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One ambulance ride, four x-rays, and $1,500 later, Suzanne stood in her bedroom closet with Marci, who had driven her home. It was seven o’clock on Saturday morning. They had dropped Jake off at the office to drive Suzanne’s car back, though it would be little use to her for several weeks. Suzanne now wore a black cast—it goes with everything, one nurse had joked—on her left arm, where she had fractured it in the fall. Other than that, she had only painful purple bruises on her left side to show for her accident.
Considering the height and the hard floor, everyone at the hospital had insisted that Suzanne was lucky not to have been hurt worse. But lucky wasn’t a word Suzanne felt inclined to use just now. She had been up for twenty-seven hours straight, with just over twelve hours left before the biggest event of her career, and had lost the use of one arm. What’s more, the new cast created a wardrobe problem that had not been outlined in Suzanne’s contingency planning session the morning before.
She and Marci had tried draping every scarf Suzanne owned over the cast in various ways, but none of them seemed to work. Had it not been for a very useful painkiller prescription and an all-night pharmacy, Suzanne might have been tempted to have a nervous breakdown. Whoever had invented those big white pills was a hero in her book. The severe pain in her arm had dulled to an ache, and she stared foggily past Marci into the depths of the closet, periodically having to be reminded to pay attention and give her opinion on the alternatives Marci suggested. The opinion, invariably, was ick.
None of the scarf or shawl options seemed right for gracefully masking an enormous plaster arm cast, so they took a break for breakfast when Jake arrived in Suzanne’s car. “Why don’t you call your mom, babe?” Jake suggested, rubbing Marci’s shoulder affectionately. “She’s good at this stuff.”
Elaine Thompson arrived thirty minutes later, hugging all three of them as though she hadn’t seen them in a year. She embraced Suzanne last and longest, rubbing her cast gently. “Sorry about your accident, sweetie. The good news is I brought the Bedazzler!”
Only Mrs. Thompson would know how to combine a black plaster cast and hundreds of tiny rhinestones into an enviable accessory. Well, maybe Phylicia Rashad on The Cosby Show. She chattered happily while she worked, refusing to allow Suzanne to help with her right hand. “Don’t be silly, sweetheart. You have enough to do to get ready for today, I’m sure.”
She had to concede this was true, so she pulled out a pad and began making notes for the short speech she would have to give at dinner, thanking all the sponsors, pushing the auction, introducing the High’s executive director, and finally, welcoming Dylan to the stage. She’d have to write his speech, too, of course. They certainly couldn’t risk his getting up there and talking about bass fishing for fifteen minutes.
Despite her good intentions, however, letting Suzanne work in quiet was not in Mrs. Thompson’s wheelhouse. Suzanne had been scribbling for less than five minutes when she piped up. “You’re looking forward to the baby?”
“Absolutely,” Suzanne said reflexively. “So excited for them.”
“They’ll be great parents,” Mrs. Thompson said. Then more softly she added, “Jake does a nice job balancing Marci out, don’t you think? He’ll keep her on the right track.”
Suzanne nodded. “Definitely.”
“And of course you know Nicky and Ravi are pregnant again, too. My grandbabies are tripling!”
She hadn’t known this, but it wasn’t surprising either. Marci’s little sister and her husband were surprisingly natural parents with their daughter Ayanna, who was coffee-colored, intensely cute, and completely spoiled. Suzanne had never doubted they would make more babies. She squelched the pang of jealousy—jealous of what, she couldn’t say—and smiled at her best friend’s mother. “It’s wonderful, Elaine.”
She knew what would be coming next. The same thing had happened when Jake and Marci got engaged (both times) and for the entire month before and after their wedding. Well-meaning aunts, neighbors, friends—even her own mother—had joined together in a constant refrain. So, when will we hear the good news about you? Haven’t you found a nice boy yet? You’re so pretty—don’t keep them waiting too long.
