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  She looked around for the manager, Jessica, who had sent her a lovely note after Rebecca wrote a fabulous column about their linens being simply the finest gift to truly impress.

  She heard Jessica’s voice before she spotted her in the corner, talking to an older woman.

  “. . . believe she’s out shopping after getting fired. I heard the new owner thinks she’s too old for the job. I’m not surprised.”

  Hearing enough to feel slightly ill, Rebecca backed up to escape and hit her heel against the leg of a display table. The clatter caused both women to turn and stare at her.

  Plastering on her best PR smile, she grabbed up the closest two pillow covers and swept toward the corner. “There you are, Jessica. I simply must have these.”

  Instead of Jessica rushing to assist her, like she always had before, the older saleswoman took the linens from Rebecca’s hands. “Let me help you.”

  Feeling even sicker, Rebecca realized she didn’t know the price of her impulse purchase. Idly tapping the toe of her stiletto, she feigned boredom, hoping they couldn’t see her panic at how much her pride was costing her. She glanced over at Jessica, who immediately scurried off into a back room.

  “That will be three hundred and eighty dollars apiece. Plus tax. Are you still interested?” the sales associate asked solemnly.

  “Of course.” Determined not to show a flicker of her burning shock, she whipped out her Visa card.

  A few minutes later the saleswoman returned. Her face devoid of emotion, she handed the card back. “I’m sorry. Do you have another card?”

  Rebecca felt rooted to the floor by embarrassment. How late did I send that payment?

  Her devilish pride won again. “Here, try this one.” She pulled out her second credit card, the one she used only for extreme emergencies, because the interest rate was criminally high. The horrible thought it might not still be active crossed her mind, but surely she’d had her quota of rejections today.

  “I’m sorry. This card has also been declined.” The saleswoman inched the pillow covers closer to her side of the counter.

  Rebecca eyed the linens with loathing. Let the damn store keep them. Again her pride reared its fierce head. No. I can’t let them see me sweat.

  “I’m sure the problem is in your system.” She opened her checkbook. “I’ll write a check.”

  “I’ll have to okay it with the manager.” The poor embarrassed woman bolted into the back room.

  Almost immediately, Jessica was forced to appear. She didn’t look happy, and she absolutely refused to meet Rebecca’s eyes. “You may write a check, but we need to see your driver’s license.”

  The ugly truth hit Rebecca over the head. She might spin it any way she wanted, but not everyone would be supporting her. The ping of disappointment hurt more than a little, but she refused to show it. She shot the manager a haughty look and pulled out her driver’s license. “Please hurry,” she said, trying to sound as confident as she’d been when she first walked in here. “I’m late for an important meeting at the newspaper office.”

  Moments later, bruised but unbowed, Rebecca swept out the door, swinging a Très Treat bag stamped with their slogan, “Our Linens Dress the Beds of the World’s Rich and Famous.”

  These seriously priceless linens weren’t going to be used until she was in bed with someone rich and famous. Or someone she was so absolutely mad about she might marry him.

  Determined to continue her charade of “everything is marvelous,” she continued to stroll down Oak Street. She stopped to admire a dress in the window at Luca Luca but dared not go in, for fear she’d spend next month’s mortgage payment, too.

  When Simone, the manager, spotted Rebecca looking in the window, she rushed to fling open the door. “Tell me it’s not true. You are not leaving the paper.”

  Rebecca laughed as convincingly as she could muster. “Really, how do these rumors get started? Of course I’m not leaving the paper. How could they possibly get along without me?” She knew she’d succeeded when Simone nodded and smiled.

  “That’s what I told everyone on the street.” Simone glanced meaningfully at her snooty neighbors. “Your column is the only reason I read the paper.”

  Wanting to break the news gently, Rebecca leaned closer. “Can you keep a secret? Seriously, you can’t breathe this to anyone.”

  Simone’s dark eyes lit with interest and she tilted her head forward to catch every word. “Yes, I promise.”

  “I won’t be writing my column for a short while, because I’m on special assignment. The new owner is going to revamp the paper, starting with the Home section. It’s going to be absolutely marvelous! Kate Carmichael, the editor, is a brilliant Pulitzer winner. Together, we’re going to do things that will revolutionize the whole concept of home and food.”

