Match Me If You Can

Chapter Nineteen

Annabelle had trouble finding a parking spot for Sherman, but she was only two minutes late for the meeting Heath had scheduled, which hardly justified the censorious look from his Evil Receptionist. ESPN played on the television screen in the lobby, phones rang in the background, and one of Heath's interns struggled to change a printer cartridge in the equipment closet. The office door on her left had been closed the first time she was here, but now it stood open, and she saw Bodie with his feet propped on a desk and a telephone pressed to his ear. He waved as she passed. She opened the door to Heath's office and heard a throaty female voice.

"… and I'm very optimistic about her. She's incredibly beautiful." Portia Powers sat in one of two chairs positioned in front of Heath's desk. His voice mail message hadn't mentioned this would be a threesome.

Just looking at the Dragon Lady made Annabelle feel dowdy. Summer fashion was supposed to be all about color, but maybe Annabelle had gotten a little carried away with her melon-colored blouse, lemon yellow skirt, and the drop earrings set with tiny lime green stones she'd found at TJ Maxx. At least her hair looked decent. Now that it was longer, she'd been able to use a big barrel curling iron, then finger-comb the results into a casual tousle.

Portia was all cool elegance in pewter silk. Against her dusky hair, the effect was dazzling. Small, petal pink earrings provided a subtle touch of color against her porcelain skin, and a Kate Spade handbag in the same pink shade sat on the floor at her side. She hadn't made the mistake of going into pink overkill with her shoes, which were stylish black mules.

Or one of them was.

Annabelle stared at her competitor's feet. At first glance, the shoes looked the same. They both had open toes and low heels, but one was a black mule and the other a navy sling-back. What was that about?

Annabelle drew her eyes away and slipped her sunglasses in her purse. "Sorry I'm late. Sherman didn't like any of the parking spots I showed him."

"Sherman is Annabelle's car," Heath explained as he rose from behind the desk and gestured to the chair next to Portia's. "Have a seat. I don't believe you and Portia have met in person."

"As a matter of fact we have," Portia replied smoothly.

Through the long wall of windows behind his desk, Annabelle spotted a sailboat skimming over Lake Michigan in the distance. She wished she were on it.

"We've been at this since spring," Heath said, "and now football season is starting. I think both of you know that I'd hoped to be further along."

"I understand." Portia's smooth confidence belied her mismatched shoes. "We all hoped this would be easier. But you're an extremely discriminating man, and you deserve an extraordinary woman."

Suck up, Annabelle thought. Still, when it came to Heath, Annabelle didn't exactly deserve high marks for professionalism, and she could do a lot worse than follow Portia's example.

Portia shifted slightly in her chair, which cast her face into a harsher light. She wasn't as young as Annabelle had thought when they'd met, and her expertly applied makeup couldn't camouflage the dark circles under her eyes. Too much nightlife or something more serious?

Heath set his hip on the corner of the desk. "Portia, you found Keri Winters for me, and even though that didn't work out, you were on the right path. But you've sent too many candidates who aren't in the ballpark."

Portia didn't make the mistake of getting defensive. "You're right. I should have eliminated more of them, but every woman I've chosen has been so special, and I hate second-guessing my most discriminating clients. I'll be more careful from now on."

The Dragon Lady was good. Annabelle had to give her that.

Heath turned his attention to Annabelle. No one could have imagined that he'd fallen asleep in her attic bedroom two nights ago, or that once, in a pretty cottage by the side of a Michigan lake, they'd made love. "Annabelle, you've done a better job screening, and you've introduced me to a lot of also-rans, but you haven't produced a single winner."

She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could say a word, he cut her off. "Gwen doesn't count."

Unlike Portia, Annabelle thrived on being defensive. "Gwen was almost perfect."

"As long as we overlook her husband and that inconvenient pregnancy."

Portia sat straighter in her chair. Annabelle crossed her hands primly in her lap. "You have to admit she was exactly what you're looking for."

"Yeah, bigamy's my life's dream, all right."