One officious relative, Marci’s venerable Great-Aunt Mildred, had gone so far as to squeeze Suzanne’s breasts like bicycle horns at a wedding shower, saying something about every melon having an expiration date. Suzanne had been mortified.
But when Mrs. Thompson spoke, it was something equally unexpected. “Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?” she asked. Her tone was so motherly and intimate, Suzanne glanced up to see whether Marci had returned from the grocery store with Jake, and were standing behind her unnoticed. But they weren’t back yet.
“I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I’ve always thought of you as my third daughter, Suze. I’ve watched you grow up, and I’m so very proud of who you have become and everything that you have accomplished. Arthur and I read the Style section every weekend, looking for pictures of you at all those charity functions.”
Suzanne’s cheeks burned. She felt herself squirming under Mrs. Thompson’s gaze. “Oh…” she muttered, staring intently at the neat rows of rhinestones building from the front of her cast. “All I do is get dressed up and plan parties for rich people. It feels like such a silly job sometimes.”
“Maybe it does, but just think of all the real people you have helped. You may not have met them in person, but all those charities would flounder and die without the support of silly rich people.” Elaine was smiling now. “Besides, I know what you do behind the scenes is damn hard work.”
Suzanne didn’t know how to respond to this. It was embarrassing, and wonderful. She settled for a simple, “Thank you, Elaine.”
“Do me a favor,” Mrs. Thompson went on, pausing to focus on her work up close, and then looking intently at Suzanne over half-moon reading glasses. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you should be anything other than what you are. Ever.”
Suzanne could not pinpoint the emotion that washed over her, exactly. Perhaps it was the painkillers or sleep deprivation, but she felt for a moment as though she could pour herself into Mrs. Thompson’s lap like a child and weep for hours. She desperately, absurdly, wanted her best friend’s mother to reach out and stroke her hair or touch her cheek. With the same intensity, she wanted to pull back her immobilized arm and run away, to plunge herself into a task that would require her complete focus.
Either Elaine did not notice this, or she was kind enough to pretend to be absorbed in her work. The only further acknowledgment of their conversation was a few moments later, when Elaine had finished applying the rhinestones and gently squeezed Suzanne’s manicured fingertips, which were sticking out of her cast.
Chapter 6
Chad Gwynn’s phone blared “The Bitch is Back” at nine Saturday morning, three hours before he was supposed to meet Suzanne at the High. David looked over the top of his newspaper, scowling. “I thought you weren’t on duty until noon?”
“I’m not.” Chad had been reaching instinctively for the phone, but paused under David’s glare. Elton John stopped singing and the phone was silent.
“She has no right to call you now. It’s Saturday morning, for Christ’s sake. The only day we get to sit and have coffee together. Isn’t it enough that you’re giving her twelve hours later today?”
Chad hesitated. David was right, of course, but the phone on the table between them might as well have been on fire, for all he could ignore it. As if reading his thoughts, the phone dinged again with the voicemail notification. Chad tried to go back to the crossword puzzle he’d been doing, but he could only stare at the same two clues. He wondered what Suzanne wanted.
Fifteen minutes went by and the phone rang again. David rolled his eyes and looked accusingly at Chad, as though somehow he had made it happen. Chad knew it was difficult for David to understand what working for a high-profile event planner really meant. David had gone for his p
aralegal certificate within months after they left college, and had found the job in the wills and estates division of an enormous firm less than a year later. He walked or biked seven blocks to work from their Midtown apartment every morning at eight, was free to do whatever he liked at lunch, and was generally home cooking dinner or out having cocktails with coworkers by six.
Chad’s schedule, on the other hand, came in waves. At times it seemed he worked around the clock, especially if he and Suzanne were doing several events in the same week or for something major like this gala. Then there were slower times, particularly the hottest parts of the summer, when he would work less than twenty hours a week, half of which were spent cleaning out storage closets or being dragged around on tangentially related errands with Suzanne.
