faces.
“Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” chirped the girl with pink spiked hair behind the espresso cart. “What’ll you have, Abby? Your usual?”
Brilliant morning sunlight glinted off the studs that decorated Nanette’s nose and brows. They hurt Abby’s eyes.
“You OK?” Nanette’s brows furrowed. “You look terrible.”
“Gee, thanks, Nanette. Give me the usual.”
“You got it.” Nanette’s hennaed hands worked efficiently. “I’ll put chocolate-covered coffee beans on top. That’ll give you a nice buzz.”
“Hair of the dog that bit me. And make a decaf soy latte for Elaine, OK? Today it’s my turn to provide coffee.”
“Yeah, I saw her sprinting by here a couple of minutes ago,” Nanette said. “She could use some coffee. She looked stressed out.”
Abby dug into her purse for her wallet. Her eyes stung with exhaustion. She’d been too wound up to sleep, and had ended up watching the rest of the film on the Classics Channel. After the movie, she’d surfed late-night cable, anchoring herself in reality by consuming a pint of Fudge Ripple. She’d woken on the couch with Sheba draped across her neck, barely in time to shower and run for the bus.
Abby took a bracing sip of her espresso before heading into the museum. She had to stop launching her day with sugar and caffeine. The ice cream in front of the TV hadn’t done her much good, either. Tomorrow she’d cut back to bran flakes, or else shop for a whole new wardrobe next size up. And she was no skinny Minnie as it was.
First things first, though. Proofread the gala journal to make sure no big-shot VIP donors’ names were misspelled. Make a gazillion wheedling phone calls to remind trustees and Museum Council ladies to get their RSVPs in. Meet with the artists who were helping with the gala decorations, light a fire underneath their flaky artistic butts. Organize the volunteers to assemble and stuff hundreds of goodie bags with the gifts donated by local businesses and gala sponsors. Tally the money they’d pulled in so far, calculate how many more checks had to come in to reach their funding goal. Above all, she somehow had to avoid Bridget, her scary boss, in order to get it all done. Bridget was hell to work for, threatened as she was by Abby’s talent. Bridget was also married to the executive director of the museum. Enough said.
To make things even more fun, the admin offices had moved into the new wing this week, so everything was in boxes. It was the worst possible timing, right before the gala, but one could argue that it was Abby’s fault they were moving at all, since she was partly responsible for the budget surplus. She did try to look on the bright side of things.
Abby slipped into Elaine’s office. Elaine was on the phone. “Yes, fettucine alla boscaiola, and grilled swordfish…stuffed mushrooms, and the garlic calamari. For dessert, the panna cotta. Garlic-rosemary focaccia, and Prosecco…yes, and add a twenty-five percent gratuity for the delivery person. Same address as last night, please…yes, nine o’clock is fine. Charge it to the usual account. That’s great. Thank you.”
Elaine hung up the phone and turned. Abby’s cheerful greeting stuck in her throat. Elaine was lovely as always, in her fragile blond way, but she did not have the euphoric glow of sexual fulfillment.
She looked pinched. Haunted, almost.
Abby hid her dismay and set Elaine’s coffee down, rummaging in her purse. “Here are your house keys, as promised. So how about this secret lover? Did Mystery Mark let you sleep?”
Elaine’s gaze slid away from hers. “Not much.”
“A romantic dinner for two, huh?” Abby persisted. “Good for you. Who did you order that sexy meal from?”
“Oh, that’s Café Girasole. My mother has a corporate account.” Elaine looked sheepish. “I just call up and pretend to be Gwen, Mom’s secretary, ordering dinner for Mom. No one ever calls me on it.”
Elaine’s mother, Gloria Clayborne, was by far the richest woman in town. Abby could well imagine that no one called Elaine on it. That had to be at least a four-hundred-dollar meal from Café Girasole, the trendiest restaurant in Silver Fork. “Yum. Here’s your decaf soy latte.”
“Thanks, Ab, you’re a sweetie, but Mark already made me one.”
“He made you coffee?” Abby said approvingly. “Good man. He gets points. Did he make you breakfast, too?”
“No, he made me a decaf soy latte,” Elaine said, stressing every word. “He bought decaf espresso, he foamed the soy milk, he even sprinkled it with cinnamon. He remembered how I took my espresso from the first coffee bar we went to together. Every tiny detail.”
Abby blinked. “Wow. That’s, uh…that’s really special.”
“I know.” Elaine looked nervous. “Um, I have to ask a favor, Abby. I promised Mark I wouldn’t tell anybody about us. At least not until his divorce is final. So I would appreciate it if you kept it to yourself. I shouldn’t even have told you last night. He was so mad.”
Mad? At Elaine? Who could be mad at Elaine? It was like being mad at a baby bird. “Divorce?” Abby prodded gently.
“I can’t tell you the details until he’s comfortable with it. Please don’t be mad, OK? He won’t even let me park near his house, he’s so paranoid. He makes me park in a garage five blocks away.”
“Of course not. Don’t worry,” Abby said heartily. “My interest won’t go away. But Elaine…you look kind of peaked. Are you OK?”
Elaine sank down into her chair, her translucent eyelids fluttering. “He’s, well…I’m not used to…oh, never mind.”
Abby stared at her, eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you used to?”
Elaine looked strangely lost. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “It was so perfect, the first week. Then I started feeling, um, odd. The things he likes, they’re a little, well…extreme. And then last night, after he got mad, after you called, it got really, uh, strange.”
Abby was open-minded about sex, but not when it came to the fragile Elaine. Her protective instincts bristled up like gun turrets on a tank. “Define strange,” she demanded. “Please be specific.”
Bright spots of color stained Elaine’s cheeks. “It’s hard to describe,” she said primly. “It was a mood thing. Just, ah, darker.”
“Rougher? Did he hurt you?” Abby’s belly clenched.
“Oh, no! It was more, ah, psychological than physical.”
“Head games,” Abby said grimly. “Big pig. Thumbs down.”
“You’re overreacting.” Elaine’s voice shook. “I can’t expect a guy to be perfect, right? There are always adjustments to make.”
Abby shook her head. “No, honey. Some things you should take for granted. Like him being gentle and respecting your feelings.”
Elaine would not meet her eyes. “Don’t lecture me, please.”
Abby counted to five, lips tight. “I just worry about you,
