Andrea, she of the perfect, glossy ringlets and shiny patent-leather shoes that never scuffed, not even on the playground. And Andrea’s best friend, Miriam, of the perfectly freckled nose and adorable matching dimples, complete with endearing lisp that Lucy pretended to hate but secretly coveted.
These two Benetton princesses took one look at Lucy, with her hazel eyes, magnified by bookworm-thick glasses, her mousy brown hair, lumpy rather than wavy, no matter how often she brushed it, topped with the fresh chicken-pox scar on her right cheek, and immediately decided she was not fit to climb the same monkey bars they were. The preschool version of the Corporate Model for Advancement.
Lucy Harper, already a corporate failure at age four.
Things didn’t change much in elementary school. Quiet, but more out of insecurity than shyness, she’d at least learned to tame her unruly hair by then. The Pippi Longstocking nickname had arrived shortly thereafter. Privately, she’d always thought Pippi rocked. But then, Pippi didn’t have to contend with both the whack braids and being the class beanstalk.
Taller than anyone her age from second grade on, she still had gangly awkward long legs, complete with matching big feet that refused to steer clear of even the most insignificant obstacle. Her arms were freakishly strong, yet still scrawny-looking, and her nose wasn’t quite straight due to an unfortunate flip-turn incident in the pool the summer of fifth grade, when she’d worked up the nerve to join the local swim team. The great thing about swimming, she’d discovered, was that it favored long legs and freakish arm strength, but didn’t require perfect eye-hand coordination, like basketball or softball. And, as long as she remained in the pool, she didn’t have to worry about tripping over her own feet. She’d prayed nightly that she was merely a late bloomer.
At twenty-eight, she was still praying.
Which brought her to truth number two: Popular boys never, ever fell for the geeky, beanpole, wallflower girl. Any doubts she might have harbored regarding this law of nature were completely and resolutely put to rest that long-ago June night.
Emboldened by a new pair of contacts that still kind of made her eyes water, skin imperfections only partly disguised by strict adherence to the tips outlined in the “Make Him Notice You, Not Your Pimples!” article in Teen magazine, and a black formal she’d begged her mother to let her wear—one that finally hugged her meager curves rather than hanging from her shoulders like the Shrouds of Dances Past—she’d worked up the nerve to approach the surprisingly stag Jason Prescott.
Jason was the magnificent, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered point guard of Grant High School’s varsity basketball team. And the best part wasn’t his blinding white smile, quick wit, or even his participation on the student council—long a haven for her fellow nerds and geeks. No, Jason’s number one attraction was the fact that, at six feet five, he towered over Lucy’s five-eleven frame. Whenever she could position herself in his orbit, which was as often as humanly possible—without ever actually being noticed, of course—she enjoyed the fleeting sensation of feeling almost girlishly feminine. And, dare she say it, petite.
Grady and Jana had both warned her, of course. But she’d known it was her last chance before they were all cut loose into the big bad world of unpredictable futures. Well, in her case, as much of the big bad world as was encompassed by the Georgetown University campus. Her future wasn’t all that unpredictable either, really, seeing as her father was a tenured professor in the English department, and her mother held a similar position at nearby American U. But Jason was heading off, scholarship already in hand, to play for Duke.
So Lucy knew she had to make her move now . . . or never.
Just one dance in Jason’s arms. That was all it would take. One dance, with everyone watching them, their bodies so perfectly aligned. Lucy, surefooted for the first time, as would surely be the case with his oh-so-natural grace guiding her, her arms lightly around his neck as he smiled down—down!—at her. The crowd would part, all other dancing would cease, as every eye was drawn to their absolute perfection. And when it was over, and the final strains of Seal’s “Kiss From a Rose” were but a mere echo in their minds, she’d accept his kiss upon her cheek, maybe even a brushing of the lips, then she’d smile knowingly up into his perfect blue eyes . . . and turn and walk away without so much as a backward glance. Mysterious Lucy Harper, so poised, so controlled. How did we misjudge her all these years? they’d all wonder. Yes! Twelve hellish years in the public school system eradicated in that one, perfect exit.
It was her dream, after all.