"You cornered me," she replied. "And, let's be honest. Once she got to know you, she'd have dumped you. You're way too high maintenance."

Portia's eyes had widened like butterfly wings. She studied Annabelle more closely. Then she got a little twitchy. She uncrossed the legs she'd crossed, crossed them again. Her top foot-the one in the navy sling-back-began tapping away.

"I'm sure Annabelle has learned by now to be more careful with her background checks."

Annabelle pretended surprise. "I was supposed to check Heath's background?"

"Not Heath's background," Portia retorted. "The women!"

Heath fought a smile. "Annabelle is baiting you. I've learned it's best to ignore her."

Now Portia looked genuinely rattled. Annabelle almost felt sorry for her as she watched the navy sling-back move faster and faster.

Heath, in the meantime, made a sprint for the goal line. "Here's the way it's going to be, ladies. I made a mistake by not signing contracts with a shorter term, but it's a mistake I'm correcting right now. You each have one shot left. That's it."

The sling-back froze. "When you say one shot…"

"One introduction each," Heath said firmly.

Portia twisted in her chair, knocking the Kate Spade handbag over with her heel. "That's not realistic."

"Work with it."

"Are you sure you really want to get married?" Annabelle said. "Because, if you do, maybe you should think about the possibility-more than a possibility, in my judgment, but I'm trying to be diplomatic… Have you thought about the possibility that you're the one who's sabotaging this process, not us?"

Portia shot her a warning look. "Sabotage is a strong word. I'm sure what Annabelle means to say is that-"

"What Annabelle means to say"-she rose from her chair- "is that we introduced you to some terrific women, but you only gave one of them a chance. The wrong one-again, only my opinion. We're not magicians, Heath. We have to work with flesh-and-blood human beings, not some fantasy woman you've conjured in your mind."

Portia plastered a phony smile on her face and rushed to save the sinking ship. "I hear what you're saying, Heath. You're not satisfied with the service you've been getting from Power

Matches. You want us to vet the candidates more carefully, and that's certainly a reasonable request. I can't speak for Miss Granger, but I promise that I'll proceed more conservatively from now on."

"Very conservatively," he said. "You have one introduction. The same goes for you, Annabelle. After that, I'm calling it quits."

Portia's plastic smile melted at the edges. "But your contract runs into October. It's only mid-August."

"Save your breath," Annabelle said. "Heath wants an excuse to fire us. He doesn't believe in failure, and if he fires us, he can transfer the blame."

"Fire us?" Portia looked sick.

"It'll be a new experience for you," Annabelle said glumly. "Fortunately for me, I've had practice."

Portia pulled herself back together. "I know this has been frustrating, but it's frustrating for everyone who goes through the process. You deserve results, and you'll get them, but only with a little patience."

"I've been patient for months," he said. "That's long enough."

Annabelle looked into his proud stubborn face and couldn't keep silent. "Are you going to take ownership for any part of the problem?"

He met her gaze dead-on. "Absolutely. That's what I'm doing right now. I told you I was looking for someone extraordinary, and if I'd thought it would be easy to find her, I'd have done it myself." He rose from the corner of the desk. "Take as long as you need to come up with your last introduction. And believe me, nobody hopes that one of you gets it right more than I do."

He made his way to the door, then stood back to let them out, his head outlined against the sign for the Beau Vista Trailer Park hanging on the wall behind him.

Annabelle retrieved her purse and gave him her most dignified nod, but she was fuming as she left his office, definitely in no mood to share an elevator with Portia, so she moved quickly through the lobby to the elevator bank.

As it turned out, she had no need to rush.

Portia slowed her steps as she watched Annabelle disappear. Bodie's office lay just ahead on her right. When she'd walked past it earlier, she'd forced herself not to look in, but she'd known he was there. She could feel him through her skin. Even during that horrible meeting with Heath when she'd most needed to keep her wits, she'd felt him.

