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Now, work seemed more like torture. A place where she suffered constantly in the company of her heart’s desire—and he was totally oblivious to her as anything but his very efficient gal Friday.
Maybe she should quit.
But she didn’t. She did nothing, just tried to get through each day. Just reminded herself that it really hadn’t been all that long since V-day—yes, that was how she had started to think of it. As V-day, the day her whole world went haywire.
She hoped, fervently, that things would get better, somehow.
The seventh day passed.
Then, on the eighth day, Celia got a call from her friend Jane in New Venice.
It was after midnight. Celia had just let herself into her rooms. A group of Japanese businessmen had arrived that afternoon. High rollers, important ones. The kind who thought nothing of dropping a million a night at High Sierra’s gaming tables. The kind known affectionately in the industry as whales.
Aaron had joined these particular whales for their comped gourmet dinner in the Placer Room. He’d asked Celia to be there, too. She’d been in what she thought of as “fetch-and-carry mode.” If there was anything he needed that, for some reason, the wait staff or immediately available hotel personnel couldn’t handle, Celia was right there, to see he got it and got it fast.
The phone was ringing when she entered her rooms. She rushed to answer it.
And she heard her dear friend’s voice complaining, “Don’t you ever return your calls?”
Celia scrunched the phone between her shoulder and her ear and slid her thumb under the back strap of her black evening sandal. “Sorry.” She slipped the shoe off with a sigh of relief, then got rid of the other one and dropped to the couch. “It’s been a zoo.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“Well, it’s always a zoo.”
“But you love it.”
In her mind’s eye, she saw Aaron. “That’s right,” she said bleakly. “I do.”
“Okay, what’s wrong?”
“Not a thing.”
“You said that too fast.”
“Jane. I love my job. It’s not news.” Too bad I also love my boss—who does not love me. “What’s up?”
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Uh-huh. What’s up?”
Jane hesitated. Celia could just see her, sitting up in her four-poster bed in the wonderful Queen Anne Victorian she’d inherited from her beloved Aunt Sophie. She’d be braced against the headboard, pillows propped at her back, her wildly curling almost-black hair tamed, more or less, into a single braid. And she’d have a frown between her dark brows as she considered whether to get to why she’d called—or pursue Celia’s sudden strange attitude toward her job.
Finally, she said, “Come home. This weekend.”
Celia leaned back against the couch cushions and stared up at the recessed ceiling lights. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”
Jane made a humphing sound. “I don’t know any such thing. You work too hard. You never take a break.”
“It’s Thursday. Home is five hundred miles away.”
“That’s why they invented airplanes. I’ll pick you up in Reno tomorrow, just name the time.”
“Oh, Jane…”
“There will be wine. And a crackling fire in the fireplace. The valley is beautiful. We had snow, just enough to give us that picture-postcard effect. But there’s none in the forecast, so getting here will be no problem. And Jilly’s coming.”
Jillian Diamond, Celia’s other best friend, lived in Sacramento now and got home almost as rarely as Celia did.
“Also, I’m cooking.” Jane was an excellent cook. “Come on, Ceil. It’s been way too long. You know it has. At some point, you just have to put work aside for a day or two and come and see your old friends.”
Celia gathered her legs up to the side and switched the phone to her other ear. Why not? She thought. She hadn’t had a weekend to herself in months. And she could certainly use a break right about now. Yes. A change of scenery, a little time away from the object of her hopeless desire—and everything connected with him.
“Celia Louise?”
“I’m here—and I’m coming.”
Jane let out short whoop of glee. “You are? You’re serious?”
“I’ll get a flight right now, then e-mail you my flight schedule. But don’t worry about picking me up.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Forget about it. I’ll rent a car, no problem.”
“I’m holding you to this,” Jane said in a scolding tone. “You won’t be allowed to back out this time.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be there. Tomorrow afternoon. Expect me.”
“I will.”
Celia hung up and ran upstairs to her loft office nook, where she scheduled a flight online—quickly, before she could start thinking of all the ways her unexpected absence might be inconvenient for Aaron. She sent Jane a copy of her itinerary.
Jane e-mailed her right back: Since you’re driving yourself, I’ll go ahead and stay at the store until six.