Her best friends had used a less flattering term, but in their defense they were only trying to look out for her. They didn’t want her hurt. Again. But that hardly made the plan delusional. Yes, Grady Matthews and Jana Fraser had seen that look of determination before, and okay, so it had rarely resulted in a positive outcome. But her pathetic little sigh of infatuation, bolstered by a plastic tumbler’s worth of spiked punch, and they both knew all the reasoning in the world wasn’t going to stop her.
She’d had a crush on Jason Prescott since freshman summer, when he’d been a lifeguard at her community pool. Her carefully orchestrated dives off the high board—the only mostly graceful thing she could do—had never seemed to get his attention. And her one attempt at drowning in order to secure a romantic rescue, complete with at least two minutes of glorious mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, had gone embarrassingly awry. It turns out it’s hard to get anyone to believe you’re drowning while wearing your local swim-team Speedo, rubber skullcap, and goggles. Planning ahead was never her forte when her hormones got the better of her.
But on that glorious June night, she’d planned everything down to the last detail, including bribing the DJ to play Their Song. Or what would be Their Song, just as soon as their one perfect dance was over. For years to come, every time Jason heard that song, he’d think about that night. That dance. And the mysterious Lucy Harper.
Fate had given her a sign by sending Jason Prescott stag to his own senior prom. Looking back, she supposed she should have realized that Fate had been trying to tell her to give up after that pool incident. For someone with a 4.5 GPA, she had serious learning disabilities when it came to matters of the heart.
Not only had Jason not fallen for her starry-eyed, sequin-splattered, come-hither charms—much less the opening chords of “Kiss From a Rose”—he’d thought she was joking when she’d asked him to dance. Joking!
Yeah, such a kidder, that Lucy Harper.
Lucy thought she’d done an admirable job of covering up the additional humiliation of having him not only laugh in her face, but pat her on the head before turning away. Like she was his bratty kid sister or something.
Then, because Fate wanted to make sure she got it this time, without so much as a backward glance at the conspicuously partnerless, hollow shell of a girl he’d left behind, Jason walked right into the arms of the blonde, blue-eyed perfection that was head cheerleader, Debbie Markham. She of the no-visible-panty-lines and questionable virginal status.
Unlike her heart, already shattered into so many irreparable pieces, Lucy’s smile had barely wobbled. She was pretty sure she’d made a halfhearted attempt at joking her way out of the situation—an automatic fallback position she’d mastered long before. Except no one was paying attention to her at that point. She supposed that should have made her feel a little better, being invisible and all. She knew from personal experience that it could have gone much worse for her. But Boyz II Men were crooning “On Bended Knee” now, and everyone around them had moved on without her. She stood there alone, completely ignored by the swaying couples surrounding her, which felt worse somehow. She wasn’t quite sure how to make that exit now, knowing it would feel a lot more like running away.
In the end, Grady had emerged through the crowd and quickly dragged her outside. He’d told her he was merely protecting himself from the stalkeresque wiles of Marching Band Girl, Paige Fernlow. But Lucy had known the real reason. (Although aft
er spying the two of them leaving together, Paige had left rather disturbing tuba solos on the Harper family answering machine for three nights running. To this day Lucy could not sit through halftime at a football game without feeling a prickle of paranoia.)
No, Grady had been protecting her, as always. She’d been insisting she didn’t need rescuing since the day they met over the infamous Tater Tot incident in sixth grade, but her protestations were still met with the same response: “Everybody needs rescuing sometimes. It’s what friends do.” Then he’d trump her with the old “You’d do the same thing for me” routine. Which she would have. Gladly. Except it never had seemed to work out that way. One more thing Fate tossed her way that she couldn’t seem to alter.
Since the day Grady had firmly wedged himself into her and Jana’s life, he’d been routinely saving them both. So, okay, more often her than Jana. Could she help it if Jana didn’t seem to get into as many scrapes? He was still the quiet observer around others, but never with her or Jana. He was wicked smart, possessing a bordering-on-nerdlike fixation with all things mathematical and technological. Okay, so it wasn’t “bordering.” But it was his wry commentary on how the human condition afflicted the majority of their peer group that had kept Lucy and Jana sitting at his lunchroom table all the way through high school. They still enjoyed a rather loose interpretation of those erudite lunchroom discussions, only instead of being accompanied by the less-than-savory chili mac surprise and warm milk, they now took place over pizza and beer.
