Coming Soon

First three chapters of my next WLW novel. A story that may resonate with more than a few readers. The fairytale wedding turns into a broken heart after five or six years. Set adrift on the open ocean of life to find your way. And, after a broken heart, you find a harbor in your past and set course for a different kind of love.

Jan and Charlie were pinky swear friends growing up, both going their separate ways after high school graduation, only to find each other 13 years later in a bar in a swanky hotel in downtown Chicago.

Wrapped in memories and undeclared longings, their lives pick up, seemingly, where they left off.

But is that really possible? Are there dues to pay and confessions to make?

My hope was to release this before the end of this year, but reality is fighting me. Here are the first three chapters. Wet is the working title, but I already have something else in mind. Let me know what you think.

Author first draft. No editing, yet.

Chapter 1

After all the yelling and name-calling, their tawdry scene at the courthouse, even after catching the cheating bastard in bed with his scrub nurse, Jan lived her new singularity trying to decide if she really wanted that second serving, third drink, or cream and sugar in her coffee.

Only six months earlier, she’d been the missus half of Doctor and Mrs. Howard Hillsborough. She hosted dinner parties, attended benefits, managed a household with a cook, maid, and gardener, shopped for labels, and never drank alone. Now she was Janet Saddler. Just another thirty-year-old divorcee in a country full of divorcees trying to find meaning that went beyond that missus.

“Can I get a refill, Frank?” She smiled at the dangerously handsome, twenty-something bartender she’d been flirting with for the last three weeks. He always smiled back and knew what scotch Jan liked. But she could see it in his eyes. Jan was just another sad story, drinking alone, while Frank turned her pages and read between her lines.

“Sure, Ms. Saddler.”

There were worse fates, not that she could think of any that didn’t involve starving children or abused animals. And, as had become their routine, Frank smiled his mirthless smile and shot her with a wink. Then, with the flair of an A-list actor, he cleared Jan’s empty glass, wiped the bar, and dropped the last of her self-imposed limit on the two feet of satin-finished mahogany she’d staked out for her ongoing pity party.

“Here you go, Ms. Saddler.”

“Thanks, Frank. And I told you to call me—”

“Tell me, Ms. Saddler. What was it? Rich man, poor man, beggar man, or thief?”

Jan raised her hand to the hands blocking her view. “What?”

“And what did you become? Housewife, widow, mistress—” Jan heard a familiar, playful chuckle she couldn’t quite place before her captor leaned close and whispered, “Or whore?”

Jan still couldn’t place the woman’s voice, and when she didn’t go on, Jan pulled the hands from her eyes and turned—only to find a face she didn’t recognize. Lustrous dark brown hair that matched the warm tones of the bar, vibrant blue eyes, a flawless china‑doll complexion. Familiar somehow, but no name surfaced. She shifted on her high‑backed barstool and said, “Sorry, do I know you?”

Her assailant slid onto the empty stool to her right, sighed theatrically, and said, “You don’t remember.”

Jan doubted many people would forget such a woman. Maybe five years younger. No wedding band, but the ruby‑and‑diamond cocktail ring on her right hand was stunning. Add the woman’s comely figure and slinky, clingy dress, and Jan decided she was movie‑star beautiful. Jan shook her head. “You got me. Nope. No idea.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” the woman said.

The staccato beat of the woman’s words, the way she teetered on her stool as she placed her small clutch on the bar between them, and the bright sparkle in her eyes. Jan still didn’t recognize the woman, but she recognized the signs. Maybe not drunk, but clearly happy.

And clearly not deterred, she fixed Jan with a serious stare and continued, “How about this? Gypsy, gypsy, please tell me. What my fortune’s going to be…”

Jan glanced at Frank, who was going to rub the finish off the bar if he didn’t pick up his jaw and move on. Focusing on the beautiful stranger again, she said, “Sure. I know the rhyme, I just can’t say I remember—”

“Wait, wait. One more.” Maybe just floating on a two-martini cloud of happiness, Jan thought. With exaggerated seriousness, the woman looked Jan dead in the eye, stabbed her in the chest with one of her nicely manicured fingers, and declared, “You two girls should know better. I want both of you to report to the principal’s office, this instant! There’ll be no—”

“Oh my God! Old Mrs. Hill from seventh grade. You sound just like her. Charlene? Is that really you? But—”

“I saw you last week, right there in that same stool. You haven’t changed a bit. And you still have the fashion sense of a cat lady.”

“Charlene!” Jan glanced up to see if Frank was still nearby. Fortunately, he'd moved on. She needed to smack her friend, or maybe just turn tail and run. But, given her fashion sense—or lack of it—had been notorious since prom-dress shopping with Charlene, she let it slide. And she certainly had her share of dirt on her very best childhood friend. “You still carry that bag of roaches around in your purse?”

“Mrs. Blanchard deserved it. How could she write on my report card that I was the only student in home economics who would need the fire department handy to boil water? And what about you, Miss I’m so Innocent? I’ve always wanted to ask where you got that skunk spray. Poor old Miss Wilson was never the same after that.”

“Yeah, well, she didn’t make me the subject of any more personal hygiene lectures. I’ve always had a lingering doubt about her anyway. Never married. Girl’s physed teacher?”

Five minutes later, still laughing, they moved to a table in the swank lounge of the Chandler Hotel.

“But look at you, Charlene—”

“Come on, this is me. Charlie. Thick and thin? The dynamic duo? Ring a bell?”