Jane owned and operated a bookstore, the Silver Unicorn, in the heart of New Venice, right on Main Street. It was next door to the Highgrade, the café/saloon/gift shop that Caitlin Bravo, Aaron’s mother, had owned and run for over thirty years.
Celia stared at the computer screen, remembering….
Aaron and his brothers used to hang around on Main Street. They all three worked on and off at the Highgrade—in the gift shop or in the café, where they bussed tables or even flipped burgers on the grill. But they were a volatile family. People in town said those boys needed the influence of a steady father figure and that was something they would never get with Caitlin Bravo for a mother.
They were always getting into trouble, or just plain not showing up when it was time to go to work. Caitlin would pitch a fit and fire them. Then they’d end up hanging out on the street with the other wild kids in town—until they got into some mischief or other. Then Caitlin would yell at them and put them to work again.
Once, when she was eight, Celia had borrowed her big sister’s bike and ridden it over to Main Street. It was twenty-six inches of bike, with thin racing wheels, and she’d borrowed it without getting Annie’s permission. But she figured she wouldn’t get in trouble. Annie was over at the high school, at cheerleading practice. By the time Annie got home, the bike would be back on the side porch where she’d left it.
It was a stretch for Celia’s eight-year-old legs to reach the pedals and she kind of wobbled when she rode it. She had wobbled onto Main Street—and lost control right in front of the Highgrade. The bike went down, Celia with it, scraping her knees and palms on the asphalt of the street as she tried to block the fall.
Her legs were all tangled up in the pedals. She grunted and struggled and tried to get free. But it wasn’t working and she was getting more and more frustrated. She was on the verge of forgetting all about her eight-year-old dignity, just about to start bawling like a baby in sheer misery.
But then a pair of dusty boots appeared on the street about three feet from where she lay in a clumsy tangle. She looked up two long, strong legs encased in faded jeans, past a black T-shirt, into the face of the oldest of those bad Bravo boys, Aaron.
He knelt at her side. “Hey. You okay?”
She didn’t know what to say to him. She pressed her lips together and glared to show him that she wasn’t scared of him and she wasn’t going to cry.
He said, “Here. I’ll help you.” He gently took her beneath the arms and slid her out from under the bike. She was on her feet before she had time to shout at him to let go of her.
He stood her up and then he knelt again, just long enough to right the bike. “There you go.”
Her tongue felt like a slab of wood in her mouth. She knew if she tried to answer, some strange, ugly sound would be all that came out. She managed a nod.
He frowned at her. “You sure you’re all right?”
She nodded again.
“Maybe you should get a smaller bike….”
The cursor on her computer screen blinked at her. Celia ordered her mind back to the present and read the rest of Jane’s note. Key where it always is. Jane.
She typed, Can’t wait. See you. And sent it off.
Then she shut down the computer and went to bed. She didn’t sleep all that well. She kept obsessing over what Aaron might say when she told him she had to be at the airport at four.
He did depend on her. He could be angry that she was leaving for two days on such short notice. He often needed her on the weekends.
Well, if he said he needed her, she’d just have to cancel, she’d have to call Jane and—
Celia sat up in bed. “Oh, what is the matter with me?”
She flopped back down.
Of course, she wouldn’t cancel. She’d promised her dear friend she’d be there, and she would not break her word.
And what right did Aaron have to be angry? She’d worked weekend after weekend and never complained.
She was going. And that was it. No matter what Aaron said.
Chapter Two
A s it turned out, she needn’t have stayed awake stewing all night.
Aaron was staring at his computer screen when she mentioned her plans. “Hmm,” he said. “You’ll be here until four?”
“Well, I’d have to leave by three or so.”
“Three…” He frowned at the screen, punched a few keys, then added, “No problem. God knows you deserve a little time to yourself. Your parents all right?”
“I’m not going to visit them. They don’t live there anymore. None of my family lives there anymore. Remember I told you my folks moved to Phoenix last year?”
“Yeah, that’s right. You did.” He typed in a few more commands. She knew that he hadn’t really heard her. The next time she went home, he’d be telling her to enjoy her visit with her parents.
“I’ll be staying with my friend, Jane Elliott,” she volunteered brightly—as if he really cared or needed to know.
“Jane. The mayor’s daughter, right?”
The Elliotts were the closest thing New Venice had to an aristocracy. Jane’s father was a judge, like his father before him.
