirty-two, and I couldn't wait to settle down with him. I'm not a dater,” Bix said honestly, but he could have been. At thirty-nine, he was still dazzlingly handsome. In his youth, after college, he had been a model. But his values were based on something far more solid.

“I'm not a dater either,” Paris said with a sigh. “Can you imagine anything more ridiculous than being out there on dates at my age? It's so humiliating, and so depressing.” She told them about the night of the dinner party in Greenwich with the drunken stockbroker who had told dirty jokes and was wearing plaid pants. It had been the decisive moment in her moving to San Francisco, if only to escape evenings like that among her friends.

“I think I dated his gay brother,” Bix said, laughing, and then told her some stories that made her laugh even more. “I have had some of the worst blind dates on the planet. My last partner dumped me for a younger guy, he was twenty-two, I think, and everyone felt sorry for me. So in order to prove it, they fixed me up with the worst people they could think of. Preferably multiaddicted, or better yet, psychotic. I dated one guy who'd been sleep deprived for two years, and he was so nuts, he kept hallucinating and thinking I was his mother. I came home and found him passed out on the couch in pink hot pants and a black bra one afternoon, ripped out of his mind on Quaaludes, and I told him he had to go. That was nothing compared to the nature lover, who must have been related to the Hillside Strangler. He had five snakes and let them loose in my house. He lost two, and it took him a month to find them, and I nearly gave up the apartment. I had some lulus! I promise you, Paris, I will never fix you up on a blind date. I like you too much. You'll have to do your own shopping. I have too much respect for you to even try.”

“Thank you. How did you and Steven meet?” she asked, curious about them. She really liked them. And the breakfast Bix prepared had been delicious. He said Sydney had taught him how to make the omelettes.

“It was pretty straightforward. I needed a new doctor. We liked each other. It took him about two months, and a lot of sinus problems and headaches and mysterious backaches I kept making up, but he finally got the message, and invited me to dinner.” Steven smiled at the memory, and Bix looked adoringly at him.

“I was a little slow on the pick-up,” Steven apologized. “I thought he was looking for a father figure.”

“Nothing that kinky,” Bix said simply. “Just a boyfriend.”

They were far more than that now, they were more like a comfortable married couple, from what Paris could see, and she respected the relationship they shared. In a funny way, it reminded her of her closeness to Peter, and when she went home that afternoon, she found that it had made her feel lonely. They were so close and at ease with each other, and so comfortable. It reminded her of how nice it was to have someone to share your life with.

She called Meg and she was out. And at six o'clock Wim showed up with one of his roommates. She had promised to fix him dinner, and they had a lovely evening. It had been a nice day, and she was enjoying her California life. Even the weather had been cooperating since she arrived. She had been there for ten days, and although it was February, it was warm and sunny. According to reports from Virginia and Natalie, it was snowing in Greenwich. Paris was delighted that she'd left.

“So how do you like your new job, Mom?” Wim asked with interest as he stretched his long legs out across the couch, and recovered from an enormous dinner. He and his roommate had thanked her profusely, and had eaten as though they were starving.

“I love it,” she said, beaming.

“What exactly do you do?” He couldn't remember. When she had first described it, it sounded confusing. It was some kind of wedding planner, he thought, which was close enough, as long as it made her happy.

“We plan events and parties. Weddings, dinner parties, openings. The man who does the conceptual work is very creative.”

“Sounds like fun,” he said, relaxing in her new home. And he loved the downstairs apartment. He and his friend had checked it out, and he said he was going to visit often. She hoped he would, but knew enough about kids his age not to count on it. He was going to be busy in college.

They stayed until after ten o'clock, and then drove back to Berkeley. And by eleven o'clock, she had cleaned up, and gotten into bed in her nightgown. It had been a delightful Sunday. Weekends were what she feared most, and what she had most disliked in Greenwich. It felt as though everyone else in the world had someone to be with, and she didn't. But here it seemed easier somehow. She had enjoyed her morning with Steven and Bix, and her evening with Wim and his roommate. Meg called her just as she was about to fall asleep, and told her about the day she'd spent at Venice Beach, and she'd had a good time too. All was well in the world, at least in California, in Paris's new world.

Chapter 17

Monday was a busy day. Paris no longer had Jane to counsel her, she was happily at home with her husband and her new baby. They had called him Alexander Mason Winslow, and she said he was an easy baby.

Paris and Bix worked closely together. The following Saturday was Valentine's Day, and they had two events planned. As he had with Jane, he planned to be at one, and wanted Paris to be at the other. But neither was an enormous party. And it was late afternoon when the phone rang, and the secretary who had come in to clean up their paperwork for them told Paris it was for her, and it was a Mr. Freeman.

“I don't know one,” she said briskly, and she was about to tell her to take a message for her, when she suddenly remembered. It was Prince Charming. “Hello?” she said cautiously, wondering if it was the man she had danced with at the Fleischmanns' anniversary. And as soon as she heard his voice, it sounded like him, as closely as she could remember.

“I hope you don't mind my calling you,” he apologized smoothly. “I got your number from Marjorie Fleischmann, who got it from her mother-in-law. Rather a circuitous route, but apparently effective. How are you, Cinderella?”

“Fine.” She laughed at him, impressed by the effort he'd put into locating her, and wondering why he had bothered. She hadn't been all that friendly, in spite of the dance they'd shared. “We've been busy. We had a lot of cleaning up to do today. And I nearly delivered a baby on the way home from the party the other night.” She told him about Jane, and he sounded amused. And then she waited to hear the reason why he had called her. Maybe he wanted to give a party himself.

“I thought we might have lunch tomorrow. How does that sound to you, Paris?” Silly was the first word that came to mind, but she didn't say it. And why was the second. She was definitely not in the right mind-set for dating. It was the last thing she wanted.

“That's very nice of you, Chandler.” She remembered his name. And she didn't want to have lunch with him. “I don't usually go to lunch. We're awfully busy.”

“Your blood sugar will plummet if you don't. We'll make it a quick one.” He was not in the habit of taking no for an answer. And he didn't intend to in this case. He was so forthright that she didn't know what to say to him, other than to be rude, which didn't seem appropriate either. He was a perfectly nice man.

“Well, very quick then,” she conceded, and then was annoyed at herself for being pushed into a lunch she didn't want to go to, with a man she didn't know. “Where shall I meet you?” She was going to make it in and out and businesslike, no matter what he had in mind.

“I'll pick you up at your office at noon. And I promise I'll have you back in an hour.”

“It'll be easier if I meet you,” she insisted stubbornly. “I don't know where I'll be in the morning.”

“Don't worry about it. I'll pick you up. That way you don't need to worry if you're late. I can return calls from my car while I wait.” It was exactly what she didn't want, to drive off with a total stranger in his car. “See you at noon, Cinderella,” he said blithely, and hung up as she sat at her desk and stewed as Bix walked in.

“Something wrong?” he asked as he saw the expression on her face.

“I just did something really stupid,” she said, annoyed at herself. The man on the phone had been in complete control.

“Did you hang up on a client?” he asked with a blank expression. He couldn't imagine what it was.

“Nothing like that,” she reassured him. She had already thanked him for brunch the previous day, and told him how much she had enjoyed meeting Steven Ward, and what a nice man he was. Bix had been pleased. He wanted the three of them to be friends. “I let some guy talk me into having lunch with him, and I didn't even want to. But before I knew it, he had spun me around and told me he'd pick me up at noon.” Bix smiled.

“Anyone I know? The guy at the Fleischmanns' anniversary party?”

“How did you know?” She looked surprised.

“I figured he'd call. That type usually does. What's his name again?”

“Chandler Freeman. He's an associate of Oscar Fleischmann Jr. I don't know what he does.”

“I've read about him here and there. Sounds like a professional dater to me. Buyer beware.”

“What does that mean?” She was an innocent lost in the woods of a brave new world.

“It's a particular breed. Some of them have never married, others have had ugly divorces that cost them a lot of money, from women they hated anyway. They have a chip on their shoulder as a rule. And for the rest of time, they date and they date and they date and they date, and tell everyone what a bitch their ex-wife was. And according to them, the reason they never remarried is because they haven't found 'the right woman' yet. And the key is they never will. They don't want to. They just want to date. To them, temps are more fun.”