Charlie's words brought a rush of warm memories—both tears and laughter. All from Jan's childhood. A litany of shared firsts over a childhood of stormy winters and dreamy summer nights, right down to their double-date prom. “How long has it been?”

“Twelve years, I think,” her old childhood Clyde to Jan’s Bonnie replied.

And she could see that Charlene, the infamous Charlie, was poised despite her alcohol-induced buoyancy. But then Charlie had always been poised in the face of the most unbalanced of moments. Jan could still picture her sitting across from Mr. Burton, the high school principal, calmly explaining why smoking in the girls’ restroom wasn’t a chargeable offense, since the teachers had their own smoking lounge. And then, with her challenging stare firmly in place, she’d added that he could call her mother if he wanted—she’d probably want to let him know she’d found his tie tack in the backseat of her car. Mr. Burton, still married at the time, had gone pale and mumbled that trying their first smoke in the last stall wasn’t really that serious. “It was your first time. I’m sure we can let it go.”

If not poised, then fearless—that’s how Jan remembered her pinky swear friend. “And look at you. You look, well, you’ve changed.”

“Ha! I lost thirty-five pounds. Started eating for my body and not my mind. Then I met Pierre.”

“Pierre? You met him at Brown? You went to Brown, right?”

“Dropped out after my freshman year. Scandalized my mother, pissed off my dad. And no man wants his first ex-wife upset while he’s in the middle of divorcing dream-date number two.” Charlie waved a waitress over and pointed at their empty glasses. “No. Pierre found me in Paris after Daddy cut off my credit cards. Pierre was my first.”

“Liar. Tommy Haskins. Ninth grade in the back parking lot of the First Baptist church was your first.” Jan leaned across their table and whispered, “You said he had a really big—”

“No,” Charlie laughed—maybe at the memory, maybe the details Jan had recalled. “Pierre was my first man. Tommy was just a kid. Pierre was sixty-two, married, and incredibly rich. Put me up in my own apartment along the Champs-Élysées, three blocks from the Arc de Triomphe de l'Étoile. Very exclusive, n'est-ce pas? I financed a year of backpacking in Europe after he traded me in for a newer model, just by selling a necklace he gave me.”

Jan was duly scandalized. She blushed at the thought of Charlie, who had once asked Jan if she was really supposed to ‘put that thing’ in her mouth, being some rich man’s kept sex toy.

Their drinks arrived, and Jan forwent her self-imposed limit to keep Charlie company. Her old friend’s tale of two years she’d spent living in Venice—the house pet of yet another old, rich, married man—was blush-worthy. Charlie’s triumphant return to Chicago and the open arms of her mother put Jan back in high school. She and her bestie were plotting a homeroom escape to sneak out and fly the flag upside down because the school had dropped cinnamon rolls from the breakfast menu.

Her own story felt painfully prosaic compared to exclusive addresses in Europe, a British duke who took her to Switzerland for a month, and a Saudi prince who wanted to make her part of his harem.

“So you didn’t finish college. What—”

“I did. When I came back. I hung around long enough to let Mom know I was okay, still her little girl if she wanted. Then I packed up and went back to Brown. Daddy and wife number three paid the bill.”

“Must have been a drag after the Champs-Élysées and a Venice postmark. How’d you survive?”

“Ah,” Charlie smiled sheepishly, and touched the side of her neck. “They may not be wealthy, but you’d be surprised how kinky college professors can be.”

“You didn’t.” Jan wondered briefly what dinner parties or civic functions she’d been absorbed with while Charlie was getting her kink on with the male faculty at her alma mater. Jan doubted that after a parade of old married rich men, her childhood friend would stop at just one kinky professor. “I bet you—”

“And I earned my 3.7 average through academic prowess, thank you very much.” Charlie laughed. “What happened between the sheets was just to keep my sanity.”

“You’re awful, Charlie. Unconscionable. I had no idea.” Jan teased.

Charlie’s eyes glinted with that mischievous look she always got just before getting them both sent to the principal’s office.

Jan was about to head for the ladies’ room when Charlie reached over, touched her hand, and whispered urgently, “Look, Jan, it was great to see you.” A business card appeared. No company logo or email address. Just Charlene’s name and phone number in elegant script. “That’s my number. You must call me.”

“But wait. You can’t go yet. You have to tell me about Madrid. And didn’t you say something about Brazil?”

Charlie had already dropped a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill on their table, gathered her wrap, and was standing to leave. Their repartee had been a bright spot in a year of doom and gloom. But Jan wasn’t up to adding “desperate” to her new social status as a divorcee. So, she didn’t. She stood with Charlie and leaned in for a hug.

“I mean it, Janie. Call me. Tomorrow, next week, whenever you have time to spend with an old friend.”

Touching her hair, Jan thought it would be nice to have a friend again who wasn’t part of ‘their’ social circle. But the new Charlie was so different from the chubby little girl who used to leave notes in Jan’s locker telling her what an idiot this guy or that teacher was being. Charlie pulled her back for a tighter hug and whispered in Jan’s ear, “Don’t forget, Janie. Call me. I’ve missed you.”

Jan shuddered as the intimacy of Charlie’s breath in her ear evoked another memory. One she’d never shared with anyone. One she’d even tried to deny when keeping her own counsel.

Ten minutes later, headed north in a taxi along Lake Shore, Jan was surprised by how empty she felt in the chilly backseat of the cab, on her own. More than usual. Leaving the bar, she’d searched in vain for her rediscovered friend as she’d crossed the elegant lobby of the Chandler.