Jana had been in her life since the days of the Benetton princesses. (Jana flunked Playground Politics 101, too. She and Lucy were immediate best friends.) At that time, the Frasers and Harpers lived in the same apartment building in Arlington, Virginia. Their mothers wouldn’t be considered close friends, or even casual friends by the loosest of standards. Lucy’s mom was every English professor cliché rolled into one, from the serviceable clothes and bobby-pinned bun, to the wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her long, slender nose, a nose that was generally immersed in a book. Mary Harper was far more at home dealing with fictional characters than she was with real people. Not because she didn’t like real people, mind you. Real people were just fine. It took real people to write books, after all. It’s just that she was usually so distracted with writing her next lecture that observing even the basic tenets of friendship building were beyond her.
Jana’s mom, on the other hand, made friends very easily. Too easily, some might have said. Of course, that might have been envy talking. Or jealousy. Because most, okay all, of Angie Fraser’s “friends” were men. And because it was no secret that not all of them were single.
But Mary and Angie did have one thing in common—they shared car-pool duty, ferrying their daughters to and from Tiny Tots Preschool.
Jana had her mother’s bright red hair, but the similarity ended there. Angie Fraser was very Tina Louise as Ginger. Jana was more Lucille Ball as, well, Lucille Ball. Except with huge splotchy freckles, and big white teeth that were just a bit crooked, and still were, despite three years of braces, complete with the ever-so-attractive head appliance.
Of course, to mousy, unfreckled, and uninterestingly toothed Lucy, Jana was some kind of exotic creature, and the source of immediate fascination. Unlike the television-commercial cuteness of Miriam and the preppy perfection of Andrea, Jana was an absolute original. Lucy remembered thinking that her new friend must be something really special if God made her stand out like that.
Lucy had since learned that God merely had a peculiar sense of humor.
But her belief in the unique force that was Jana Fraser had never wavered. Unfortunately, that unique force, even when combined with Grady’s global-rescue theory, couldn’t protect Lucy from her own self-destructive crush tendencies. The Senior Prom Fiasco had only been a temporary setback to her apparently indestructible—and obviously deluded—libido. Jason Prescott had merely been the first in a string of unattainable men Lucy fell hopelessly for.
Through four years of college, not once did she find herself remotely attracted to any of her horn-rimmed-glasses-wearing, but ever-so-nice-and-dependable, lab partners. The same went for the unfocused yet earnest struggling poet in her English composition class, and the naïve but sweetly endearing member of her study group. She lost her virginity, but never her heart. She’d lost track of the number of end-of-date kisses where she’d close her eyes and pray that this time she would feel something. Anything. Nada.
But she knew she wasn’t holding out for the impossible. There was that Halloween keg party in her sophomore year, after all. Proof positive she could feel something. A whole lot of something, actually. As a joke, she and Jana had dressed up like cheerleaders. With their wigs, orange-hued fake Coppertone tans, and bust-enhancing Victoria’s Secret bras, even Debbie Markham would have believed they’d earned their pom-poms. Okay, only if the lighting was sort of bad. And a lot of beer had been ingested. Which was exactly the case when Lucy ran into the current target of her unrequited—hell, totally unnoticed—affections: junior-varsity quarterback Steve Van Kelting.
He’d mistaken her for the real thing, and the next thing Lucy knew, she was on her back in one of the frat-house bedrooms. A small, insignificant part of her knew she should tell him she really wasn’t Wanda—which is what he’d called her as he’d pulled off her letter sweater—but then his hands were on her, and his mouth found hers, and well . . . what Wanda didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
The earth definitely moved that night. Okay, so maybe there was someone else beneath the pile of coats she and Steve were making out on. The fact remained, she’d finally felt something.
After that—and despite the fact that Steve not only didn’t call her, but didn’t so much as notice she was still in bed next to him the following morning (she blamed it on all the coats)—the idea of settling for less than something was pretty much impossible.