“Well, that certainly takes care of them,” Paris said with a broad smile. “I'll see how much he'll tell me about his history, and I'll let you know if any of it matches up.”

“Unfortunately, it probably will.” Bix felt sorry for her. Dating was something he hoped never to have to do again. Gay or straight.

“Do you mind if I go out to lunch tomorrow?” she asked him as an afterthought, and he laughed.

“Do you want me to say yes?”

“More or less.” She wasn't entirely sure. He had been a good-looking man, seemed like fun, and it was only lunch, she told herself.

“Go. You'll have fun. You have to get your feet wet. He looks like a decent guy.”

“Even if he's a professional dater?”

“So what? It's not marriage. It's lunch. You'll be safe. It's good practice for you.”

“For what?”

“The real world,” he said honestly. “You're going to have to get out there one of these days. You can't stay home forever. You're the kind of woman who deserves to have a good man in your life, Paris. And you aren't going to find one if you don't go out.”

“I thought I had one,” she said sadly, and Bix nodded.

“It turned out he wasn't as good as you thought.”

“I guess not.”

Half an hour later he showed her a four-foot white teddy bear made of roses that he was sending to Jane, and it was so spectacular it took Paris's breath away. “How on earth did you do that?”

“I didn't. I designed it. Hiroko did the rest. Cute, don't you think?” He was proud of it, and pleased that Paris liked it too.

“It's incredible. She's going to fall in love with it.” He took it back downstairs to the shop at street level and sent it off to Jane with a note, which reminded Paris that she wanted to get a baby present for her, maybe over the weekend, when she had time, if she did. She had to work one of the Valentine's Day parties, but she was free for most of the day before that. She couldn't believe how busy her life had gotten in barely more than a week. And she said as much to Anne Smythe when she called her that night when she got home. They had to do their sessions now at night or on weekends, in spite of the time difference, and Anne said she didn't mind. She was happy to hear from her, and delighted that things were going so well. They had already agreed to reduce their sessions to once a week. Paris didn't have time for more. Except, in an emergency, she knew she could always call.

She told Anne she was having lunch with Chandler the next day, and what Bix had said about him, about being a professional dater possibly.

“Keep an open mind,” Anne reminded her. “You might have fun. And even if he's a ‘professional dater,’ as Bix says, he might be an interesting person to know. You were going to meet people, remember. You don't have to love them all. He might introduce you to a whole circle of his friends.” It was a good point. She was starting from scratch, and she had known when she left Greenwich that it would be hard work. This was only the beginning.

At five minutes before noon the next day, Paris heard a roar beneath her office window, and when she looked down, she saw that it was a silver Ferrari. And seconds later she saw Chandler Freeman get out in a blazer, gray slacks, blue shirt, and yellow tie. It looked like Hermès. He looked very chic, and extremely prosperous. He rang the bell, came upstairs, and a moment later, was standing in front of her desk, with a dazzling smile.

“I'm very impressed. This is quite an office.”

“Thank you. I've only worked here for about five minutes.” She didn't want to take credit for it. Bix had done all the decoration himself.

“How so?”

“I moved out from Greenwich, Connecticut, less than two weeks ago. This is only my second week in the

job.”

“You look like you've been here forever.”

“Thank you.” She smiled.

“Shall we go?” he said with a wide smile. He had perfect teeth, and looked like a toothpaste ad on TV. He was an incredibly good-looking man. It was impossible not to notice, and she felt flattered somehow that he was taking her out.

She followed him down the stairs and out to his car, and seconds later the silver Ferrari roared off. “Where are we going?” she asked nervously, and he smiled at her.

“I'd like to tell you I'm kidnapping you, but I'm not. I know you're pressed for time, so we're going very nearby.” He took her to a tiny Italian restaurant in a Victorian house, with a garden out back, only blocks from her office. “This is one of the city's best-kept secrets.” And the owners seemed to know him well. “I go out to lunch a lot,” he explained, “and I hate to get stuck inside.” The weather was even warmer than the week before. Spring had arrived.

The waiter offered her a glass of wine, and she asked for iced tea instead. Chandler had a Bloody Mary, and they ordered salads and pasta for lunch. And the food was extremely good. Somewhere, halfway through lunch, as he chatted with her, she started to relax. He was actually a very interesting man, and he seemed like a nice guy.

“How long have you been divorced?” he asked her finally, as she realized she was going to be hearing this question a lot. Maybe she should hand out leaflets with all the details.

“Two months. I've been separated for nine.” She didn't offer any further information. For now at least, it was none of his business. She didn't owe him any explanations.

“How long were you married?”

“Twenty-four years,” she said simply, and he winced.

“Ouch. That must have hurt.”

“A lot,” she said, and smiled, and turned the tables on him. She wanted information too. “What about you?”

“What about me?” he asked with an evasive smile.

“Same questions. How long have you been divorced? How long were you married?” She was learning the ropes.

“I was married for twelve years. I've been divorced for fourteen.”

“That's a long time,” she commented, thinking about it.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed.

“You've never remarried?” Maybe he was hiding one from her, but not if Bix was right.

“Nope. I haven't.”

“Why not?”

“Never found the right woman, I guess.” Oh shit. Maybe Bix was right. “Or maybe being single has just been too much fun till now. I was thirty-four when I got divorced. And I was pretty badly burned. My wife ran off with my best friend. It was a lousy trick. Turns out they'd been having an affair for three years before she left. Things like that happen, but it hurts like hell when they happen to you.” More data. The ex-wife as supreme bitch. And slut.

“That sounds pretty rough,” she said sympathetically, but he no longer looked upset. It had been a long time. Maybe too long. “Do you have kids?”

“One. My son is twenty-seven, lives in New York, and has two little girls. I'm a grandfather, which I still have trouble believing sometimes. But the girls are awfully cute. They're two and four. With another one on the way.” At forty-eight and as good-looking as he was, he didn't look like a grandfather to her.

They chatted about other things then, traveling and favorite cities, languages they spoke and wished they did. Paris spoke a smattering of French. Chandler said he was fluent in Spanish. He had lived in Buenos Aires for two years as a young man. Favorite restaurants in New York. He even asked about her name, which had always seemed silly to her. Her parents had honeymooned in Paris, and had conceived her there. So they had named her after their favorite city. He said it was exotic and looked properly amused. With a practiced hand, he kept the conversation light. He was good company, and on the way back to the office in the Ferrari, he told her he flew his own plane, with a copilot of course. It was a G4. And he offered to take her up in it sometime. He told her when he dropped her off that he'd love to see her again, maybe they could have dinner later that week, and she told him that she had to work. He just smiled, and kissed her on the cheek before he left. And then in a roar from the engine, he sped away as Paris walked up the stairs. Bix was doing sketches at his desk.

“Well?”

“I think you're right. I don't even know why I went. I don't want to date. So what's the point?”

“Practice for when you grow up. You will one day. Unless you want to be a nun.”

“It's a thought.”

“So?”

“He was married for twelve years, has been divorced for fourteen. And he just hasn't met the right woman to make him want to marry again. How do you like that?”

“I don't,” Bix said, looking cool. After knowing her for a week, he already felt protective of her. She needed it, more than anyone he knew. And he wanted to do that for her. She was a babe in the woods. And by all rights she should still have been happily married in Greenwich, but she wasn't. Thanks to Peter. Who had Rachel. Now Bix wanted her to have someone too.

“He has one son, and two granddaughters and another one on the way. He lived in Buenos Aires for two years. And he flies his own plane. Oh, and his wife had an affair with his best friend while they were married, and ran off with him, hence the divorce. And that was about it.”

“Very good.” Bix smiled at her. “Did you take notes, or did you remember all that?”

“I recorded it on a device in my shoe,” she said, grinning. “So what do you think? My shrink says it doesn't matter if he's a shit, he could introduce me to his friends.”

“Who are probably shits too. Professional daters stick together. They hate married couples, they think

they're bourgeois and dumb.”