“He put me up in my own apartment along the Champs-Élysées, three blocks from the Arc de Triomphe de l'Étoile. Very exclusive, n'est-ce pas?” Jan jumped when the driver asked if she needed something. “No. Sorry. Talking to myself.” Away from the dazzle of Charlie’s presence, the farther she rode, the more improbable her old friend’s stories sounded. An extra prince here, exclusive addresses there, and voila—Charlie charms their high school principal all over again.

Tawdry, she thought. Or captivating and exciting?

She didn’t blame Charlie, given the disaster her own happy-ever-after had turned into. Yes, she thought, maybe it was time she did a little sprucing of her own. She could still see Frank polishing his bar, his eyes following Charlie, as he’d practically drooled over her. And for Jan, it had been business as usual. Another drink, Ma’am? It was clear who Frank found interesting. And maybe some sprucing could fix that.

Jan felt a chill as she entered the foyer of their house, now her house. The echo of her high heels tapping the polished marble floor mocked her. Located in a gated community along the north shore, there was often a cold wind blowing off the lake. The house felt more hollow than usual after the bubbly warmth of Charlie had filled her imaginings.

Through the magic of timers, sprinklers, and lawn lighting, the house always appeared bright, cheerful, and lived in. No one would ever guess that the twenty-six-room lakefront home of her childhood dreams spent most of its time devoid of life.

After entering her alarm code, she dropped her purse on the antique library table in the foyer, kicked her shoes off on the stairs, and was down to her bra and granny underwear by the time she got to her bedroom. Not that she was a slob, she just didn’t want to lose her buzz. A buzz not just from passing her limit, but the buzz of Charlie’s outrageous stories still bouncing around her head.

She brushed her teeth, shed the last of her clothes, leaving them in a puddle beside her bed, and crawled between the sheets of a bed bigger than some people’s bathrooms.

Wrapped in the cool silk of her sheets, Jan slid to the middle of her bed, ran her fingers down her skin until she found just the right spot, anything to soften the hollow feeling settling in her chest.

“Tell me more, Charlie,” she whispered into the dark.

That night, she dreamed of postmarks she couldn’t read and Charlie’s French accent.

Chapter 2

Putting on her turn signal, Jan leaned into the steering wheel to get a glimpse of the concrete landscape she was traversing. Autumn had shoved summer aside and blown a cold breath across downtown Chicago. She felt it slip past the fortress walls she’d built around her heart and make itself at home.

“I’ll kick you out after I get Millie onboard,” Jan said to her mood as she turned into the parking lot.

The tops of taller skyscrapers had disappeared into a misty fog, the same fog her coffee cup-hugging morning talk show host blamed for the airport shutdown. “Kind of like my heart,” Jan quipped as she parked her car. “All fogged in. Nothing to see here.”

A month of second-guessing had culminated in three nights of lost sleep. She felt every hour of it as she grabbed her purse and locked her car. This was the first big decision she’d made on her own since deciding to marry Howard. Given how that turned out, the weight of doubt sat heavily in her chest. She’d considered calling her ex several times for a second opinion. But she hadn’t. She was determined to do this herself.

Come on, Janie, what’s the worst that can happen, she thought as she quickly stepped through the parking lot. I could lose a million bucks… but who cares, right?

Five minutes later, the game was on. “Of course, you realize the market still hasn’t bounced back completely.” Millie Gladstone was starting to sound like a broken record. That was her third admonition not to expect top dollar.

“Sure,” Jan’s knee bounced under the table they were sitting at as she sipped her coffee. “The housing market collapsed. I get that. But I also know that prices on high-end properties have never really suffered. We paid three point nine, we put another half million into improvements, and I won’t even consider anything under six.”

“But—”

For Jan, there’d been enough back and forth. Her indecision before sitting down with Millie had been exhausting, but Millie’s haggling sparked something new in Jan—irritation and, more importantly, resolve. She was the first to recognize her lack of experience in these matters, but she didn’t like it when professional guidance turned to taking advantage of that inexperience. As her father would say, it was time to put this to bed. “Don’t worry about it, Millie. It was just a thought. I mean, what do I know?” Jan spooned a little more sugar into her coffee. “If you don’t think you can move it, I can always go talk to Frank Burks. He tried to get us to put it on the market two years ago when housing in general was at its lowest.”

“No!” Jan watched Millie shift around in her chair, probably trying to decide how to walk back her earlier warnings without admitting she’d been selling a bill of goods. “Not at all. I see no need for that. I’m sure I can find a way…”

Jan smiled to herself at her small triumph. “I’ll be home tomorrow. Say nine? We can do a walkthrough. You can tell me what you really think I can get, and we’ll go from there.”

Ten minutes later, with Millie finally whipped into submission, Jan took Dundee over to I-94 south. She had three hours to kill before lunch with her investment broker, Paul. She wanted to drop in at the Aquarium along Lake Shore to see how the new exhibit was going. As an auxiliary board member, a holdover from her missus days, she was still involved in temporary and seasonal exhibit decisions.

Forty-five minutes later, sitting at a stoplight at the corner of Lake Shore and Balbo, relishing her triumph with Millie, she let out a little yell when her day was rearranged by a man in a black SUV. Not fast enough to injure her, but fast enough to kill her mood. Howard’s pride and joy looked decidedly crumpled and forlorn as it was winched up onto a flatbed wrecker. On impulse, she pulled out her phone and snapped a picture, thinking of sending it to her ex to break his heart. She recalled when he’d first taken delivery of the limited-edition Mercedes roadster almost two years earlier. It felt like he loved his stupid car more than he loved her.

