Regrets Only (Sequel to The Marriage Pact)

by Pullen, M. J.

  The song sounded familiar, and she strained to allow it into her brain and connect it with a title. Eventually she realized it was Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight,” and that Dylan’s twangy voice gave it a rough-hewn sound that actually made it even more elegant. Several couples were slow-dancing near the stage. She was proud that things were going well. If only she didn’t feel so dizzy and restless.

  A sudden wave came over her and Suzanne was overwhelmed with an urge to be out. Away from the tent, the crowd, the lights. Anywhere but where she was. Her feet could simply not stand in that spot another minute. She staggered back toward the exit of the tent, feeling dizzier by the minute. She couldn’t help but step on several coats and purses as she went. She excused herself as quietly as possible as she passed behind people, trying to avoid bumping into anyone with her wavering gait and hard-shelled arm.

  It seemed to take forever to get out of the tent, and it was especially difficult to get the canvas out of her way. Her clothes were too tight, the six-hundred-dollar cocktail dress scratchy and uncomfortable. Even though she was the same perfect size six she’d been for years, she’d had to use the best Lycra had to offer to make sure the lines were smooth beneath the satiny dress. Now she regretted it, because she could barely breathe as she made her way out to the museum lawn. After tonight, she vowed never to torture herself with a bustier and lacy biker shorts again.

  The rest of the evening came to her in flashes. The humid night air. The feel of damp grass. Marci and Chad calling to her from far behind. Thinking Marci and Chad were hilarious. Feeling suddenly elated, free. Running. So much running. A funny house. Water. The smell of men’s deodorant. And the bright, ominous flash of cameras. Then darkness. Sleep.

  Chapter 8

  “Are you ready?” Marci said, handing Suzanne a mug of hot coffee.

  She had been staring out the kitchen window of Jake and Marci’s home in Alpharetta, examining with detached criticism the blankness of the nearly empty yard, unremarkable wooden fence, and the pale-neutral backs of the houses behind theirs. Jake and Marci lived in a four-bedroom home, with a basement, in a recently constructed neighborhood in the far-flung suburbs—the last place Suzanne had expected them to settle.

  Under the circumstances, they really ought to try to make the rear of the houses look as nice as the front, she thought uncharitably. That would at least improve the aesthetics a little until the trees grow in.

  “Suze?” Marci prompted.

  “Yes, I’m ready. Sorry,” Suzanne colored, embarrassed by her thoughts. Who was she to judge anyone?

  Three days had passed since the debacle at the High, and—except her second emergency room visit in a twenty-four-hour period—she had been hiding out like a fugitive at Jake and Marci’s ever since. They had put her up in the spare bedroom; Marci had confiscated her phone and kept her away from the TV and newspapers. She’d even written an email to Chad on Suzanne’s behalf, giving him a script to follow for incoming calls from clients and the press. Both Stillwells had been kind enough to ignore the occasional sobbing that emerged from the guest room.

  Suzanne had no siblings, but if she had, she could not imagine they would do better for her than Jake and Marci. Yet, to her shame, instead of appreciating their generosity, she was scrutinizing their neighborhood. What’s more, if she were very honest, Suzanne would have to say that she resented just about everything about Marci and Jake’s happy damn life, and couldn’t wait to leave later that day. What a horrible, ungrateful friend I am.

  As usual, her best friend seemed to read her mind. “You’re being hard on yourself,” Marci said gently. “Come sit down.”

  On Jake and Marci’s kitchen table were piled several local and regional newspapers. In the wee hours after the event, a friend in the Style department at the Atlanta Journal & Constitution had tipped Suzanne off via text message that her “episode” had been recorded in both picture and video format by all the press on hand. The association with Dylan Burke had launched the event onto gossip pages nationwide.

  Now that it was Tuesday and she’d had time to stabilize, Marci was going to allow her to look at the papers. With one quick glance at the Sunday edition of the AJC, Suzanne had to agree Marci had made the right call to hide them from her. The sight was horrifying.

  Above the masthead on the front page of the paper—the same paper that had landed in her parents’ driveway for forty years—was a tiny picture of Suzanne from the torso up, bare breasts pixilated for decency, being restrained from behind by someone in a tuxedo jacket whose face was out of frame. Her hair was wet on one side, falling out of her elegant up-do in stringy chunks. She seemed to be yelling at someone far away, trying to break free from whoever was holding her. The teaser headline next to it read “Chaos at Dylan Burke Gala, Page 6A.”

  She flipped to 6A, where her name had long been associated with glamour, celebrities, and charity, to find a photo essay of humiliation. Thirty-two pictures filled the page: blurry images of Suzanne looking crazed, stripping out of her dress and shoes, running across the front lawn of the High. In one shot, her six-hundred-dollar dress hung off her arm cast like a garbage bag, and in the next it was gone. The pictures showed her in the black bustier and Spanx, hiding gleefully behind Roy Lichtenstein’s famous House III sculpture while Marci and Chad approached from either side, trying to hem her in.

