OLIVIA GOLDSMITH

BAD BOY

To Nunzio Nappi As long as I can sit in the front seat

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Olivia Goldsmith

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

The sky was the same gray-white as the skim milk Tracie poured into her coffee. But that was what she loved about Seattle. It definitely wasn’t Encino, where the sky was always a glorious blue, as empty of clouds as her house had been empty of people. As an only child with parents in “The Industry,” Tracie had spent too many hours staring at that sky. No more empty blue for her. It made her feel as if she should be happy when she wasn’t. Here in Seattle, any happiness against the overcast arc above seemed a reward.

Before Tracie had come here to college, she’d considered East Coast schools, but she wasn’t brave enough for them. She’d read about Dorothy Parker, Sylvia Plath, and the Seven Sisters. Uh-uh. She knew, though, that she wanted out of California and far enough away from home that weekend visits wouldn’t be possible. Unlike the heroine in a fairy tale, she couldn’t say that her stepmother was wicked. Just passive-aggressive. So she’d picked the University of Washington, and the bonus had been that, aside from a pretty good journalism school, she’d made good friends, gotten a decent job, and fallen in love with Seattle. Not to mention that when the music scene got hot, she’d found a string of drop-dead-sexy guys. Of course, Tracie admitted to herself as she took her first sip of morning caffeine, Seattle was famous for its bad boys, good coffee, and Micro Millionaires. And, staring up at the cloud-filled sky, Tracie Leigh Higgins considered herself an aficionado on all three.

Sometimes, though, she thought she had them in the wrong positions: Maybe she ought to quit the bad boys completely, cut back on the coffee, and start dating the Micro Millionaires. Instead, she got serious with bad boys, guzzled lattes, and only interviewed and wrote about Micro Millionaires.

Tracie looked up at the sky once more. Her boyfriend, Phil, was giving her problems again. Maybe I should quit coffee, date the Micro and Gotonet guys, and write novels about the bad boys, she thought, and considered the idea as she stirred a little skim milk into her brew. She considered one of the chocolate and yellow-cake muffins, but then she scolded herself because they were addictive and she was off them for good. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Tracie realized it was either the thought of giving up Phil or writing a book that made her so upset she craved comfort. Did she have the courage to quit her day job to write books? And what did she have to write about? Too embarrassing to write about her ex-boyfriends, she decided. Tracie loved the quiet time she spent each morning reading out-of-town papers and staring out the coffeehouse window, but she’d be late if she didn’t get moving. She had another Nettie profile to write. Boring.

She took another sip from the cup and glanced at her watch. Wait. Maybe I should quit bad boys and write about coffee … It was all too confusing this early in the morning. She was a night person. She couldn’t sort out life issues this early in the day. She’d wait until next New Year’s to make some resolutions. Today, she had a deadline. She had to finish the article about one more Seattle Techno Wunderkind.

Then she’d see Phil.

Tracie tingled at the last part of her thought and picked up the coffee, which was now an almost-undrinkable temperature. She took a last gulp anyway and wondered if she could leave work early to get her hair done before seeing Phil.

She pulled out a Post-it notepad and wrote, “Call Stefan for a c,w & bd,” then gathered her purse and backpack and walked to the door.

But as Tracie walked down the Times hallway, she was stopped by Beth Conte, eye-roller extraordinaire. “Marcus has been looking for you,” Beth hissed. Even though Tracie knew Beth was a drama queen, her stomach took a little dive, and the coffee in it didn’t like the plunge. The two of them kept walking toward Tracie’s cubicle. “He’s on the warpath,” Beth added unnecessarily.

“Is that term politically correct?” Tracie asked Beth. “Or would it be considered a slur on Native Americans?”

“Putting Marcus in any ethnic group would be a slur on them. What is he, anyway?” Beth asked her as the two of them hurried along the corridor. “He’s not Italian-American. I know that,” she added, putting up her hands as if to defend her own ethnic background.

“He sprang from Zeus’s forehead,” Tracie conjectured as they turned the last corner and entered her cubicle at last.

“‘Zeus’s forehead’?” Beth echoed. “Is Marcus Greek? What are you talking about?”

Tracie took off her raincoat, hung it on the hook, and stowed her purse under the desk. “You know, like Diana. Or was it Athena?”

“Princess Diana?” Beth asked, wrong and one beat behind, as usual.

This was what happened if you talked Greek mythology with Beth before 10:00 A.M. (or after 10:00 A.M.). Tracie took her sneakers off, threw them under her desk, and rooted around for her office shoes. She was about to explain her joke when the doorway to her cubicle was darkened by Marcus Stromberg’s bulky form. Tracie pulled her head out from under her desk and hoped he hadn’t had more than a few seconds look at her butt. She pushed her feet into her pumps. Facing Marcus barefoot was more than she could bear.

“Well, thanks for the lead,” Beth squeaked, and slipped out of the cubicle.

Tracie gave Marcus her best I-graduated-cum-laude smile and sat down as coolly as she could. She refused to be cowed by Marcus. He wasn’t so tough. He was a much smaller bully than all the men that her dad worked with back in L.A. He wasn’t even as big a bully as her father. Just because Marcus had hoped one day to be Woodward or Bernstein and had wound up only being Stromberg was no fault of hers.

“How kind of you to drop in,” Marcus said, looking down at his wristwatch. “I hope it didn’t interfere with your social schedule.”

Marcus had a habit of acting as if she considered herself some kind of debutante. “You’ll have the profile by four,” Tracie told him calmly. “I told you that yesterday.”

“So I recall. But as it happens, I also need you to do a feature today.”

Shit! As if she didn’t have enough work to do. “On what?” Tracie asked, trying to appear unconcerned.

“Mother’s Day. I need it good and I need it by tomorrow.”