She’d learned the truth—humiliating and undeniable—a year and a half later, when a trip to visit her sister in Florida two weeks before Christmas was canceled by heavy snow. She’d groaned at the black screen of her phone. “Shit. No battery.” Instead of charging it, she’d decided it was best to get on her way before the roads got worse. It had taken nearly three hours in a real Chicago blizzard to get back home.

Home at last, she’d spent ten minutes in the kitchen making coffee, calling her sister, and deciding what to do about dinner. Exhausted and still a little stressed, she’d headed upstairs to change into something more comfortable. She’d smiled when she’d heard Howard in their bedroom talking on his phone, relieved he’d made it home.

When she’d opened the door, Howard and his blond-haired, green-eyed scrub nurse were as surprised as she was.

Even now, Jan recalled the first thing out of her mouth in what was the crowning moment of her fairytale marriage.

“Howard, Dear, I guess you won’t be staying for dinner. Looks like you’ve about finished eating as it is.”

Getting Howard out of her life and their bedroom had been much easier than getting the stink of the woman’s cheap perfume removed. It had taken a new mattress, bedding, sheets, and paint.

That was then. Right now, Jan tried unsuccessfully not to laugh as she watched the driver of the SUV look at her sleek silver sports car, crumpled like a can. He appeared as heartbroken as Howard would have been. She never understood men’s attachment to expensive sports cars and svelte, big-breasted scrub nurses. Especially when a Ford or a wife could do whatever was needed, at a quarter the cost.

In the divorce, she’d enjoyed keeping Howard’s car simply because she could. It had made him furious. What made her happier was that she had no idea what had become of his scrub nurse. She hadn’t lasted a year. His current flavor had fiery red hair.

Two hours later, after pulling out of a car-rental lot courtesy of her insurance company, she pondered her options. She’d canceled her lunch with her broker, the misty fog from earlier had turned to a pouring rain, and she was hungry. She didn’t choose the Chandler for lunch. There was no internal voice shouting, “You’re just dying for one of those great Parmesan salads and a steaming bowl of cream of tomato soup they serve at that exclusive little deli at the Chandler.” But when she stopped for traffic and looked out her side window, there it was.

She was about to take her first bite when Charlie walked in on the arm of an older man wearing an expensive suit and a wedding band. Jan almost laughed at their coordinated Burberry coats—but Charlie beat her to it with one of her trademark, “I’m listening, but I’m really not,” laughs. A laugh Jan had seen served up to teachers and wannabe boyfriends alike, while they were growing up. This time, it was her date getting the laugh.

Charlie wore a crinkled silk loop scarf over a white blouse, charcoal grey wool pleated slacks, and low-heeled black boots. Jan froze with her spoon halfway to her mouth when she saw the sunglasses. Big ones. Glasses a celebrity starlet would wear when trying not to be recognized.

The man, old enough to be Charlie’s father, wore a grey suit with discreet pinstripes and a red silk tie. They weren’t an unusual couple for a hotel as exclusive as the Chandler. Which, after her chance meeting with her old childhood friend two months earlier, might have been the reason she’d thrown Charlie’s card in the trash. Or might not have. She really didn’t want to go there.

She still liked Charlie—more than she’d admit—but Charlie’s preference for married men hit too close to home. The irony was hard to ignore.

For a moment, Jan considered saying hello. No, she decided, turning back to her salad as they walked past. After Charlie’s wild tales last time, she felt the old married guy probably wouldn’t appreciate a witness to his perfidy.

Whether she agreed with Charlie’s choices or not, childhood memories stirred—most of them happy. Some were more than happy. Jan smiled at the recollection of several pinky swears, one involving a box of stolen condoms from a corner drugstore, and a dare neither of them had the courage to follow through on.

The Chandler Bistro, empty when she’d arrived, was filling up. Time to make her escape. She tapped her card on a terminal, grabbed her raincoat and scarf, and headed quickly for the door.

So long, she thought. Good luck, Charlie. May life be good to you, sweetie, whatever that life is.

Waiting for the parking attendant to bring her car, she checked her watch and decided she might as well see if Paul was still in his office. No reason to waste a trip into the city. Just as her car arrived, someone grabbed her arm.

“It is you.” Charlie leaned in with a kiss for Jan’s cheek. “I told Dad it was you.”

“Dad? Was that your dad? Wow, it has been a while. I didn’t even recognize him.”

“So you did see me. Why didn’t you say hi?”

How to tell a one-time best friend you disagree with her life choices—when that would be so much easier than telling her the real reason? “Well, you know. I didn’t want to, well—”

“You thought dad was—oh my.” Charlie covered her mouth and laughed. “Dad would get a kick out of that. His office is right around the corner. The Chandler is our neutral territory. I always meet him here for lunch when we need to talk. Where are you off to? It’s after three. Let’s sit down, have a glass of wine, and pick up where we left off the other night.”

With nothing to do other than ambush her investment broker at his office, she almost said yes. But she didn’t. “I need to go find a guy. I have some business to discuss.”

“Find a guy? What? At some bar? Like Frank?” Charlie chuckled while straightening the lapel on Jan’s raincoat. “Maybe you’ll let me take you shopping first.”

“No.” Her best friend could still be annoying if she wanted something and Jan wasn’t on board. She offered a smile, turned away, and headed for the parking attendant. “Not like that.”

“Wait,” Charlie caught up and grabbed her arm. “You were hitting on Frank, I saw you.”

