Love hates the game of words…

Lauren Wilt—Her star falling, this award-winning but aging novelist rejuvenates her career by writing a successful singles column. Too bad it couldn’t do the same for her figure. With her fortunes skyrocketing, she needed a pretty face to live up to public expectations.

Helen Matter—Young. Attractive. Blond. Blue-eyed. Extremely intelligent. Fashion disaster. Dating train wreck. Every man’s dream just wasn’t being advertised properly. Until she became the face of Chicago’s hottest news topic: “The Single Life.”

Enter: gentleman callers, inquisitive media and mutually assured disaster.

Is there a lesson to be learned in loving the single life?

Liz Wood

Liz Wood has lived on four different continents and in twice as many countries, but her favorite things remain quite domestic: books, chocolate and coffee, preferably all together. She reads everything from French comics to Italian scandal sheets, German philosophy to American romances (the latter late into the night). When she is not reading, she is trying to train her beagle to do some housekeeping, so she can have more time to, um, read.

The Single Life
Liz Wood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

From the Author

Dear Reader,

The idea for The Single Life came to me one afternoon when a friend and her seventy-something mother described the latter’s recent experiences with Internet dating. As we laughed about the complicated security measures they had adopted to protect her from senile Don Juans and toothless Lotharios, I began to wonder what insights she might bring to a singles column. Were her experiences all that different from younger women who keep looking for a crock of good men at the end of the rocky road to romance?

I’m still not entirely sure about the answer to that question, but I did realize something else that afternoon: it’s never too late to begin again. This realization guided me as I sketched out the story of the unlikely friendship between three women trying to turn their lives around. Though they face very different challenges in their single lives, fifty-something Lauren, forty-something Clare and twenty-something Helen come away with the same lesson: the immeasurable value of friendship.

I hope you will have as much pleasure reading about these singles as I had writing about them.

Liz

Many thanks to Tara Gavin, whose suggestions for

revision went right to the heart of the matter. Thanks

also to Lena Wood for being such a generous guinea pig.

I dedicate this book to my mother who, despite her many

experiences, has never really known the single life.

CONTENTS

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 1

Borrow my words, then!—

Your beautiful young manhood—lend me that!

And we two make one hero of romance!

Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac

“You’re going to have to sell the house.”

Lauren shut her eyes tightly, hoping that she hadn’t heard correctly, that she was still asleep and would wake up to something other than the jarring sound of the telephone and Clare’s devastating proclamation. After all those hours spent exploring the varied shades of darkness, she wasn’t even sure she had actually slept. Not until she heard Clare Hanley’s voice at the other end of the line.

“What time is it anyway?” she asked in a hoarse voice.

“Way past the time for you to be still in bed. The last time I looked, it was going on eleven. What happened? Did you stay up to catch the late show?”

“Something like that.”

Lauren didn’t want to go into the details of her sleepless nights.

“Well, I’m sorry if I’ve ruined your beauty sleep, but I’m glad you finally answered. I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Don’t you ever listen to your messages?”

“I listen to them.” She just didn’t bother to answer them. These days she also didn’t bother to answer the phone. She wouldn’t have picked up this time, either, except that Chrissie had said she would call, and Lauren really wanted to speak to her, to hear her voice, to know she was all right.

E-mail could get the news through. It could transmit a quick greeting or forward a funny joke, but it couldn’t reassure Lauren about the subtleties, the unspoken nuances that Chrissie couldn’t hide from her mother.

They had been playing telephone tag for days now. Neither Lauren’s preference for the answering machine, nor the time difference between Illinois and Vienna helped much. So when the phone had rung at 11:00 a.m., Lauren had quickly calculated that it was late afternoon for Chrissie in Austria and a perfect time for a trans-Atlantic conversation. She had wiped her eyes and swallowed the big lump in her throat. By the time the phone had rung a third time, she was rolling across the king-size bed and reaching for the receiver. She didn’t stop to think it might be someone other than Chrissie.

Now here she was, stuck with the effects of another bad night’s sleep, a headache that was getting worse by the second and a conversation she really didn’t want to have.

“As you can probably tell, I just woke up, Clare, and this is really a bad time to talk. I’ll call you back. Bye—”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me, Lauren Wilt! I’ve waited long enough to speak to you, and I’m not going through this again.”

Lauren didn’t say anything, but she didn’t hang up either. Even outside the courtroom, Clare’s voice could put fear in humble citizens like herself.

Clare must have realized it because she switched to a softer tone.

“How’ve you been, Lauren?”

“Fine, Clare. Just fine. As long as people don’t try to get me out of bed before twelve.”

“Mmm-hmm. That’s why you haven’t been answering your phone lately? Or responding to your messages?”

“I’ve been, you know, busy.”

“Yeah, so have I. But I return my calls.”

“You pay other people to do it for you.”

“Same thing. Besides, I’m not just talking about business calls. Even your best friend Alice says you haven’t been returning her calls either.”

“I was going to today. I’ve been trying to finish a chapter.” Trying being the operative word, since Lauren hadn’t managed to finish it. She had spent another day looking at a blank screen—when she wasn’t contemplating her blank mind. She didn’t expect today would be much different. Which was why she hadn’t bothered to get out of bed, even when it was clear she wasn’t going to get back to sleep.

“Look, Lauren, I’m your lawyer, but I’m speaking here as your friend. It’s been more than a year since the divorce came through. You need to start living again.”

It was easy for Clare to talk. She’d never been divorced. Never been married, for that matter. Never had her heart broken. Never had to mend it. Not independent, hard-as-nails Clare Hanley.

“Is that why you called? To offer me some friendly advice? For free?”

“Actually, no. I just gave you the free advice, but I called about something else. And that, as you know, doesn’t come free. You pay for it. So, like it or not, I have to give it to you.”

Clare paused for a moment, as if she were weighing her words. When she spoke again, she sounded surprisingly unsure of herself. “Lauren, I think you should come in so we can talk about it.”

“If it’s so important, you should tell me over the phone.”

“Lauren, look, maybe we could meet for lunch or dinner—my treat, of course—and we can talk about this.”

“I already have plans for lunch.”

Not! As Chrissie might say. The old Lauren would have crossed her fingers because she was telling a lie. But the new Lauren—who was really a very old Lauren—a very, very old, tired, worn-out Lauren—didn’t bother with that. She just didn’t see the point anymore, no more than having lunch with Clare, or anyone else for that matter.

“With Alice?” Clare was asking. “That’s okay. She can come, too.”

“No, not with Alice.”

“Lauren—”

“Just tell me, Clare. I may not be a courtroom shark like you, but I’m no hothouse flower either.”

“I just think you’d be better off dealing with this face-to-face.”

“Just tell me.”

“Okay.” Clare sighed. “If that’s the way you want it.”

Lauren didn’t say anything, but her silence was eloquent. After a moment, Clare spoke.

“I’ve been looking into your accounts and, well, I don’t think you’re going to be able to keep up with all your payments. There’s no two ways about this—you’re going to have to sell the house.”

Lauren’s first reaction was to think she hadn’t heard correctly. Her second was much more passionate.

“Sell the house? Are you crazy? Never!”

“Lauren, listen to me. I know what it means to you. I know it was once your grandmother’s house. I know how important it is to you, how much you want to keep it. You made it very clear when we were working on the divorce settlement. You gave up a lot for it—against my better advice, I might add.”

“You’re off the hook.”

“Honestly, Lauren! That’s the least of my worries.”

“So what are your worries?” Other than trying to keep Lauren on the phone as long as possible when all she wanted to do was hang up and have another cry.

“Mostly that you’re not in the same position you were. You lost money on your investments, and now with the increases in property tax, well, I just don’t see how you can make your payments.”

Lauren pressed her fingers against her forehead in the hopes of quelling the ache that was increasing by the minute.

“I’ll cut down on the rest of my spending if I have to, but I can’t sell the house.”

“It’s going to take a lot more than better budgeting. You just don’t have the income anymore.”

“What about the money my mother left me?”

“We put it in trust for Chrissie and Jeff. Against my—”

“Better advice, I know. You’re beginning to repeat yourself. Couldn’t we get an extension on the taxes? Negotiate somehow?”

“With what? It’s not as if you have a new source of revenue. You’re already living on the advance for your next book—which you aren’t even close to delivering—not even now that the deadline has come and gone. And from what you’ve been telling me, there’s nothing else in the pipeline.”

“There must be something we can do! Help me out here, Clare. Please.” Lauren could hear her voice breaking, but she didn’t try to hold back. She couldn’t, even if she wanted to.

“I’m sorry, Lauren. Really, I am. I’ve looked at it from all angles and there’s nothing I can do. Unless you come up with more money soon, my only suggestion is to sell the house. Because even if you have your miracle, even if you get more money, you’re still not in the clear. An old house like yours, the repairs are endless. The bills won’t stop. They’ll just keep coming. They’ll soak up all your money and then some. Listen to me, Lauren. Sell the house.”