“Oh. So? Is he? A professional dater, I mean.”

“Maybe. Be careful. Did he ask you out again?”

“He suggested dinner later this week. I said I had to work.”

“Do you like him?”

“Sort of. He's interesting and intelligent, and very sophisticated. I just don't know if he's nice.”

“Neither do I, that's what you have to watch. Give him a chance, but a very small one. Protect yourself, Paris. That's what counts.”

“This is a lot of work.”

“But it's worth it. Unless you want to be a nun.”

“I'll give it some thought.”

“The habits are ugly these days, remember that. No more Audrey Hepburn and Ingrid Bergman in flowing robes. They're short and polyester, and the hairdos suck.” She laughed, shook her head, and went back to her desk. And later that afternoon Chandler sent her flowers. Two dozen red roses, with a note. “Thanks for taking the time off from work. I had a great lunch. See you soon. CF.” Bixby looked at the flowers and read the note and shook his head.

“He's a pro. Nice roses though.” Bixby was tough on her behalf. She sent Chandler a thank-you note and forgot about him. For the rest of the week, in anticipation of Valentine's Day, they were swamped. Every client they had wanted to send someone something creative, even if it was their mother, or their sister in Des Moines. And the romantic ones were the worst. He had to come up with some stroke of genius for each one of them, but he always did. And they still had two parties to work on.

On Thursday Chandler called again. And asked her for dinner on Saturday night.

“I'm sorry, Chandler, I can't. I have to work.”

“Do you know what day that is?” he asked pointedly.

“Yes, I do. Valentine's Day. But I still have to work.” If she hadn't been in this business now, she would have been trying to forget. She was glad she'd be working. She and Peter always went out to dinner, and had the year before, although he'd been seeing Rachel, she knew now. She wondered how he'd handled that. However he had at the time, he had taken care of it permanently in May. This year he'd be with Rachel.

“What time will you finish work?”

“Late. Probably around eleven.” She was working a small dinner, and according to the house rule, could leave when the guests sat down. She was giving herself leeway when she said eleven. And trying to discourage him.

“I can wait until then. How about midnight supper with me?”

She hesitated a long beat, not sure what she was doing. She did not want to date. But she was talking about it to him as though she might. She didn't know what to do. He was backing her into it. And she was allowing it to happen. But there was something about him that was very appealing.

“I don't know, Chandler,” she said honestly. “I don't think I'm ready for that. Valentine's Day is a big deal.”

“We'll make it a small one. I understand. I've been there too.”

“Why me?” she asked plaintively, and he sounded very gentle when he answered.

“Because I think you're terrific. I haven't met anyone like you in fourteen years.” It was a heavy statement, and what's worse, he sounded as though he meant it. She had no idea what to say.

“You ought to go out with someone who doesn't have to work.”

“I'd rather go out with you. Why don't we say midnight? We'll do something simple and not scary. And if you finish earlier, you can call me. We'll do something easy like a hamburger. No pressure. No memories. Just good friends on a silly day.” He made it sound palatable, and she was tempted to accept. “Why don't you think about it, and I'll call you tomorrow. How does that sound?”

“Okay,” she said weakly, somewhat under his spell. He was so reasonable and so easy and so convincing, he was hard to resist.

And although she thought about it that night, she had come to no decision. She half wanted to see him and half didn't. And when he called her on Friday morning, she was busy and distracted, and before she knew it, she'd agreed. She said she'd call him after the party, when she finished, and they would go out for hamburgers in jeans. It was the perfect solution for Valentine's Day. She didn't have to be alone, but she wasn't going to have a romantic dinner either. And that suited her just fine.

As it turned out, they sat down to dinner at nine o'clock at the dinner she was working. She left at nine-thirty, and he picked her up at ten, in jeans, as promised. She was wearing jeans and a red cashmere sweater and an old white duffel coat she'd had for years.

“You look like a Valentine, Cinderella,” he said, smiling at her, as he kissed her on the cheek, and they were halfway through dinner at a quiet restaurant he'd chosen, when he pushed a small box toward her, and two cards. She didn't have anything for him.

“What's that?” she asked, looking embarrassed. From the pink and red envelopes, it was easy to see what they were. They were Valentines for her, and when she opened them, they were funny and very cute. And in the wrapped box there was a small heart-shaped silver box filled with candy conversation hearts. It was a very thoughtful gift. “Thank you, Chandler, that was very sweet. I don't have anything for you.”

“You don't have to. You came to dinner with me. That's enough.” He looked as though he meant it, and she was very touched. It was an easy evening. She was home at midnight, and when he walked her to her door, he kissed her chastely on the cheek.

“Thank you, it was perfect,” she said, and meant it. She hadn't felt uncomfortable or pressured. And he'd been very good company.

“That's how I wanted it to be. What are you doing tomorrow? Can I talk you into a walk on the beach?” She hesitated for a moment and then nodded. “Great. I'll pick you up at two.”

And when he did, they were both wearing running shoes and jeans. They spent two hours walking on the beach and Crissy Field, all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a glorious afternoon with a gentle breeze. She had worn her hair down, and he looked at her admiringly as her long blond hair flew in the wind. And when he brought her home, she invited him upstairs for a drink. She drank iced tea as usual, and he had a glass of white wine, as he admired the view.

“I love your place,” he said pleasantly.

“So do I,” she said, as she joined him on the couch. She was beginning to feel comfortable with him. “I can't wait for my furniture to arrive.” It was due in another week.

They sat there for an hour, talking about their children, and why their marriages had gone awry. He said he had probably taken his wife for granted and been too cavalier.

“I guess I trusted her too much,” he said calmly. “I just assumed I could.”

“You have to be able to trust someone, Chandler.”

“I don't think I have since. I guess that's why I'm not married.”

“You have to trust the right person.”

“Did you trust him?” he asked, looking hard at her, and she nodded. “What did you learn from that?”

“That even people you love make mistakes. People change their minds. They fall out of love. It happens, I guess. It's just bad luck that it happened to me.”

“You're very naïve. Luck doesn't make things like that happen, or it would have happened to you and me too. I didn't cheat on her. You didn't cheat on him. Did you?” Paris shook her head, that was true. “So maybe the correct conclusion is that he wasn't trustworthy. My guess is that he's not as decent as you think. That wasn't an accident. He let it happen, just like my wife did. Maybe he even pursued it, with total disregard for what it would do to you. That didn't matter to him.”

“I don't think it's as simple as that,” she said fairly. “I think things happen, and people get tangled up in relationships they can't get out of. They get confused. And people change. Peter did. He said he was bored with me.”

“Boredom is part of marriage. If you get married, you have to expect to be bored.”

“Not always,” she said, hearing Bix's words ring in her head. Professional daters think married people are boring and bourgeois. “I wasn't bored.”

“Maybe you didn't know you were. I'll bet your life is a lot more interesting now,” he said with a smile as he took a sip of his wine. He had very definite ideas.

“In some ways,” Paris conceded. “But this isn't what I'd have chosen to do with my life. I was happy the way things were.”

“I'll bet a year from now you'll be happy he left.” That concept was inconceivable to her. She knew that whatever happened, she would never be happy Peter left. All she would have wanted was to stay married to him. But since she couldn't have that, she was willing to acknowledge the blessings in her new life. But even now they were second best, and she suspected they would always be.

Chandler stayed until six o'clock, and then he left. He said he was going to L.A. in his plane the next day, and he would call her when he got back. And the next morning, she had flowers from him again.

“I see Mr. Freeman is in hot pursuit,” Bixby commented drily as he came into her office to go over some sketches for a wedding they were doing in June. “Having fun?”

“I think so,” she said cautiously, but she wasn't sure. He was easy and pleasant and very charming, but under the surface there was something bitter and angry. He had a chip on his shoulder the size of his ex-wife.

It was Thursday before she heard from him again, and by then he was in New York. He had business there, and said he wouldn't be home till Sunday night, not that she cared. But it had been thoughtful of him to call. And the following week he called her, and asked if she'd like to go to L.A. with him, on his plane. She hesitated, but only for an instant. She had no intention of going away with him, or more specifically, sleeping with him. She wasn't ready to cross that bridge yet. And as delicately as she could, she said as much to him, and he laughed.