“And why would you know Frank? Is the Chandler bar one of your meet-and-greet places?”

“Come on,” Charlie slipped her arm into Jan’s and walked her to her car. “You know you want to. You’re dying to know more. You want to know how I hook up, what I do. How it all works. Most of all, you want to know if everything I told you is true.” There was an unmistakable challenge in Charlie’s voice. A challenge Jan had heard a thousand times growing up. And her friend had her dead to rights.

“No idea what you’re talking about.” Jan handed a bill to the parking attendant and stood at her car, looking at Charlie. The sunglasses were off-putting, especially given the downpour just beyond the hotel's portico. But Charlie was right. She did want to know more. Charlie’s stories had piqued more than her interest. And, even if Jan wouldn’t admit it, Charlie calling her on her bullshit was… refreshing. Certainly, better than staring at the walls.

Deep down inside, some part of her envied her old friend’s apparent freedom. Not from commitment. But from being hurt. In all Charlie’s tales, there had never been a mention of heartbreak. “No, I wasn’t hitting on Frank.” Jan lied as she waved at the other side of her rental. “Or looking for another one. I was on my way to a business lunch earlier when some guy in a very big SUV hit my car. Between the insurance people, the police report, and picking up this rental, I missed my lunch. I thought I’d see if I could catch him at his office.”

“Business?” Charlie put her seatbelt on and settled in. “Is this business of the utmost importance, Janie?”

“Well, not of the utmost kind.” Jan’s car filled with the sound of rain pummeling the roof as they pulled out onto State Street. “Just business. And will you stop calling me Janie? You know how I hate that.”

“I love you, too, Dear. Tell you what. On a gloomy day like this in Paris, there’s only one thing to do. Take Lake Shore north, and all will be revealed.”

“But—”

“You still want to know. I can see it in your eyes.” Charlie’s laugh was as carefree and full of abandon as Jan recalled from their childhood. And she marveled—Charlie hadn’t changed at all.

Jan turned left half a block later. She refused to admit it. Given all her unspoken words, she thought admitting she needed anything from Charlie, even just a story, was dangerous. Her own conjured images from Charlie’s spoken words rose like a quiet invocation, stirring something inside the cage she’d grown accustomed to.

She just hoped there wasn’t a trip to the principal’s office in the offing.

Chapter 3

Astor Street, tree-lined and quiet, painted grey by the downpour, was within walking distance of Lake Shore Drive and Lake Michigan. Yellow pools of light beneath streetlights lining the block Charlie lived on looked warm and inviting against the cold and damp of a Chicago June deluge.

“Park there.” Charlie pointed. Jan struggled with the size of her rental and the limited views in the pouring rain.

“Damn,” Jan shut off the engine and added, “I left my umbrella in my car. It’s sitting at some shop right now.”

“Never fear.” Charlie produced a small collapsible from her purse. “Look, it’s back that way, five houses on the other side of the street. Let me get out and come around.”

Jan cringed when lightning flashed overhead. She visibly flinched again when a loud clap of thunder followed. Her voice shook when she whispered, “Maybe we should sit it out a few more minutes.”

“Ridiculous.” Charlie cracked her door and added, “You didn’t want to sit it out when we stripped to our pretty pink underwear and matching bras and streaked the carolers at the school tree lighting ceremony. It was snowing like crazy. What’s a little rain?”

Jan didn’t get a chance to protest. Charlie was already trotting around the front of her rental, her umbrella buffeting wildly in the wind. Purse at the ready and her raincoat buttoned closed, Jan jumped out, bleeped her alarm, and off they trotted. Small, designed for convenience more than functionality, they both leaned into the chrome shaft of Charlie’s umbrella, trying to stay out of the rain.

She tried not to jump every time lightning flashed or thunder clapped. Right up until a big gust of wind stole their umbrella. With a snap and a twang, it flipped inside out, then backward like an upturned hat brim. For an instant, Charlie fought valiantly, but finally let go, and they both watched as their rumpled rain armor cartwheeled down the street.

“Come on!” Charlie yelled, grabbed Jan’s hand, and pulled her across the street at a run.

“Wait.” Jan struggled and finally stopped, reached for her soggy high heel, and tried to pull the ankle strap up. Charlie didn’t hear and kept running while their arms stretched out until, with a lurch, Jan tumbled forward. It hurt like crazy when her knee hit. Then her palms, then her face—straight into the flooded gutter. The water tasted foul on her lips, and her clothes were soaked.

“Jan!” Charlie was in a panic. She took her friend’s hand when she reached to help and wobbled as she limped down the sidewalk. Clinging to Charlie as they went through the wrought-iron gate, along another short sidewalk, and walked up five steps to the front door.

Jan’s ankle throbbed, her clothes felt wet right down to her underwear, and she shivered while Charlie unlocked her front door and got them both inside.

“Oh my God, Janet. You’re bleeding. You poor thing, you.” All of Charlie’s fussing was making Jan nervous. Her wrist and knee hurt, and she thought she’d topple every time she put weight on her ankle. But the blood she could see was coming from scratches. Either way, for the first time in a long time, there wasn’t a doctor in the house.

“I’m okay.” Jan cringed slightly when she put weight on her leg. She stood in the long foyer, soaked to the skin, shivering from the chill, and finally added with a nervous laugh, “I don’t recall that as part of our Christmas tree streak.”

“Come on. We have to get you warm and dry. You’ll catch your death.”

Jan grabbed Charlie’s arm before they went up the stairs. “Sorry, Charlie. I don’t feel too steady.”