All last night she'd lain awake reliving the horrible things he'd said to her. Maybe she could have forgiven the lies he'd told her about his upbringing, but she could never forgive the rest. Who did he think he was to psychoanalyze her? The only thing wrong with her was him. Maybe she'd been a little depressed before she met him, but it hadn't been significant. Last night he'd made her feel like a failure, and she wouldn't let anyone do that to her.

Her hands were trembling as she stopped inside his office door. He was on the phone, his massive frame tilted back in his chair. As he spotted her, his face broke into a smile, and he dropped his feet to the floor.

"Let me call you back, Jimmie… Yeah, sounds good. We'll get together." He set the phone aside and rose. "Hey, babe… Are you still talking to me?"

His silly, hopeful grin made her falter. Instead of looking dangerous, he looked like a kid who'd spotted a new bike sitting on his front porch. She turned away to compose herself and came face-to-face with a wall of memorabilia. She took in a pair of framed magazine covers, some team pictures from his playing days, newspaper clippings. But it was a black-and-white photo that caught her attention. The photographer had captured Bodie with his helmet tilted back on his head, chin strap dangling, a scrap of turf caught in the corner of his face mask. His eyes shone with triumph, and his radiant grin owned the world. She bit her lip and made herself turn back to confront him. "I'm breaking it off, Bodie."

He came around the side of the desk, his smile fading. "Don't do this, sweetheart."

"You couldn't have been more wrong about me." She forced herself to say the words that would keep her safe. "I love my life. I have money and a beautiful home, a successful business. I have friends-good, dear friends." Her voice caught. "I love my life. Every part of it. Except the part that involves you."

"Don't, babe." He reached toward her with one of his gentle, meat hook hands, not touching her, a gesture of entreaty. "You're a fighter," he said softly. "Have the guts to fight for us."

She steeled herself against the pain. "It was a fling, Bodie. An amusement. Now it's over."

Her lips had begun to tremble, just like a child's, and she didn't wait for him to respond. She turned away… left his office… rode numbly down to the street in the elevator. Two pretty young things passed her as she stepped outside. One of them pointed toward her feet, and the other laughed.

Portia brushed past them, blinking back tears, suffocating. A red double-decker tour bus crawled by, the guide quoting Carl Sandburg in a booming, overly dramatic voice that felt like fingernails scraping the chalkboard of her skin.

"Stormy, husky brawling… City of the big shoulders: They tell me you are wicked, and I believe them…"

Portia swiped at her eyes and picked up her step. She had work to do. Work would fix everything.

Sherman's air-conditioning was on the fritz, and Annabelle's appearance had degenerated into a mass of curls and wrinkles by the time she got home from the meeting with Heath, but she didn't go inside right away. Instead, she stayed in the car with the windows rolled down and braced herself for the next step. He was only giving her one more introduction. That meant she couldn't put it off any longer. Even so, it took all her willpower to pull her cell from her purse and make the call. "Delaney, hi. It's Annabelle. Yes, I know. It's been ages…"

"We're poor as church mice," Delaney Lightfield told Heath the night of their first official date, a mere three days after they'd been introduced. "But we still maintain appearances. And thanks to Uncle Eldred's influence, I have a great sales job at the Lyric Opera."

She relayed this information with a charming, self-deprecating laugh that made Heath smile. At twenty-nine, Delaney reminded him of a blond, more athletic Audrey Hepburn. She wore a sleeveless navy cotton sweater dress with a strand of pearls that had belonged to her great-grandmother. She'd grown up in Lake Forest and graduated from Smith. She was an expert skier and a competent tennis player. She golfed, rode horseback, and spoke four languages. Although several decades of outdated business practices had depleted the Lightfield railroad fortune and forced the sale of the family's summer house in Bar Harbor, Maine, she liked the challenge of making it on her own. She loved to cook and confessed that she sometimes wished she'd gone to culinary school. The woman of his dreams had finally appeared.