  Simone looked stunned, which is how Rebecca felt at realizing how easily she could spin the truth. But Simone also appeared to be a trifle skeptical.

  Eager to convince her and the world that everything was truly divine, Rebecca dove deeper into her fantasy. “Yes, there’s talk of several TV spots. Perhaps even our own network show. Which is why I’m out shopping for Kate’s new wardrobe.” That was the grain of truth in everything she’d said, just like the stories in most of the tabloids had at least one fact correct.

  Apparently buying Rebecca’s version of the story, Simone pushed the door to the shop open wider. “We would love to dress both of you.”

  “Thank you, darling. I personally love everything in your store. But Kate has a slightly different style. I’m going to stroll down to Prada for a peek.”

  “But you will allow us to dress you?” Simone insisted.

  “Absolutely! Must run now.” Rebecca put a finger to her lips. “Remember, not a word to anyone.”

  As always when Rebecca didn’t behave well, guilt made her feel positively wicked.

  It will serve me right if my nose is growing longer and longer with the lies I’m spreading all over Oak Street.

  When she felt this rotten, there was only one person to turn to for a cure. Her best friend, Harry, who actually had made her nose shorter.

  She sent him a text message as she walked past Prada’s windows. Three minutes later he replied: “I’m home.”

  As fast as she could move in her four-inch heels, Rebecca ran to Harry’s beautiful old stone town house on the Gold Coast.

  When she opened the black wrought-iron gate to his tiny front garden, Harry walked out onto his front porch. His face was all chiseled concern, like Rupert Everett in My Best Friend’s Wedding. Since several of his patients gushed how much he looked like Rupert, Harry had helped the resemblance along by adopting the same haircut and debonair style.

  Just like Julia Roberts in the movie, Rebecca launched herself into her best friend’s outstretched arms. “Harry, I’ve lost my mind,” she sobbed.

  “No, sweet pea. You’ve only lost your job.”

  His strong arms were so comforting she turned into an instant weakling and meekly let him lead her into the living room. They snuggled into the huge cream leather couch in front of the black marble fireplace, where he’d placed a tangle of branches, ready for the first frosty night in September.

  Her sigh caught in her throat, and she tried to cover it but gave up. Harry she trusted. “I’m totally out of control. I’ve been telling lies all over town. And I spent eight hundred dollars on a pair of pillowcases!”

  “What’s the thread count?”

  She sat up to look into his amused face. “It’s not funny. I’m serious. I’m a mess. No one wants me. Tim and our evil new owner want me to slink off so Shannon can take over my job. It’s too much like Peter leaving me for that infant Cassandra. Remember, he wanted me to slink off, too, while he reversed his vasectomy for her.”

  Totally absorbed in self-pity, she wallowed in tears, letting them drip down her cheeks. “Now Shannon has my three and one-half pages on Wednesday and one and one-half pages on Sunday. Peter has a wife
and Angelina, the most adorable eight-year-old daughter in the world. And all I have is two recipes a week.” She flung herself back onto his chest to sob with gusto.

  He patted her back, making cooing sounds, until she calmed down enough to hiccup and sigh. “Thank you. I needed that. I feel better now.”

  “Sweet pea, I know there are problems in being over forty in the entertainment world. However, it’s bliss compared to being an aging gay man.” He held her at arm’s length to study her ravaged face. “I could do your eyes again. Or maybe a lift. But you really don’t—”

  “I don’t want a face-lift. I need a life-lift.”

  He forced her to meet his narrow gray gaze. “If there’s a silver lining, you always find it. You always cry if I cry. Then you cheer me up. Now it’s my turn. What can I do?”

  “Get me out of this mess!” she demanded and tried to laugh. “I hate to ask, but I seriously do need help. I haven’t owned a cookbook since my divorce. Peter took those, too. Maybe that’s why Tim offered me the job, thinking I’d refuse because I’m so rusty in the kitchen. But I plan to do an outstanding job for my wonderful new boss, so I must have recipes.”

  “Come with me.”