“I know that, silly. I was planning to get two rooms at the Bel-Air. I wanted to take you to one of the pre-Grammy parties with me. I have a friend in the music business, and he invites me to come down every year. It's quite a show. Would you like to come?”

She hesitated and then realized she could see Meg. She could have seen her anyway, if she went down on her own. But she had to admit that the party he was suggesting sounded like fun.

“I'm not sure I can get the time off from work. Let me talk to Bixby, and I'll let you know.” She wasn't sure what she wanted to do about it, but she was stalling for time. And that afternoon she asked Bixby about it when she was sitting in his office working with him.

“I can spare you for a day, if that's what you want,” he said generously. “Are you sure you want to go?”

“No, I'm not,” she said, looking as confused as she felt. “He's a nice man, but I'm not ready to sleep with him or anyone,” she admitted candidly. “He said he'd get me my own room. It might be fun. I don't know.”

“Hell, Paris, why not?” Bixby said with a grin. “I'd like to go too.”

“Then you go with him,” Paris teased.

“Wouldn't he be surprised?” Bixby laughed. “Was he all right about your having your own room?” He was curious.

“He seemed to be,” she said pensively.

“He sounds pretty smooth.” It was precisely what Bixby didn't like about him. He sounded like a pro to him.

By the end of the afternoon she called Chandler, and taking a deep breath, she said she'd go with him. He said they were going to fly down Friday morning. The party he was inviting her to was that night. And fortunately, by sheer luck, Bixby didn't have any major events scheduled for that weekend. Just a small dinner party Sydney Harrington was catering for them, and she would handle that on her own. The following weekend they were doing a huge wedding, and Paris couldn't have gone to L.A.

Paris called Meg that night and told her she was coming down. She said she didn't know what their plans were for the rest of the weekend, but she was going to find time to see Meg whenever she could. She was planning to tell Chandler that too.

“Sounds pretty glamorous, Mom,” Meg said, sounding pleased for her. “What's he like?”

“I don't know. Nice, I guess. He's very good-looking, and very well dressed. He talks a good game, as Bixby would say. And he's been very nice to me.” But she didn't sound enthused. He wasn't Peter, and it was strange being with a new man, stranger still traveling with him to another city. She still wasn't sure she should. But he seemed to understand the ground rules, and accepted them. She was relieved that he had agreed to separate rooms. Otherwise she wouldn't have gone. And she was planning to pay for her own. She didn't want to be indebted to him. Going to the party with him and to L.A. on his plane was more than enough.

“Are you falling for him, Mom?” Meg asked, sounding concerned.

“No, I'm not. I'm not really dating him,” she said, kidding herself. “We're just going out as friends.”

“Does he think that's all it is?”

“I don't know what he thinks. But he's certainly clear that I'm not going to sleep with him. I think he's a gentleman, and if he's not, I'll come stay with you.” Meg laughed at her mother's illusions about dating.

“You'd better take some Mace with you, in case he breaks into your room.”

“I don't think he's the type. At least I hope not. If he does, I'll call the police.”

“That would be nice,” Meg laughed again, and then told her mother she was seeing someone new. He was the first man she'd gone out with since Peace.

“Does this one have a normal name?” her mother teased, and Meg said he did. His name was Anthony Waterston, and he was another young actor she'd met on the set. She said he was very talented, but she didn't know much about him yet.

“It's a lot of work, all this stuff, isn't it?” It reminded Paris of weeding her garden in Greenwich. Sometimes you had to look hard to decide which were the flowers and which were the weeds. And even then sometimes you weren't sure. “I'll see you sometime this weekend,” Paris promised, and then she called Wim to let him know she'd be away. He was out, but she left him a message on his machine.

And that night, when she went to bed, she thought long and hard about what she'd wear. She didn't think she had anything glamorous enough for a Hollywood black tie event, and then she settled on a white silk dress Peter had loved. It had been a little racy for Greenwich, but it was the best she could do, and she didn't have time to shop. She was too busy at work. She didn't have another minute to breathe all week. Or to think about Chandler Freeman.

Chapter 18

Chandler picked Paris up in the Ferrari at eight o'clock on Friday morning, and she was ready and waiting for him. Her bag was packed, and she was carrying her dress in a garment bag. She was wearing a black pantsuit and a fur jacket, and he was wearing a dark suit. They made a handsome pair as they drove off. And an hour later, after parking his car, they were boarding his plane.

It was comfortable and sleek, and she was surprised to see that there was a hostess on board when he took his place in the pilot's seat.

She had a cup of tea and read the paper as they flew south, and by the time she was finished, they were ready to land. It had been a short flight, and she was impressed by how expertly Chandler flew the plane. He obviously took it seriously, and he paid no attention to her until they were on the ground. There was a limousine waiting for them. Meg was right. It was turning out to be a very glamorous weekend. More so than she'd thought.

They chatted in the limo on the way to the hotel, and everyone seemed to know him at the Bel-Air. They bowed and scraped, and an assistant manager escorted them to their rooms, and when she saw them, Paris was impressed. He had an apartment of sorts that he said he always had, and he had reserved a huge suite for her, which he had already paid for, in spite of her objections. He said he wanted to do that for her. In fact, he insisted on it.

“Chandler, this is wonderful,” she said, looking embarrassed. It was hard to believe he was spoiling her this much. She hadn't expected anything even remotely like it.

They had lunch in the dining room, and admired the swans as they waddled by and swam in the pond. And afterward Chandler asked her if she'd like to shop on Rodeo Drive. He still had the limousine standing by, and she confessed shyly that she would.

“You don't have to come with me. I just want to browse a little bit. I never have time when I come to see Meg,” she told him. But they had several hours before they needed to get ready. They didn't have to be at the Grammy party till seven. And it never took Paris long to dress. All she did was bathe, and wind her hair into a sleek knot. And she wore so little makeup, it didn't take long to put on. She was seldom late. She was always perfectly dressed, and impeccably organized. Chandler had already noticed that about her.

He seemed to be enjoying her company considerably, and Paris was finding him easy to be with. He had a nice sense of humor, and an uncomplicated nature. And he seemed to be well versed at shopping with women. He knew all the right shops, and waited patiently while she looked. He didn't even mind when she tried a few things on. And on their way back to the hotel, he astounded her by producing a small shopping bag from Chanel, and handing it to her. He had bought it while she tried on some sweaters and a blouse that were on sale. In the end, the only thing she'd bought on the entire shopping spree was a pair of very simple black shoes that she thought might be good for work. And as she held the bag he had handed her, she looked up at him with hesitation.

“Chandler, you didn't have to do that.” Whatever it was, she knew that it was expensive if it was from Chanel.

“I know I didn't. I enjoy spoiling you a little. You deserve it, Paris. I want this weekend to be fun for you, and now you'll remember it whenever you see this gift.” She opened the gift box cautiously as they rode back to the hotel, and she was stunned when she saw that it was a beautiful black lizard bag. And much to her amazement, it was one she had admired and walked by. She wouldn't have dared to buy it for herself, and he had noticed that, so he had bought it for her. “Chandler, my God!” she exclaimed with wide eyes when she saw it. “It's so beautiful.” And it was also incredibly expensive.

“Do you like it?”

“I love it, but you shouldn't have.” She turned and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. No one had ever done anything like that for her. She scarcely knew him, and the gesture was as generous as it was spontaneous. It was a lovely gift. But Chandler was accustomed to buying the women in his life extravagant gifts, even when they hadn't slept with him yet. And he seemed to want nothing in return. She knew the bag was going to become a prize possession, and would always remind her of him, which was precisely his intent. It was a good investment for him, and had made a major impression on her.

He had ordered a massage for her when they got back to the hotel. And he disappeared to his own rooms, to have one himself. She didn't see him again until shortly before seven. Until then, she relaxed with the massage, luxuriated in her bath, and admired the handbag he had given her again and again. She called Meg and told her about it, and her daughter sounded concerned.

