a very disconcerting sensation. “Aaron?” She more mouthed the word than said it.
Jane nodded.
Jillian let out a short, loud bark of laughter.
“Shh!” Celia reached over and bopped her on the knee. She hissed in whisper, “He’ll hear you….”
“No he won’t,” said Jane. “I’ve got him on Mute—and did you want to speak with him or not?”
Celia shot to her feet and raced to grab the phone. She put it to her ear. “Hello?”
No one answered.
“Here,” said Jane. Celia held out the phone and Jane punched the right button. Celia put it to her ear again, opened her mouth—and shut it. Jane was still standing there, watching expectantly.
Celia made frantic shooing motions. With a sigh, Jane returned to her pillows.
Celia turned away, toward the wide double doors that led to the entrance hall, seeking just a tiny bit of privacy. “Hello. Aaron?”
“Celia. There you are. Good.” He sounded preoccupied, as always. Preoccupied and wonderful. His deep, rich voice seemed to pour into her ear and all through her body, melting her midsection, turning her knees to water.
She asked, quite calmly, she thought, “Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? No.” She heard the telltale clicking sounds that meant he was sitting at a computer. “I was typing a note to Tony Jarvis….” Anthony Jarvis was Senior Vice-President of Project Development. For Aaron, High Sierra was just one step in the road—a big step, but not the only one. Silver Standard Resorts, High Sierra’s parent company, had to keep growing. Tony Jarvis was the main man responsible for scouting future venues. “The note has vanished. Can’t seem to bring it back up.”
She couldn’t help grinning. Since he never typed his own e-mails, he’d forgotten the finer points of the program they used for them.
“Celia. Find my memo.”
She told him what to click on.
“Ah,” he said after a moment. “There it is. Thank you.”
“No problem—Aaron?”
“Hmm?”
“How did you get this number?”
A pause, then, “You’re irritated, that I called you there?”
“Not at all.” Never. Ever. Call me anytime. Anywhere. For any reason… “I just wondered.”
“You said you were going to Jane Elliott’s. I called information. It’s a listed number.”
He’d remembered that she was going to Jane’s! She could hardly believe it. He so rarely remembered anything personal she told him. Her heart pounded even harder, with pure joy. “Oh. Of course. You called information. I should have known….”
“Celia?” He sounded puzzled. “Are you all right?”
“Oh. Yes. Fine. Just fine.”
“Have a good weekend.”
“I will….”
The line went dead. She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it, wild joy fading down to something kind of hollow and dejected.
Really, the call had meant less than nothing to him. She had to face that, had to accept it.
Jillian said, “See? He can’t live without you.”
Celia put down the phone. “That is so not the case.” She returned to her spot against the wall, dropped to the floor and flopped back on her pillows.
Jillian was adamant. “He can’t live without you. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
“Tell him,” Jane commanded for the third time that night.
“Give up,” Celia cried. “I’m not telling him. And I’m not changing my hair color, either.”
“Then what will you do?” asked Jane.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Her friends groaned in unison.
They worked on her all weekend, advising, cajoling, prodding and instructing. They wore her down, little by little.
Jane kept pushing honesty. Jillian talked hair and wardrobe and subliminal seduction. Celia moaned and protested and begged them to let it go. They would, for a while—and then they’d start in again.
She couldn’t hold firm against them forever. And she loved that they listened to her, that they cared. They really were the best friends any woman could have.
By noon Sunday, when she got in her rental car to drive to the Reno airport, she had made a decision.
She would take Jane’s advice and tell Aaron of her love.
Chapter Four
C elia’s course of action seemed perfectly clear to her when she was waving goodbye on that crisp, snowy Sunday in front of Jane’s wonderful old house.
First she would tell Aaron of her feelings. And depending on how he reacted, maybe she’d consider some of Jillian’s suggestions—if she wasn’t too busy nursing a broken heart while pounding the pavement looking for another job.
It was the “if” part that ruined her resolve.
Because how could she help fearing that the “if” part was reality? She would tell him she loved him. And he would tell her, very gently, because he was a kind man at heart, that he was sure she’d be happier working for someone else.
She’d lose him and her job.
All right, she was miserable now. But she was miserable and employed. She just couldn’t see the tradeoff. If she told him, she’d still be miserable. And she’d be out of work, as well.
“Oh, that’s negative.” She’d lie in bed at night, staring up at the dark ceiling, giving herself advice. “I am so negative.” She would tell herself, “Celia Louise Tuttle, you’ve got to snap out this. You’ve got to give it up, get over him—or tell him how you feel.”
Jillian called on Tuesday. “Well? Did you do it? What did he say? How did it go?”
Celia let too long a pause elapse before answering.
Jillian figured it out. “You didn’t do it.”
“I’m trying.”
“Celia. If you’re going to do it, do it.”
“I will, I will….”
“Tomorrow morning. The minute he