Clare slammed the phone down, more annoyed with herself than with Lauren. After more than twenty years in the business, she should be more tactful, more considerate, more kind when dealing with the financial and legal affairs of a woman whose heart had been ripped in two and whose life was broken—especially when the woman was also a friend.

But Clare had never been very good at holding hands and passing the Kleenex. Maybe because she’d had her own share of hard luck—and then some—when most kids were still wiping their eyes over Bambi’s mother and Simba’s father. Maybe because she’d learned early that no amount of hand-holding and Kleenex-wringing would pay the bills. Only hard cash would, aided by calculating law. That’s where she came in. The rest would take time—a lot of time.

But time was something Lauren didn’t have, at least not when it came to the house. Not that Clare thought Lauren should hang on to the house. Even with the crippling bills, Lauren was holding on to it harder than any life belt, as if it were the only thing keeping her alive now that her husband, her children and her creative inspiration were gone. Clare knew there were days, weeks even, when Lauren didn’t leave her cocoon. But that didn’t change the fact that no house—not even a gingerbread one with gaily painted walls, shining wooden floors, tower bedrooms and shingled turrets—could put Lauren’s life back together. Only Lauren could do that.

Still, Clare wished there were something she could do. There must be something she’d missed when she’d explored all the angles with her long-time colleague, the top-notch financial planner Lynne Pozzorni. Lynne had been disappointed with some of the choices Lauren had made and hadn’t hidden it from Clare.

“We women never learn, do we?” she had said, shaking her head in dismay and disapproval. “We want to be nice and kind and generous. We forget it’s a world of wolves out there—and our exes are the meanest and the cruelest. We must be genetically programmed for it. That’s the only way I can explain it.”

Clare wasn’t sure genetics had anything to do with it, but she knew what Lynne meant. She had seen it often enough with other cases. Divorcing mothers ready to forego everything but regular child support payments—only to learn that no provisions had been made for hefty college tuition fees down the line. Middle-aged women who gave up their life savings to pay off their new spouse’s debts—only to lose that investment and much more when the rosy first blush of the honeymoon disappeared into the darkness of a divorce settlement. Good-hearted women who trusted their husbands with managing their incomes—only to discover the man had been stashing cash and hiding assets.

Small wonder Clare had never bothered to tie a knot. When office gossips speculated about her, they agreed on one point: Clare was a cold-hearted cynic who would never give happily ever after and true love a chance. They were not wrong. It was hard not to be a cold-hearted cynic when you knew what cruelty, insincerity and selfishness lie in the hearts of men. And as attentive as she was to using gender-neutral terms, Clare really did have the male of the species in mind.

Office gossip didn’t know there was a time when Clare hadn’t thought that way. When she had been wrapped in the soft tissue of romantic love. When she had believed it was the magic cloak that would keep all evil, pain and heartache away.

That had been a long time ago, a lifetime. Which was why it was hard to understand why her throat was constricted now, her chest tight, her eyes watery. Whatever would the office gossips say if they knew?

Clare forced herself to swallow. She was overreacting to Lauren’s call. She was letting her friend’s situation get to her. She was trying to do the hand-holding and the Kleenex-wringing when she was better off leaving that to someone else. Someone like Alice. She would call Lauren’s oldest and closest friend and see what the two of them could do.

Or rather what Alice could do because Clare could only continue doing what she had been doing for the last twenty years. What she was paid to do. What had got her here, in the corner office with a view of Lake Michigan, a personal assistant on call, a BMW in the garage, a wardrobe that would make an upcoming starlet envious, and more than her share of fun—nights of fun, weekends of fun, a lot of money’s worth of fun.

But no one to go home to.

It’s bad enough to arrive home one night to discover your housemate naked on the living room couch. It’s worse, when someone else is with her, as naked as she is. Worst of all is recognizing the naked guy is someone you introduced her to, someone who you thought might get naked with you.

Not that Helen Matter really, truly wanted to get naked with Josh. He was just another techno-weenie who cared more about bytes and transfer protocols than romantic, candlelit dinners—a dandruff-coated techno-weenie in the familiar uniform of jeans, white socks and an oversized, long-sleeve shirt.

On a scale of one to ten, he was probably a two, or a one and a half. But scales were for women who could choose between Matt Damon and Matt LeBlanc, Jude Law and Justin Timberlake. Not for a woman who had to choose between Josh and nothing. Until she had walked in the door the other night, she had thought at least that choice was hers.

Helen had known Josh as a fellow graduate student for some time, but hadn’t thought twice about him. Which was surprising given how these days she thought a lot about guys and a lot more about why she didn’t have one in her life.

So she had been happy when she and Josh had managed to find something to talk about other than techno-jargon. The lab computer had crashed one evening while they were testing a new program, and he had filled in the silence with an account of his bicycle trip in Germany, which had been more fun than the year before when he had interned at his step-father’s firm, and he especially enjoyed it because of the model of bike he was riding, which he preferred to the sixteen-speeder he’d had as an undergrad. She had tried to look interested, although she was really almost numb with boredom. Even so, when he had suggested they go to the movies afterward, she had agreed.

This is it, she had thought. This is the start of something new, wild and passionate! He will be Paris to my Helen, Lord Devlin to my Althea, Rhett to my Scarlett.

Now, she couldn’t even remember what movie they saw, only that it had something to do with robots taking over the world. Not exactly what she considered a great choice for a first date. Because even though they had bought their own tickets, hadn’t shared popcorn or even come close to holding hands, she considered the outing a date.

When the film was over, they had gone to her house. He’d met Sharon then and all three of them had gone out again to the neighborhood bar. Helen hadn’t seen Josh much after that. Duh! He was at her place with Sharon while Helen was at the lab alone.

Just as well. Josh was really not what she was looking for. If Sharon wanted him, she could have him. As long as it wasn’t on Helen’s couch and in her living room.

And if Sharon got everything she wanted from Josh on the nights of his visits, she didn’t get an easy response from Helen.

“What’s the big deal?” she had asked, when Helen broached the subject. “It’s not as if he is, like, your boyfriend.”

“You were doing it on the couch, Sharon, in the living room.”

“So?”

“So? Something called privacy—your space, my space, our space.” Helen flapped her hands at the designated spaces, but the gesturing didn’t help. Sharon just stared back at her, uncomprehending. “Whatever!” She rolled her eyes and held both palms out to show that the discussion was over. “If you’re not happy, you can, like, find someplace else to go.”

Which was what Helen was going to do, even though the lease was in her name. If anyone should leave, it should be Sharon, who was only supposed to be in Chrissie Wilt Gard’s room for a short while, anyway.

“I’m not really moving out,” Chrissie had said more than a year ago, “so don’t look for another roomie. I love my mother, but I can’t live with her too long. She’d drive me crazy.”

Helen didn’t know how mothers could do that because she had been only eight when hers had died. But Chrissie usually knew what she was talking about. Only it hadn’t been Chrissie who had been going crazy. It had been her mother. Not crazy, really. Just heartbroken.

So, despite her reservations, Chrissie had moved to her mother’s Oak Park house, where she had remained for more than a year. Then, she had been offered her dream job in Austria as the legal advisor to an international trade organization. Even then, she hadn’t wanted to leave.

“I can’t leave my mom. Not now. Not when she’s like this.”

“She wants you to go, Chrissie,” Helen had reminded her. “And you can’t turn down something like this. You’ve wanted it, like, forever.”

Chrissie had shrugged her shoulders, but in the end she had gone. Now Helen was also going to have to go. She didn’t want Sharon thinking she begrudged her Josh.

Because she really didn’t care about him. In fact, the more she thought about it, the less she cared. Sure, it had surprised her to see them together. Maybe even shocked her that Josh, just another techno-weenie, could do it in the living room, with the door wide open. Maybe even amazed her that he could get her roommate to make such loud noises.

But neither the sight nor the sounds really bothered her. What really bothered her was that she hadn’t even been good enough for a techno-weenie.

Well, she was going to change all that. She would deal with her lack-of-man problem the way she had dealt with all her problems. The way she had managed to outsmart her brother David at chess and her other brother Christopher at the International Youth for Robotics Fair. The way she had managed to get top marks in graduate school. All she had to do was find the right books, take the right classes, read, study and then master the subject. It couldn’t be that difficult, could it?

But first, she was going to have to find another place to live.

CHAPTER 2

Lauren pushed the diced carrots around her plate. Alice Mirosek was saying something about her husband Frank and his camera. Or was it his carburetor? Did it really matter? Either way, Lauren had lost the point to the story, and no one seemed to notice. Why had she come? Why had she let Alice and Clare talk her into it?

Not that there had been any discussion involved. They had pulled the good cop/bad cop routine. First, the good cop had called about the planned get-together.

“I never get to see you anymore now that the kids are gone and you’ve stopped coming to the fitness classes,” Alice had said in that honeyed voice of hers. “It would be nice to catch up. Let’s try lunch at The Green Factory. Clare can make it, too. It’ll be fun, Lauren. Just like old times.”