“No,” Celia said. “It’s Jane’s uncle, J. T., who’s the mayor.”
A half smile lifted one side of that wonderful, sculpted mouth of his—though he never took his eyes off his computer screen. “J. T. Elliott. Her uncle. Got it.”
J. T. Elliott had once been the county sheriff. If Celia remembered right, he’d locked Aaron up in his jail more than once in the distant past. Or if not Aaron, then surely his baby brother, Cade, who was the wildest of the three bad Bravo boys.
“So it’s all right, then, if I go?”
“Of course. Have a good time.”
Somehow, it felt worse that he didn’t seem to care she was leaving than if he’d been a jerk and demanded she cancel her plans and remain at his beck and call the whole weekend through.
Celia told herself to snap out of it. She was getting what she’d asked for and she would take it and be happy about it.
She worked until two-thirty and she was on that plane, flying to Reno, by a little after five that evening.
It was the second bottle of Chianti that did it. Celia probably could have kept her mouth shut if they’d stuck with just one.
But it was such a perfect evening. The three of them—friends since the first day of kindergarten, bosom buddies all through high school—together again, like in the old days.
Jane had cooked. Italian. Something with angel-hair pasta and lots of garlic and sun-dried tomatoes. After the meal, the three of them kicked off their shoes and gathered around the big fireplace in the front parlor. Jane had the stereo on low, set to Random, playing a mix of everything from Tony Bennett to Natalie Imbruglia.
Jillian raised her glass. “Triple Threat.” That was the three of them, the Triple Threat. Though, of course, they really hadn’t been much of a threat to anyone.
They were three nice girls from a small town, girls who studied hard in school and got good grades and didn’t get breasts as early as they would have liked—well, not Celia and Jillian, anyway. At the age of twelve, Jane had suddenly sprouted a pair of breasts that instantly became the envy of even the most popular girls at Mark Twain Middle School, eighth-graders included.
They were all well behaved. Yep. Jane and Jillian and Celia were good girls to the core, their transgressions so minor they generally went unremarked. They only dreamed of rebellions—at least until their senior year, when Jane ran off to Reno and married Rusty Jenkins.
That had been a real mess, Jane’s marriage to Rusty. He was trouble, capital T, that Rusty. He’d ended up getting himself killed three years later. Jane had scrupulously avoided all forms of rebellion ever since.
Jillian had tried marriage, too, when she was twenty-two. Her husband had a problem with monogamy—a problem he never bothered to reveal before the wedding. But it turned out that Benny Simmerson found being faithful way too limiting. That marriage had lasted a little over a year.
“Triple Threat,” echoed Jane. Celia said it, too. The three of them clinked glasses and drank.
Jillian grabbed a sapphire-blue chenille pillow from the end of the couch, propped it against the front of an easy chair and used it for a backrest. “So, how’s construction going next door?”
About six months ago, Cade Bravo had bought the house next to Jane’s. Since then, he’d been remodeling it.
Jane sipped more wine. “Who knows? He’ll probably never move in.”
“Why do you say that?” prodded Jillian. “What? He’s never there?”
“He’s there. Now and then. You can see he’s got the new roof on and the exterior painted. And I do hear hammering inside every once in a while. I’d say construction is moving along.”
“The question,” said Jillian, “is why? Why buy a house here? I heard he’s got a huge place in Vegas. And one in Tahoe, too, right? What’s New Venice got to offer that he can’t get in Vegas or Tahoe? And why an old house? Cade Bravo is not the fixer-upper type.”
“A hungering for the home he never really had?” Jane suggested. “A yearning for a simpler, gentler kind of life?”
Jillian pretended to choke on her wine. “Oh, right. Cade Bravo. Not.”
Jane shrugged. “It’s only a guess.”
“And speaking of Bravos…” Jillian wiggled her eyebrows. “Rumor has it Caitlin’s got a new boyfriend.”
“Could be,” said Jane.
Jillian giggled, a very naughty sound. “Janey. Come on. Who is he? What’s he like?”
“Hans is his name. I’ve seen him tooling around town in that black Trans Am of Caitlin’s.” Caitlin had owned the Trans Am for as long as Celia could remember. She kept it in perfect condition. It looked just like the one Burt Reynolds drove in that old seventies classic, Smokey and the Bandit. Jane added, “Hans has come in the bookstore once or twice.”