  Clearly Suzanne had escaped, however, because the next series of shots showed her on the run again, still trailed by Chad and Jake, the latter of whom had evidently replaced Marci in the worst game of tag ever. It was difficult to make out much, but Suzanne distinctly saw the flash of her mother’s antique pearls around her neck, verifying beyond doubt that this crazy person really was herself.

  “I’ll say this,” Jake said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “We had a hell of a time catching you. You could have a career as a running back if you wanted.”

  Marci glared at him to be quiet. Oh, right, Suzanne thought. That would be a sore subject because my actual career is obviously over.

  The remaining pictures followed the spiral of her life going down the toilet: running back toward the main plaza with several security guards joining the chase; losing her bustier while trying to crawl under the registration tables for some reason; Atlanta PD arriving on the scene; Suzanne grinning maniacally before flipping backward over the black chain ropes and then landing in the inch or so of water in the reflecting pool next to the museum’s front windows. She rubbed her bruised tailbone as the picture brought back the memory.

  There it was. Just before the final shot of Suzanne strapped to a gurney being lifted into the ambulance, was the full version of the picture from the front page. The former homecoming queen stood topless, wet and angry, apparently having a loud disagreement with the police officers on the scene. It was as if an episode of COPS had been filmed at a high-brow museum fundraiser. The tuxedo holding her back belonged to a security guard, whom she had hired personally. She remembered doing his background check. And just behind them, expression unreadable, was Dylan Burke himself.

  “I guess this means there’s no chance he didn’t see anything,” Suzanne said despondently.

  “It’s a good thing he was there, actually,” Jake said, ignoring his wife’s signals to be quiet. “He talked them out of taking you to jail.”

  Suzanne swallowed hard and took a deep breath. She had to face this sometime. “I need to get a shower,” she said. “And I’m ready for my phone back.”

  #

  She got to the office just after ten. If any part of her was hoping for a miracle, praying that people wouldn’t notice the story or recognize her in the pictures, the disappointment came as soon as she saw Chad’s face. Of the fifteen or so events they had slated for the next year, twelve had already called to cancel. These included longtime clients who had followed her from her previous agency. The remaining three could not be far behind.

  Still, Suzanne followed up dutifully with each and every one. She got her standa
rd cinnamon latte for courage, and spent the morning returning phone calls with the most cheerful voice she could summon. But no one wanted to be associated, publicly or privately, with someone who’d made the Sunday paper the way Suzanne had. Her clients had all paid non-refundable retainers for her services—a practice she adopted from her father—but for the ones more than a month out, she had offered refunds anyway. No one accepted. They all sounded sympathetic and embarrassed.

  “Of course, if it were up to me, we’d keep you on. It’s just the board of directors…”

  “Our company has this morality and behavior clause, and while you’re not technically an employee…”

  “The management is concerned about our image. If we didn’t already have so much negative publicity from that EPA fine two years ago…Well, of course, you understand.”

  Of course.

  A few had even offered advice:

  “Don’t worry, sweetie, it will pass. You’ll be back in the game in a couple of years.”

  “My brother went to this great rehab facility in Malibu. I’ll send you the name.”

  Possibly the worst of these was Mrs. Banks, the co-owner of a small family-owned mailing house, who had contracted Suzanne to do their holiday parties for a couple of years running. She was also the wife of the company’s president. “I’m sorry, dear, but our employees and customers have certain expectations of us,” she said, singing the same refrain as many of the previous conversations.

  “Of course,” Suzanne said, launching into the polite speech that she had recited all morning. “I completely understand. I’m very sorry and embarrassed about what happened. Although it was an honest mistake involving my medication, naturally, I understand that the last thing you need when planning a major event is for the event planner herself to be a distraction.”

  “Poor dear,” said the woman. “I know at times like this, I always turn to my faith.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Suzanne responded distractedly. She appreciated the sentiment, but this sort of platitude felt hollow coming from a virtual stranger. She was already opening the file of her next client, when Mrs. Banks surprised her completely.

  “You know what the Bible tells us, dear: ‘For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.’ Suzanne, do you believe in Jesus?”

  Seriously? Today?

  Suzanne had no idea what to say. Yes? No? I don’t know? She had never understood why some people, who would never dare ask whether you colored your hair or had your teeth whitened, were perfectly comfortable asking total strangers about their deepest religious beliefs and the state of their souls.

  Thinking quickly, she dropped her can of pencils on the concrete floor. It had the desired effect of a loud clang and scattering sound. “Oh, my! Chad, are you okay?” she called. Chad rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid we’ve had a little accident here at the office, Mrs. Banks. Thank you so much for your kindness and we’ll be in touch.”

  She hung up and put her forehead on the desk. Suzanne barely recognized herself. Six weeks ago she had been at the top. She knew basically everyone in Atlanta, and there wasn’t a major party or charity event that she didn’t either plan or attend. She’d dated professional athletes, been the president of the Atlanta Junior League. She’d played tennis with Elton John, for heaven’s sake.

  Now she was a social pariah with a broken arm, faking clumsy accidents to avoid talking to people. Not that any mishap would be unbelievable after the past week. “I’m like the Mr. Bean of party planning,” she said out loud.

  Chad laughed sardonically. “Except that there’s a chance he’ll be working this year.”