In July or August, it was not unusual for Chad to find himself halfway through a pitcher of margaritas by three in the afternoon after touring a new conference venue or golf course. Or he would start his day poring tediously over their client files, only to be unceremoniously dismissed by Suzanne midafternoon if the weather was nice out. These were the days he would wander to the farmers’ market to get fresh ingredients for dinner, or surprise David by cleaning the apartment before he got home.
David, however, did not seem to agree that those days balanced out moments like this one. He had a strict dividing line between his work and personal life, and seemed to view it as an affront when one intruded on the other. But as systematized and efficient as Chad and Suzanne had become, the big events never seemed to lend themselves to automation. Chad often felt that he was on call for Suzanne the way a surgeon might be for a hospital. David had scoffed at this comparison.
Still, there was the phone on the table between them, singing defiantly into their unspoken conversation. Chad’s fingers itched to answer it. “It is the biggest event we’ve ever done,” he offered gently. “Maybe I should at least see what she wants.”
“I’ll do it,” David snapped, snatching the phone off the table. Now it was Chad’s turn to glare. On the one hand, David’s protectiveness of their time together was sweet. On the other, his partner’s tendency toward the dramatic was sometimes misguided.
“Come on, we’ve talked about this. You knew when I took this job—”
But his protests were futile. David answered in a huff, standing to move out of Chad’s reach as he did. “Suzanne, it’s David. Do you see what time it is? Do the clocks at your house say noon for some reason? Because you have some nerve calling Chad three hours early—”
Anger and embarrassment rose in Chad’s throat as the rant continued. When the occasion presented itself for the three of them to be together, Suzanne and David normally got along fine. In fact, they had matching temperaments. Today, however, was not a good day. Dylan Burke’s event was the biggest thing they had done so far, and if it went well, it could mean more high-profile jobs for her and maybe a raise for Chad. He was planning to get an MBA in a couple of years and some extra savings would come in handy during graduate school. David just didn’t seem to understand that.
“Mmm-hmm,” David said following a short silence, and stepped outside on the balcony. Chad couldn’t read his tone. Shit. He wanted to follow David outside and snatch the phone back from him, but he knew from experience that he would rather have Suzanne mad at him than the love of his life. He could get another job if need be, but there was only one David.
After a minute or two, the latter came back in, put the phone on the table, and sat to read his paper in silence. Chad stared at him. “Well?”
David lowered the paper, looking sheepish. “You’d better get to the office,” he said.
The anger Chad had been suppressing transformed into a smile that crept over his face. He worked to hold it back. “Why, David?” he asked in mock innocence. “Surely you don’t mean to say there was a reason my boss called me at nine o’clock on Saturday morning, do you?”
David was indignant. “Sometimes she calls for ridiculous reasons; you at least have to give me that!”
“I do give you that,” Chad said mildly. “What about today?”
A tremendous sigh. “It seems,” David said with reluctance to the coffee cup in front of Chad, “that Suzanne fell off a ladder last night and broke her arm. She needs you to come early because she can’t lift anything.”
“And?” Chad said, sensing there was something else. He felt bad for Suzanne, but was enjoying David’s rare moment of embarrassment.
David’s face morphed from indignant to embarrassed as he paused before admitting defeat. He pressed his lips together. “And…I’m coming by later to help out as well.”
Chad laughed. David kicked him under the table. They stared at each other, half-smiling, half-confrontational, until Chad got up and kissed David on the forehead. “How about, next time you have a problem with my work, let me handle it, okay?”
David pulled him close and nuzzled Chad’s stomach with the top of his head, nodding. Chad rubbed David’s close-shaven skull in response, and then pushed him back gently when he began to feel more emotion than he had time to handle today. “Fine,” David muttered. “But we’re going to Bacchanalia for dinner next weekend. And you’re leaving that damn phone at home.”
“Deal,” said Chad, and left the room to get dressed.