But it wouldn’t be like old times, not for her anyway. Those times were gone. Gone with the wind. Make that the hurricane.

So Lauren hadn’t promised anything, and she certainly hadn’t bothered to get ready for lunch today. But she hadn’t figured on the bad cop arriving. Like a dark-haired Valkyrie in pursuit of revenge, Clare had pushed her straight into the shower, thrown some clothes on her bed and practically forced her into the car. Nor did her relentless takeover stop when they arrived at The Green Factory. She wouldn’t even allow Lauren to give her order to the boyish-looking waiter. Not that it mattered. She didn’t care what it was anyway, even though she had had a mouthful or two.

Lauren glanced at her friends. At least, they weren’t having any trouble eating. No more than they were with life. No road blocks on their paths to happiness, not even a bump.

Clare said something indiscernible. Alice nodded and continued to talk about Frank. That marriage was obviously still going strong. Which was somewhat surprising, given all the odds against them.

Frank, the rebellious son of New Jersey factory workers, had traded in his youthful rock musician aspirations to work with emotionally disturbed children. Alice was born and bred in the affluent suburb of Oak Park, and it showed, right down to her woolen knit skirt, sensible but expensive leather shoes, and her senior management position at a Chicago bank. Yet Frank and Alice had found something together that Charles and Lauren, with their similar backgrounds, never had. Now that Frank and Alice’s youngest was almost out of college, it seemed to be honeymoon time all over again for them. No wonder Alice couldn’t understand what Lauren was going through. No more than Clare could.

Lauren turned toward the other woman whose black hair, olive-toned skin and dark eyes revealed her Mediterranean origins. She was saying something in her eloquent, persuasive style, gesturing in short, rapid movements to hammer home a point. Lauren noticed again how tiny Clare’s wrists were, making her seem fragile and delicate.

But there was nothing delicate or fragile about Clare. Lauren knew that for a fact. Clare clearly didn’t need anything or anyone—not a husband, not children. Lauren had always thought how empty Clare’s days must be without them. But, looking at her now, it was clear that Clare’s life could hardly be qualified a failure.

Unlike Lauren’s.

Suddenly aware of a lull in the conversation and two pairs of eyes scrutinizing her, Lauren impaled something on her fork and dragged it into her mouth. She chewed with effort, and the big, tasteless lump went down slowly, very slowly.

She didn’t notice Alice reaching over until she felt the squeeze of her hand.

“Clare told me about the house,” Alice said, slowly releasing her grip. “I’m sorry.”

Tilting her head, letting her shoulder-length hair fall around her face like a veil, Lauren kept her eyes on her plate. “Yeah, well.”

“Three heads are better than one, you know. Together we’ll think of something.”

“Have you thought about it?” Clare asked. “What you’re going to do with it?”

Lauren lifted her head. “I don’t know. I really don’t. I just know I can’t sell it. Not after all the time I put into it. Not now that I’ve lost everything else. The house…” She glanced around the restaurant and swallowed, hoping no one noticed the break in her voice. She forced herself to look back at the two women. “That would be the last straw.”

“You haven’t lost everything, Lauren,” Alice said. “You have to stop thinking that way.”

“Right.” Lauren set her fork on her plate and leaned back in her chair. “And which way should I be thinking?”

“Certainly not only about the bad things. Think about the good things. You have two wonderful children, a house you restored practically on your own, an award-winning book. Should I continue?”

Lauren shrugged. “What’s the point?” She studied the pattern on the table cloth, hoping the conversation would change and her friends would ignore her, the way the rest of the universe had been doing. But she underestimated them.

“Oh for crying out loud, Lauren!” Clare said, running her manicured fingers through her dark curls. “You’ve got to stop thinking this way. The world hasn’t ended just because you lost your husband! Maybe you didn’t lose anything. Maybe you just got rid of something old and useless. Maybe this is your chance to begin something new.”

“Clare, I’m fifty-three,” Lauren retorted. “You don’t begin something at fifty-three. You begin to end it. Unless you’re me, and it’s already over.” She smiled brightly at her weak attempt at humor.

Clare didn’t respond in kind. Her features seemed sterner, and she shook her head emphatically. “It’s not over. Not all of it, anyway. It’s time for you to say goodbye to one part of your life and move on to the next.” She blew out slowly, then continued in a more restrained tone. “I mean, it’s not as if we just have a single shot at doing something with our lives.”

Alice nodded. “Or one way of living it.”

“I can’t. I’m just not cut out for any other kind of life. I really don’t think I can manage this…this…this single life.” Lauren pointed at the air, as if to provide a clearer idea of what she was talking about.

“You don’t know that until you’ve tried,” Alice said. “Things change, and we keep on living.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You still have your life, the one you’ve always had, the one you’ve always wanted.”

“Not exactly.”

Alice sounded almost wistful, but Lauren knew that wasn’t possible. She was projecting her own failures and disappointments onto her friend. Alice really did have everything—a career on track, a husband who obviously loved her more than ever and two children, living close enough to visit, whose only contact didn’t have to be through the telephone or the Internet.

“You think your life is over when you could be entering one of the most exciting periods,” Alice continued. “Just think of all the exciting, new places you could visit, the fun things you could do, the great guys you could meet.”

“Men are not interested in me.” Lauren waved her hands over her chest, where, even with a firm under-wire bra, her breasts sagged. She didn’t need to point at the rest of her. She was obviously a dismal heap.

“You don’t know that,” Clare said. “You haven’t bothered to get in touch with that writer who your agent Louise has been trying to set you up with.”

“Or that guy who Chrissie has been wanting you to meet,” Alice added. “She certainly thinks someone might be interested in you.”

“Chrissie’s just being a good daughter,” Lauren replied. “Nothing can shake her faith in me.”

“So learn from her and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Your life isn’t over. It’s just beginning. Think of it as…as…as…” Alice’s face suddenly brightened. “I know, as the dawning of a new age.”

Alice must be listening to Frank’s old albums, Lauren thought, bemused. She wanted to remind her friend how outdated that kind of talk was. But Alice seemed so sincere, Lauren didn’t have the heart. Besides, she suddenly realized how hard Clare and Alice were trying, for her sake. Surely, the least she could do was listen.

“Go ahead,” she said, forcing herself to smile at the concerned faces. “Explain.”

“It’s just a question of changing your attitude. Your husband walked out? Good riddance,” Alice said.

“That’s what I would say. What I say.” Clare nodded approvingly. “I mean, come on Lauren, think of what Charles did to you. It’s not as if he was ever really there for you. You know that.”

Alice leaned forward. “Besides, now you don’t have to waste your time socializing with his colleagues at those silly dinner parties you hated.”

This time, Lauren’s smile was genuine. “I did hate them.”

Charles had always argued that part of his career depended on pleasing the people he worked with. So Lauren had accepted the role of hostess, even when it hadn’t been what she wanted. She certainly didn’t miss that part of her former life!

“See what I mean?” Alice said. She tilted her head slightly. With her mousy curls framing her face, she suddenly looked cherubic, despite her fifty-something years.

“Maybe.” Lauren shrugged her shoulders. “But that’s just one thing. What about everything else?”

Clare opened her mouth, then closed it to smile at the waiter, returning to check on them. Alice asked for more bread.

“About Charles…” Clare began when the waiter left.

“No, forget about him.” Lauren waved her hands. “He wouldn’t matter so much if I could finish this book. What about not being able to write? That has never happened to me. Never. Not even when Chrissie was a baby, and Jeff was three, and between the two of them, I was up all night and all day. I was exhausted, but I wrote. Nothing memorable, of course, but I wrote. I can’t even do that now.”

The two women exchanged glances. Clare shrugged, and Alice spoke.

“Maybe you’re writing about the wrong thing. When the kids were small, what did you write about?”

“Them. Me. Parenting. Our lives. Stuff like that. Like I said, most of it was pretty bad, but it gave me a routine that I could stick to. Now, I can’t think of a paragraph, a sentence, a word to put down.”

Alice smiled sympathetically. “I understand. But the book you won the award for was about the house, your family, the people and things you love, right?”

“Autobiography of a House? Yes, you could say that.” Lauren narrowed her eyes, realizing where Alice was going. “But my current project, My Mother’s Garden, is about the same sort of thing. Only this time, I just can’t write. So there goes your theory.”

“Maybe you’ve said all you have to say about it,” Alice continued. “Start thinking about something else and maybe you’ll begin to write again.”

“That would be great if it weren’t for a little thing called a contract,” Lauren said.

Alice looked at Clare for help.

“Be inventive. Your editor has agreed to extend the deadline, hasn’t she?” Clare began, then paused as the waiter arrived with the bread and waited for him to leave. “Like I was saying, maybe you can persuade your editor that this other topic—the one you are going to come up with—is really great. Talk to your agent. Talk to Louise. That’s what she’s there for.”

“You make it sound so easy, Clare. It’s not.”

“I never said it was.” Clare’s hands thumped lightly against the tabletop. “I just said you have to think about things differently. It’s a start.”

