it into his hands.
He took it reluctantly, shoved it into his saddlebag after he’d returned her briefcase to her. Then he pinned her with a look so fierce her heart jumped in her chest.
“I don’t think so.” He pulled his helmet back over his head. “I think it’s you.”
He started the bike and roared away before she could come up with a suitable reply.
Head swimming, feet aching, Vivian stumbled into the lobby of her apartment building. Michael, the doorman, greeted her with a smile she returned. He rushed to call the elevator for her, as he always did when she came in late.
She rode up to the penthouse condominium her parents had bought her when she’d graduated from Harvard Law, summa cum laude. It had been a bribe to get her to come back to San Francisco, and one she hadn’t been able to resist, despite the numerous job offers she’d received from a variety of New York and Washington firms.
But San Francisco, with its turbulent ocean and temperamental weather, was home.
The second her apartment door closed behind her, she kicked off her shoes with a sigh of relief. She had an addiction to expensive, high-heeled shoes, and normally her feet handled her little problem just fine. But after eighteen hours in the four-inch heels, even her steel arches were weeping.
Shrugging out of her suit jacket, she dropped it on the kitchen table on her way to the refrigerator. A little spurt of guilt raised its ugly head, but she shoved it down. The house didn’t need to be spotless all the time, no matter what her mother said; Vivian could hang the jacket up tomorrow.
Right now it was—she glanced at the clock in the breakfast nook—almost eleven-thirty and the turkey sandwich she’d gulped down for lunch between court sessions had long since worn off. She wanted a quick snack and about eight hours stretched out on her very comfortable bed. But tomorrow was Tuesday, and one of the two mornings a week she spent volunteering at a battered women’s shelter. She could cancel and try to get some extra sleep, but everything inside her rebelled at the thought.
They needed her. When she’d finally become an adult, she’d sworn she’d never turn her back on someone who needed her. Like Diego. That boy—
The phone rang, interrupting her train of thought, as she was haphazardly slapping a couple pieces of cheese between two slices of bread. She started to reach for it, but just didn’t have the energy to deal with anything else tonight, no matter how irresponsible that made her.
When the answering machine finally kicked on and her mother’s voice flooded the room, she was glad exhaustion had won out over conscience.
“Vivian, this is your mother. Are you really not there? It’s eleven o’clock. If you’re out, I hope it’s on a date and not with one of those women for the shelter. You know, the Winchester boy has been asking about you and I told him you were available. I think he might be calling, so be nice when he does. The Black-and-White Ball is coming up fast and I mentioned that you didn’t have an escort yet. Remember, I helped organize it again this year so I expect you to be there. No excuses.
“Also, I was calling to see if you had time to go Christmas shopping next Tuesday. I thought we’d make a day of it—brunch, shopping, maybe an afternoon at the spa. Your nails were looking so ragged the last time I saw you, and your hair could certainly use a little pick-me-up. And don’t give me any nonsense about work—I don’t think you’ve taken a day off in two years. Call me and let me know what time you would like to meet on Tuesday. I’ll be home tomorrow until eleven.”
The answering machine clicked off abruptly.
Vivian carried her sandwich into the family room, but instead of sinking onto the nearest available space, she went to stand near the long picture window that overlooked the nearly infinite Pacific.
Nothing like her mother to put things in perspective. Forget the women’s shelter—you should be on a date. Forget helping others—we should go shopping.
Shopping was her mom’s answer to everything, and it always had been. Bad day at school—let’s go to the mall. Break up with a boy—a new dress is just what you need. Your sister died—Nordstrom’s is having a sale. Let’s go.
Vivian fought the old bitterness that crept up, hating the way her mother could so easily cut her off at the knees. She reminded herself that her mother felt things in her own way, and that criticizing her daughter was how the woman showed her love. Dwelling on how Vivian wished things were different wasn’t going to do anything, Lillian Wentworth would always be exactly what she was.
Dispassionate, formal, unwilling to show emotion, which was exactly what she’d raised her daughters to be. Thank God the lessons hadn’t rubbed off, at least not on Vivian.
Still, her skin felt too small for her body, as it often did after she’d heard from her mother. Her stomach—which had just started to relax—was in even tighter knots than it had been on the back of Rafael’s motorcycle. But then, Lillian was good at getting Vivian all worked up, good at making her feel vulnerable and inferior and disappointing.
Sometimes she wondered if her mother had been taught her passive-aggressiveness at Vassar along with all the core subjects. So many of her friends had the same ability….
As she crossed to the sofa, Vivian took a bite of her sandwich, but it tasted like sawdust now. Shoving it away, she draped her legs with the violet afghan one of her pro bono clients had made her. Then reminded herself of how much luckier she was than Diego or Marco, or any of the other kids she’d seen at Helping Hands earlier that night. She had a home, a career she loved, a family who had provided for her materially, if not emotionally.
The fact that she had spent her life wanting more just proved how selfish she was. And how lonely.
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