“Watch out for him, Mom. If he bought you a present like that, he's going to jump your bones.” Her mother laughed at the expression.

“I was afraid of that myself. But I don't think he will. He's being very proper and restrained.”

“Wait till tonight,” Meg said darkly, and then hurried back to work. She worried about her mother with this man. Paris had no idea what she was doing. And the guy was a big spender obviously, and something about him was beginning to suggest to Meg that he was too smooth. Unless he was madly in love with her mother and had never done this before, he sounded like a playboy of some kind to her. But as long as her mother could handle it, if she could, maybe it would be okay. Meg was no longer so sure.

Chandler appeared at Paris's door at five minutes to seven in an impeccably cut tuxedo that had been made for him in London, and he looked better than any movie star, and Paris looked terrific too. The white evening gown clung to her just enough, but not too much, and her figure looked spectacular. She had worn a little more makeup than usual, and she had rhinestone sticks in her chignon, and diamonds at her ears. As they left the hotel, she wore a white mink jacket over her dress. And as she walked, Chandler could just barely see high-heeled silver sandals with rhinestone buckles. She looked exquisite, and he was obviously proud to have her on his arm as they walked into the Beverly Hills Hotel.

The entire hotel had been taken over by his record business friend Walter Frye, who, Paris discovered as they walked in, was easily the most important man in the music business. As they entered, it seemed as if two hundred photographers took their picture.

“You look beautiful, Paris,” Chandler whispered to her, as he patted her hand tucked into his arm, and they glided by the photographers. Allison Jones was just ahead of them, and she was nominated for four Grammys, the previous year's major winner, Wanda Bird, was bringing up the rear. They were both Walter's discoveries, and incredible singers. Allison was twenty-two years old, and was wearing a cream lace dress that barely covered her figure, and left little to the imagination.

It was a dazzling evening. There were eight hundred people in the room, among them every major name in the music business, singers, producers, power brokers of all kinds, and the photographers who were wending their way among them were going crazy. And in the midst of it all was Walter Frye, who was delighted to see Chandler, and smiled warmly when he saw Paris.

An hour later they all moved slowly into the dining room, and Paris was no longer surprised to see that they were at Walter's table, and she was seated between Chandler and Stevie Wonder.

“This is quite an evening,” she said to Chandler in a whisper.

“It's fun, isn't it?” he said, looking extremely comfortable.

“Yes, it is,” Paris agreed, which was a vast understatement.

And as soon as the dessert had been served, the lights dimmed, and a star-studded group of performers took turns singing for the audience, including most of those nominated for Grammys. All told, they sang for nearly three hours while people shouted and rocked and sang along with them, and by the time it ended, Paris wished it would go on forever. She only wished her children could have seen it. She couldn't even begin to describe it to them. It ended long after midnight, and it was after one by the time they got back to the Bel-Air.

“Would you like a drink at the bar?” Chandler asked her.

“I'd love it,” Paris agreed. She hated to end the evening. “What an incredible performance,” she said, sipping a glass of champagne, while he drank brandy. “I'll never forget it.”

“I thought you might enjoy it.” He looked pleased, and he had enjoyed sharing it with her.

“Enjoy it? I loved it.” They talked about it for another hour until the bar closed, and then he walked her back to her room, kissed her on the cheek, and said he'd see her in the morning. She had mentioned Meg to him earlier, and he had suggested to Paris that she invite her to have lunch with them. He was incredibly generous and hospitable, and acted as though he was dying to meet her. Paris had never known anyone like him. The whole experience was unforgettable, and as she walked into her room, she saw the black lizard bag again, sitting on the table. She put it on with her white gown, and looked in the mirror. She couldn't imagine anyone doing all this for her. She had no idea how to thank him.

And when she called Meg the next morning, Paris was laughing.

“What's so funny?” Meg asked, rolling over in bed with a yawn. “God, Mom, it's only nine-thirty.”

“I know. But I want you to have lunch with us. You have to meet him.”

“Did he propose?” Meg sounded panicked.

“No. And he didn't jump my bones either.” She'd been waiting all night and since early morning to tell her.

“Did you have fun last night?”

“It was incredible.” And then she told Meg all about it.

“I have to meet him.”

“He said to meet us at Spago at twelve-thirty.”

“I can't wait. Can I bring Anthony?”

“Does he look decent?”

“No,” Meg said honestly, “but he has very good manners. And he doesn't talk about high colonics.”

“I suppose that's something,” Paris said gratefully, and when she met Chandler for breakfast, she warned him that Meg was bringing her current escort.

“That's fine. I'd love to meet him,” he said enthusiastically, and she warned him that she couldn't be responsible for how he looked. And then she described Peace to him, and he roared with laughter.

“My son used to go out with girls like that. And then he met ‘the one.’ She looks like the girl next door, and he married her six months later. And now they have three babies, or almost. There's hope for us all yet,” he said good-naturedly. “I just haven't been as lucky as he was. Till now.” He smiled meaningfully at Paris, and she ignored it. She wasn't ready to make any commitments, and still didn't think she ever would be. And she said as much to Chandler over breakfast. She didn't want to mislead him. “I know that,” he said gently. “You need time, honey. You can't go through all that you did less than a year ago and expect not to have scars. It took me years to get over what my ex-wife did to me.” And Paris wasn't sure he had yet. He spoke with thinly concealed venom whenever he mentioned his ex-wife.

“I don't know that I'm ever going to be ready to get involved again,” she said honestly. “I still feel like I'm married to him.”

“I felt that way too, for a long time. Be patient with yourself, Paris. I am. I'm not going anywhere.” She couldn't believe she'd had the good fortune to meet him. He was everything any woman could want, and all he seemed to want was to be with her, whatever the ground rules.

They sat in the garden at the Bel-Air for a little while afterward, and they arrived promptly at Spago at twelve-thirty. Meg and Anthony arrived twenty minutes later, and although Meg looked lovely, Anthony didn't. He was wearing wrinkled black cotton pants and a wrinkled T-shirt, and although Paris tried not to notice, he looked like his hair was dirty. It hung in locks over his eyes and was greasy. But he was a very handsome boy. And he was extremely polite to Chandler and Paris. He had a tattoo of a snake running down one arm, and he was wearing rather large earrings. But Chandler looked completely unaffected by his appearance, and had a very intelligent conversation with him, which was more than Paris could do. Although she had found Peace eccentric and a little zany, she took an instant dislike to Anthony. She thought he was a phony. He name-dropped constantly, and she thought he was condescending to her daughter, as though he were doing her an enormous favor just being with her. And it irritated Paris throughout lunch, so much so that she was still steaming after he and Meg left the table. He had an audition that afternoon, and had promised to drop Meg back in Malibu, and Paris promised to call her later.

“I gather you don't like him,” Chandler said to her once they were alone at the table.

“Was it that obvious?” Paris looked embarrassed. She couldn't stand him.

“Not to the untrained eye. But you forget, I'm a parent. I've been through it. You just have to grit your teeth sometimes and pretend not to notice. They usually disappear pretty quickly. I think he's fairly ambitious. Sooner or later, he'll get himself latched on to someone who can help his career.” And Meg was only a production assistant. Paris just hoped he didn't hurt her feelings. She didn't want Meg to get her heart broken by some young actor, and Anthony looked like just the guy to do it.

“I thought he was arrogant and pompous, and so narcissistic it's a wonder he can hold a conversation.”

“Isn't that a prerequisite for an actor?” Chandler teased. “He's a bright boy. He'll probably go far. Is she madly in love with him?” She didn't look it to him.

“I hope not. The last one was weird. This one is awful.”

“I'm sure you'll see lots more before it's all over. I did. I couldn't keep track of my son's dates for a while. But every time I started to panic about one of them, she vanished.”

“My kids have been that way too. Or Meg has. Wim is usually a little more constant. Or at least he was before he went to college. I hate worrying about them, but I don't want them to end up with the wrong people.”

“They won't. They just need to play first, and experiment a little. My guess is this boy will be gone before you know it.”