Tracie’s beat included interviewing high-tech moguls and moguls-to-be, but, like everyone else, she was occasionally given other assignments. To make matters worse, Marcus had an uncanny knack of assigning the very story that would ruin your day. To Lily, an overweight but talented writer, he’d always assign stories about gymnasiums, anorexia, beauty pageants, and the like. To Tim, who tended to be a hypochondriac, he’d assign stories on new hospital wings, treatments. Somehow, he always found their weakness, even when it wasn’t as obvious as Tim’s and Lily’s. Since Tracie rarely saw her family and didn’t particularly like holidays, she was usually stuck covering the special occasions. And Mother’s Day!

Her mother had died when Tracie was four and a half. Her father had long ago remarried, divorced, and remarried. Tracie could barely remember her mother and tried to forget her current stepmom. She considered Marcus’s square jaw and the beard, which, to be accurate, should be called “10:00 A.M. shadow.” “What’s the angle?” Tracie queried. “Or can it be a sensitive essay on how I plan to spend Mother’s Day?”

Marcus ignored her. “How Seattle celebrates its mothers. Mention a lot of restaurants, florists, and any other advertiser you can stuff into it. Nine hundred words by tomorrow morning. It’ll run on Sunday.”

God! Nine hundred words by tomorrow would kill any chances of fun with Phil tonight. Tracie looked at Marcus again, his curly dark hair, his ruddy skin, his small blue eyes, and wished, not for the first time, that he wasn’t good-looking as well as totally obnoxious. Looks aside, Tracie made it a policy that she’d never give Marcus the satisfaction of knowing he’d upset her. So in keeping with her policy, she merely smiled. She knew that would bug him, so she tried to make it a debutante smile.

“‘As you wish,’ said Wesley to the princess,” she added.

“You’re the only princess around here,” Marcus grumbled as he turned and took himself off to darken the cubicle of some other poor journalist. Over his shoulder, he added, “And would you please try to get that Gene Banks profile fluff-free? I don’t want to hear about his Schnauzer.”

“He doesn’t have a schnauzer,” Tracie called after him. Then, in a lower voice, she added, “He’s got a black Lab.” It was true she mentioned the Micronerds’ pets and hobbies in her pieces, but that was a humanizing touch. Anyway, she liked dogs.

The phone rang, and it reminded her she’d have to call Phil about tonight, but at five after ten, it couldn’t be him. He never got up before noon. She lifted the receiver. “Tracie Higgins,” she said in as brisk and upbeat a voice as she could manage.

“And for that I am eternally grateful,” Jonathan Delano teased. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Marcus just had an aneurysm,” Tracie told him.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Jon asked.

Tracie laughed. Jonathan always made her smile, no matter what. He had been her best friend for years. They’d met in a French class at the university. Jonathan had the biggest vocabulary and the worst accent that Tracie had ever heard. Her accent was pure Paris, but she couldn’t conjugate a verb. She’d helped Jon with pronunciation and he’d helped her with grammar. They’d both gotten A’s, and the partnership had thrived ever since. Only Jon or her girlfriend Laura could tell from four syllables that she was upset.

“I have a huge new assignment and I wanted to go out tonight. Plus, Laura is threatening to visit, so I gotta clean up my place.”

“Famous Laura, your friend from Sausalito?”

“Sacramento, actually, but what’s the dif? Yeah. She broke up with her freak boyfriend and needs some recovery time.”

“Don’t we all? What kind of freak was he?”

“Oh, just the usual ‘I’m-sorry-I-didn’t-call-you-can-I-borrow-three-hundred-dollars?-and-I-didn’t-mean-to-sleep-with-your-best-friend’ kind of freak.”

“Oh. A freak kind of like Phil.”

Tracie felt her stomach drop as if she were in the Needle elevator. “Phil’s not like that. He’s just having a hard time working on his writing and his music. Sometimes he needs help getting by, that’s all.”

Actually, Tracie more often felt Phil didn’t need her help at all. While she always asked him to read her pieces, he rarely shared what he wrote. She still couldn’t tell if it was because he was too sensitive to criticism, or if he didn’t respect her opinion. Either way, Tracie felt attracted to that in him. His self-containment was so unlike her too-eager hunger for acknowledgment. He was cool. She was not.

Jon snorted. “Phil’s a distraction from things that matter.”

“Like what?”

“Um. Like the story of your mother’s early death. Your complicated relationship with your father. Your real writing.”

“What writing?” Tracie asked, playing dumb, though she’d been thinking the very same thing over coffee that morning. Jon meant well. He believed in her, but sometimes he … well, he went too far. “I don’t do any real writing.”

“Sometimes it creeps into the middle of a puff piece,” Jon said. “Your real stuff is good. If they give you a column—”

“Ha! It will be forever before Marcus lets me have a column.” Tracie sighed. “If he’d just stop cutting them and I got a few features published the way I wrote them …”

“You’d be a great columnist. Better than Anna Quindlen.”

“Come on. Quindlen won a Pulitzer.”

“So will you. Tracie, your stuff is so fresh that you’d blow everyone away. Nobody is speaking for our generation. You could be that voice.”

Tracie stared at the receiver of the phone as if hypnotized. Neither one of them said anything for a moment and Tracie put the phone back to her ear. Then the spell broke. “Come on. Marcus doesn’t even let my punch lines stay in my features. I’ll be writing holiday features until I’m old and gray.”

Jon cleared his throat. “Well, maybe if you focused more on your job …”

Tracie’s other line rang. “Hold a minute, would you?” she asked Jon.

“I’ll hold for Marcus but not for Phil,” Jon said. “I have my pride.”

Tracie punched the button, glad to hear Laura’s soprano. “Hey ho, Tracerino. I phoned because I’m actually getting on the plane now.”