As the evening progressed, he switched from beer to wine, reminded himself to watch his language, and made it a point to mention the new Fauvist exhibit at the Art Institute. After dinner, he drove her back to the apartment she shared with two roommates and gave her a gentleman's kiss on the cheek. As he drove away, the faint scent of French lavender lingered in the car. He grabbed his cell to phone Annabelle, but he was too revved to go home. He wanted to talk to her in person. Singing along with the radio in his off-key baritone, he headed for Wicker Park.

Annabelle opened the door. She wore a V-necked striped top and a blue mini that did great things for her legs. "I should have issued my ultimatum sooner," he said. "You definitely know how to deliver under pressure."

"I thought you'd like her."

"Did she call you yet?"

Annabelle nodded but didn't say more, and he tensed. Maybe the date hadn't gone as well as he thought. Delaney was a blue blood. What if she'd caught too strong a whiff of the trailer park?

"I talked with her a few minutes ago," Annabelle finally said. "She's smitten. Congratulations."

"Really?" His instincts had been on target. "That's great. Let's celebrate. How about a beer?"

Annabelle didn't move. "It's… not a good time."

She glanced over her shoulder, and that's when it hit him. She wasn't alone. He took in her fresh lip gloss and the blue mini. His good mood fizzled. Who did she have with her?

He gazed over the top of her head, but the front room was empty. Which didn't mean the same thing was true of her bedroom… He fought the urge to charge past her and see for himself. "No problem," he said stiffly. "I'll talk to you next week."

But instead of walking away, he stood there. Finally she nodded and shut the door.

Five minutes ago he'd been on top of the world. Now he wanted to kick something. He headed down the sidewalk and climbed into his car, but it wasn't until he edged out of his parking space that his headlights caught the vehicle across the street. Earlier, he'd been too preoccupied to notice, but he wasn't preoccupied now.

The last time he'd seen that bright red Porsche, it had been parked at Stars headquarters.

Annabelle trudged into the kitchen. Dean was sitting at the table, a Coke in one hand, a deck of cards in the other. "It's your deal," he said.

"I don't feel like playing anymore."

"You're no fun tonight." He tossed down the cards.

"Like you're a barrel of laughs?" Kevin had sprained an ankle in Sunday's game, so Dean had taken over in the second quarter and thrown four interceptions before the final whistle. The press was all over him, which was why he'd decided to hide out at her place for a while.

Water dripped from the sink faucet, its irritating plunk plunk getting on her nerves. She'd known Delaney and Heath would be a match. The enticing combination of Delaney's appearance, her tomboyish athleticism, and her impeccable pedigree had predictably knocked Heath off his feet. And Delaney'd always had a weakness for macho men.

Annabelle had met Delaney twenty-one years ago at summer camp, and they'd become best friends, even though Delaney was two years younger. After their camp days had ended, they'd seen less of each other, mainly meeting in Chicago when Annabelle had visited Nana. During college, they'd drifted apart, only to reconnect a few years ago. Now they met every few months for lunch, no longer best friends, but friendly acquaintances with a shared history. For weeks now, Annabelle had been thinking about how perfect Delaney and Heath were for each other, so why had she waited so long to introduce them?

Because she'd known how perfect they'd be for each other.

She gazed over at Dean, who was tossing popcorn kernels in the air and catching them in his mouth. If only his passing game had been as accurate. She turned off the dripping faucet then slumped down at the table, a kindred soul in depression.

The refrigerator's compressor clicked off, and the kitchen fell quiet except for the ticktock of the daisy wall clock and the soft plop of popcorn finding its target.

"Do you want to make out?" she said glumly.

He coughed up a kernel. "No!"

"You don't have to look so outraged."

His chair banged back down on all four legs. "It'd be like making out with my sister."

"You haven't got a sister."

"No, but I've got an imagination."

"Fine. I didn't want to anyway. I was just making conversation."

"You were just trying to distract yourself because you've fallen in love with the wrong guy."

"You're so full of it."

"I heard Heath's voice at the door."

"Business."

"Whatever gets you through the day." He pushed the popcorn bowl back from the edge of the table. "I'm glad you didn't let him in. It's bad enough having Bodie tail me. He won't give up."