“Maybe.” Lauren picked up her fork again and pushed it around her plate, shaping the untouched food into a mound. “But here’s the real test. What do I do about the house?”

Alice looked at Lauren’s plate. “Have some bread. It’s whole wheat, the kind you like. Go ahead. Dip it in the yogurt sauce.”

Alice did just that, but Lauren didn’t follow suit. Instead she watched, enjoying Alice’s obvious pleasure in the food, despite her own dark mood.

“Go on, Lauren. Have some.” Clare helped herself to some bread and dipped it in the sauce. “We don’t want you missing out on a good thing. That’s what you said to me the first time you brought me here. Remember?”

Lauren remembered. She and Alice had been rewarding themselves here regularly with good, healthy food after grueling sessions at the fitness class. When they had befriended Clare, a sister in sweat, they had invited her along. But the vegetarian menu didn’t thrill Clare. The first couple of times she’d ordered only salads. She even joked about it: the Green Factory became the Slim Factory and the name stuck for a while.

Then, one day, Clare became adventurous. She tried a tofu burger and liked it. The next time, she moved on to the lentil loaf. After that, it was the olive-roasted bread, millet pilaf and vegetable croustade. Now, she was a jolly green monster, insisting Lauren eat bread. Everyone else worried about carbs, but Clare pushed bread!

Lauren forced herself to eat some in a show of good will. For some reason, it took less effort to get it down than whatever had been on her plate.

“Happy?” She looked at Alice who was leaning back, her hands folded across her stomach. “Aren’t you going to have any more?”

Alice shook her head. “I’ve had too much already. Not that I can stop myself. I’m addicted. I’ve got the hips to show for it.”

She patted them, inviting Lauren to look at the parts of her figure visible behind the table. It was full and ample and curvaceous. Lauren wished she looked half as healthy and a quarter as feminine.

“You don’t have anything to worry about. Besides, I think it’s going to happen, addiction or not. It has something to do with meno… No, what did you call it? Oh, yes. The dawn of a new age. You don’t loose your figure, you just gain a middle.”

Alice wagged her finger. “Careful, Lauren. I’m going to think you agree with me.”

“Help me with my house and I just might.”

Clare became suddenly serious. “Look, as your lawyer, I really think your best option is to sell.”

“I told you—” Lauren began, but closed her mouth when Clare lifted up a dainty index finger.

“Alice and I have been talking about it, and we think, well, there is something you could try.”

“What?” Lauren reached for some water.

“Get a job.”

Lauren almost knocked her glass down. “A job? I have one. It’s called writing.”

“And apparently, it’s not going too well.”

Once again, Lauren opened her mouth to say something; once again, Clare persevered.

“I’m talking about another job, Lauren. One that would get you some cash. And it would have other advantages. It would get you out of the house. It could give you something to write about.” She held up three fingers. “It might even shake your depression.”

Clare dropped her hand, leaned her elbows on the table and moved closer to Lauren. “I’m serious, Lauren. Get a job, and you just might be set for that new life we were talking about.”

“Get a job?” Lauren looked at Alice for help and saw that the battle lines had been drawn earlier, probably before she had arrived at the table. “I wouldn’t know how to do that. The last time I tried was a lifetime ago. And who’s going to want a woman who’s over the hill, anyway?”

“Well, if that’s the way you think, no one!” Alice said, impatience straining her voice for the first time. “Shake out of it, honey. You may not be the only one who’s got problems around here, but you’re the only one who’s determined not to do something about them!”

Lauren was so startled by the uncharacteristic outburst, she stopped listening until Clare pounded her fist against the table.

“You really haven’t been hearing a word we’ve been saying, have you? Well listen to this. It’s all about attitude. Convince yourself and you’ll convince others.”

Chrissie hadn’t needed any convincing. She had been delighted with Clare’s and Alice’s idea and had urged her mother to explore the professional contacts she had developed over the years. Western University, where Lauren had taught years ago, might have short-term jobs. With the semester beginning soon and the increase in enrolments, the school would be looking for a good, experienced teacher, especially one whose name carried a little weight in the publishing world.

Western had asked Lauren to run a creative writing workshop several years ago, when she had won the Behn Foundation Award, but she had been eager to start her second book then and had turned down the offer. A year later, Western had renewed it. She had been on the verge of accepting when Charles had announced that he wanted a divorce. Lauren’s friends had encouraged her not to abandon her plans, but she simply forgot to respond until it was too late. Now, she sincerely hoped Western wouldn’t hold it against her. A few hours teaching the craft of writing might be the ideal way to hold on to her house.

The next day, sobered by her friends’ parting remarks, encouraged by her daughter and armed with budding newfound courage, Lauren called Diane Cart, the head of the writing department, who promptly invited Lauren to a trendy coffee shop near the campus to talk.

Lauren took her time getting ready. She considered this meeting an interview. She carefully sorted through her clothes, seeing, for the first time, some advantage to the extra closet and rack space Charles had left behind. She tried on three trouser suits before finding one that didn’t hang on her hips like a sack. But it still needed a belt and was much less flattering than it had once been. She had lost far too much weight recently, but, with the state of her life, she hadn’t given a thought to her wardrobe.

Not that Lauren had ever been a woman who turned heads. Although she was tall and toned from exercise, she lacked the hourglass proportions of the ideal female figure. Her breasts were far too small, her behind too big and her waist almost nonexistent. Nonetheless, she had always liked to wear good quality clothes, and she had enjoyed scouring expensive boutiques and department stores in search of them. She hadn’t done that since the divorce, but maybe things would change with the interview.

Examining herself in the full-length mirror, Lauren tried not to dwell on the ravages of the past few months. At least, she looked like a professional woman ready for an interview. That was what mattered.

Her gray roots were showing, but that couldn’t be helped now. She styled her hair as well as she could and promised herself an appointment at the hairdresser, if she got the job. Then she went to work on her face, hoping to put more sparkle in her blue eyes and more color in her cheeks. She may not have used her makeup kit for a while, but she still knew a few tricks. The woman she saw when she gave herself a final, parting glance in the mirror was not who she used to be, but she wasn’t this year’s lifeless shadow either.

Diane wasn’t at the café when Lauren arrived. She glanced around the room, taking in all the poised, youthful diners, in their twenties and thirties, wearing expensive designer clothes, drinking coffee, reading newspapers or engrossed in flirtatious conversations.

It was like walking onto the set of a fashion shoot. Despite her efforts with her appearance, Lauren felt self-conscious and out of place.

She felt even more drab and dull when Diane Cart swept into the room, looking as if she had stepped off the pages of Vogue. Lauren watched Diane cross the room—a self-aware, well-kept, confident woman—and wished she had never made this appointment. She should have waited until she looked less of a wreck. How was she ever going to assert herself to someone like this?

“I’m so sorry I’m late, darling. You can’t imagine how busy I am, with the new term beginning and all the meetings I have to attend.” Diane leaned over to air-kiss Lauren, enveloping her in perfume. She placed an expensive leather bag on the table, the brand name visible. “The dean has asked me to head another committee. It really is a nuisance. But there you are. I have to do what I have to do. It’s so difficult to delegate. I’m sure you understand.”

Without bothering to really look at Lauren, Diane waved the waitress over and ordered an espresso.

“One shot. And please make sure it really is only one shot.” Turning to Lauren, she said, “Sometimes they add too much water, you know. It tastes like drip coffee. Not at all what I want.”

Lauren gave the waitress an apologetic smile, ordered bottled water for herself, then returned her attention to Diane, who was talking again about the accumulated responsibilities of her life.

“…and that’s why I wanted to see you. I was sure you would want to contribute to the fund-raiser. I thought you could do a reading. Maybe present some of your more recent material. That would be wonderful. I’m sure everyone would love it.”

Lauren had been practically hypnotized by the brightness of Diane’s scarlet nails, so she wasn’t sure she had heard right.

“I’m sorry. Did you invite me here today to discuss a fund-raiser? For Western University?”

Diane’s hand froze in midair. With a smile as stylized as her dress, she looked at Lauren. “Yes. I was sure you would want to help.”

Lauren laughed without humor. “I think there’s been some misunderstanding. Actually, Diane, I called because I’m looking for a job. I was wondering if that workshop you offered me a while ago—two years ago—was, well, a possibility.”

Diane frowned. “You’re looking for a job?”

Lauren nodded.

“I’m sorry, Lauren, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize… I had heard that…but I didn’t realize…” Diane waved her red-tipped fingers in the air to fill in the spaces she left blank.

Lauren doubted that the woman’s sympathetic look was genuine.

“Yes, Diane, I’m looking for a job. With the divorce and everything, I’m a bit short on cash.”

“I understand.” Diane wrapped a cold hand around Lauren’s wrist. Lauren resisted the urge to push it away. She waited to see how understanding the other woman really was.

After a moment, Diane withdrew her hand, leaned back in her chair and sighed heavily. “I realize that it must be really terrible, what you’re going through. My husband is such a wonderful man, I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose him. But surely you must know that our workshops are planned at least a year in advance. Anyway, after the last offer, I thought you weren’t interested.”