  He pulled her into his immaculate kitchen, where everything was picture-perfect, from the sparkling clean Viking stove to the gleaming copper pots hanging over the antique oak butcher block.

  Like always, stress made her ravenous. She eyed his refrigerator. “Harry, what do you have to eat?”

  “I promise to feed you soon. First, look.” With a flourish, he flung open a cabinet door to reveal a shelf of cookbooks. Then he opened another cabinet and another, all displaying perfectly arranged cookbooks lined up like little soldiers. “Remember how many boxes there were when I inherited my great aunt Harriet’s library last year? All these cookbooks were in the last three boxes I didn’t unpack until later.” He ran his long surgeon’s fingers over the bindings. “I’ve arranged them all by courses. It relaxes me to read them and plan the perfect dining experience.”

  She shook her head and studied him, looking for stress fractures. “Harry, I’ve known you for twenty years. You’ve never cooked one gourmet meal for me.”

  “I’ve never actually cooked anything from these books.” He shrugged his wide shoulders. “But recently I’ve been fantasizing about it. I need a new hobby, since I haven’t had sex in years.” Grinning, he answered the ringing phone at his elbow.

  “Dr. Harry Grant here,” he boomed out. Then he laughed in his warm, charming, confident way that convinced women to put their faces and bodies in his capable hands. “What a pleasant surprise, Cathy. Yes, Rebecca is here. Just a moment, please.”

  Eager for possible Evil-Boss-from-Hell news, she grabbed the phone and paced around the butcher block. “Cathy, darling, how in the world did you track me down here?”

  “My assistant saw you shopping on Oak Street. I’m in a meeting at the Pump Room and saw you run past the windows. I tried to catch you, but you were already turning onto Astor.”

  Uh-oh. Those Oak Street lies are already coming back to haunt me. She needed to know how bad it was going to be to plot her defense. “By the way, have you heard any more rumors concerning my changed situation?”

  “You mean about revolutionizing the concept of food and home? I’ve told everyone you’d put your own stamp on the Home section. So, yeah, you will be revolutionizing it.”

  In awe of Cathy’s brilliant PR spin, Rebecca stopped pacing to lean one hip into the sturdy butcher block. “What an excellent interpretation of my comments. Do you have anything on the new owner?”

  “His name is David Alan Sumner. He’s DAS Media’s CEO and owner. Just turned forty-nine. Widower for five years. Twin sons. Ryan, a vet. Michael, a marine biologist. He started out in communications. Started buying failing newspapers and TV stations and making them profitable. He cashed in big on reality programming. Remember Defeating Your Demons and Celebrity Bingo? His. Along with dozens of others. He’s forming his own small network. Not unlike how FOX used to be. He’s been called the ethical Rupert Murdock. I’m hoping to snag him for the Allen’s opening. Rumor has it he’ll be in town by then. That’s it so far.”

  A little giddy at being able to at least put a name on the Evil One, Rebecca laughed. “Cathy, I owe you. Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Harry raised his arched brows. “Well? Good news?”

  “Maybe a silver lining. David Alan Sumner sounds married to his work, like most CEOs I know. Now I have to figure out a way to dazzle him with my brilliance so he becomes dough in my hands and gives me back my column.” She pulled Martha Stewart’s Hors d’Oeuvres Handbook from the cabinet. “This is perfect. Martha was down and out just like me not so long ago, and look at her now.”

  Looking positively enthralled, Harry turned the pages of the cookbook. “Excellent idea to start with hors d’oeuvres. You should build the perfect meal over several columns. I particularly like the look of the lobster and mushroom quesadillas.”

  Rebecca gazed down at the beautiful color photograph he held out. “It looks yummy. I want to do a good job for Kate until I get my real job back.”

  The next morning, when Kate studied the color photograph of the quesadillas, she nodded. “I agree it looks delicious. Recipe sounds reasonable. Now, how do you plan to change it?”

  Rebecca stared at her in confusion. What did she mean, change it?

  A deep furrow appeared between Kate’s eyes. “You do understand that our policy is that you can’t simply copy someone’s recipe. You must experiment with it. Improve or change it in some way. You must make it yours, Rebecca.”