"It's been over two months. I can't believe you still haven't found an agent. Or have you? No, never mind, I'd just tell Heath, and I don't want to be in the middle."

"You're not in the middle. You're on his side." He tilted back in the chair again. "So why didn't you take advantage of this golden opportunity to make him jealous and ask him in?"

Exactly what she'd been wondering herself except, really, what was the point? She was sick of deception, sick of keeping her guard up. She'd only invented her crush to keep from losing Heath as a client, and she no longer had to worry about that.

"I didn't feel like it."

For all his dumb-jock ways, Dean was smart as a whip, and she didn't like the way he was looking at her, so she frowned at him. "Are you wearing makeup?"

"Tinted sunblock on my chin. I've got a zit."

"It sucks being a teenager."

"If you'd invited him in, I'd have nibbled on your neck and everything."

With a sigh, she picked up the deck of cards and began to shuffle. "My deal."

Delaney stayed by Heath's side as he spent halftime traveling between the skyboxes at the Midwest Sports Dome to press the flesh of the city's movers and shakers. While he attended the Stars game, text messages were arriving from all over the country updating him on his other clients' games. He'd been working the phones on and off since early morning, talking to wives, parents, and girlfriends-even Caleb Crenshaw's grandmother-letting everybody know he was on the job. He glanced at his Black-Berry and saw a message from Bodie, who was at Lambeau Field with Sean. So far, their rookie fullback was having a great year.

Heath had been seeing Delaney for a month, although he'd been traveling so much they'd only gone out five times. Still, they talked nearly every day, and he already knew he'd found the woman he'd been searching for. This afternoon Delaney wore a black V-neck sweater, her great-grandmother's pearls, and a trendy pair of jeans perfectly cut to fit her tall, thin figure. To his surprise, she broke away from his side and headed for Jerry Pierce, a ruddy-faced man in his early sixties and the head of one of Chicago's largest brokerage firms.

She greeted Jerry with a hug that spoke of long familiarity. "How's Mandy doing?"

"In her fifth month. We have our fingers crossed."

"She'll make it full term this time, I just know it. You and Carol are going to be the best grandparents."

Heath and Jerry played in the same charity Pro Am every year, but Heath hadn't known Jerry had a daughter, let alone that she suffered problem pregnancies. This was the kind of thing

Delaney kept on top of, right along with knowing where to find the last remaining bottle of a 2002 Shotfire Ridge cuvee and why it was worth the effort to locate it. Even though he was a beer man, he admired her expertise, and he'd been making an effort to appreciate the vino. Football seemed to be one of the few areas where she wasn't knowledgeable, preferring more genteel sports, but she'd been making an effort to learn more.

Jerry shook Heath's hand. "Robillard's finally looking like himself this week," the older man said. "How come you haven't signed that boy yet?"

"Dean believes in taking his time."

"If he signs with anybody else, he's a fool," Delaney said loyally. "Heath is the best."

Jerry turned out to be an opera buff, another thing Heath hadn't known, and the conversation drifted to the Lyric. "Heath's a country music fan." Delaney's voice held a sweetly tolerant note. "I'm determined to convert him."

Heath glanced around the skybox, looking for Annabelle. She usually came to Stars games with Molly or one of the others, and he'd been sure he'd run into her, but no luck so far. As Delaney went on about Don Giovanni, Heath remembered one evening in between introductions when Annabelle had sung every word to Alan Jackson's "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere." But then Annabelle knew all kinds of useless information. Like the fact that only people with a special enzyme in their body got smelly pee when they ate asparagus, which, he had to admit, was interesting.

The door of the skybox opened, and Phoebe came in wearing the team colors, a figure-molding pale aqua knit dress with a gold scarf tossed around her neck. Heath excused himself from Jerry and guided Delaney over to introduce her.

"It's a pleasure," Delaney said with obvious sincerity.

"Annabelle's told me so much about you," Phoebe replied with a smile.