Jan almost closed her eyes when Charlie helped her out of her wet clothing. Twelve years had turned Charlie into a stunner. The only thing the years had done for Jan was make her a desperate divorcee who counted vacuuming as exercise. Forty-five minutes later, after a hot shower, Jan relaxed while reclining on a modern rendition of a divan. She thought her thick white terrycloth robe was up to snuff for any luxury hotel. And she finally felt warm again.

Charlie had changed into jeans and a pink cashmere sweater. Jan smiled as she was regaled with another story from her past while Charlie kneeled on the room’s plush Persian carpet to clean her scraped knee. Happy enough to hum one of her favorite Abbey Hill tunes, Jan abruptly stopped and said, “Give.”

Hand out, she stared at Charlie until she stopped talking about some inane act of juvenile stupidity they’d been involved in.

“What?”

“It’s been cloudy and dismal all day, and you’re still wearing your sunglasses. We’re in your house. Who are you hiding from?”

For the first time since bumping into her old friend, Charlie seemed at a loss for words. Finally, she reached up and pulled her glasses off. “There. Happy now?”

“Charlie,” Jan touched Charlie’s temple beside her left eye and said, softly, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“You wouldn’t have been you if you hadn’t.” Charlie touched the dark ring blooming around the edge of her eye. “Sometimes breaking up is hard to do.”

“Did you call—”

“No.” Charlie was firm. “Please. Don’t ask. Let’s just say the whole thing was a lapse in judgment on my part. But,” she touched Jan’s fingers and held them against her temple. “I’m glad you asked.”

“I’m so sorry, Charlie. Whoever he was, he’s a creep—”

“Aren’t they all?” As if that explained everything, Charlie went back to cleaning the scrape on her knee.

Her nerves finally settled, Jan took in her surroundings and commented on a painting on the wall opposite the divan. Anything to keep Charlie from digging up all their dark peccadillos from their childhood together. “I love that painting. The colors. So vibrant, so alive. Who’s the artist?”

With a soft pat to Jan’s knee, Charlie stood, glanced over her shoulder, and made a face. “Really? You like it? The whole house is full of art, real art, and you like that one?”

“Sure. Paris, right? I can see the Eiffel Tower just over that building,” Jan pointed. “Oil? I’m serious. I really like it. It’s so romantic. That couple holding hands. All of it.”

Her friend finally walked over, pulled the painting off the wall, and returned, handing it to Jan. “Then it’s yours.”

“No.” Jan tried to shove the painting back into Charlie’s hands. She could see that the painting was the centerpiece of an expensively furnished room. Everything she’d seen—The foyer, the refinished stairs, even the guest bath off the small office where she’d showered—looked put together by design, and costly. Jan pushed the painting back, “You can’t just go around giving me paintings off your wall. That painting belongs in this room.”

Charlie sat beside her on the edge of the divan, took the painting back, and said, “Look,” pointing to a small sidewalk café in the lower left of the painting. There were four tables, six customers, a waiter, and someone leaning out of the café, saying something to the waiter. “This little place was across the street from the apartment I lived in. This guy —”

“You mean, with Pierre?”

“When he was with me, yes.” Jan’s eyes followed Charlie’s pointing finger. “The waiter’s name is Lorenzo. He’s Italian. This guy here,” her finger moved to the man leaning out the front entrance of the small café. “He’s yelling at Giuseppe to hurry his lazy ass up and stop flirting with,” this time her finger moved to a woman with long blond hair, sitting alone and looking up at Giuseppe. “Her.”

“You don’t know all that.”

“Sure, I do. It happened every day. I could hear the two of them yelling at each other all the time. If it wasn’t a blonde, it was a redhead. Maybe a brunette. Didn’t matter to Giuseppe. A real lady’s man, that Italian stallion.”

Jan enjoyed how animated Charlie was as she explained the other people in the painting. The old woman on the second floor was watering plants in her flower box, looking down disapprovingly at the blonde who was staring up at Giuseppe. A couple that Jan hadn’t noticed was hidden in the recessed entrance to the building beside the café, sharing a kiss. A man sold ice cream from a bicycle-driven cart, brass bells hanging from the handlebars, and a clown painted on the side of his ice box. She even pointed out a couple at one of the tables in front of the café. An older man with short gray hair. He was dressed in a staid-looking suit, holding the hand of a woman with short dark hair, her bare back visible through the halter top of her dress.

“That’s Pierre.”

“Really?” Jan studied the figure. He was painted with enough detail that she could make out a smartly trimmed mustache, a gold watch on his wrist, and, of course, a wedding band on the hand holding the woman’s hand. When Charlie had said old, she hadn’t been kidding. Not at all what she’d envisioned when Charlie had told her the story the first time they’d met. “And is that you with him?”

“No. That was the one who took my place.”

“Took your place?”

Charlie laughed. “Come on, Jan. From Pierre on, I moved with the rich and a few famous. They change lovers like you, and I change shoes.”

“And them?” She pointed at two women. One was only visible from the back, but her arms were a bit chubby, her hair cut in a bob, and there was a glint from something sparkly clasped around her neck.

“That’s me.”

“Oh.” Jan touched the small figure, the paint's texture sliding beneath her finger. “Look at you. So cute and—”

“Chubby. That’s the word for it. But Pierre liked that. And he also liked that I was so young and eager to learn. I have to say, Pierre was a good teacher.”

“And who’s the woman you’re with? The blonde.”

“A friend. I’ve known many people in my life. She’s one of them.”