“Get out. Right now?” Tracie asked. “I thought you were coming on Sunday.”

“Face it. You thought maybe I wasn’t coming at all. But I am. I really am. I’m just calling to say I packed up all my stuff and left my pots and pans with Susan.”

“So that’s it? You’ve told Peter?”

“I don’t think I had to tell him. He saw the look on my face when I caught him going down on our next-door neighbor in our bedroom. Plus, he told me Quincy was an asshole.”

Back in high school, Laura’d had a tremendous crush on Jack Klugman. Tracie could never understand why, but sometimes the two of them drove through Benedict Canyon and staked out the house where somebody had told Laura he lived. They’d never seen him, but there wasn’t an episode of Quincy that Laura didn’t know by heart.

Tracie’s eyes widened. “He didn’t like Quincy?” she asked in mock horror. “And he went down on your neighbor?” she continued. “Was your neighbor a man or a woman?”

At least Laura laughed at that; it was better than tears. By Tracie’s count, Laura had cried fifteen gallons’ worth over Peter already. “So what’s your flight number and what time should I meet you?” While Laura fumbled for the info, Tracie thought of her deadline and her date, but Laura had been her best friend for years. “I’ll meet you at the airport,” Tracie said, trying to assuage her guilt.

“You don’t have to do that. I’m a big girl,” Laura said, and laughed. Laura was six feet tall, and not skinny. “I’ll just take the bus to your place,” she offered.

“Are you sure?” Tracie asked.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Besides, you’ve got work to do. You still get Quincy reruns in Seattle, don’t you?” Laura added.

Tracie smiled. “Yup.”

“Great. So hang up. I don’t want to hold you up,” Laura said.

That reminded her. “Oh no! I’ve got Jon on hold!” Tracie exclaimed.

“Don’t worry, he’s still there waiting for you. Hey, I’ll get to meet the nerd at last.” Laura laughed. “See you later,” she said, and then hung up.

Tracie pushed the button for line one and, sure enough, Jon was still on the other end. “What’s up?” he asked.

Chapter 2

“You’re sure this isn’t going to be inconvenient?” Laura asked, her sizable butt in the air, her head in the bottom drawer of the bureau Tracie had cleared out for her. She was putting away her T-shirts. Tracie had always marveled at how neatly Laura folded her shirts. Of course, once she put one on, it became as messy as her wild dark hair.

As she watched Laura, Tracie realized that she’d been really lonely for a girlfriend. She was pals with Beth and a few of the other women at work, but they were just work friends. Jon was her close pal, and though she adored him, it was nice to have Laura back again.

“I’m sure this is going to be inconvenient. Living in a one bedroom with a friend, not to mention a boyfriend as a frequent guest, is going to be very inconvenient, but it doesn’t mean it’s not going to be fun. I’m thrilled that you’re here.” Tracie squealed the way she had back in high school and opened her arms.

Laura gave great hugs. Sometimes, Tracie thought it was Laura’s patient, listening ear and her great hugs that got her through. They had met in the seventh grade and for the next six years had spent less time apart than most married couples. In all that time, they’d never had one fight or disagreement—unless you counted the time Laura wanted to buy a dress with a fake fur bolero jacket for the junior prom. Tracie had absolutely forbidden it because (although she couldn’t say so) it made Laura look almost exactly like a gorilla.

Tracie thought that they’d grown so close because they both were so needy at the time and yet so different. Laura was as tall as Tracie was short. Laura was big (God alone knew her weight) and Tracie was thin (104, but no more bulimia since she’d promised Laura not to throw up). Tracie was boyish, had almost no chest, and wore her hair short and streaked with blond. Laura was a brunette earth mother, had huge breasts and an unruly mane. Laura had always loved to cook; Tracie wasn’t sure there’d been a kitchen in her Encino house.

“You can stay here as long as you want. As long as you don’t bake farm cakes,” Tracie told her girlfriend as they ended their hug. “I think you should move to Seattle permanently. But you do whatever you want as long as you don’t go back to Peter.”

“Peter, Peter Woman-eater. Hadda neighbor, hadda eat her,” Laura sang.

“Was that really what he was doing when you walked in on them?” Tracie gasped.

“Sure was. Somehow, it was a lot worse than if they’d been fucking,” Laura said. She stopped unpacking and sat down on the edge of Tracie’s bed. “A guy can fuck a girl he doesn’t even like, but he doesn’t …” She paused and then shook her head. “Jesus, he hardly ever went down on me” She sighed, diving back into her bag to take out yet another perfectly folded T-shirt.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Tracie told her. “You’re just never going to see him again. He’s going to miss you.”

“I don’t know about me, but I do know he’s going to miss my short ribs with braised cabbage and mango-apple-cranberry coulis.” Laura laughed. “But enough about Peter. I can’t wait to meet the famous Phil.”

Tracie waggled her eyebrows in a poor imitation of Groucho Marx. “Well, you’re not going to have to wait long. You finish unpacking while I work on this stupid feature. Then we’ll get something to eat. After that, I’ll take you to meet Phil at Cosmo.”

“What’s Cosmo?”

“It’s easier to take you there than to explain it,” Tracie told her friend. “You’ll see tonight.”

Cosmo was jammed by the time Tracie and Laura walked through its black glass double doors. It was enormous—three separate dance floors—with neon lights running along the black-painted walls and strobes and black lights picking up the slack, as if there was any. Laura eyed the scene. “An epileptic’s nightmare,” she quipped as they made their way to the crowded bar.

“Wait till you see the computerized light show,” Tracie yelled above the din.

“They make it snow in here?” Laura yelled back.

“Light show—SHOW!” Tracie yelled, then saw by Laura’s grin that she’d gotten her. “Yeah, yeah.” Tracie grinned back.