“I hope so,” Paris said as they left the table, and then thanked him for taking them all to lunch. She felt as though they had imposed on him somewhat, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he acted as though he liked it, and he said he had been delighted to meet her daughter. Chandler had all the right instincts, and endless thoughtful gestures in his repertoire.

They spent the afternoon looking at art galleries, and went to the L.A. County Museum before going back to the hotel. That night he took her to L'Orangerie for dinner, and ordered caviar for her. There was nothing he didn't do to spoil her. And by the time they got back to the hotel, Paris was happy and relaxed, and had had another wonderful evening. And this time, when he left her at her door, he kissed her long and hard on the mouth, and she didn't resist him. But he made no attempt to go further. And he looked at her with tenderness and regret when he left her.

And as she looked at herself in the mirror as she brushed her hair, she wondered what she was doing. She could feel herself drifting slowly away from Peter. Chandler was the first man she had kissed in twenty-six years other than Peter. And what was worse, she had liked it. She was almost sorry she hadn't stayed in the same room with him. And realizing that kept her nearly sleepless until morning. Although nothing dire had happened yet, she could feel her budding relationship with Chandler slipping slowly out of her control.

Chapter 19

Chandler flew her back to San Francisco at noon on Sunday, after a hearty breakfast at the Bel-Air. And she was home by two-thirty after a magical weekend.

“Now I really do feel like Cinderella,” she said as he carried her bag in. “I'm going to turn into a pumpkin any minute.”

“No, you won't. And if you do, I'll just spirit you away again,” he said, smiling at her. “I'll call you later,” he said, as he kissed her in the doorway, and she hoped no one was looking. She felt more than a little racy, having a man bring her home with a suitcase. But she didn't know who she was hiding from. She didn't know anyone in the neighborhood, and no one cared what she was doing.

And just as he had promised, he called her that evening.

“I miss you,” he said softly, and Paris instantly had butterflies in her stomach. She hated to admit it, but she missed him too, more than she wanted.

“So do I,” she answered.

“When am I going to see you again?” he asked hungrily. “What about tomorrow?”

“I'm working late with Bix,” she said regretfully, and it was true this time. “What about Tuesday?”

“That's perfect. Would you like to see my apartment? I could cook you dinner.”

“You don't have to do that. Or I can help you.”

“I'd love it,” he said, sounding happy, and promised to call her in the morning.

And the next day, at work, Bix was waiting for her like a stern father, and wanted a report.

“So how was it?”

“Terrific. Better than I expected. And he was a perfect gentleman.”

“That's what I was afraid of,” Bix said grimly.

“Why? Did you want him to rape me?” She was in frighteningly good spirits.

“No. But real men aren't perfect gentlemen. They get grumpy and tired. They don't take women shopping. Which reminds me, did he?”

“Yes,” she said, laughing at him, “and he bought me a Chanel handbag.”

“Worse yet. When was the last time a man took you shopping and bought you a Chanel handbag? Did Peter?”

“No. He loathed shopping. He preferred root canal to shopping with me.”

“Precisely. This guy is too smooth, Paris. He scares me. And real guys rip off your clothes. They're klutzes. They don't know all the right moves unless they've done that routine a lot, with a lot of women.”

“I don't think he's a virgin.”

“I hope not. But he sounds like a playboy to me.”

“He says he hasn't met the right woman. He's been dating.”

“I don't buy that. There are a lot of good women out there, dying to meet straight guys. If he wanted to, he could have found one by now.”

“Maybe. From what everyone says, it's not that easy.”

“For a guy like him it is. He's got a Ferrari and a plane, and a lot of money. How hard do you think it would be to find the right woman?”

“Good women don't necessarily want all those things. He's cooking me dinner tomorrow.”

“I'm getting nauseous,” Bix said, sitting back in his chair with a worried look.

“What's wrong with cooking me dinner?”

“Did Peter?” he asked bluntly.

“Not if he could help it.” And then she looked serious for a moment. “Peter left me for another woman. How good was he in the end? Not very.” It was the first time she had said that. “Chandler was in the same boat as I am. I think he's been cautious,” she said fairly. It was beginning to annoy her that Bix was so suspicious of him. Chandler didn't deserve that.

“I think he's been busy. I went out with a guy like that once. He spoiled the hell out of me, and I couldn't understand it. Watches, bracelets, cashmere jackets, trips. I felt like I'd died and gone to heaven, until I figured out that he was sleeping with three other guys, and was the most promiscuous sonofabitch on the planet. He had no soul, no heart, and when he got bored with me, he wouldn't even take my phone calls. I was heartbroken until I figured it out. There was no there there. He was a player. I'm afraid that might be Chandler. Same guy, this one just likes women. Try not to sleep with him too quickly,” he said, and she nodded. In a short time, she and Bixby had become amazingly close, and she loved him. Bix was smart, sensible, and he cared about her. All he wanted to do was protect her, and she appreciated it, but she thought he was wrong about Chandler.

They worked as late that night as she had expected, and the following day she left the office at six o'clock, and Chandler picked her up at seven-thirty. She didn't recognize him at first when he drove up, he was driving an old Bentley instead of the Ferrari.

“What a lovely car,” she said, admiring it, and he said he almost never used it, but hated to sell it. He had thought she'd like to see it.

But his apartment, when she saw it, was even better. It was a penthouse on Russian Hill with a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view, and a terrace that nearly made her dizzy. And everything in the apartment was either white marble, black granite, or black leather. It was very striking, and very masculine. The kitchen was a state-of-the-art wonder. And he had everything ready. Oysters on the half shell, cold lobster, and he made a delicious capellini pasta with caviar. There was nothing for her to do, as they sat down to eat at a long granite table in his kitchen. He dimmed the lights and lit candles, and played CDs by some of the artists they had seen perform at Walter Frye's party. And he poured an excellent French white Bordeaux for her. The dinner was far more elegant than anything she would have cooked for him, and she thoroughly enjoyed it.

Afterward they sat in his living room in front of the fire, admiring the view. It was chilly outside, and nice being next to him by the fire. And in a little while, they were kissing. She had only known him for three weeks, but in spite of all her reservations, and Bix's warnings, she knew she was falling for him. She could no longer remember why this was supposed to be such a bad idea, or why she had felt such eternal loyalty to Peter. What difference did it make? He was married to Rachel. She owed him nothing, she told herself, as Chandler continued to kiss her, and ran a hand slowly up her leg, but he was cautious, and didn't want to upset her. He stopped and looked at her, and she melted into his arms, and it seemed like hours later, but suddenly she was lying next to him in bed, and she had her clothes off.

“Paris, I don't want to do this unless you want to,” he said gently.

“I want to,” she whispered, as he nestled his head against her, where he found her breasts and caressed them. Their bodies seemed to mesh and blend, and he took her expertly and carefully. He gave her pleasures that even Peter had never thought of. She spent the night with him, and they made love again in the morning. Peter had never done that. She felt an odd disloyalty when she got up, but when she sat across the breakfast table from Chandler, she felt better. He looked happy and at peace, and he was smiling at her. This wasn't a dream, it was real.

“That was incredible,” he said, and then teased her when she blushed. It was better than she had ever expected.

“Yes, it was,” she said, drinking the orange juice he gave her.

He took her home in time to change for work, and promised to call her later. Which he did, and then took her for lunch at their favorite Italian restaurant with the garden. She felt completely under his spell, and this time she didn't say anything to Bix. It was none of his business. The night she had spent with Chandler had changed things. Her loyalty was to him now. They had a relationship.

And she felt awkward with him at lunch, as she struggled to ask him an unfamiliar question, but this was her first venture into new waters. And she wanted to act responsibly. “I… should we…are we supposed to get an AIDS test before we go any further?” She was grateful that he had used protection, but she knew that if they were going to stop using it, at least some of the time, they should probably get tested. That seemed to be what people did, according to Meg at least.

“As long as we use protection, we don't need to,” he said, smiling at her, and she nodded. She didn't want to press the matter further. It was too awkward. And his answer seemed reasonable to her. Besides, it solved the issue of birth control for her.

He picked her up at her house that night after work, and she spent the night in his apartment again, and the next day Meg called her at the office, sounding worried.