“And…?”
“Sounds like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Looks like him, too. At least from the neck down. Arnold meets Fabio. Remember Fabio? Long blond hair, major muscles. That’s Hans. Buys books on body culture and vitamin therapy.”
“A health nut.”
“Could be.”
“How old?”
Jane tried to look disapproving. “Honestly, Jilly. You’re practically salivating.”
Jillian let out a long, crowing laugh. “Boytoy! Admit it. I’ve got it right.”
Jane shrugged. “She always did like them young.”
“And vigorous.” Jillian giggled some more.
Jane gathered her legs up under her and stood. “I’ll get that other bottle.”
Celia looked down into her almost-empty glass, thinking of Aaron again, feeling disgustingly sorry for herself. There was no escape, really, from thinking of Aaron. Reminders were everywhere. She worked for him, they came from the same hometown where everybody loved nothing so much as to gossip about his mother. And now his brother was moving in next door to her best friend….
Jillian said, “What’s with you, Celia Louise?”
Celia looked up from her wine glass. “Huh?”
“I said, what’s with you?”
She made an effort to sit straighter and tried to sound perky. “Oh, nothing much. Working, as always.”
Jillian looked at her sideways. “No. I mean right this minute. Tonight. You’ve been too quiet.”
“A person can’t be quiet?”
“Depends on the kind of quiet. Tonight you are…suspiciously quiet. Something’s up with you.”
“You think so?”
“I do.”
Celia put on a frown, as if she were giving the whole idea of something being “up” with her serious thought. Then she shrugged and shook her head. “No. Honestly. Just…enjoying being here.”
“Oh, you liar,” said Jillian.
Jane came back with the fat, raffia-wrapped bottle. “She said there’s nothing bothering her, am I right?”
“You are,” said Jillian.
There’s something,” Jane said. “But she isn’t telling.”
Both Jane and Jillian looked at Celia, their faces expectant, waiting for her to come clean and tell them what was on her mind. She kept her mouth shut.
Finally, Jane shrugged. “More of this nice, rustic Chianti, anyone?”
Celia and Jillian held out their glasses and Jane filled them. They all sat back and stared at the fire for a minute or two while Tony Bennett sang about leaving his heart in San Francisco.
“Good a place as any,” Jane said softly.
Jillian sighed.
Celia drank more wine. She grabbed a couple of pillows of her own, propped them against the wall between the fireplace and the side door that led out to Jane’s wraparound porch and leaned back, getting comfortable.
“So, how’s the book biz?” Jillian tipped her glass at Jane.
“The book biz is not bad. Not bad at all.” Jane’s dark eyes shone with satisfaction as she talked about her store. “Events,” she said. “They really bring in the customers. Events. Activities.” Not a week went by that she didn’t have some author or other in to answer questions and sign books. “I still have my Children’s Story Hour, Saturdays at ten and Thursday nights at seven.” And then there were the reading groups. She offered the store as a place to hold them. “So far, I’ve got four different groups meeting at the Silver Unicorn at various times during the week. Now and then I’ve been doing a kind of café evening on a weekend night, with a harpist or a guitar player, that sort of thing. They can have coffee and tea and scones and biscotti. They can read the books while they enjoy the music. Folks love it. I’m building my customer base just fine. I get the tourists in the summer months and during the winter, the locals have started thinking of the store as a gathering place.”
Jillian said, “Speaking of speakers, how ’bout me? I am an author now, after all—more or less, anyway.”
Jane grinned. “I thought you’d never ask. Maybe we could set something up for next month. You could talk about the column. Give a few helpful hints on wardrobe basics, tell them what items they just can’t be without this year.”
Jillian had her own business, Image by Jillian. She showed executives and minor celebrities how to spruce up their wardrobes; she gave makeovers and seminars on dressing Business Casual. She also wrote an advice column, “Ask Jillian,” for the Sacramento Press-Telegram.
Celia sipped her wine, growing dangerously mushy and sentimental as she listened to her two oldest and dearest friends talking shop. Really, she was glad she had come. It was just what she’d needed, to be sitting here by the fire at Jane’s, getting plotzed on Chianti.
And also, I need truth, she thought, with a sudden burst of semi-inebriated insight. Truth. Oh, yes. I need it. I do. I need to share the truth with someone—and who better than my two best friends in all the world?