Cosmo was bustling with habitués, all under thirty, thinking they were terminally hep. Personally, Tracie always thought there was something weird about the jeunesse dorée of Seattle. They had a lot more money and a lot less style than people in L.A. or other places Tracie had been, but she liked them for it. They either looked like they had forgotten to dress up before they went out or as if they’d put themselves together for some convention. In fact, the majority of Seattle young people seemed like Trekkies who had recently transferred their manic interest to some other sphere. Now a swing band was playing and couples danced, many of them in forties zoot suits and period dresses. Tracie thought the dresses were kind of cool actually, but otherwise, she just didn’t get it.

“Me, neither,” Laura said, as if Tracie had spoken her thoughts aloud.

Tracie picked up her drink, tossed it back, and tried to order another. Phil was late, as usual.

“Hey, how many of those did you have? And it’s not even midnight yet,” Laura commented.

“I’m just … uptight. You know, Mother’s Day weekend always bothers me,” Tracie admitted. And the story. And Marcus. And Phil being late. And …

“Look, take it from me: Having a mother can suck, too,” Laura told her, and put her arm around Tracie’s shoulder.

Tracie stood on a rung of the bar stool to look over the crowd. Her hair fell in her eyes and that, along with the lights, made it impossible to see. No Phil. Instead, Tracie motioned for another drink, and this time the bartender saw her. “I’d just like to know that I’m going to go home with Phil tonight and cocoon tomorrow in bed.”

“While I quietly weep on my cot,” Laura said, then added, “Hey, you deserve it, working so hard on that Mother’s Day story. Marcus shouldn’t have assigned it to you. It’s totally harshed your buzz.”

“Newspaper editors are rarely noted for their sensitivity. And my roommates always have big mouths.”

“I’m not a roommate,” Laura interjected. “I’m only visiting till I get over Peter.”

“God! That’ll take years.”

“No. It took years to get over Ben.” Laura stopped, considered, and continued. “It’ll just be months to get over Peter. Unless he calls and begs.”

“Tell him to drop dead.”

“What?”

“Tell him to forget it.”

“Regret it?” Laura yelled.

Tracie pulled out a Post-it notepad—she was never without one—and scribbled on it. She slapped it on the bar. It read “Just Say No.” In a corner, a group of die-hard punk rock musicians sat in a booth. They were sucking down beers. “The Swollen Glands,” Tracie said, and indicated to Laura. “Phil’s band.”

“Well, they don’t look like my type, but it’s better than sitting here. Let’s join ’em,” Laura suggested. “Maybe they’ll buy us a drink.”

“Yeah, maybe they’ll win a Congressional Medal of Honor, too.” The two girls made their way through the crowd and over to the group in the corner.

“Hi, guys,” Tracie said. “Glands, this is Laura. Laura, the Glands.” Tracie sat down next to Jeff.

“This music sucks,” Jeff, the regular Glands bass player, said.

“Yo, Tracie. Doesn’t this suck?” Frank, the drummer, asked as Laura took the seat beside him. There was a silence until a beautiful blonde walked by.

“Yum, yum. Come to papa. I’ve got something for ya,” Jeff said.

“Forget her. She works with me at the Times. She’s a barracuda.”

“Well, I’ve got something I’d like to hook her with,” Jeff said.

“Now I know which Gland you are,” Laura said. She turned to Frank. “And you? Lymph, perhaps?”

There was a commotion at the door. Tracie brightened as Phil entered. She gave Laura a look, and Laura turned her head. “God. He is tall. And good-looking.” Tracie nodded. Her guy had a lot of grace and charm—when he wanted to use it. In his hand was a bass guitar, but she was disturbed to see that beside him was an extremely thin, pretty woman. The two made their way through the crowd and approached the corner table. “He doesn’t walk,” Laura said. “He swaggers. And who’s the skank? Heavenly Host, he’s worse than Peter.”

“You haven’t even met him yet,” Tracie protested, though she was already nervous about the so-called skank herself. “Give me a break.”

“Hey, girl. I got out late from rehearsal.” Phil put his arm around Tracie.

“Phil, this is Laura,” Tracie said, introducing them. Uh-oh, one look at Laura’s face and Tracie recognized her mood. It was overly protective. She was staring at Phil as if instead of being late and accompanied by this nobody he had thrown acid on her face. Laura tended to overreact in situations like this. On the other hand, Tracie had the same tendency when Laura was being mistreated.

“Hi, Phil. Nice to meet you, too. Oh! And what have you brought us? Your tuning fork?” Laura asked. Tracie gave Laura a discreet kick in the ankle. When Laura had gone too far with Tracie’s wicked stepmother (known to them always as W.S.M. and never Thelma), Tracie had used the same editing system. No one had hated her stepmother as much as Laura—not even Tracie herself.

As if dealing with Laura, Phil, and the skank wasn’t enough, Allison drifted over, too. Just because she had to work with Allison at the Times didn’t mean she had to introduce her to anyone.

“Hi, Tracie,” Allison said.

It was the first time Tracie could remember Allison saying hello to her or anyone. She wasn’t even nice to Marcus, and he never gave her deadlines.

In a way, Tracie knew she should feel complimented and she did. Phil was so attractive and had so much presence. His height, his clothes, his hair, and his attitude all worked. Hey, they had worked on her, and she had snagged him, and she was thrilled every time she looked at him. But, other women were constantly being snagged as well and she had to be ever vigilant regarding her potential rivals and Phil’s attitude toward them. Luckily, he was so used to female attention that he usually ignored it. Tracie sighed. She would have to introduce them. “Laura, Frank, Jeff, Phil, this is Allison.” And even though she knew she shouldn’t, Tracie looked at Phil and said, “And this would be …”

“This is Melody,” Phil said. “She needed a ride over here.”