Now getting ready to begin her fifth year teaching perpetually rowdy third-graders at Meadow Lane Elementary (no, not exactly the tenured position her parents had hoped for, but the apple hadn’t fallen so far from the tree after all), she was still searching for something.
The thing that Lucy envied most about her parents wasn’t their professional accomplishments, but that they had each found someone who appreciated their unique attributes. From the very first time her mother and father had laid eyes on each other, like had recognized like, and bam!, that had been that. Thirty-two years later, they still made a solid team, with common interests. It was clear, despite the rather cerebral nature of their relationship, how much love, support, and respect there was between them.
So why couldn’t she find herself madly in love, or even respectfully smitten, with some nice, average guy who’d appreciate her for her sharp mind and cutting wit? She had absolutely nothing against average guys. In fact, she’d hoped and prayed with each successive average-guy date that she’d get that like-recognizes-like thing and the bamming would happen. But there was never any bamming with them.
Now, put her in the path of the Jasons and Steves of the world? Bam! bam! bam! Problem was, there was never a reciprocal bamming. Back to that like-recognizing-like thing, she supposed. Except her “like” was still incognito. At twenty-eight, she was still a Pippi. On the outside. But on the inside, she felt like a Ginger. No one got that about her, though.
Why was she cursed with swooning only for the unattainable? Why was she so attached to the need to swoon in the first place? With thirty looming on the horizon, maybe it was time for her to let go of the need to swoon.
Jana, now a sports editor for the Washington Post, had found her bam!. She’d married him two years after graduating with a degree in journalism. Of course, Jana’s “like” had come out of hiding by then. She’d bloomed in their second year as college roommates. Although not exactly a swan, Jana had learned to make the most of her unique attributes. Attributes her husband, Dave, worshiped ad nauseam. Apparently the man had a thing for playing connect-a
-dot with his wife’s freckles. Lucy, though privately fascinated, didn’t ask for intimate details for fear Jana would actually tell her.
Quebec-born Dave Pelletier, second-string goalie for the Washington Capitals hockey team, had been Jana’s first interview after getting the job with the sports editor at the Washington Post. Dave had fallen head over hockey sticks for the cagey redhead. (Lucy wanted a flashy moniker like that—“cagey redhead.” Brunette elementary-school teacher just didn’t have the same flair.) Jana had flair now, and she also had freckle-worshiping Dave. They’d married eight months later.
Not only did Dave think her splotchy freckles were endearing, he loved her frizzy, corkscrew red hair, calling it unbelievably sexy. Dave had a scar across his forehead from a hairline skull fracture he’d received his first year in the majors, and a nose that had been broken more times than a heavyweight boxer’s, which might explain his questionable judgment regarding beauty. But Jana adored his French-Canadian accent, his oddball sense of humor . . . and of course there was that quirky discovery that having a husband with removable front teeth made for some very interesting sexual side benefits. Lucy supposed there were other reasons, but she’d always gotten a little hung up on that one. Anyway, it was obviously yet another match made in heaven.
And this was all fine with Lucy. She was happy for her friend. Dave traveled a good part of the year, and other than being forced to bear occasional witness to their somewhat gooey attachment to each other, Lucy and Jana still had plenty of free time to continue their friendship relatively unencumbered by the change in Jana’s marital status. The only real downside was that in her three-plus years of wedded bliss, Jana had joined the ranks of the Come in, the Water’s Fine Club.
Just when Lucy had finally adopted her Single Pride mantra with a believable note of sincerity.
Not that it had been all that challenging, really. Jana’s occupation regularly put her in the direct path of hockey goalies, point guards, and shortstops. Lucy’s options within her immediate office dating pool were somewhat more limited. As in extreme to the point of laughable. Most of the elementary-school staff were female—though choral teacher, Bonnie Colvin, had given Lucy a few looks that could only be described as “suggestive.” Which left her to choose between Jared, the still-closeted art teacher; Ramon, the janitor, who, in addition to using gold dental plating as his main fashion accessory, was also married with three small children; or the former Navy bomber-cum-PE teacher, Ed Foley, who, though widowed and available, was old enough to be her father. Possibly her grandfather. There would be no bam! with him. Not ever. Even she was not that desperate.
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