genetic coding and reached for the cordless phone. Lord knows Carrie would be elated if I called her. The dial tone buzzed in my ear along with second thoughts. If I confided in Carrie, everyone who’d ever met me would know about my humiliation by noon tomorrow. Besides, my sister-in-law wasn’t part of the Vampire Club—meaning she, like most normal people, would be asleep right now.
Folks who work in the food services and the club/bar scene tend to form a tight-knit group because of our isolating schedules. For instance, my neighbor a few doors down, bartender Amanda White, is my polar opposite in many ways—from her outspokenness to her compulsive dating—but we share the habit of getting home around three in the morning. Over the past four months, we’d become pretty good friends, frequently meeting after hours for breakfast and parting ways before sunrise. Hence the vampire reference, though frankly I’d be lost without garlic.
I knew Amanda hadn’t been scheduled to work tonight; would she still be up? Before I even realized I’d stood, I was opening my front door, still clutching the rejection letter. The summer night air was muggy around me, and I clenched my fists as I strode toward Amanda’s. By the time I reached her front porch, I’d unconsciously crumpled the paper in my hand to roughly the size of a bouillon cube.
Soft lights spilled through the curtains of Amanda’s front windows, so I rapped my knuckles across the door, loudly enough to catch her attention if she was reading in the living room or watching a DVD, but gentle enough that she could ignore it if she was sleeping…or otherwise engaged. She receives amorous offers on a near nightly basis, which, trust me, you’d understand if you saw her. I try never to stand too close to her, for self-esteem reasons.
Footsteps thudded on the other side of the door, followed by a pause. I knew she was glancing through the peephole, and I stood waiting, feeling oddly like a suspect behind a one-way mirror in a police lineup.
The security chain rattled, then Amanda opened the door. Her curly chin-length hair, platinum blond of late, was tousled—very new-millennium Marilyn Monroe—and a pink nightshirt hung to midthigh, her tall, curvy frame making her look like a lingerie model despite the plain cotton. “Hey, Miriam.”
“Did I wake you?”
“Course not. I can’t remember the last time I was in bed this early,” she said, her alert gaze confirming her answer as she backed away from the door.
Once we were both inside, she studied me with a curious expression. “Is everything okay?”
“I, ah…Not really.”
She waved her hand to indicate I should follow her into the oblong kitchen/dining room area. Our floor plans were almost identical, but her furnishing was as modern and fashionable as she herself was. She sat in a straight-backed chair at the black lacquered table. I remained standing, restless despite my fatigue.
“You want to talk about it?” she prompted.
Sort of. I mean, that’s why I was here, but the words didn’t exactly burst forth.
How did my family do this? If I explained how the evening had begun so promisingly, only to end in my being dumped and rejected, wouldn’t it start stinging all over again? Wouldn’t I sound like a pathetic loser? Clearly, if spilling your guts was an Olympic event, I wouldn’t make it past the qualifying round.
Besides, although Amanda was arguably my closest friend, we had an unspoken agreement not to discuss Trevor much. He had never hit it off with her, which I’d found ironic considering the huge number of men she did like. It was a little embarrassing to find out she’d been right.
“Mir?”
I stared at her blankly.
“I’ve got some vino in the fridge,” she offered. “Want me to break it out?”
As long as it wasn’t the type of cabernet sauvignon you were supposed to pair with lamb. “Trevor and I broke up.” The admission got me going—pushed me over the edge and unleashed the building g-forces.
Amanda’s memorable violet eyes widened in shock as I paced around the table, explaining in rapid-fire delivery that I was somehow “too bland” for the man who had proclaimed to love me as recently as…Well, I couldn’t specifically remember the last time he’d said it, but still! Then I talked about how Hargrave NonFiction, people who’d reportedly paid six figures for the biography of a supermodel’s Chihuahua, didn’t want me either.
At some point, Amanda poured us each glasses of white wine. Having had practice with people sharing tales of woe over cocktails, she was a seasoned pro at listening. Mostly, she muttered little sounds of encouragement and, where appropriate, a briefly interjected, “That pompous bastard.” All much appreciated. When I finally wound down, I slumped into one of the matching chairs, realizing I did feel oddly better. Maybe there was something to be said for this talking stuff out.
But they’d be serving sorbets in hell before I worked cracked nipples into a conversation.
“Wow.” Amanda heaved a sigh. “I’ve never heard you say so much at one time. You’re good and truly pissed off.”
“You don’t think I should be?”
“Are you kidding? I’m ecstatic. I mean, not about the rotten night, but everything will work out in the long run. This just gives you the chance to write an even more kick-ass cookbook. And I never was convinced that Trevor was the right guy for you.”
After tonight, I was inclined to agree. Who the hell did he think he was? The encounter at the restaurant had knocked me so off balance that his unexpected criticism had temporarily made me feel lacking somehow. Colorless and insignificant. But the only thing wrong with me were the hours I’d wasted on an ungrateful egomaniac.
I’ll show him colorless.
I slapped my hands down on the table and leaned forward. “You know what? I want to get—”
“Sloshed?” She stood to get us more refills.
My friend, the ever helpful bartender. When life hands you lemons, do tequila shots.
“No. Well, maybe.” I was getting there, since I’d been pretty tired even before the first couple of glasses. “But I was going to say even.”
“You want vengeance?” she asked as she walked around the counter that separated the dining room from the kitchen.
“Not vengeance.” In the past, I’d channeled my emotions into cooking and had come up with some of my best dishes. Now, my anger had taken a subconsciously productive turn. “Vindication.”
Bland, huh, Trevor?
Not compelling enough for the Big Apple big shots?
Maybe I could roast two ducks with one glaze.
“I have a plan,” I said.
Amanda shook her head. “Can I be like you when I grow up? I’d still be cussing the guy out and cutting up his picture, and here you are already methodically working through your problems and coming up with sensible solutions.”
I winced at the word methodical, wondering if it was code for boring. “I’m not sure sensible is the right word for what I have in mind.”
“Ooo…I’m