“From where? Your apartment?” Tracie asked, and then wanted to bite her tongue.

Laura shifted slightly in her seat, so there was no room for anyone else at the banquette. Tracie had to hand it to her friend. Phil still ignored Laura as he tightened his embrace around Tracie’s shoulder. “You look like a warm stove on a cold night,” he whispered into her ear. “See you later, babe,” he said to Melody, who was then forced, albeit reluctantly, to melt into the crowd.

Tracie eyed the girl’s back as she left.

“Unchained Melody,” Laura muttered with satisfaction.

“Righteous Brothers. 1965. Phillies label,” Jeff said.

Best to just ignore her and what might have gone on, put it away, like a sweater at the back of the closet in summer. Not that she wouldn’t hear all about it from Laura later. “So, are you playing tonight?” she asked Phil.

“Yeah. Bob is letting me do the second show.”

Bob led the Glands, but not for long, if Phil had his way. “Great!” Tracie said, distracted. She looked back into the crowd to see if Melody was hanging around. She didn’t seem to be, which was a relief. Tracie trusted Phil, but only within certain parameters. She’d better stay the whole night, then. When you mixed music, alcohol, and Melody, you were outside the parameters. “When is Bob arriving?”

“Well, there’s the question,” Phil said with a frown.

“Which Gland is he?” Laura asked. “The adrenal? The pituitary?”

“The asshole,” Phil said.

“Oh. Then that would more properly be called ‘the anal gland,’” Laura said smoothly.

Though Phil was the newest member, he was already jockeying to be leader. But why he would want it, Tracie could not fathom. It seemed like a lot of work: begging for unpaid jobs with club owners, making endless phone calls about rehearsals, begging vans from friends to schlep equipment—all just to pick the lineup of songs. Big deal. She supposed picking the lineup would be fun, but she couldn’t imagine Phil organizing everything else. She thought, There must be a responsible side to him after all.

“You know,” Jeff said for what had to be the three hundredth time, “I’m not so sure about our name.” Tracie looked up to the ceiling and sighed. When the guys weren’t fighting with one another or rehearsing or drinking, they spent their time arguing over the band’s name. Tracie had managed to do a feature about them—overcoming a lot of resistance from Marcus—and she’d used the latest name that they had agreed upon: Swollen Glands. But now, once again, Jeff voiced an objection. “I saw this sign, and it was really cool,” he continued. “Up in the mountains. They had them everywhere. It just said FROST HEAVES. Great name, huh? And, like, free advertising. Cool, huh?”

“How about Watch for Curves?” Laura joked.

“Nah,” Jeff said, serious. “Too limp.”

“Well, there’s always Yield to Pedestrians,” she suggested.

“There’s nothing wrong with Swollen Glands,” Phil said. “I thought of it, and anyway, the name’s in the paper. We don’t want to stop the swell of publicity that’s building. Right, Tracie?”

Tracie didn’t have the heart to mention that one article was more a pimple than a swell and that tomorrow there’d be another band in the paper. “Right,” she said, and caught Laura rolling her eyes. She hoped Phil hadn’t seen it.

Luckily, Phil was trying to get the bartender to fix him a drink. He then nuzzled closer and whispered into Tracie’s ear, “I’m happy to see you.”

Sometimes, Phil was a jerk. And Tracie knew he probably wasn’t ready to make a commitment, but there was something about his wild good looks, the way his hair brushed across his cheek, the way his fingers hardly tapered, but instead came to an end in flat, smooth nails. Phil was heat to her coolness and passion to her planning, and sometimes he made her forget all of the bad. Tracie responded to his whisper with a blush.

Laura picked up on Tracie’s blush and shook her head. “I think I’ll try to buck the trend and do something socially responsible, like picking up a merchant seaman. Later,” she said as she boogied off into the crowd.

“What’s up her ass?” Phil asked Tracie.

She just shrugged and sighed. It was too much to expect her friend to like her boyfriend and vice versa. She turned to her laptop. She’d completed her profile at work and begun the Mother’s Day feature, but she still had some polishing to do on it.

One of the things Tracie really liked about Phil was that he was also a writer. But, unlike her, he didn’t write commercially. He was an artist. Phil wrote very, very short stories. Some less than a page. Often Tracie didn’t get them, but she didn’t admit that to him. There was something about his work that was so personal, so completely contemptuous of an audience, that she respected him.

Although Phil had roommates, and had always had a girlfriend, Tracie knew he was essentially a loner. He could probably spend five years on a desert island and when a ship landed to rescue him he’d look up from his writing or his guitar and say, “This is not a good time for me to be interrupted.” He’d certainly said that enough to her, and she respected his integrity.

Sometimes she thought that journalism school and her job had spoiled her talent. After years of being told, “Always consider who might be reading your work,” she found Phil’s commitment refreshing, even if he looked down on writers like herself who took on commercial subjects.

Now she knew exactly who would be reading her feature: suburbanites over morning coffee; Seattle hipsters munching bagels at brunch; old ladies at the library. Tracie sighed and bent her head to get closer to the screen.

After just a minute or two Phil nudged her. “Can’t you put that down and enjoy the scene?”

“Phil, I told you I have to finish this feature. If I don’t get it in on time, Marcus will pull me off features altogether. He’d love the excuse. Or I could lose my job,” she snapped.

“That’s what you say about every story,” Phil snapped back. “Stop living in fear.”

“I mean it. Look, this feature is really important to me. I’m trying to do something unusual about Mother’s Day.”

“Hey, you don’t even have a mother,” Jeff announced.

Tracie turned to Jeff as if he was a child. “Yes, Jeff, it’s true that my mother died when I was very young. But, you see, journalists don’t always write about themselves. Remember, I wrote an article about you guys? Yet I’m not a Swollen Gland. Not even a mammary. Sometimes, journalists write about current events. Or they report on other people’s lives. That’s why they call us ‘reporters.’”