“I was interested. It was just, well… It was just a bad time for me.” Lauren smiled as sweetly as she could. If she concentrated hard enough, she could hold back her tears. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want Diane to know how much she cared. “I guess now is a bad time for you.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“And I don’t suppose there would be a teaching position open for the next semester?”

“There might be something, but surely you understand I can’t offer you anything, Lauren. It’s been several years since you’ve published, and our students want to be instructed by cutting-edge writers, those who can help them get into print. I don’t know if you have that kind of clout anymore.”

It took all Lauren’s concentration to keep her eyes fixed on Diane’s face. Everything inside her was screaming at her to walk away before hearing another humiliating word. But she couldn’t leave, not just yet, not without exploring one more possibility.

“I was thinking more on the lines of basic writing skills, composition classes, written expression, that sort of thing.”

“When was the last time you taught such a class? Ten years ago?”

Lauren hesitated. She could bend the truth a little, but what was the point? She shook her head. “Longer.”

“More than ten years! Lauren, you don’t really expect us to hire someone without recent experience? Besides you’re overqualified. We rely on our graduate students for those courses, sometimes even the advanced undergrads. They do just fine, especially since they’re more in touch with the needs of their peers.”

“So there really isn’t anything?”

“Not at the moment. But if anything should come up, you’ll be the first in mind.”

Which was obviously Diane-speak for “Don’t hold your breath!”

Clare Hanley pressed the intercom button to address her personal assistant.

“Anything I need to deal with in the next hour or so?”

Anne Wright relayed recent messages, reminded Clare of an upcoming meeting and reported that Anton Muller was waiting to see her. “He wants to go over the McGrady case.”

“Send him in. We need to deal with it as soon as possible.”

Anton stepped into her office a few moments later, an enormous file under his arm. Clare motioned him toward the table in the corner of the room.

When Anton had joined the firm several years ago, Clare had been skeptical about how they would work together. She had hoped the job would go to one of the women candidates she had been committed to promoting, but, in the end, she’d conceded that Anton’s qualifications were strong and his decade-long experience as a Chicago police officer was a considerable asset.

It was his law-enforcement experience that had made her so wary. The firm was already sufficiently testosterone-charged. She really didn’t need another junior associate—especially one close to her own age—whose previous profession probably didn’t dispose him to taking orders from a woman. For despite all the recent publicity, Chicago’s finest could hardly be more gender sensitive than Clare’s Ivy League male colleagues. And she knew what Neanderthals they were when it came to working with women, let alone taking directions from one!

So it had come as a complete surprise to discover that Anton was not only an efficient, diligent and cooperative team player, but also extremely respectful of her position and authority. Not that he was a pushover. After working with her on only a couple of cases, he had begun to question her interpretation of the law. Surprised, she had listened to him, and their discussion had shed light on the situation and ultimately helped them to win the case. She appreciated his conviction. She also liked his courteous, diplomatic manner. More and more, she found herself seeking his opinion and collaboration.

This had everything to do with his competence and nothing to do with his looks, she now reminded herself, nothing to do with his broad shoulders and flat stomach and trim waist. Moving toward the table, he turned his back to her, offering her a tantalizing view of a very firm behind, covered in a conservative suit that did nothing to conceal his strong masculinity.

More than once, she had found herself mesmerized by his sleek, pantherlike movements. When she wasn’t admiring his gracefulness, she was wondering how his thick hair would feel under her fingers. It was almost as dark as hers, but he had no need to dye the graying streaks. Why should he? They made him look distinguished, nothing like the washed-out, worn-out woman she would be if she didn’t make her monthly trips to the hairdresser.

Like her, Anton was single—no family, no significant other of either sex. He always attended office functions solo, as she did. He had joked about it once, suggesting they join forces as the few remaining singles on board. They had laughed loudly and long, but they both knew that was never going to happen. Which was too bad. Because if she didn’t have a rule about dating colleagues, he would be first on her list.

“Congratulations, Clare!” He waited for her to sit down before lowering himself into a chair. “I heard about the Dubovski settlement.”

She kept her eyes on the table, away from the long, lean legs stretched out in front of her. “Thank you, Anton. I’m pleased with the outcome. It went well for us.”

“That’s an understatement!” He laughed, and his rugged features softened, making him look younger than the forty-something he was. “Astounding is what everybody else is saying.”

She tried to focus on his words, not the vibrant tones of his deep voice. Funny how his voice always sounded so authoritative in court and with clients, when all she could hear in it now were the rich, throaty timbres more fitting for the bedroom.

Clare ignored the tingling sensations spreading from her stomach to her toes. “Congratulations to you, too, Anton,” she said, resisting the pull of his blue eyes. “You were a big part of that success.”

She worked hard to transmute her face into a patronizing grin, the kind of smile that she used to get from the most senior lawyer in the office when she first joined the firm. Not that Mr. Bailey Senior had had many grins for her. They were reserved for the “boys” who went golfing or fishing with him.

Now Clare allowed herself one last, quick glance at Anton’s broad shoulders. Then, bracing herself for the work before them, she reached for the file, her manner all business. “About McGrady vs. McGrady. Have you finished the Preliminary Declaration of Disclosure?”

CHAPTER 3

It took Lauren a day to recover from her disappointing meeting with Diane, thanks to a phone call from Chrissie that prevented her from overindulging in self-pity.

“You can’t stop after one failure, Mom,” Chrissie had told her. “Do you know how many applications I had to fill out before I got this job? Believe me, I lost count.”

“But you’re young, Chrissie. You have all the time in the world. You could afford to wait for your dream position. I can’t. I’ve got bills closing in on me.”

“It’s not all happening tomorrow,” Chrissie said with the same conviction she’d used to get her position as legal advisor for an international organization. “You can still call around.”

“But Diane said—”

“Forget Diane, Mom. So she wasn’t helpful. So it didn’t work out at Western. Do you know how many universities and colleges there are in the Chicago area?”

“I know, sweetheart. But it’s not me they want.”

“Oh, Mom! All of them would kill to have you!”

Not Western apparently. “Sweetheart—”

“Do you want me to come back and do it for you, Mom? I will if I have to. Don’t think I won’t.”

Lauren was touched by her daughter’s concern. Chrissie had done so much for her since the divorce. She had even been ready to give up the job she had been after ever since she’d graduated from law school. But Lauren had put her foot down and insisted she would be fine.

She was going to have to do the same thing now, although it meant agreeing to make those calls. Besides, she didn’t have the energy to argue with her daughter. Even with an ocean and a continent separating them, Chrissie was more formidable than a steamroller. No wonder she’d gotten the position she’d wanted.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Lauren said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“Great, Mom.”

But after her sixth rejection, Lauren felt she would have been better off not complying. No one she spoke with was as intimidating as Diane, but the responses were all pretty much the same. There were no positions open for the coming semester. Budget constraints were so severe, some of the staff would have to be cut. Either Lauren was overqualified for teaching introductory writing courses or she wasn’t experienced enough. For some recruiters, she was too prestigious for their school’s humble programs. For others, she lacked the snappy, experimental and contemporary style their students coveted.

Whichever way she looked, she was wrong for the job. So now she wasn’t only a has-been writer and a failed wife, she was also a no-go writing teacher!

Lauren wasn’t ready to risk any more rejection, especially suspecting that the acceptances were going to kids who could barely sign their names when she had had her first articles published. She almost didn’t tell Chrissie. Her daughter was bound to encourage her to keep trying with other schools. But when she asked, Lauren couldn’t lie. She wasn’t about to break one of the fundamental rules of parenting over this.

Surprisingly, Chrissie didn’t press the issue.

“Never mind about teaching, Mom,” she said, her voice as clear as if she were standing next to her. “Sell your talents at writing.”

What do you think I have been trying to do? Lauren wanted to scream, but she swallowed the retort. Chrissie was trying so hard to be encouraging. The least Lauren could do was play the game.

“And who would want to hire me? Unless you know someone who wants his family history written. Or maybe some love letters,” she added, thinking of one of Chrissie’s favorite films. “No. Forget that. I’m no Cyrano de Bergerac.”

Chrissie laughed. “Not love letters, Mom, but online dating profiles. Now that’s an idea. In fact—”

“A bad idea,” Lauren intervened before her daughter could go any further. “I don’t even know what they are. Seriously, Chrissie—”

“Seriously, Mom. Maybe you’re no Cyrano, but people do hire writers. Businesses need writers. So do nonprofit organizations. We just hired someone to write a ten-page brochure for us. That’s what made me think of you. It’s the sort of thing you could do easily. You did it for Dad for years without getting paid. In fact, come to think of it, after you put together a writing portfolio, you might contact some of his colleagues and see if they’re interested.”

“What a good idea, Chrissie!” Lauren said, pressing hard on her lips so she wouldn’t yell with exasperation.