“Ah,” Jan said. She found herself intrigued by the intimacies of Pierre and Charlie. In her mind, probably more than she should be. And now a woman?

After an awkward silence, Charlie set the painting on the floor within Jan’s reach and said, “I want you to have it. No arguing.”

“But it has to mean so much to you. So many memories.”

“You asked, so I’ll tell you. I painted it. The memories are still there. Maybe I want to share them. Now let me see your hand.”

“What? You painted it? It’s beautiful.”

“You’d be surprised the things you can teach yourself if you have an internet connection and the time. Now take it.”

Jan enjoyed the gentle touch of Charlie treating her scrape while she continued her perusal of the room. She couldn’t recall the last person who’d touched her hand warmly and gently, even as just a friend. Goosebumps rushed under the sleeve of her robe and a warm blush shot up her neck. She sought distraction in framed photographs, family shots. One with Charlie smiling back, a mouth full of braces, her mother at her side. There was even a picture from her own past. Their high school graduation, still in their gowns, their caps already lost to the toss. Charlie was hanging around her neck, kissing her cheek, while Jan smiled back for the camera. A happy moment. She laughed when she noticed Mrs. Higgins in the background, a disapproving look on her face. A staunch believer in being ladylike at all times and, of course, in discipline. They’d tortured Mrs. Higgins for most of those last two years.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.” Charlie blew across Jan’s scraped palm, then leaned in and kissed lightly before applying a cream that soothed the scrape. “Now we’re going downstairs to scare up some wine. I have a case of some great red from Spain. I think you’ll like it.”

Jan couldn’t help admiring more of the house as they made their way to the back and took the maid’s stairs down. Charlie explained as they went along. “Moldings and doors, all the fine woodwork, all solid cherry stained an oxblood red, were preserved from the original construction. The lathe and plaster were removed and replaced, and new plumbing and electrical systems were installed.

“And this,” Charlie pointed at the hardwood floor that went throughout. “This is all the original flooring. Rubber tree wood from Honduras. A few of the original gas lamps were also preserved. The kitchen, bathroom, and light fixtures are all new, imported from Italy.”

“It’s beautiful, Charlie. Really. Did your parents help you get it?”

She didn’t know exactly what Charlie’s dad did, only that he was in banking. Her mother was, to the best of Jan’s recollection, a housewife, nothing more.

“This?” Charlie opened a cabinet door below a black granite counter in an island in the middle of the long, airy kitchen. “This was the Saudi prince. Prince Faisal Al-Mansour. He didn’t like staying in hotels when he came to visit.” Charlie pulled bottles of wine from a rack beneath the counter until she found what she was looking for. “Anyway, he wanted a place to keep his car. This came with a carriage house out back. I’d have let you park there, but it’s full. He's supposed to come and clear out his cars. We went our separate ways over a year ago. He sent me the deed to the property in my name. Open this bottle.”

“He gave you the house?”

“He certainly did.”

Jan took the bottle and set it on the counter. “Corkscrew?”

“You’re such a charmer, thanks. Not today. I’m not feeling pretty.”

Jan stopped pulling open a drawer, glanced at Charlie, and started laughing. “Cute, Charlie. Are you planning on chewing the cork off?”

While the wine was breathing —something Charlie insisted on—cheese and cold cuts, all imported, appeared and were arranged on a plate. The storm still raged, and occasional gusts of wind splattered rain against the back windows. Despite the storm, the discreetly lit kitchen felt cozy and homey. Charlie set out fine china and silver, along with some dips, and two modern silver candlesticks with long, white tapered candles.

“Okay,” Jan said in jest. “First, you kiss my hand, then you’re not up for a corkscrew, whatever that might be. And now we have romance by candlelight. You’re sending mixed signals, sweetie. So is the corkscrew on or off?”

She laughed, but Charlie didn’t. Instead, she walked around the kitchen island, planted herself right in front of Jan, looked her in the eyes, and said, “I heard you humming that Abbey Hill song. Everybody knows she’s gay. She got married last Christmas. Are you gay?”

Jan caught the warm-sounding tick of a clock somewhere while waiting for Charlie to complete her joke with a laugh. After four ticks, Jan stepped back and laughed off the confrontational nature of the question. She hoped Charlie understood she was laughing it off. “No, Charlie. It was a joke,” she lied. Again. “And everybody loves Abbey Hill. All her music.”

Her friend finally laughed and returned to her side of the island. “Gotcha. Now let me ask you something.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you think candlelight is pretty?”

“Sure, I do.”

Charlie smiled. “Then enjoy it. It’s just candlelight. As cold and nasty as it is outside, I thought it made everything feel warm and safe in here.”

“Sure,” Jan picked up her glass, raised it across the island, and added, “Cheers. Here’s to warm and safe. Not a bad sentiment at all.”

“Salud,” Charlie raised her own. “That’s Spanish to wish you good health. May your wounds heal quickly, and may you always feel warm and safe in my house.”

They both drank, and Jan set her glass on the counter. “So, the Saudi prince gave you this house.”

“A gift.”

“Really?”

“You’re sounding judgmental, Janie. That’s not like you. Or like us. Pinky friends, remember?”

“Yeah, but how you got your house is different.” Jan enjoyed the strong taste of a cube of cheese as she sipped wine.

“So, because you got married, that makes it right?”

“No. It makes it different.” Jan followed her cheese with a small piece of dark, salty Spanish ham. “It was different for a lot of reasons.”

“Spill, Janie. I want details.”