He let the women chat without worrying about Delaney saying the wrong thing. She never did, and everybody but Bodie liked her. Not that Bodie disliked her. He just didn't think Heath should marry her. "I'll admit the two of you look good on paper," he'd said last week, "but you don't ever relax around her. You're not yourself."

Maybe because Heath was becoming someone better. Considering the train wreck that passed for Bodie's current love life, Heath felt safe in ignoring him.

Later, Heath met up with Phoebe in the hallway outside the owner's skybox. Delaney had just headed off for the ladies' room, and Heath was chatting with Ron and Sharon McDer-mitt when the Stars' owner came around the corner. "Heath, can I steal you away for a minute?"

"I swear to God, whatever it is, I didn't do it. Tell her, Ron."

Ron grinned. "You're on your own, buddy." He and Sharon disappeared into the skybox.

Heath regarded Phoebe warily. "I knew I should have gotten a booster on my tetanus shot."

"I might owe you an apology."

"That's it. No more beer for me. You'll never guess what I thought you just said."

"Pay attention." She shifted her purse higher on her shoulder. "All I'm trying to say is that I might have jumped to the wrong conclusion when we were at the lake."

"Which of about a hundred wrong conclusions would that be?" He knew the answer, but she'd lose respect for him if he gave in too easily.

"That you were taking advantage of Annabelle. I hope I'm a big enough person to admit when I'm wrong, but you have to remember that you've programmed me to expect the worst. Anyway, every time I see Annabelle she talks about how thrilled she is to be making this match between you and Delaney. Her business is blossoming. And Delaney's lovely." She reached up and patted his cheek. "Maybe our little boy is finally growing up."

He couldn't believe it. After all these years had he cracked the ice with Phoebe? If so, he owed it all to Delaney.

As Phoebe disappeared into the owner's skybox, he pulled out his cell so he could share the news with Annabelle, but before he punched in her number, Delaney reappeared. He probably couldn't have reached Annabelle anyway. Unlike him, she didn't believe in leaving her phone on.

Annabelle had never been a big opera fan, but Delaney had box seats for Tosca, and the Lyric's lavish production was exactly the distraction she needed to take her mind off her mother's phone call that afternoon. Her family, it seemed, had decided to descend on Chicago next month to help Annabelle celebrate her thirty-second birthday.

"Adam has a conference," Kate had said, "and Doug and Can-dace want to visit some old friends. Dad and I were planning a trip to St. Louis anyway, so we'll drive up from there."

One big, happy family.

Intermission came. "I can't believe how much I'm enjoying this," Annabelle said as she bought Delaney a glass of wine.

Unfortunately, her old friend was more interested in talking about Heath than in discussing the trials and tribulations of Tosca's doomed lovers. "Did I remember to tell you that Heath introduced me to Phoebe Calebow on Saturday? She's lovely. The whole weekend was fabulous."

Annabelle didn't want to hear about it, but Delaney was on a roll.

"I told you that Heath left for the coast yesterday, but I didn't tell you that he sent flowers again. Unfortunately, more roses, but he's basically a jock, so how much imagination can you expect?"

Annabelle loved roses, and she didn't think they were all that unimaginative.

Delaney tugged on her pearls. "Of course, my parents adore him-you know how they are-and my brother thinks he's the best guy I've ever dated."

Annabelle's brothers would have liked Heath, too. For all the wrong reasons, but still…

"We'll have been together five weeks this coming Friday. Annabelle, I think this might be it. He's as close to perfect as I'll ever get." Her smile faded. "Well… Except for that small problem I've been telling you about."

Annabelle slowly released the air she'd been holding in her lungs. "No change?"

Delaney lowered her voice. "I was all over him in the car on Saturday. It was obvious I was getting to him, but he didn't follow up on it. I know I'm being paranoid-and I'd never say this to anybody else-but are you absolutely sure he's not gay? There was this guy in college, totally macho, but he turned out to have a boyfriend."

"I don't think he's gay," Annabelle heard herself say.