Because, of course, it was a terrible idea. Perhaps Charles’s colleagues would send some work her way, but it would be as a favor to her ex-husband, the kind of favor she could do without. She wouldn’t put what little dignity she had up for sale.

But, she realized after she and Chrissie had said their goodbyes, she wasn’t ready to give up her house, either. She might not want to contact Charles’s friends, but Chrissie did have a point: there must be someone out there who could use her gift with words. Just because she couldn’t land a teaching job didn’t mean she couldn’t write. Just because she was having problems with her book didn’t mean she couldn’t work on someone else’s.

She was having a run of bad luck, but she could turn things around. Hadn’t she restored the house on her own while taking care of two toddlers? Hadn’t she written a prize-winning book while raising rebellious teenagers? She’d managed fine without Charles then. She could do it again. She would find a way to meet her payments. There must be a writing job out there for her. All she had to do was spread her net a bit wider.

Clare made her way down the sidewalk and cursed the infamous Chicago wind. In her light jacket and thin silk stockings, she wasn’t prepared for the sudden chill of the early spring night. Luckily, the restaurant was only several steps away. She hurried through the swinging doors and crossed the room slowly, examining the crowd carefully.

No sign of Harry. His description didn’t fit any of the men leaning against the bar. Nor was he waiting at any of the booths.

She wasn’t surprised. She was late.

She had been running all day. First to a meeting that she had almost missed because the “boys” had conveniently forgotten to mention it to her. No surprise there, either. Even after all these years, they still didn’t accept her as one of their own. As long as she didn’t golf with them, laugh at their sexist jokes, or share the same illustrious pedigree, they never would.

Fortunately, Bailey Junior, hardly the biggest brain around, had let something slip. Just as well, because if Clare hadn’t been there, the “boys” would have assigned the Van Belden account to one of the incompetent young associates who smooched up to them on the golf course. She had offered to do some of the screening. More work for her, for sure, but how else was she going to get the firm to look at the women candidates?

After the meeting, she’d had to race across town for her weekly session with the law students she mentored. She couldn’t let those women down, not knowing firsthand how high the cards were stacked against them. Which was also why Clare had stayed longer than she should have.

Then, it was back to the office again to file a custody petition. It had to be in as soon as possible. It wasn’t about advancing her career and billing more hours. It was about children, getting them out of a bad situation and sparing them as much grief as possible. Anyone would understand why she had to stay after hours.

But apparently Harry hadn’t. She was twenty minutes late, and it looked like he was long gone. That would teach her to put obligations before pleasure. That would teach her to put her clients first and men after. She should have learned that lesson a long time ago.

Still, nothing was stopping her from having a little pleasure on her own. She would have a drink before she headed home, two if she was up for it. Which was not likely, nor advisable. She had known how unadvisable before most kids could read.

Still, nothing wrong with one drink. Just one drink and then she’d head home. Alone. Again.

Clare found an empty seat at the bar and ordered a martini. While she waited, she checked her cell phone. Harry had called to tell her he wasn’t waiting. Too bad for him. She didn’t care. She certainly didn’t need him. There were others like him out there, and even if there weren’t, it didn’t matter.

She liked being single, most of the time anyway. She could call the shots. Eat in or eat out—as she wanted. Decide where to vacation and what car to buy. She had no regrets and no heartbreaks. Not recently anyway and certainly nothing like Lauren.

Poor woman! She was going to have to rebuild her whole life at an age when most women just wanted to lie back and enjoy. No wonder Lauren was feeling so down lately. A new job could only help, if not for her house, then at least for herself.

Clare snapped her phone shut and slipped it back into her purse. She toyed with her martini as she slowly eyed the men around the bar. She could give them more attention now that she knew she was on her own.

After a day like today, she didn’t have the energy to pick up anyone, but there was nothing wrong with looking. Everything was so much easier when only window-shopping was involved. She didn’t have to worry about sagging breasts, cellulite dimples and wrinkled skin. And there would be no chance of being stood up if she put her work first.

So, let’s see. Who’s going to be the lucky guy tonight? Not the boy with wind-swept blond hair. She didn’t want to be accused of cradle-robbing. Not Mr. Marlboro in the corner there, either. He would spend too much time admiring himself in the mirror. Which maybe wasn’t such a bad idea because he wouldn’t have any time to notice her bulges. Then again, if she was going to do this, she wanted to feel good about herself. So forget Mr. Marlboro.

Clare sipped her martini and continued to scan the candidates. Not Mr. Junior Exec. She’d had enough of his type in the courtroom today. Mr. Sensitive with Glasses and Long Hair wouldn’t do, either. He probably wouldn’t approve of her constant wrangling over financial settlements. Of course, she wouldn’t want to spend too much time discussing them with him. She had other plans in mind. Plans for his long hair and his nice-looking mouth. Too bad he was a sensitive type.

Clare sighed and sipped again. There was no pleasing her tonight. Maybe she should look at the booths. Maybe she—

“Clare?”

She turned in the direction of the familiar voice.

“Oh, hello, Anton.”

Like her, he hadn’t changed out of his business suit. But he had taken off his blazer and was carrying it, hooked on a finger, over his shoulder in a careless manner she found sexy. He had removed his tie, and had loosened the top buttons of his shirt, revealing dark chest hairs. She swallowed—discretely she hoped—and forced her eyes up toward his sea-blue eyes and slightly weathered face.

With his good-guy looks and well-toned body, Anton was a far better proposition than anything else she had seen so far. She was hard-pressed to find anything wrong with him.

Oh, yes. There was something, something very wrong. He was a lawyer and he worked for her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“That was going to be my line.” He smiled at her, and she wished more than ever that she didn’t have a rule about relationships with colleagues. “I thought you were working late tonight. Your door was shut when I left, or I would have asked if you wanted to join me.”

“I would have said ‘no.’ I was supposed to meet someone here, but I think I was stood up.”

She twisted her head over her shoulder as if to give the room another look, but she really just wanted to increase the space between them.

“His loss.” Anton brought his hand down, draping his blazer over his other arm. He tilted his head toward the stool next to her. “Mind if I join you?”

“You’re on your own?”

“Not if I’m here with you,” he teased. “I came with some friends, but they’re leaving.”

He waved to a group of several men and women who were exiting. Clare was relieved to see there was no one from Bailey, Brooks, Kantowicz and Hanley. Office gossips would have a field day with this encounter, not to mention the martini she had practically guzzled.

He looked down at her, waiting for an answer.

“You know,” she said, blinking to avoid the blue of his eyes. “We never celebrated the Dubovski victory. Let me buy you this drink.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. If you’ll let me get the next round.”

“It’s a deal.”

She waved at Jimmy the bartender, wondering at the wisdom of what she was doing. She hadn’t eaten anything since a sandwich at lunchtime and she was beginning to feel light-headed. But she and Anton did have something to celebrate, and Clare had never properly expressed her appreciation. What was a drink between colleagues?

She ordered her second martini. It was exactly what she wanted, strong and pungent, the kind of cocktail her father always drank. His preferences had certainly given her a lifelong taste for the stuff, as well as a deep-rooted revulsion.

Jimmy put their drinks down. She reached for her glass.

“To Mrs. Dubovski. Let’s hope she’s much happier without Mr.”

Without waiting for Anton’s response, Clare drank her martini like she might lemonade on a humid Chicago summer afternoon. Anton had a sip of whatever he was drinking, his eyes never leaving her.

“Are you okay?” He put a hand on her shoulder.

She could feel the heat of his hand through the silk of her blouse. Was it the alcohol that was burning her, or something else?

“Fine.” She shrugged off his hand. “Just fine. Nothing another shot of gin won’t help. If I’d known this bar had become so stingy with the drinks, I wouldn’t have stayed. Come on, drink up, Anton. We have another round to go.”

But Anton took his sweet time, rolling his glass between his hands, tilting it against his lips, rubbing it against his mouth. Clare tried not to look, but it was hard. And her alcohol haze didn’t help.

On the contrary. It was a great boost to lowering her inhibitions, to helping her imagine something else in the place of that glass—like her lips or her face or her breasts.

Those thoughts were enough to send heat like flames up her whole body. She shut her eyes to chase the images away, but they only appeared ten times more vivid.

Anton finally put his empty glass down.

“Good! You’re done!” Clare said. “Now, let’s see if we can get Jimmy to look this way. You’d think he’d know me by now, after all the times I’ve been here and all the tips I’ve left.”

“I think he’s having the same thoughts I am.” Anton stared at the empty glass that she was clutching.

“And what would those be?” She looked up at him. His face was blurry and unclear.

“That you’ve had too much to drink as it is,” he said in the same matter-of-fact tone he used when advising a client.

Without another word, he took her glass away from her and emptied the little that was left into his own. She didn’t have the energy to protest. She just looked at him as he pushed off the bar and straightened to his full six foot three. She had to tilt her head all the way back to see his face. It took her several seconds to make out his concerned expression.

“He’s not worth it, Clare. Whoever he is. If he stood you up like this, he must be a jerk.”