“Wow. The irony is so heavy in here, it’s breaking my drumsticks,” Frank said.

“Man, what time do we go on?” Jeff asked.

“Not till two, man,” Frank told them.

Tracie kept herself from groaning. Two! They wouldn’t be out of here until dawn.

“God. Was that the best Bob could do?”

“I hope these jerks clear out by then and we get a decent crowd,” Phil said.

“I’m sure you will. The Glands are really building a following,” Tracie assured him. She herself felt no such thing. In fact, the crowd could turn ugly if you cut off their supply of big-band standards.

Laura emerged from the dance floor, a short guy dressed like a forties bookie close behind her. Tracie noticed that a lot of small men went for Laura. The attraction was definitely not mutual. “Mind if we join you all? Or do you turn into rats and pumpkins at midnight?”

“Rats and Pumpkins. That would be a good name,” Frank commented.

Tracie looked at her watch. “Oh God. I’ve got to get this in.” She turned back to the laptop.

The band members were still giving one another glum looks. More dead soldiers littered the tabletop. Tracie snapped her laptop shut.

“This music sucks, man,” Frank repeated to the uninterested table.

“Yeah, it sucks,” Jeff echoed.

“Thank you for this introduction to Seattle. The conversation here really is a lot more sophisticated than in Sacramento,” Laura quipped.

Tracie looked up. “It all gets better when my work is done and the guys play,” she promised. She started to stand up.

“Where ya going?” Phil asked.

“I have to fax this to Marcus at home,” Tracie explained.

“Hey, don’t leave the table,” Phil said, catching her hand. “You’re making the band look bad. Don’t you realize other girls would die to sit here with us?”

Tracie shrugged and laughed. It wasn’t easy to find modem service in a bar. It would be hard enough to find a Yellow Pages, listing a twenty-four-hour copy center. Phil was being cute but difficult, and she couldn’t afford to get Marcus in an uproar. She’d have to do what was necessary to get her piece in and hope Phil would relax. If she could leave, she’d get back before the band’s performance. There’d be hell to pay with a pouting Phil for the rest of the night if she didn’t get back in time.

When she finally returned twenty minutes later, a swing-dance girl was in her seat. “I made it in just under the wire,” Tracie said, standing beside the table.

“Congratulations,” Jeff said, handing her a beer.

“So what’s new since I left?” Tracie said directly to Phil.

“Well, I hear the music still sucks, and I think there’s a new mascot,” Laura told her.

Tracie tapped the girl on her shoulder to get her seat back, shooting Phil a dirty look because he should have told the girl to move. “Hey, it’s not my fault,” Phil protested as the young woman walked away.

“I don’t know why these bitches want to dress up like Betty Crawford anyway,” Frank said.

“What assholes,” Phil agreed.

Laura leaned across the table to Frank. “It isn’t Betty Crawford.”

“What?” he asked.

“There’s no ‘Betty Crawford,’” Laura informed him. “You must be the drummer, right?”

“Huh?” Frank grunted.

“There was Betty Grable and there was Bette Davis. There was also Joan Crawford. But I don’t think Joan Crawford ever danced to swing,” Tracie explained.

“Whatever,” Jeff said.

“Yeah. Who cares? Whatever, man,” Phil said to Laura.

The band began to play “Last Kiss.”

“Pearl Jam,” Jeff said. “Epic Records. 1999.”

“That was just a cover,” Laura said. “It’s an old fifties song.”

“It is not. Pearl Jam writes all their own material,” Jeff said.

“Wanna bet?” Laura asked, raising her brows in a dare.

“Why don’t we bet each other a dance?” Jeff said. “Then I’ll win either way.” Tracie looked back at Laura, whose eyes had widened to match her brows. Wordlessly she extended her hand, and Jeff, who had to be less than half her size, took it and pulled her out onto the dance floor. God knows, Tracie thought, I’d rather give my jewelry to Allison than dance with Jeff.

“Where’s Bob?” Phil asked.

“Yeah. Where is he?” Frank echoed, obviously disgusted by Jeff’s departure. He and Laura were really getting into the music. Tracie had forgotten how well Laura danced. “I ask myself what would Guns N’ Roses do if they were here?” Frank continued.

“Pull out an automatic weapon,” Phil told him. Tracie had to laugh.

“Man, Axl Rose would turn over in his grave if he saw this,” Frank added.

“Is Axl Rose dead?” Tracie asked.

The band members turned to look at her as if she was crazy. “What are you talking about?” Frank asked.

“You said he’d turn over in his grave. I just …”

Phil put his arm around her. “She’s not smart, but she sure is beautiful,” he told Frank by way of excuse, then gave Tracie a long, wet kiss.

Chapter 3

Jonathan Charles Delano rode his bicycle through the morning fog on Puget Sound. The road wound along the misty shore. He wore his Micro/Connection jacket—only given to founding staff with more than twenty thousand shares—and a baseball cap. The wind caught him broadside as he made a turn and then, as he swung into it, the wind inflated his open jacket as if it were a Mylar balloon. Riding was good therapy. Once he hit a rhythm, he could think—or not think, as he required. This morning, he desperately wanted not to think of last night—a night he’d spent standing in the rain getting stood up—or of the exhausting day ahead. He was actually reluctant to get to his destination, but he pedaled his heart out as if participating in the Tour de France. Mother’s Day was always tough for him. For years now, he had been following this tradition, one he had invented out of unnecessary guilt and compassion. He figured that as Chuck Delano’s son, he owed something. And anyhow, as an only child, these visits were the closest he got to extended family. Anyway, that’s how he rationalized the visits.