  Rebecca laughed a little too loud. Of course I didn’t know. “Of course I know what must be done.” She clutched the cookbook to her bosom. “I’m off this very minute to experiment. I’ll arrange for the staff photographer to shoot this afternoon. I’ll have my copy in ahead of deadline for you to edit.”

  Kate settled back in her chair. “Rebecca, I don’t need to edit your work. I trust you to do your usual excellent job.”

  “Thank you, Kate.” Holding her falsely confident smile, Rebecca stepped out of the cubbyhole.

  The moment she was alone, she threw the offending cookbook on the desk and collapsed onto her chair. Of course I’ll do my best for you, Kate. But how?

  Panic urged her to call Harry, but she forced herself to wait until she heard Kate talking on the phone. Glancing around, she cupped her hand around the receiver so no one could overhear. She got his voice mail but still whispered, “Harry, I’m going to use my key and get into your place. I have to actually cook. My stove’s been broken for six months. See you later.”

  She made one quick stop at home to change into a Juicy Couture cashmere sweat suit for the ordeal ahead. Then it was on to her now-crucial visit to that bastion of gourmet and healthy grocery shopping, Whole Foods. Once in the store’s wide aisles, she kept consulting her cookbook. Taking Martha’s advice to buy one cooked lobster tail for the recipe, rather than buying a small whole lobster and cooking it herself, seemed to be a good idea. To be on the safe side, she bought two. In the end she doubled all the ingredients. Plus she bought frozen flour tortillas that could be cut in half for a miniature look.

  What seemed like hours later, she staggered into Harry’s immaculate kitchen, ladened with grocery bags.

  Her tension headache started the instant she placed the medium skillet brushed with olive oil over high heat. As Martha instructed, she waited until the skillet warmed before throwing in the mushrooms. When they colored slightly, she removed them. The recipe said to sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste and set aside. She tried one, and it tasted delicious. She heaved a huge sigh of relief and flexed her shoulders.

  Really, this isn’t so difficult. She felt so pleased with her efforts she decided this would be an excellent place to add her special touch.

  Chocolate makes everything taste better. She dug out the Leonidas milk chocolate bar she kept in her tote f
or emergencies. It smelled so delicious she nibbled on a corner before using the rest to make her own version of mole sauce.

  Humming contentedly, she drizzled it over the mushrooms and then popped one into her mouth.

  Poison! She gagged, spitting the noxious fungus into the sink. Water didn’t help the hideous aftertaste. Desperate, she popped open a bottle of champagne and guzzled a glass and then another, until the ghastly taste in her mouth dissipated at last.

  She eyed the disgusting mushrooms. Who knew they’d be the only food on the planet that doesn’t taste better covered with chocolate!

  Hopefully, once she added the ricotta cheese, lobster, and spinach leaves, no one would be the wiser.

  Until today she’d always loved mushrooms. Now she wasn’t so sure. They slipped out of the damn tortilla layers, which refused to stick together the way they were supposed to. They bounced off the counter, and when she tried to catch them before they splattered on the floor, the cast-iron skillet overheated. Mushrooms were everywhere, like Tribbles in Star Trek, and soon the smell of burned tortillas and all the ingredients oozing out of them filled the room.

  The smoke detector’s tiny beep sounded like a siren in her aching head. Smoke poured up around her, making her eyes burn. Grabbing a kitchen chair, she climbed onto the wicker seat. Stretched to her full five feet two and one-half inches, plus three-inch wedges, she was almost able to brush the tips of her fingers against the bleeping alarm. With a do-or-die upward lunge, she slapped the plastic cover. It popped off and hit her on the head.

  “Damn it!” Rearing back, rubbing her throbbing temple, she felt the chair totter beneath her.

  “My God!” Harry bellowed from the open door before rushing to her rescue. “Get down before you kill yourself!”

  Totally remorseful, she clutched his hand while he gazed around the wreckage of his once-pristine kitchen. “I’m sorry, Harry.” If the smoke weren’t already making her eyes water, she’d be shedding real tears.

  He kissed her sticky hand and sighed. “Let’s get to work, sweet pea.”