If she weren’t so dizzy, she might have burst out laughing. Sweet of Anton, but much too earnest and wholesome for a lawyer and an ex-cop. Yet she really could get a rush from the way he was looking at her. Maybe she could talk him into adoring her body—minus the sags, the cellulite and the wrinkles—but she’d have to open her mouth and move her tongue. She closed her eyes and concentrated very hard.

“Save it,” she managed. “I know all about jerks.”

“And not enough about good guys. They do exist, you know.”

“Not in my world.”

“Maybe it’s time you tried mine.”

Clare wasn’t sure she had heard right or that she understood what he was saying. She turned her head so quickly, the room spun around her. She reached for the bar to steady herself. Somehow, she found herself leaning against Anton, enveloped in the scent of his aftershave, his warmth and his strength. She didn’t move for a moment. Comforted by his steadying hand, she turned her head to look up at him again. His mouth was close. All she had to do was lift her lips a bit, and they would be kissing.

Kissing? No kissing. No kissing Anton.

She drew her head back instead, her hand grasping the bar tightly. She needed to leave before she did something stupid, but she didn’t know if she could leave. Hell, she didn’t even know if she could stand straight. Her head sagged forward. The world spun around her in a kaleidoscope of faces, forms and objects. Her ears registered sounds without meaning. She felt Anton’s hand on her shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Clare? Can I do anything?”

She stared at him for an instant, and then suddenly the sound of clinking glasses, conversation and laughter from a nearby booth broke through her haze. With it came an embarrassed awareness of where she was and what was wrong with her.

She pulled away from him. Wouldn’t the office gossips have a field day with this?

“Clare, I—”

She wanted to shake her head, but she was too dizzy. “I think you’d better call me a cab,” she said, her voice as clear and firm as on her best day in court.

Lauren considered the letter she had just drafted. It sounded professional, efficient and convincing. Surely one of the names she had gotten off the online job listing that Chrissie had given her would belong to someone who would want to hire her as a writer. But what did she know? It had been such a long time since she had written such a letter, she really had no idea what was right. Business etiquette couldn’t have changed that much, but after her dreadful encounter with Diane and all the other demoralizing rejections she’d received, Lauren didn’t know. She needed another opinion.

Lauren glanced at her watch. Too late to contact Chrissie. It was already ten in the evening in Vienna. Clare was a better bet. She was always hiring people. And didn’t she mentor a group of female law students? Clare must give out this kind of advice all the time. She could do the same for Lauren.

Lauren dialed the number, but the machine picked up. Clare was probably at her office. It wouldn’t be the first time she worked on the weekend. Lauren wouldn’t disturb her there, but she decided to try Alice.

Alice may not be as much in the know as Clare, but she wasn’t totally ignorant either. However Lauren was in for another rude surprise when instead of her friend’s usual warm greeting, Alice practically barked hello into the phone.

“It’s me, Alice. Lauren. Are you, um, all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Alice answered through what sounded like gritted teeth. “What do you want?”

“If it’s a bad time, I can call back.”

“That’s okay. I’m fine.”

There was a long pause, in which Lauren heard muffled sounds, as if Alice were exhaling loudly. When her friend spoke again, she sounded more like her usual self.

“I’m sorry, Lauren. It’s… I… You just caught me at a bad moment.”

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bother you. I can always—”

“I said it’s okay. What gives?”

Suspecting that this really wasn’t a good time, Lauren tried to put off the conversation, but Alice wouldn’t have it. So, after apologizing for being such a nuisance, she explained what she wanted. Alice suggested they meet at a coffee shop in Oak Park later that afternoon.

“Are you sure Frank won’t mind?” Lauren asked. “I know you like to spend your weekends together. Family time, you call it.”

“Frank? I doubt he’d even notice,” Alice replied in unusually strident tones.

Of course, Frank would notice. He and Alice were inseparable. But, later thinking over this strange conversation, Lauren recalled Alice’s cryptic remarks at lunch the other day. She wondered what was going on. Had she been so self-absorbed she hadn’t seen what was happening to her oldest and dearest friend? She resolved to find out.

So in the coffee shop, after they had gone over her résumé and her cover letter, Lauren asked, “How are things with you? Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Alice responded, a bit too quickly and curtly for Lauren’s liking.

“Sure? No problems at work?”

Alice shook her head.

“With the children?”

“The kids are fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Frank?”

“He’s fine. Honestly, Lauren, everything is fine.”

“I’m just asking. You sounded funny earlier, and I was surprised you agreed to come today. Not that I don’t appreciate it. But this was always your time for Frank, the kids and you.”

Lauren had always envied the way Alice and Frank had done things together. Despite their different careers, upbringings and philosophies, they had placed the children at the center of their lives, making their family a shared priority. Frank took them to sports practice, and Alice took them to music lessons. They took turns overseeing their homework.

That had definitely not been the case with Charles and Lauren. The kids and the house had been her responsibility. Even on weekends, Charles had been too busy to make time for his wife and children. Or, as Lauren had come to learn, too bored and uninterested to bother with anything they might enjoy. In the end, she had stopped asking and had organized things just for the children and herself.

“Things change,” Alice said. “It happens, as you know.”

“Change? How?” Lauren felt a cold hand squeezing her heart. Frank and Alice had always had such a great relationship. It couldn’t be falling apart now.

“Well, the children are gone, for one,” Alice replied. “So I guess we’re experiencing some growing pains.”

“Growing pains? But you’re all grown-up.”

Alice sighed. “Doesn’t mean we’ve stopped sprouting. We still need our weeding and pruning.”

“At least, you’re growing in the same direction.”

When Alice didn’t say anything, Lauren couldn’t stop herself from asking, “You are, aren’t you?”

Alice stirred her coffee slowly, seemingly enthralled by the tiny ripples forming on the surface. “I hope so. But sometimes I wonder. We don’t do anything together anymore. We could be living on opposite sides of the continent, of the globe, for that matter. It wouldn’t be any different.” She set the spoon down on the saucer and folded her arms across her chest. “You know why we’re not together today? Because he can’t tear himself away from the TV! Can you imagine? The kids had to fight to get a TV because he thought they were already far too brainwashed without one, and now he can’t turn it off? I don’t get it. I just don’t.”

Lauren remembered those arguments. Frank’s disapproval of the mainstream media and entertainment industry was one of the last remaining testimonies to his radical past. For years, until they were teenagers, Karen and Mark would come to Lauren’s house to watch their favorite shows. “Like you said, things change.”

Alice’s only response was a grunt.

“I guess that means you’re not too interested in watching TV.”

Alice’s raised eyebrow was answer enough.

“I guess not. Well then, maybe you need to find something that will get Frank away from it. Think of something you can do together. In the meantime, let’s do something for ourselves, and I know just the thing. In fact, I’m going to make a salon appointment for both of us.”

Several days after that appointment, Lauren still wasn’t used to the face in the mirror. She’d only wanted to get her roots retouched, but the stylist had convinced her to cut it short. Very short. Lauren’s hair hadn’t been shorter than a chin-length bob since college, and even that had been difficult for her in the beginning.

But the stylist had said something about a short, spunky look taking some of the droop off her face, and Alice would only agree to try new highlights in her hair if she had a partner in crime. With such persuasive opposition, what could Lauren do but give in?

Now, she rubbed gel into her hands and worked it into her hair the way she’d been shown. Who would think that she would be trying this goop for the first time at fifty-three? Wouldn’t Chrissie be surprised? Probably. But she would approve.

The droop was still there, Lauren thought, noticing the circles under her eyes. But the close-cropped style did give her a dignity and grace that she had thought lost forever. Now, all she needed was a life to go with the look.

If only everything were as simple as a haircut, but both she and Alice knew it wasn’t. They had brainstormed a list of activities that might seduce Frank away from his newfound love, the television, and back into the arms of his decades-old wife. Lauren hoped one of their ideas would work. And if it didn’t, she’d be there for her friend.

She was still considering her new face when the doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone. It was a bit too soon for a response to those applications she had sent out, but maybe she was finally getting lucky.

She ran downstairs and opened the door.

“Hello, Helen,” Lauren said to Chrissie’s former roommate, taking in the short form standing on her porch. A dark ski cap was pulled low over the young woman’s face, covering her hair. It made her eyes very blue and her elfin features pronounced. Unfortunately, with her oversized down-jacket, she looked more like a troll than an elf.

“Hello, Lauren. Do you—” Helen stopped and stared. “You’ve done something to your hair. It looks very different,” she said. “Very nice, I mean. I like it.”

“Thank you, Helen.” Without thinking, Lauren reached up and touched the spiky tufts of hair.

What could Helen Matter want? Surely she knew Chrissie was in Vienna. Maybe she was looking for Jeff. Helen’s crush on Lauren’s son had always been so transparent. Lauren had wanted to teach a poor girl a thing or two about men, but given how badly Lauren had misjudged the man in her life, Helen would probably be better off learning those lessons herself.

“Do you, um, mind if I come in?”