"No," Delaney shook her head firmly. "I'm sure he's not."

"You're probably right."

The bell rang to announce the end of intermission, and Annabelle slithered back to her seat like the miserable snake she was.

Rain pummeled the window behind Portia's desk, and a bolt of lightning split the late afternoon sky.

"… and so we're giving our two weeks' notice," Briana said.

Portia felt the storm's fury pricking her skin.

The slit of Briana's black skirt fell open as she crossed her long legs. "We only finalized the details yesterday," she said, "which is why we couldn't tell you earlier."

"We'll stretch it to three weeks if you really need us." Kiki leaned forward in her chair, her brow furrowed with concern "We know you haven't replaced Diana yet, and we don't want to leave you in a bind."

Portia repressed a hysterical bubble of laughter. How much worse could things get than to lose her two remaining assistants?

"We've been talking about this for six months." Briana's bright smile invited Portia to be happy right along with her. "We both love to ski, and Denver's a great city."

"A fabulous city," Kiki said. "There are tons of singles, and with everything we've learned from you, we know we're ready to start our own business."

Briana tilted her head, her straight blond hair falling over her shoulder. "We can't thank you enough for showing us the ropes, Portia. I'll admit, there were times when we resented how tough you were, but now we're grateful."

Portia pressed her sweaty palms together. "I'm glad to hear it."

The two women exchanged glances. Briana gave Kiki an almost imperceptible nod. Kiki fiddled with the top button on her blouse. "Briana and I were wondering-hoping, really-that maybe… Would you mind if we called you every once in a while? I know we're going to have a million questions starting out."

They wanted her to mentor them. They were walking out, leaving her with no trained assistants, and they wanted her to help them. "Of course," Portia said stiffly. "Call me whenever you need to."

"Thanks so much," Briana said. "Really. We mean it."

Portia managed what she hoped was a gracious nod, but her stomach roiled. She didn't plan what she said next. The words just came out. "I can tell that you're anxious to get started, and I wouldn't dream of holding you back. Things have been quiet lately, so there's really no need for either of you to hang around another two weeks. I'll manage fine." She waved her fingers toward the door, shooing them away, as if they were a pair of mischievous schoolgirls. "Go on. Finish up what you need to and take off."

"Really?" Briana's eyes turned to saucers. "You don't mind?"

"Of course not," Portia said. "Why would I mind?"

They weren't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, and they rushed toward the door. "Thanks, Portia. You're the best."

"The best," Portia whispered to herself when she was finally alone. Another thunderclap rattled the window. She folded her arms on her desk and put her head down. She couldn't do this anymore.

That night she sat in her darkened living room and stared at nothing. It had been almost six weeks since she'd last seen Bodie, and she ached for him. She felt rootless, adrift, lonely to the very bottom of her soul. Her personal life lay in pieces around her, and Power Matches was falling apart. Not only because of her assistants' desertion, but also because she'd lost her focus.

She thought of what had happened with Heath. Unlike Portia, Annabelle had seized her opportunity and used it brilliantly. One introduction each, he'd said. While Portia had followed her seriously flawed instincts and waited, Annabelle had pounced and introduced him to Delaney Lightfield. It couldn't have been more ironic. Portia had known the Lightfields for years. She'd watched Delaney grow up. But she'd been so busy falling apart that she'd never once thought of introducing her to Heath.

She glanced at the clock. Not even nine. She couldn't face another sleepless night. For weeks she'd been resisting taking a sleeping pill, hating the idea of being dependent. But if she didn't get a decent night's rest soon, she'd go crazy. Her heart started its panicky flutter. She pressed her hand to her chest. What if she died right here? Who would care? Only Bodie.

She couldn't bear it any longer, so she tossed on her hot pink trench coat, grabbed her purse, and took the elevator down to the lobby. Even though it was dark, she slipped on her Chanel sunglasses in case she ran into one of her neighbors. She couldn't bear the thought of anyone seeing her like this- without her makeup, a pair of ratty sweatpants peeking out from under a Marc Jacobs trench coat.