Jan wasn’t sure how many details she could give since she no longer believed most of them. Madly in love was out. House of her dreams, too. But she was comfortable going over the business end of the Doctor and the missus.

“Well, the engagement was short. Six months.” Charlie refilled their wine glasses while Jan pulled the facts together in her mind. “Howard’s family had money. Along with that, he’s a heart surgeon. Not just any heart surgeon, he’s the best in the country. Some kind of whiz at healing people. He does transplants, the works. Flies all over the world.” With a start, Jan realized how easily she’d fallen back into her role as a wife and had started bragging about her then-husband, now ex.

A sip of her wine, a bite of cheese, and she slowed things down, shifting into the role of storyteller instead. “Anyway, let’s just say that when he asked me to marry him, he already had a very nice fortune set aside. So, a month before the wedding, he drives me north of the city, along the shore, and shows me a house.

“There it is, honey, he says. Your dream house.” While she sipped more wine, Jan looked for judgment in her friend’s eyes. There was none, so she went on. “And it was. A beautiful place, beautiful location. Huge. Room for lots of kids. Trees all over the place. It really was a dream.”

“So he bought it for you.”

“No. That’s the funny part. He gave me ten million dollars. Not just a suitcase full of cash. I don’t know how it was done, but whatever was done kept me from paying a lot of taxes.”

“But as his wife, he can give you a one-time gift, tax-free.”

“That’s just it. We weren’t married yet.” Another piece of cheese, and instead of a sip, she needed a nice, long drink before going on. “Then get this. He has me sign a prenup. What’s his is his, and what’s mine is mine.”

“Wait. And the ten million?”

“Mine.” Jan grinned triumphantly.

“What was that all about?”

“Here’s the catch. Not for me, for him. First, he told me to buy the house and put it in my name. So, I did. Almost four million dollars, just like that.” When Jan tried to snap her fingers, they weren’t working exactly right, and she cringed.

Charlie reached out and took her hand, holding it gently. “We’ll put some more cream on it when we go upstairs.”

Jan felt the flush on her cheeks but did her best to ignore it. “Then he had me hire an architect to plan changes and renovations. That went on for almost a year after we got married.”

“Wow. Must be beautiful.”

“It is. But wait. Before we got married, he took me to a Mercedes dealership and had me buy him a car and put it in my name. Then he asked me what I wanted, and I bought that too. Also, in my name.” A little more wine went down, the candles flickered a few times, the rain outside had settled into a nice hypnotic constant on the back patio, and, in spite of her bumps and scrapes, Jan felt better than she’d felt in months.

“What happened to the money that was left over? After you got married, I mean.”

“Nothing. He gave me the name of an investment broker and told me to invest it. The broker would know what to do with it. That it would be our retirement. Also, in my name. All of it.”

“So,” Charlie joined Jan in a drink of wine, and they both picked over the cold plate selection. “What was it? He was avoiding taxes?”

“No,” Jan grinned and waited for dramatic effect. Finally, enjoying the moment, she explained, “Malpractice. I mean, Howard operates over two hundred times a year. Some of his patients are heads of state and celebrities. You know how much he pays in malpractice insurance every month?”

Charlie sat chewing cheese, seemingly entranced by Howard’s sneaky practices. “A lot.”

“You got it. A lot. But the thing is, someone can sue you for more than the insurance covers. So, Howard was hiding assets. No one could ever touch the house, the cars, or our retirement plan. None of it.”

“Sure. Makes sense.”

“Then every year, at Christmas, he would give me a check. Usually around a million and a half, calling it my Christmas present from Santa. The check was always enough that, after paying my taxes, there would be a million left. His tax guy always took care of it, and I’d put that million into our—”

“Retirement fund. Which was in your name.”

“Wait, here’s the best part.” Which was true. Jan had been shocked when she’d found out.

“No. I already figured it out. I don’t know why you divorced him, but I can guess. But when you did, you got it all.”

“Exactly. And my lawyer said I could have gotten more. But I didn’t. There’s some alimony. At least until I marry again. But I didn’t see any point in a long, drawn-out fight. It was ugly enough as it was.”

“Not bad, Janie. Make sure you never—”

“Wait. This gets even better. So about two years ago, before the divorce, he got this yearning for a really fancy Mercedes sports car. I don’t know anything about it. SL something. Limited production. Cost almost half a million. So—”

“McLaren SLR. Nice car.”

“I think so. Anyway, he gives me a check for the car’s cost plus next year's income tax, and has me pay for it. Even put it in my name to keep it out of reach. So, I walked away with his dream car too. Of course, I didn’t want him walking to work, so I gave him my four-year-old Volvo. You should have seen his face.”

“Sweet.”

“The kicker is that’s the car I wrecked today. Well, some guy in an SUV hit me from behind. Looked pretty bent up to me. The insurance guy said the shop would have to decide if it’s totaled or not.”

“Just dues.” Charlie raised her glass, and they toasted her ex-husband’s remains of the day.

Thirty minutes later, with the second bottle of wine half empty, Jan finished the story of her Christmas trip that wasn’t, just as the lights blinked twice before giving up entirely. Even in the dark, they kept laughing.

“Oh,” Jan was loose and relaxed, thoroughly caught up in the first real girl’s night out she’d had in years. The humdrum weight of being a divorcee had slipped away for the first time since taking off her rings. “Now I know why you put the candles out.”

“I think it’s time we pick up and move upstairs.”

“And I think it’s time we changed the topic. And I want details too.”

Leave your thoughts.

Thanks,

RJ