“Mom, are you okay? I called you last night and the night before, really late, and you were out. Were you

working?”

“No…I…I was out with Chandler.”

“Did something happen?”

“No, of course not. Everything's fine, sweetheart. We were just out late, talking.”

“Well, be careful. Don't fall for him too quickly.” She sounded like Bix, but Paris thanked her and went back to her office. Poor thing, everyone was so suspicious of him, and he was so good to her. She couldn't remember being this happy. She wanted to call Anne and tell her about it, but she didn't have time until the weekend. They had two weddings on Saturday, and with the time difference, she never called her. And Paris worked so late, she didn't see Chandler all weekend. One wedding went until two-thirty, and the other till after four in the morning, and she didn't want to call and wake him. Weddings were different than dinner parties, a lot more could go wrong. They needed to keep track of each minute detail, and they always stayed to supervise till the bitter end. Chandler said he understood, and she saw him Sunday night for dinner. She wanted him to meet Wim, but when she called him in the dorm, he said he was busy. So she and Chandler ate alone.

They spent a quiet evening at her house watching videos, and this time she cooked him dinner. She made a big bowl of pasta and a salad, far simpler fare than he served, but the wine was good. And after they made love, he went back to his apartment. He said he had an early meeting the next day.

And for the next three weeks, they lived in their own cozy world. Whenever she wasn't working, she was with him. She spent the night at his place more frequently than she did in her own house. But the one thing she no longer was was lonely. She felt as though she were living a fairy-tale existence. She had never known anyone like him. He was attentive to her every need, kind, thoughtful, and funny. And he continued to be very conscientious about using protection. She suggested to him one day that they get AIDS tests, to reassure each other, so they no longer had to, when it was safe for her. But he said it was just as easy to use condoms. And thinking about it later that day somehow set off a bell in her head, and that night she asked him about it again.

“If we get AIDS tests, we don't have to use anything,” she said cautiously. It seemed so much simpler to her.

“It's always a good idea to use protection,” he said wisely, as he came back from the bathroom and snuggled next to her again. He was in extraordinarily good shape, and had a splendid body. And his sexual skills were beyond impressive. But in spite of that she decided to ask him the question that had popped into her mind that afternoon, although she already knew the answer, or assumed she did.

She propped herself up on one elbow in bed and smiled at him. “You don't sleep with anyone else, do you? Now, I mean, since we've been together.”

He looked at her and smiled, and traced her nipples with one finger, which aroused her. “That's a pretty big question.”

“I assume it has a simple answer,” she said softly.

“I'm assuming that this is an exclusive arrangement.” She had heard Meg use the term.

“Exclusive is a big word,” he said, as he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling without expression.

“What does that mean?” She could feel a knot form in her stomach.

“I haven't slept with anyone else since I've been with you,” he said, as he looked at her, and she watched him. “But it could happen. It's awfully early in the day for us to make a commitment to each other.”

“I don't expect a commitment,” she said quietly. “But I do expect to be exclusive, or monogamous, or whatever you want to call it.”

“As long as we use condoms, that's not a problem. I'm not going to put you at risk, Paris, I wouldn't do that.”

“But you're not going to be monogamous either?”

“I can't promise you that. I don't want to lie to you. We're adults. Anything can happen.”

“Are you reserving the right to see other women?” Paris looked stunned. It hadn't even occurred to her that he might, or that he would want to.

“You don't leave me time for that,” he said lightly. But he traveled. And there were plenty of nights when she had to work. She had never expected his answer, and she looked deeply upset as she sat up in bed and looked down at him, lying next to her. It had never dawned on her until then that this was not an exclusive arrangement. “You never said that was an issue for you,” he said, looking somewhat irritated that the subject had come up.

“I didn't think I had to. I just assumed that was what you wanted too. You said this was special and different.”

“It is special. But I'm not going to be put on a leash. We're not married. And we both know how little that means.”

“No, I don't,” she said plaintively. “I don't know anything of the sort. I was faithful to my husband, and he was faithful to me for more than twenty years of our marriage. And that's beside the point.” She looked sad suddenly. Reality had hit her. This wasn't marriage—it was dating. “I don't want to share you.”

“You don't own me,” he said, sounding angry.

“I don't know that I want to. But I do want to know that while you're sleeping with me, however long that is, you won't sleep with other people.”

“It's premature in the relationship to do that, Paris. We're adults, we're free. You might meet someone you want to sleep with.”

“Not if I'm involved with you, and if that happens, you'll be the first to know.” She was sitting ramrod straight now.

“That's noble of you,” he said practically, “but I'm not going to make you the same promise. Things happen, even if you don't plan them.”

“Would you tell me afterward if it did?”

“Not necessarily. I don't owe you that. Not after six weeks. In six months maybe, depending on how things go between us. But that's a long way off. We're not there yet.”

“Is there a rule book on this? Because if there is, I want to see it. Are there timetables about what happens when, like what happens at six weeks, and then what you can expect at three months, or six, or a year? Who makes these rules?”

“It depends on the arrangement between two people,” he said comfortably. He was not going to let her pressure him. It bothered him that she even tried to. Exclusivity was not part of the deal. For him.

“And what arrangement do we have?” Paris asked, looking straight at him.

“None officially for the moment. We're having a good time, aren't we? What more do we need than that?” Paris didn't say a word as she got out of bed and looked over her shoulder at him.

“I need a lot more. I need to know that I'm the only woman in your life, or in your bed at least, for the moment.”

“That's not reasonable,” he said simply.

“I think it is. I think this is a sad way for people to live. Life is about integrity and caring and commitment, not just playing and having sex.”

“Do you have fun with me?” he asked as he rolled over on his side and watched her. She was dressing.

“Yes, I do. But life is about more than just fun too.”

“Then give it a chance to get there. It's too early to be talking about things like this. Paris, don't spoil it.”

“You just did.” But she had to admit, he was honest at least. But not much else.

“If you leave it alone, we might get there eventually, but you can't force it.”

“And while we're ‘getting there,’ you want to sleep with other people?”

“I may never do it. I haven't yet. But yes, I could.”

“I don't want to worry about it, and I would. I would always wonder. Now that I know how you feel about it, I'm not sure I would ever trust you. How could I? Any more than you could trust me. You'd never know what I was doing. Except with me, you would know. That's the difference.”

“I don't expect that of you. Those are the ground rules.”

“What? Every man for himself, and screw whoever you want to? How pathetic. And how sad actually. I want more than that. I want love and integrity between two people.”

“I've never lied to you. And I wouldn't.”

“No,” she said sadly, “you just wouldn't tell me. Would you?” He didn't answer, and she stood and looked at him for a long moment. “If you ever feel differently about this, call me.” She wanted to say, if you ever grow up and decide to stop playing. “This has been wonderful. But it wouldn't be if I knew you were cheating on me. And to me, that's what it would be. I'm a very old-fashioned person.”

“You just want to be married, and control me,” he said cynically. “And if you're not married, you want to pretend you are. Well, you're not. You might as well enjoy it. And you're not going to control me.” It was the ultimate crime to him, a capital offense.

“I was enjoying it… for a minute… you spoiled it.”

“You're wasting your time,” he said, looking annoyed, as he got up and stood naked before her. “People don't play by those rules anymore. They went out with the Dark Ages.”

“Maybe so,” she said quietly, “but if so, I'm going out with them. Thanks for everything,” she said, and then walked out and closed the door. She stood in the hall for a minute, and then rang for the elevator. Part of her hoped that he would open the door and beg her to come back. And the rest of her knew that would never happen. She had learned a painful lesson. And whatever the ground rules were in Chandler Freeman's version of modern dating, Paris knew they weren't for her, and neither was he. Bixby had been right.

Chapter 20

It was the third week in March when she stopped seeing Chandler, and a full two weeks later before Bix questioned her about it. He had the feeling somehow that he was no longer calling. She had been quiet for a few days, and then seemed to be keeping unusually busy. He finally asked her about it on an evening they were working late, planning a wedding.

“Have I missed something? Or is Chandler no longer calling?”

She hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. “That would be correct. He isn't.”