Realizing they had been standing silent for the last minute, Lauren nodded and pulled the door open. It was then she realized that Helen had come with two big suitcases, a duffel bag and a leather carry-on the size of a laptop. If the baggage was anything to judge by, Helen wasn’t just coming in. She was moving in.

Trying to make sense of it all, Lauren forgot to ask Helen if she wanted any help. Before she knew it, everything was inside, neatly stacked at the bottom of the oak staircase.

“Helen?”

The young woman turned around, an anxious look on her face. “Don’t worry. I’ll carry it all up. I really won’t get in your way.”

“In my way?”

“Yes. It’ll all go to Chrissie’s room.”

“Chrissie’s room?”

“Yes. Chrissie’s room,” Helen said, pulling off her ski cap. Her long blond hair clung to her face. She brushed it away as a hint of a smile started to show. It faded quickly in response to Lauren’s puzzled expression.

“Oh my God! She didn’t tell you? She said she would. I wouldn’t have come otherwise. Oh my God! She said it would be all right. She said you wouldn’t mind. Oh my God! She said—”

“Wouldn’t mind about what? I’m afraid you’ve lost me completely here. What’s going on?” Lauren shook her head in confusion.

“Chrissie said you agreed. I wouldn’t have come otherwise. She said she talked to you—”

“Talked to me about what?”

“She said it was okay—”

“Helen—”

Something in Lauren’s voice must have finally broken through. Helen stopped rambling. She took a deep breath. “I guess she didn’t tell you.”

“No. But you could. I would like that.”

“I don’t have any place to stay. My roommate and my boyfriend—well, he’s not my boyfriend, really. My roommate and a guy, a guy I know, well they, um, they…” Her arms flailed around helplessly. “Well, anyway, he may be moving in. And, um, there isn’t enough room for the three of us, so I had to leave. I’ve tried campus housing and the Internet, but there’s nothing. Not until September. Chrissie said I could stay here until then. She said you wouldn’t mind, Lauren. I wouldn’t have come otherwise. Really, I wouldn’t—”

Lauren held up her hand, signaling Helen to stop. She’d had enough of the hysterical ranting for one day, especially since she still didn’t understand what was going on.

“Didn’t they give you any notice?”

“Notice? Oh you mean about the apartment? No, the lease is in my name.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

Lauren didn’t know why she was asking. Helen may have been a child prodigy. She might be brushing shoulders with Nobel Prize winners. She might even be a future prize-winner herself. But she had very little idea how to deal with the real world.

“It’s easier for one person to leave than for two.”

“And they wanted you to leave straight away?”

“No, but it was kind of awkward. They—”

Lauren held up her hand again. She didn’t want to hear any more details. “So Chrissie told you that you could use her room?”

“Yes. Until I find something else. I’ll pay you, of course. Chrissie said you, um, needed the money. With the divorce and everything.”

So that’s why Chrissie hadn’t bothered to tell her! She was interfering in her mother’s life! She thought she had found the perfect solution for everyone. Never mind that Lauren wasn’t interested in sharing her house again!

She liked living alone. Well, not really. The house was so big, empty and gloomy now. Still, she was getting used to it, and she really didn’t want to share her life and her habits with a roommate. She didn’t need an outsider observing her emotions, invading her space and interrupting her routine. She hadn’t liked group living arrangements when she was younger and she wasn’t about to try again. Home was for family, not for strangers who walked in off the street.

But, Lauren suddenly remembered, she didn’t have a family, not one that lived here anyway. And Helen wasn’t a stranger. Lauren had known her for almost ten years, ever since the girls were freshmen in college. Lauren had warmed to Helen then, despite her rather odd behavior. Chrissie knew this. She also knew her mother would never chase her best friend away, no matter how much she wanted to.

“Okay, Helen,” Lauren said. “You can stay.”

“I can stay?”

“Yes. In Chrissie’s room,” Lauren said, resigned to the fact that even with continents and oceans separating them, her daughter was formidable.

CHAPTER 4

What was Clare going to do?

In fifteen minutes, Anton Muller was going to walk through that door with a file under his arm and questions in his eye. Questions? She would be lucky if there were just questions. More like accusations, recriminations, condemnations.

No matter. He could hardly have more than she did. For several days now, she had been reminding herself of everything she had done wrong. And when she was done, she had begun all over again. She had acted like an out-of-control twenty-year-old.

Clare closed her eyes tightly, hoping the waves of embarrassment and regret would wash away. They didn’t. This problem was much harder to fix than her Saturday-morning hangover.

Breathe deep. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Good. Now think, calmly, rationally, the way you do when preparing a brief. The way you do in court. Just think.

Think? How was she going to sit next to Anton, calmly discussing depositions, custody feuds and marital settlement agreements? Could she look him in the face and not remember that he had seen her drunk? Could she sit next to him and forget what it had been like to be held in his arms? Could she hand him the file and ignore that her whole body had ached for him? Was still aching for him.

Fool. Idiot. Behaving like a lovesick teenager.

No wonder there were rules! Thou shalt not get drunk with thy colleague. Thou shalt not covet thy colleague. Even when his face is a fraction of an inch away from yours and his aftershave fills your nose. Even when his arms are wrapped around you. Even when he covets you, too.

No. Forget that. Anton didn’t covet her. She was all the more the fool if she thought that the case. And even if he did, she was at fault here. She and she alone. Anton had just been kind and helpful and supportive, as always. The way he had been when he had put her in a cab and sent her home.

Drunk. Humiliated. Mortified.

Why had she ignored the rules? Why now? Why with Anton?

What if the office gossips got hold of this! Clare could already hear the whispers. She could see the smirking looks. She could feel the accusatory labels. She couldn’t let it happen. Ever.

There was an easy way to do it. What Bailey Senior had done with Jenny What’s-Her-Name. Pull Anton off all the cases they worked together. Ignore him. Stonewall him into leaving the firm if necessary. Make him pay for her hormones and her absent self-control. She could do that.

No. No. No. She couldn’t do that. She was responsible for what happened—for what almost happened. She would have to deal with it. She would have to talk to him. Then, they could bury it together. Forever.

Lauren lifted the spoon from the counter and plunged it into the sugar bowl. She then transferred the bowl to the far end of the shelf, placing it next to the other condiments. She fiddled with the other containers, alphabetizing and aligning them into neat and orderly rows.

Some might call her obsessive, but after thirty years of running her own house she knew exactly what it should look like because she knew exactly where everything should be. Her husband and her children had respected that. Why couldn’t Helen do the same?

Ever since the young woman had moved in a week ago, Lauren had done nothing but tidy up and set things straight. Helen didn’t have any eye for the order that Lauren had established in her house, the order she liked to keep. How had Chrissie managed to live with Helen? But then Chrissie hadn’t always been too keen about her mother’s rigid housekeeping. No wonder the two girls had roomed together for so long.

With a sigh, Lauren picked up the dishcloth Helen had left on the table and placed it on the rack. She didn’t think she would be able to continue with this living arrangement much longer. She wasn’t ready to do a remake of The Odd Couple.

It didn’t matter that Helen had said she would stick to Chrissie’s room. She had to cook and to eat and to bathe. To do that, she had to venture into other parts of the house. The parts Lauren thought of as “hers,” but which were rapidly becoming Helen’s.

Of course, Helen didn’t realize what she was doing when she forgot to return the spoon to the sugar bowl or left the kitchen tap running, or stomped mud on the porch instead of on the mat.

They were little things, irrelevant things. But they irritated Lauren all the more because she couldn’t complain about them. Who could she complain to, anyway? Helen would certainly apologize and then she would forget what she had done. Chrissie would snort and tell her mother to get on with it, just as she had done when Lauren had confronted her about Helen’s surprise arrival.

“It’s for your own good,” she had said.

“You seem to be forgetting who you are talking to, Chrissie. I’m the mother in this relationship. I watch out for your good. Not the other way round.”

“We already tried that. Now it’s my turn. Oh, and Mom, what’s this about a haircut?”

“Alice and I decided to try something new,” Lauren began only to realize what her daughter was up to. “But Chrissie—”

“Helen says it looks nice.”

“Chrissie—”

“Oh, come on, Mom. She needs a place to stay, you need some money.”

“I don’t need strangers in the house.”

“She’s not a stranger. She’s almost family.”

“Not family, Chrissie. She’s a friend.”

“A very dear friend. Practically a sister. Surely you can adopt her for a while? After Jeff and me, it shouldn’t be that big a deal.”

Actually, it was a big deal. It was hard enough for Lauren to take care of herself. How could she take on Helen as well? But Lauren let it go. At least it was for a good cause. The rent money would buy her a little more time with the house.

Anton knocked on the door and entered without waiting. Clare joined him at the table and pulled the file he had placed there toward her. She tapped her fingers against it, but didn’t open it. Instead she forced herself to look straight into his mesmerizing deep blue eyes.

“Anton,” she said, stretching as tall as she could, trying to be as imposing as her five feet seven inch height would allow. “About what happened the other night… I just… I just wanted to say thank-you. For getting me a cab, I mean.”

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