As he pulled around the next curve of the coast road, the fog cleared all at once and a breathtaking view across the Sound opened. Seattle appeared as green-fringed and magical as the Emerald City—and he noticed that Rainier was out, the towering mountain that reigned majestically over the city when visibility was good.

As one of the four actual natives of Seattle—it seemed everyone else had moved to the city from somewhere “back east”—he’d seen the sight a thousand times, but it never failed to thrill him. Now, though, he could only take a moment to enjoy it before he continued pedaling across Bainbridge Island and finally up to a shingled house. Jon jumped off his bike, pulled a bouquet out of the basket, and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked at his watch, cringed, and bolted up the path to the front door. The name plate on it read MRS. B. DELANO.

He knocked on the door. A heavyset middle-aged blonde in a zippered sweat suit opened the door. Jon couldn’t help noticing Barbara was even bigger than last year. She had an apron on over her sweats. That made Jon smile. It was so … Barbara.

“Jon! Oh, Jon. I didn’t expect you,” she lied in the sweetest way as she hugged him. Barbara was his father’s first wife, only slightly older than Jon’s own mother, but somehow from a different generation.

Jon tried to be all the things he should be: in touch with his feelings, a good son, an understanding boss, a loyal employee, a good friend, a … Well, the list went on and on and made him tired. Being a dutiful stepson was the part that made him depressed, as well.

Something about the first Mrs. Delano really saddened him. It was her relentless cheerfulness. She seemed happy in her little cottage in Winslow, but Jon imagined that the moment he left, she’d begin to pine. Not for him—Jon knew no one pined for him—but for Chuck, Jon’s father, the man she had loved and lost.

There was no reason for Jon to feel responsible, but he did, and he guessed he would always feel it, so he’d prepared in advance for this day. He brought the flowers from behind his back. “Not expect me?” he asked, as cheerful as she was. “How could you not? Happy Mother’s Day, Barbara.” Jonathan presented the bouquet with a flourish.

“For heaven’s sake. Roses and gladiolus. My favorites! How did you remember?”

Jon figured this wasn’t the time to tell her about his automated calendar, tickler file, or his Palm Pilot.

Barbara hugged him again. He could feel her soft bulk. She obviously didn’t use the track suit on the track. “You’re such a good boy, Jon.” She stepped to the side to let him have access to the foyer. “Come on in. I’m making biscuits for breakfast.”

“I didn’t know you could bake,” he lied, reluctantly. He didn’t want breakfast and … well, once she got started, Barbara could really talk. And there were two questions he dreaded: the overly casual “Heard from your father lately?” and the even worse “Are you seeing someone special?” Though Chuck rarely communicated with Jon and though Jon almost as rarely had a date, Barbara never tired of asking. But that was probably because she was lonely. She and his father had no kids and she’d never remarried. She seemed isolated, not just on the island but in her life.

“You have to have coffee,” Barbara said.

“Maybe just coffee. I don’t have a lot of time. I really ought to …”

Barbara extended her hand and drew him into the house. “So, are you seeing anyone special?” she asked.

Jon tried hard not to flinch. If he didn’t already know that the little time he spent on his personal life was a fiasco, last night would have been proof enough. He and Tracie, his best friend, had spent years trying to determine whose romantic life was less romantic. This week, he’d finally be the definitive winner. Or maybe that would make him the definitive loser. As he followed Barbara into the kitchen, he knew that whichever one it was, it wasn’t good.

An hour later, Jon pushed his bicycle, careful not to skin the heels of anyone as he followed a crowd of people disembarking the Puget Sound ferry on the city side. Everyone but him seemed coupled up. Sunday morning and arm in arm with their sweeties. Except him. He sighed. He worked all the time—relentlessly as all the whiz kids. Seattle loomed over the waterfront, with its silly Space Needle and the newer towers gleaming. He mounted the bike, quickly passed the crowd, and pedaled wildly onto Fifteenth Avenue Northwest.

In less than ten minutes, Jon stopped abruptly outside a luxury apartment tower. He checked his watch, took another bouquet out of his basket—this one all tulips—and locked his bike against a parking meter. He entered the lobby of the building, an overdone mirrored space he used to visit when his dad took him for weekends. He pressed the elevator button, the door slid open, and he entered, pressing the number 12. Though it was only seconds, it seemed like a long ride.

The elevator stopped and the bell beeped as the door slid open. Jon sighed again, walked out of the elevator, and paused to gather himself. Then he knocked on an apartment door where the name below the brass knocker read MR. & MRS. J. DELANO, with the MR. & crossed out. A woman—almost middle-aged but younger and far better preserved than Barbara—opened the door. She was dressed (or even overdressed) in what Jon guessed was considered “a smart suit.”

“Jonathan,” the woman cooed as she took the tulips from his hand as if they were expected. “How nice.”

“Happy Mother’s Day, Mother,” Jon said to Janet as he kissed her the way she’d taught him to: carefully on each cheek, being sure not to smudge her beautifully applied makeup.

“You don’t have to call me ‘Mother.’ I’m hardly old enough for that,” Janet replied with a little laugh. There was something about Janet’s voice that had always made him feel uncomfortable. When he was younger, he’d felt that she was gently mocking him. More recently, he’d realized that she was actually flirting. “Let me just put these in water,” she said. She opened the door wider to let him inside. He’d never felt comfortable with Janet.

The apartment was as overdecorated as Janet was herself. She wore way too much gold jewelry and had way too many gold buttons. The apartment had too many gold frames and too much cut glass. When he was twelve years old and had visited his father here, she’d spent most of her time cautioning him not to touch anything.