  She flinched. Normally she prided herself on being able to handle his little jibes, but not today.

  “God, Suzanne, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “You’re right.”

  He shuffled papers for a moment, and then ventured softly, “You okay?”

  “No,” she said truthfully. “But I have to be. Right?”

  He nodded and went back to his desk to sort through bid sheets from the silent auction. One silver lining of Suzanne’s semi-nude encounter with the reflecting pool was that people attending the event had stayed much later than anticipated, buzzing about what they’d seen and trying to get themselves interviewed by the media. In a fantastic display of leadership under pressure, Chad had enough foresight to keep the bar open and extend the silent auction for thirty extra minutes, during which many of the high bids on the auction items had doubled. Financially, at least, the event had been far more successful than anyone could’ve hoped.

  Whether Dylan Burke and his people would see it that way, however, was another matter. Every time the phone rang, Suzanne expected it to be Yvette, bringing the ax down. So far, however, the hottest thing in country music was one of only three clients from whom they had not heard a word. Maybe Yvette was having an attorney draft a letter instead of contacting her personally. The thought gave Suzanne heartburn.

  #

  She and Chad worked silently into the afternoon and all the next day, writing the usual thank-you notes and filing receipts, just as they always did. A few stray calls came in here and there, but they had talked to most of their clients except Dylan, and a high-profile corruption trial downtown was now occupying the attention of the local media.

  By late Friday, their event-related tasks were done and the phone was quiet. She had nothing left to do but call Yvette, who naturally did not answer her phone. Suzanne left the most chipper message she could manage, casting it into the universe the way her grandfather had cast fishing lures into the Chattahoochee when she was a little girl.

  She shrugged at Chad, who shouldered his messenger bag to go. He stopped halfway to the door, hesitated, and spoke.

  “Um,” he said.

  “Um?”

  “Well, I don’t know how to say this exactly, but…”

  “That’s unusual,” she remarked, attempting a teasing smile.

  “You know how much I like you.” He said this as though he were telling her she had a terminal illness. “Like working for you, I mean.”

  “Jeez, don’t start getting all mushy on me, okay? I can’t handle that. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine, really.”

  “It’s not that. I mean, I was wondering…”

  Realization dawned. “You’re wondering whether you need to find another job,” she said softly.

  “Yes. Suzanne, please don’t be hurt. It’s just that David knows someone who has an opening for an executive assistant in Midtown, really close to our apartment, and—”

  “I think you should take it.”

  “I mean, normally I wouldn’t even consider it. I love working for you, but I’m planning to start graduate school—”

  “Take the job, Chad.”

  “Of course I can come back if…” he trailed off and they looked at each other for a long time. “If things get better.”

  You mean if a miracle happens and I am resurrected from the dead, she thought. Her eyes welled. “Write the best recommendation you can for yourself and I’ll sign as many copies as you want,” she said.

  He nodded, took a step toward the door, and then spun and crossed the room, his face contorted with uncharacteristic emotion. He embraced her awkwardly. “This sucks,” he said, wiping his eyes and speeding away. When the door closed behind him, the silence in the office was oppressive.

  That night Suzanne had a bottle of wine and a can of spray cheese for dinner while watching Gone With the Wind. She fell asleep on the couch and stayed there for a long, restless night. Her broken arm still ached and itched, but she had refused to take any pain killers since Saturday. She woke often, and when she slept she dreamed of Scarlett O’Hara, trapped inside an antebellum mansion that was somehow sculpted by Roy Lichtenstein—all bold lines and primary colors. Scarlett flitted from window to colorful window, screaming wordlessly for help that would never come, while Atlant
a burned.

  Chapter 9

  Suzanne spent the weekend in her pajamas with the ringer off, feeling sorry for herself and filling her kitchen counter with food delivery containers. By the following Tuesday, she had to force herself to go into the office. She had little to do, but she watered the plants and walked around with the feather duster, trying to be cheerful. Chad had called to say he had an interview with a law firm today, but had promised to stop by afterward to see whether she needed anything. No word from Yvette.

  The mailman came around noon, delivering a check from the museum for her fees for the event. Well, at least Dylan’s people hadn’t been angry enough to refuse to pay the museum her fee. A pink sticky note stuck to the top of the check bore Betsy Fuller-Brown’s elegant scrawl. S—Call me in a couple of months when everything has died down and I’ll see if I can help. Chin up,—B

  She opened the database in which she and Chad kept the books for their operation, added the check and did a few calculations. With the cash on hand before the event and one or two clients who had not accepted refunds of their deposits, there was enough money to pay Chad for another week, and keep her afloat until the end of July. Then what?

  Suzanne pulled up her résumé on the computer and stared at it. She couldn’t remember the last time she actually sent a résumé out looking for a job. Somehow the jobs had always found her—through a client, a League connection, whatever. The prospect of sending out cover letters was daunting.

  Her desk phone rang shrilly. She glanced at the caller ID before answering. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hello, honey.” Her mother’s phone voice was somehow both warm and formal, with her thick, parlor-Southern accent. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m working,” Suzanne replied. “I’m at the office.”