So she said, “Well, the truth is, I’m in love with Aaron Bravo.”
Chapter Three
J illian, who’d been making a point about flirty reversible bias-cut skirts in light, floaty fabrics, shut her mouth right in the middle of a sentence. Jane turned to Celia and stared.
Celia took another large sip of wine.
“Get out,” said Jillian, after several seconds of stunned silence. A wild laugh escaped her, but she cut it off by clapping her hand over her mouth. Finally, she whispered, “You’re serious.”
“I am. I love him.” Celia looked into her glass again and wrinkled her nose. “Maybe I’ll become a drunk. Drown my sorrows…”
Jane reached out and snared the glass.
“Hey,” Celia protested, but without much heat.
Jane scooted over and set the glass on the coffee table, then scooted back to the nest of pillows she’d made for herself on the pretty lapis-blue hand-woven rug in front of the fire.
Jillian asked, “Does he know?”
Oh, no, Celia thought. Here come those pesky tears again….
Well, she wasn’t having any of them. She jumped to her feet and looked down at her friends. She swallowed. Twice. Finally, her throat loosened up enough that she could tell them, “He hasn’t got a clue.”
“Oh, honey,” cried Jillian. She reached up her arms. So did Jane.
With a tiny sob, Celia toppled toward her friends. They embraced. It felt really good, really comforting.
So much so that she didn’t end up bawling like a baby after all.
Once they’d shared a good, long hug, Jane gave Celia back her wineglass. “But don’t get too crazy with that.”
“I won’t. I promise. This is all I’ll have. I was only joking about becoming a drunk.”
“Good.” Jane folded her legs lotus-style and adjusted her long, soft skirt over them. “So. All right. Talk to us. Tell us everything.”
Celia explained about V-day.
“Wait a minute,” Jillian said. “So you’re saying, all this time you’ve been working for him and you were—what—fond of him and nothing more?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Fond? Is that the word that comes to mind when I think of Aaron Bravo?”
Jillian made a low, impatient sound. “What I’m getting at is, this is way too sudden, don’t you think? Out of nowhere, you’re in love with him? On Valentine’s Day?”
Celia nodded. “Yes.” Then she shook her head. “No.” And then she looked at the ceiling. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“Well, that clarifies it for me.”
“Jilly, I can’t be sure if it started on Valentine’s Day. Maybe…I’ve loved him for months. Maybe years. But if I did, I didn’t know it until a week ago.”
Jillian started to say something. But Jane shot her a look. Jillian blew out a breath.
Jane said, “Go on.”
Celia poured out her woes. “He doesn’t notice me. Not as a whole person. And certainly not as a woman. I’m…a function to him. And it hurts. Bad. Which I know is totally unreasonable. My falling for him wasn’t in the job description. He hired a secretary/assistant. Not a girlfriend. He doesn’t need a girlfriend. He’s got his pick of those.”
Jane was nodding grimly. “Showgirls?”
“That’s right. Nice showgirls, too. I hate that. It makes it even worse, somehow. I can’t even despise the competition—not that there is any competition.”
“Does he seem—” Jillian sought the right words “—as if he could be interested, if you told him?”
Slowly, pressing her lips together and swallowing down more tears, Celia shook her head.
“You’re sure of that?”
Jane jumped in. “Oh, how can she know for sure? She’s not objective about this. Look at her. She’s gone around the bend over the guy.”
“That’s right,” Jillian said. “Of course, she can’t be objective.”
“I can be objective.” Celia protested. “I am objective. I’m sure he’s not interested in me as a woman.”
Jane scooted over and took her by the shoulders. “Look at me, Ceil.”
“Fine. Okay.” Celia met her friend’s eyes.
“Are you sure this is the real thing? Are you sure it’s really love? Are you sure it’s not—”
“Stop,” said Celia. “Yes. I’m sure. It’s all I’m sure of lately. This is love, I know it. I’ve known it since V-day. I can’t explain it. I can’t convince you if you won’t believe. But it is the truth. I’m in love with Aaron Bravo.”
Jane stared at her for a several long seconds more, her eyes narrowed, probing. Then she whispered, softly, “I see.” She let go of Celia’s shoulders and went back to her pillows.