focused, determined, hardworking and open to constructive criticism and advice from wherever she could get them. Olivia had admired her friend’s resilience, her insights, her dedication to her work.
“When I’m successful,” Marilyn would say, “I’m getting all new friends.”
A joke, of course. An irreverent way for her to deal with her uncertain situation. She and Olivia had met at a graphic design and digital media conference in Boston not long after Olivia had started at Ackerman Design and had been friends ever since.
Not only did Marilyn revitalize her career, she opened her own studio in February, immediately wowing everyone. It was as if she had reached critical mass—a tipping point—and her success only brought more success. No longer in need of advice and moral support, enormously busy with her work, she got in touch with Olivia less and less frequently and took longer to respond when Olivia initiated contact. Visits to Boston and invitations to Providence for late-into-the-evening brainstorming ended. By early March, Olivia realized their friendship was in a lull if not in jeopardy, and she backed off, letting Marilyn take the lead.
Nothing happened. Marilyn disappeared, until the email two days ago that she would be in Boston this week and would love to get together. Then came this morning’s email, canceling.
Olivia turned into the wind on Newbury Street and half wished she’d woken up with a sore throat and had just stayed home and planted more herbs, but it wouldn’t have changed anything. She continued down the block, finally reaching one of her favorite restaurants. She descended concrete steps to a small open-air terrace that in warm weather would be filled with diners. It was empty now, a few handfuls of salt and sand scattered on the concrete. The interior of the restaurant, however, was crowded with people who had braved the lousy weather.
Lowering her scarf, Olivia pushed open the glass door. She would enjoy a pleasant lunch by herself and think about how to restart her own career if Roger defected. She couldn’t deny reality any longer. He was on his way out. The signs were there.
The cold, wet wind followed her inside as the door shut behind her. Then again, maybe she’d just never mind her high-stress, competitive career for an hour and think about her herb garden and the color scheme for her house in Knights Bridge. She had never been one to stay in a rotten mood for long. Even if she wasn’t as super-hot as she’d been two years ago, she was still an established, respected designer. Designers and studios lost clients all the time. It was the nature of the business. Why should she be exempt?
She unbuttoned her coat and pulled off her scarf. She was looking forward to warming up with a pasta sampler plate and salving her wounded ego with a glass of Chianti.
The bartender, a slender, black-haired man, waved to her as he filled three glasses in front of him with red wine. The restaurant was narrow, with small tables lined up along a brick wall on one side and a dark-red painted plaster wall on the other, both walls decorated with inviting black-framed prints of Tuscany. Five years ago, Olivia had celebrated her first night in Boston at a table in the far corner. She hadn’t known if she would last six months in her graphic design job, but she was still there, still working.
She noticed that the far-corner table was open, but as she started to take off her coat, her gaze fell on a man and a woman seated across from each other halfway down the brick wall.
Olivia didn’t need to look twice. The woman had her back to the entrance, but Olivia recognized Marilyn Bryson from her glistening pale hair and the way her hands moved when she was animated and trying to make a point. The man was even easier. He faced the entrance where Olivia was standing, coat and scarf half off. She only needed a glimpse to recognize stocky, gray-haired Roger Bailey.
She was positive that Roger and Marilyn hadn’t seen her.
They couldn’t see her.
Olivia had never been good at the small social lie and knew she couldn’t come up with one now, under pressure. Instead, she mumbled something unintelligible to the bartender, then fled, pushing past a couple coming through the door. Ignoring the icy conditions, she raced up the steps back out to the street.
Out of sight of anyone in the restaurant, she adjusted her scarf and debated her options. Just go back to work? How could she? She’d have to tell Jacqui what she’d just witnessed.
Unless Jacqui already knew.
Olivia headed up Newbury Street, not slackening her pace until she reached the corner. She paused to catch her breath and button her coat. Wind whipped sleet into her face and onto the clothes she’d carefully chosen for the meeting that had never happened. She shivered, blaming the tears in her eyes on the sharp wind and cold, even as a sudden sense of dejection and demoralization sank over her. Losing a major client to a stranger would be bad enough…but to a friend?
“Olivia!”
She pretended not to hear Marilyn behind her. The light changed, and she crossed the street at her normal pace, not wanting to look as if she were upset or fleeing from anything.
Marilyn caught up with her on the opposite corner. She hadn’t grabbed her coat and already looked cold. “I thought that was you.” She reached out a hand but didn’t quite touch Olivia. “Are you okay? You ran out so fast—”
“I got a text message from a client,” Olivia said quickly, hating to lie, suspecting she sounded phony. “It’s nice to see you. I have to run, though.” She faked a smile. “Just as well with this weather. Enjoy your lunch.”
“It’s with Roger Bailey, Liv. I should have told you but I didn’t know what to say.”
“He called you?”
Marilyn lowered her hand, and her eyes, their vivid blue enhanced by contact lenses, shifted back toward the restaurant, then focused again on Olivia. “We agreed to have lunch. This was the only place I could think of on short notice.”
It was an evasive answer. Olivia forced herself to nod. “Tell Roger I said hi.”
“I’ll do that. It’s good to see you, Liv. Everything’s going so well for me right now that I just haven’t had time—”
“I understand. I’m glad you’re doing well, Marilyn. I have to go.”
“Call me anytime.”
Olivia didn’t respond as she continued down the street. After half a block, she glanced back, but Marilyn was already out of view, in the restaurant that she knew was Olivia’s personal favorite. Had Marilyn chosen it, risking that her friend might walk in, or just figuring she wouldn’t?
Why had Marilyn chosen the restaurant and not Roger?
Did it even matter?
Olivia shoved her hands into her pockets, wishing now she’d worn gloves. She could see sleet collecting on the sidewalk and car windshields. She turned stiffly off Newbury toward Commonwealth Avenue.
Think about spring wildflowers. Trillium and lady’s slippers, jack-in-the-pulpit, wild geraniums....
She lost her footing in a slick spot, dispelling any image of wildflowers trying to take form. She and Marilyn had developed a pattern in their friendship of focusing on Marilyn—her work, her problems, her accomplishments. Olivia hadn’t felt any great need to talk about herself or break out champagne over her own accomplishments, but it was more than that. She saw