Nothing had changed since last year except his flowers. It was frozen in time, like Janet’s face or the palace in Sleeping Beauty. But no prince was making it up here for Janet’s wake-up call. Jon liked Barbara, but he couldn’t actually feel anything but pity for Janet. Now she played with the flowers in the little sink of the tiny kitchen. “Have you heard from your dad?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“No,” Jon said quietly. It was the question he most hated hearing. It made his father’s exes seem vulnerable. Now he felt even more sorry for Janet and he’d have to stay longer.

“No? No surprise,” she said, and her flirty voice changed and became hard. She pushed the last tulip into the vase too hard and broke the stem, though she didn’t notice. “And how’s your social life?” she asked, and Jon felt she might already know the answer wasn’t good. She eyed him up and down, taking in his baggy khakis, his old sneakers, his T-shirt. Then she sighed. “Well, where shall we go for brunch?”

Jon’s heart sank. “You know,” he said uncomfortably, “I thought maybe we’d just have coffee here. I mean, I could afford to lose a few pounds …”

“You mean I could,” Janet said, smiling and using that flirtatious voice again. “I’m always on a diet. But since it’s Mother’s Day, any brunch calories I eat are exempt. Even for a stepmom.”

Jon gave up and gave in. Until he left her, Jon’s dad had always given in to Janet, too.

In less than ten minutes, Jon found himself standing in front of a chic Seattle cafe. Thank God there was no line yet, but by the time they’d finished and he’d waved good-bye to his second stepmother, more than two dozen people were waiting. Jon consulted his watch, panicked, and hopped on his bike. He pedaled like a madman, out of downtown, past the park, through the wealthier part of Seattle, and into his old neighborhood.

At Corcoran Street, Jon pulled his bike into the driveway of a brick bungalow. The house was covered in creeper and surrounded by flower beds. He ran past a well-tended bed, which reminded him to double back to the bike for yet another bouquet, the largest one.

He grabbed it and ran up to the door. There under the buzzer, the brass name plate read J. DELANO. Before he could knock, the door was thrown open by an attractive dark-haired woman who actually looked a lot like Jon.

“Jonathan!” his mother exclaimed.

“Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!” Jon embraced her warmly, crushing the flowers between them.

“Right on time!” his mother said. She took the flowers and patted his cheek with obvious deep affection. “Oh, honey. Peonies! God, they’re way before season. They must have cost you a fortune.”

“It’s okay, Mom. My allowance is bigger than it used to be.”

She laughed. “But how’s your appendix?” she asked.

“It’s still missing—but I’m good,” he said. He’d had an emergency appendectomy three years ago and it had frightened the hell out of her. She still asked about it, but it had come to mean his health in general.

“Did you see Rainier today?” she asked.

“Yes. And Mount Baker,” he told her.

They went through the living room and into the kitchen. “You came alone?” she asked.

“Yes. Why?” Jon asked.

“I thought maybe you’d bring Tracie.”

Jon smiled. Though he and Tracie had been close friends from the time they met, his mother still hinted or hoped they were more. Or that he’d bring some other girl—a real girlfriend—home. While all of Chuck’s ex-wives focused on who Chuck’s new girlfriend was, his mom focused on who Jon’s girlfriend was. He knew she wanted him to be happy, and that she wanted grandchildren for herself and for him. It wasn’t that Jon wouldn’t love to meet a woman and settle down, it was just that women he met seemed to want to settle down with someone other than him. In his social life he was a disappointment to himself and others. He sighed. He’d have liked to oblige, but …

“… This holiday’s always hard on her,” his mother was saying as she put the flowers in a vase.

Jon didn’t bother to tell his mom that he’d thought of Tracie—sometimes he thought he thought of Tracie too much—but that she was booked up with the latest loser and her old friend from San Bernadino or somewhere.

“She was busy. But I’ll see her tonight. You know, our midnight brunch.”

“Well, give her my love,” she told him.

“Sure,” he agreed as he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small wrapped box. He put it on the counter between them.

“Oh. A present? Jon. It’s not necessary.”

“I know that traditionally on Mother’s Day you’re supposed to steal your mom’s bank card and go on a spree. I just thought this once we’d be untraditional.”

Jon made a lot of money. Well, it was not a lot of money compared to what the four initial founders of his firm made, but it was a lot of money for a guy his age. And he didn’t spend it on much, since he was usually too busy working to have time to shop. Plus, he didn’t want anything. He had all the toys—stereos and laptops and video equipment—he could possibly want and very little time to listen, play with, or watch them. When he wasn’t working, he was thinking about work or sleeping. So, for him to spend some bucks on his mother was no big deal. It was deciding what she might like that was difficult. In the end, he had let Tracie pick something out. She was great at shopping.

“You’re so thoughtful. You sure didn’t get that from your father.” There was an uncomfortable pause, just for the tiniest moment. His father was the one subject Jon had asked that they not speak about. His mother laughed and unwrapped the gift. She held up the jade earrings. “Oh, Jonathan! I love them!” And it was clear she really did. Tracie always knew stuff like that. His mother went to the hall mirror and held them up, then preened for a moment. It made Jon happy. “So, are we going to Babbette’s for lunch?” she asked as she at last put the earrings on.

“Don’t we always?” Jonathan responded without hesitation, despite the protests that Barbara’s breakfast and Janet’s brunch were making in his stomach.

“Let’s capture the moment,” his mother said as she grabbed her Polaroid and led Jon outside to the wisteria bush. “All I have to do is figure out the automatic timer and we’re all set.” She took about half an hour doing it, while he waited as patiently as he could. Then she scurried from the camera to him before the timer went off.

And, with a flash, the moment was over.

Jon was exhausted. He was only twenty-eight, but he wondered how many more Mother’s Days he could survive before they killed him. He had three more stepmothers to get through, despite the three meals distending his gut. But tea, an early dinner, and a late supper were all on the agenda before he could meet Tracie at midnight. Grimly, Jon climbed on his bike and pedaled off into the Seattle rain.

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