She hurried around the corner to the all-night drugstore. As she reached the aisle with the sleeping remedies, she saw them. Piled in a wire bin marked 75% off. Dusty purple boxes of aging yellow marshmallow Easter chicks. The bin sat at the end of the aisle across from the sleep aids. Her mother had bought those chicks every Easter and set them out in her Franklin Mint teddy bear bowl. Portia still remembered the grit of the sugar crystals between her teeth.

"You need some help?"

The clerk was a chubby Hispanic girl who wore too much makeup and wouldn't be able to comprehend that some things were beyond help. Portia shook her head, and the girl disappeared. She turned her attention to the sleeping pills, but the boxes swam before her eyes. Her gaze drifted back to the bin of chicks. Easter had been five months ago. They'd be rubbery by now.

A patrol car blew past outside, its siren blaring, and Portia wanted to shove her fingers in her ears. Some of the purple Easter chick cartons were dented, and a couple of the cellophane windows had split open. Disgusting. Why didn't they throw them out?

Overhead, the fluorescent light fixture hummed. The overly made-up clerk was staring at her. With a good night's sleep, Portia'd feel like her old self again. She had to choose something quickly. But what?

The noise from the fluorescent lights bored through her temples. Her pulse raced. She couldn't keep standing here. Her feet began to move, and her purse fell low on her arm. Instead of reaching for a sleeping aid, she reached into the bin for the marshmallow chicks. A trickle of perspiration slid between her breasts. She scooped up one box, then another, and another. Outside, a taxi horn blared. Her shoulder bumped a display of cleaning supplies, and a stack of sponges fell to the floor. She stumbled to the register.

Another kid stood behind the counter, this one pimply-faced and chinless. He picked up a box of chicks. "I love these things."

She fixed her eyes on the rack of tabloids. He ran the box over the scanner. Everyone in her building shopped at this drugstore, and a lot of them walked their dogs at night. What if someone wandered in here and saw her?

The boy held up a box with a torn cellophane window. "This is ripped."

She flinched. "They're… for my niece's kindergarten class."

"Do you want me to get another one?"

"No, it's fine."

"But it's ripped."

"I said it's fine!" She'd shouted, and the kid looked startled. She contorted her mouth into a travesty of a smile. "They're… making necklaces."

He looked at her as if she were crazy. Her heart raced faster. He started scanning again. The door opened, and an elderly couple entered the store. No one she knew, but she'd seen them before. He scanned the last box. She thrust a twenty at him, and he scrutinized it like a treasury agent. The chicks lay scattered across the counter for anyone to see, eight purple boxes, six chicks to a box. He handed over her change. She shoved it in her purse, not bothering with her wallet, just throwing it inside.

The phone by the register rang, and he answered it. "Hey, Mark, what's up? No, I don't get off till midnight. Sucks."

She snatched the sack from him and shoved the rest of the boxes inside. One fell to the floor. She left it there.

"Hey, lady, you want your receipt?"

She hurried into the street. It had started to rain again. She clutched the sack to her chest and dodged a fresh-faced young woman who still believed in happily-ever-after. Rain soaked her hair, and by the time she got back home, she was shivering. She dumped the sack on her dining room table. Some of the boxes spilled out.

She shrugged off her trench coat and tried to catch her breath. She should make herself a cup of tea, turn on some music, maybe the television. But she did none of those things. Instead, she sank into the chair at the foot of the table and slowly began lining up the boxes in front of her.

Seven boxes. Six chicks to a box.

Hands trembling, she started peeling off the cellophane and tearing open the flaps. Bits of purple cardboard dropped to the floor. Chicks tumbled out along with a gritty snow of yellow sugar.

Finally all the boxes were opened. She pushed the last remnants of cardboard and cellophane to the carpet. Only the chicks were left. As she gazed at them, she knew Bodie had been right about her. All her life, she'd been driven by fear, so frightened of falling short that she'd forgotten how to live.

She began to eat the chicks, one by one.