“Did you two have a falling out? Or did you get tired of caviar and Ferraris?” He had a way with words, and she smiled at him. She had been upset for the first week, and she was beginning to feel better. But as well as hurt, she felt extremely foolish. She should have known better, but she hadn't. And he had never called her. He had vanished in a puff of smoke. She had learned something, but she hadn't enjoyed it. And she hated to admit it, but she missed him. He had been wonderful to her, and if nothing else, the sex had been terrific. For the first time in a year, she had felt like a woman, instead of a reject. In that sense, he had been good for her, but he had chipped away at a piece of her. Worse yet, she had given it to him.

“It didn't work out. I made a mistake.” She hesitated for a moment, and then she told Bix about it.

“The little shit. How sleazy.”

“Was it?” she asked Bix honestly. He was eight years younger than she, but he was far more experienced, and she trusted his judgment. She felt like she was in a time warp and had come from another world. And in some ways, she had.

“Yes, it was sleazy,” Bix confirmed to her. “And not very nice. That's a lot of bullshit. But there are plenty of people out there who behave like him. Men and women. It's not exclusive to either sex. They're just not very nice people. And they don't play by very nice rules. You shouldn't have to ask if a relationship is exclusive. Decent people don't want to sleep with several people at the same time. I didn't. Steven didn't. But some of the people I dated were just like Chandler. They're still out there getting laid. So what? The sad thing is they're not getting loved, and most of them aren't capable of loving anyone, not even themselves.”

“I always feel like everyone else has the instruction manual, and I don't. It made sense to him, and he was very convincing. The only problem was I wasn't convinced. I would hate myself if I lived like that. The one thing it taught me is that I don't ever want to sleep with someone again who doesn't love me. I thought he did. Or I thought he was falling in love with me, and I was falling in love with him. I don't think it was love. I think it was lust. And look what I got.”

“You got a hell of a nice handbag out of it,” he reminded her, and she laughed.

“Yeah, I did. That's a hell of a trade. My integrity for a purse.”

“You didn't sacrifice your integrity. You didn't know what was going on.”

“I thought I did. I assumed, that was the mistake.”

“Well, you won't do it again. And it broke the ice. You lost your virginity. Now you can go out there and find a nice guy.” Bix smiled at her. He admired her honesty, and was sorry Chandler had been such a horse's ass, but he wasn't surprised.

“How many frogs am I going to have to kiss first?” she asked, looking worried. She seriously questioned her own judgment.

“A few. We all did. If you get warts on your lips, you can always get them taken off.”

“I'm not sure I have the courage to do a lot of this. It really hurts,” she said honestly.

“Yes, it does, and it's depressing as hell. Dating is the shits.”

“Thank you, Peter,” she said, sounding bitter for the first time. “I can't believe he condemned me to this.” Bix nodded. That was the way it worked. One person walked off with someone else, and the other guy got tossed into the pit, and had to survive the snakes. It wasn't much fun. “I should hate him for doing this to me, but I'm not sure I do yet, or ever will. I just hope I don't miss him for the rest of my life. I still do every goddamned day,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “And I can't believe that at my age, I have to go out there like some dumb kid and date. How disgusting is that? And pathetic.”

“It's not pathetic. It's just the way it is. And even if a relationship works, sooner or later, somebody dies, and the other one is left alone, and has to start again. It's rotten, but that's life.”

“Like Steven,” she said solemnly, thinking of Bix's partner whose lover had died nine years before. “But he got lucky.” She smiled at her friend. She felt as though they had been friends for years, instead of months. “He found you.”

“Nothing's perfect,” he said cryptically, and she looked at him, wondering if they had had a fight too.

“Is something wrong?” She wanted to be there for him too, as he was for her. He had been a good friend since they'd met.

“Could be, someday. Not yet.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means no one comes out unscathed. Steven's partner died of AIDS. And he's HIV positive. It may not hit him for years, or ever turn into full-blown AIDS. But it could at some point. I knew it going in. I figured however long we had would be worth it in the end. And it has been. I don't regret a minute I've spent with him. I just want him to live forever.” There were tears in his eyes, and hers, when she came to give him a hug. They held each other for a long moment, and he smiled at her through tears. “I love him so damn much, he is such a wonderful man.”

“So are you,” she said with a lump in her throat. Life was definitely not fair.

“You know, if I were ever attracted to women, which I'm not, thank God, men are complicated enough thanks a lot… you would be my first choice.”

“Should I consider that a proposal?” she teased, as she smiled through her tears.

“Absolutely… but not exclusively … sorry, I'd still have to sleep with boys … and I wouldn't tell you about it… but you could definitely assume we're not exclusive. Would that do?”

“Where do I sign up?”

They both laughed, and Bix shook his head. He liked talking to her. She felt almost like a sister to him. “I told you Chandler was no good.”

“I knew you'd say that eventually. But he talked such a good game. He told me he hadn't felt this way in fourteen years. What was that all about?”

“Snowing you. Guys like that say anything that works. When you meet the real thing, you'll know it. He wasn't.”

“Apparently.”

They wrapped up for the night, and felt closer to each other for the admissions they'd made, she about her mistake in getting involved with Chandler, and he about Steven having HIV. It had lightened some of the burden for him, as well as for her. And when Paris got home, she called Meg. And much to her mother's chagrin, Meg was in tears.

“What happened? Did you and Anthony have a fight?”

“I guess you could call it that. I found out that he's seeing some other girl. She's not even a girl. She's a woman. She's some big producer, and he's been sleeping with her for weeks.” His ambition had gotten him in the end. Another one with no integrity. But in his case, Paris wasn't surprised, nor was Meg. She had known who and what he was. She just hoped he would hang around for a while. He had lasted about as long as Chandler—six weeks.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart. Chandler is out of the picture too.” And then she had an idea. “Do you want to come home this weekend?” Her furniture had arrived the month before, and it felt like home to her now. The house was looking great.

“What happened with Chandler?” Meg asked as she blew her nose.

“Same idea. I didn't ask if we were exclusive. I didn't know I was supposed to.”

“That happened to me in college,” Meg said wisely. “You always have to ask.”

“How come no one ever told me?”

“You didn't need to know. Now you do. Next time, ask. And if they say no, hit the door. In fact, make it a deal breaker going in.”

“Will you negotiate my next contract for me?” Paris teased her.

“Sure.” And then Meg sighed. “Doesn't this just suck? I wonder if I'm ever going to meet anyone decent. Probably not down here.” She sounded discouraged, even at twenty-four. That wasn't good news to Paris. She was turning forty-seven in May.

“They don't seem to be much better here.”

“Or anywhere else. My friends in New York meet the same guys. They're all players or liars, or commitment phobics. And when you meet a really nice guy, he tells you he's gay. I give up.”

“Not at your age. The right one will come along, for you, if not for me. I'm not sure I care. I'm too old.”

“Don't be stupid, Mom. You're still young. And you look great. Maybe I will come home this weekend. I'm depressed.”

“Me too. We can sit in bed and eat ice cream together, and watch TV.”

“I can't wait.”

Paris picked her up at the airport on Friday night, and she didn't have to work all weekend. They did exactly what they said they were going to do. They sat in bed and hugged each other, and watched old movies on TV. Neither of them got dressed or combed their hair, or put on makeup, and they loved it, and Wim came over for lunch on Sunday, and looked startled when he saw them both. Fortunately, he had come alone.

“Are you two sick?” he asked, surprised. “You look like shit,” he told his sister.

“I know,” she said, grinning at him. She had had a great weekend hanging out with their mother.

“We had a mental health weekend,” Paris explained.

“What's that?”

“We watched old movies and cried and stayed in bed, and bashed boys. My boyfriend cheated on me.” Meg gave him the details.

“That's a bummer,” he said sympathetically.

“What about you?” Meg asked, as Paris handed each of them a cup of soup, and sat down on the couch. She loved being with them. “Are you going out with any cute girls?”

“Dozens of them,” he said proudly. “We had a contest in the dorm, to see how many of them we could each get. I had twelve in two weeks,” he said, looking innocent, and his sister looked like she was going to throw something at him.