#
The next few hours at the High Museum were annoying. On top of the additional work, Suzanne anxiously barked orders at both Chad and Jake, and later on at David as well. It was nice of Marci’s husband to help out, but not only did he and Chad have almost nothing in common, Suzanne kept forgetting who she had asked to do what. Jake spent most of his time trying to figure out what he was supposed to be doing. Marci was around, too, though she wasn’t doing much in the way of physical activity.
Still, the day moved quickly thanks to all the activity. The rental company had hoisted three enormous tents and a temporary stage in the museum courtyard the night before. The minute the High’s admissions door closed for the evening, workers in matching lime green t-shirts materialized from nowhere and swarmed beneath the canopies like ants. Soon the tented areas were filled with tables, chairs, lights, and equipment as if by magic. David showed up in his best suit and Chad allowed himself a thrill of pride before putting his partner to work.
Chad oversaw the decoration of all the tables, including linens, flowers, duct tape centerpieces, and mason jars full of artificial fireflies they’d special ordered online. Despite his initial objections when Suzanne pitched the idea, the whole effect was actually quite charming. He and Jake hung seventy-five alternating strands of tiny mirrors and white Christmas lights behind the stage. Larger white lights crisscrossed above the tables, creating the illusion of a summer that in reality was still a couple of months away.
Chad set up the registration tables, supervised the arrangement of auction items and bid sheets, and helped Suzanne brief each group of volunteers. Before he knew it, the first cocktail dresses and tuxedos were emerging from cars at the valet stand.
All things considered, he thought, Suzanne seemed to be holding up reasonably well given her lack of sleep and what must be a painful injury. She flitted about in her stunning size six black cocktail dress and sparkly cast, with her long blonde hair wrapped in an elegant chignon, solving problems and patting everyone on the back with her unbroken arm. She had a beauty queen’s smile, and more important, she knew how to make every person she encountered feel as though the smile was just for them. That concentrated charm was one of the qualities Chad had tasked himself with learning from her before he left this job.
She’d given him a strict schedule for her pain meds, so when he glanced at the clock and saw it was nearly seven, he made his way to the registration table, where he had stashed her cosmetic bag full of crucial supplies. He arrived to overhear a confrontation brewing between an irate donor and a volunteer named Iris—a sweet middle-aged woman with a soft voice and wispy brown hair pulled back in a bun. The expansive man apparently didn’t like his
seating assignment, and was making it well known.
Chad made his way over to listen from a couple of feet away, to determine whether it required intervention. Iris was nearly in tears, trying to appease the donor, who was pressing his point forcefully and getting louder by the minute. “What do you mean you don’t know how to help me?” the man fumed, face turning red.
That was his cue. But before Chad could step in, Suzanne glided up, smiling broadly. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said sweetly to the frazzled volunteer, putting her hand on the woman’s back. “Iris, it looks like we need your expertise over at the credit card machine. I’ll take care of this. Chad, Iris will help you.”
Chad extended his hand to the stunned-looking woman, and guided her to the other end of the table. He got her a cup of water and helped her sit, keeping one ear on Suzanne as she pumped up her Southern accent for effect. “Now, what can I do to help here?”
The donor, who turned out to be a small plane mogul from Savannah, was quite purple in the face as he rounded on her. He literally spit as he demanded, “Who are you?!?”
Chad cringed for her, but Suzanne seemed unfazed. She extended her hand lightly in a way that suggested the man could either shake it or kiss it. “I’m Suzanne Hamilton, the event coordinator. I’ll be happy to help any way I can.”
“The first thing you need to do is fire that woman,” he bellowed, jerking his finger toward Iris, who let out an involuntary little squeak in response.
Suzanne kept her eyes smiling on the man in front of her. “Well, Mr.—?”
“Basille.”
“Mr. Basille, Iris is volunteering her time to support the children’s programs here at the museum, so even if I wanted to fire her, I couldn’t. But I do want to make sure you’re happy with your experience tonight. What seems to be the problem?”
Regrets Only (Sequel to The Marriage Pact) Page 5