Regrets Only (10 page)

Clearly
Suzanne had escaped, however, because the next series of shots showed her on
the run again, still trailed by Chad and Jake, the latter of whom had evidently
replaced Marci in the worst game of tag ever. It was difficult to make out
much, but Suzanne distinctly saw the flash of her mother’s antique pearls around
her neck, verifying beyond doubt that this crazy person really was herself.

“I’ll
say this,” Jake said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “We had a hell of a time
catching you. You could have a career as a running back if you wanted.”

Marci
glared at him to be quiet.
Oh, right,
Suzanne thought
. That would be
a sore subject because my
actual
career is obviously over.

The
remaining pictures followed the spiral of her life going down the toilet:
running back toward the main plaza with several security guards joining the
chase; losing her bustier while trying to crawl under the registration tables
for some reason; Atlanta PD arriving on the scene; Suzanne grinning maniacally before
flipping backward over the black chain ropes and then landing in the inch or so
of water in the reflecting pool next to the museum’s front windows. She rubbed
her bruised tailbone as the picture brought back the memory.

There
it was. Just before the final shot of Suzanne strapped to a gurney being lifted
into the ambulance, was the full version of the picture from the front page.
The former homecoming queen stood topless, wet and angry, apparently having a
loud disagreement with the police officers on the scene. It was as if an
episode of
COPS
had been filmed at a high-brow museum fundraiser. The
tuxedo holding her back belonged to a security guard, whom she had hired personally.
She remembered doing his background check. And just behind them, expression
unreadable, was Dylan Burke himself.

“I
guess this means there’s no chance he didn’t see anything,” Suzanne said
despondently.

“It’s
a good thing he was there, actually,” Jake said, ignoring his wife’s signals to
be quiet. “He talked them out of taking you to jail.”

Suzanne
swallowed hard and took a deep breath. She had to face this sometime. “I need
to get a shower,” she said. “And I’m ready for my phone back.”

#

She
got to the office just after ten. If any part of her was hoping for a miracle,
praying that people wouldn’t notice the story or recognize her in the pictures,
the disappointment came as soon as she saw Chad’s face. Of the fifteen or so
events they had slated for the next year, twelve had already called to cancel. These
included longtime clients who had followed her from her previous agency. The
remaining three could not be far behind.

Still,
Suzanne followed up dutifully with each and every one. She got her standard
cinnamon latte for courage, and spent the morning returning phone calls with
the most cheerful voice she could summon. But no one wanted to be associated, publicly
or privately, with someone who’d made the Sunday paper the way Suzanne had. Her
clients had all paid non-refundable retainers for her services—a practice she
adopted from her father—but for the ones more than a month out, she had offered
refunds anyway. No one accepted. They all sounded sympathetic and embarrassed.

“Of
course, if it were up to me, we’d keep you on. It’s just the board of directors…”

“Our
company has this morality and behavior clause, and while you’re not
technically
an employee…”

“The
management is concerned about our image. If we didn’t already have so much
negative publicity from that EPA fine two years ago…Well, of course, you
understand.”

Of
course.

A
few had even offered advice:

“Don’t
worry, sweetie, it will pass. You’ll be back in the game in a couple of years.”

“My
brother went to this great rehab facility in Malibu. I’ll send you the name.”

Possibly
the worst of these was Mrs. Banks, the co-owner of a small family-owned mailing
house, who had contracted Suzanne to do their holiday parties for a couple of
years running. She was also the wife of the company’s president. “I’m sorry,
dear, but our employees and customers have certain expectations of us,” she
said, singing the same refrain as many of the previous conversations.

“Of
course,” Suzanne said, launching into the polite speech that she had recited
all morning. “I completely understand. I’m very sorry and embarrassed about
what happened. Although it was an honest mistake involving my medication,
naturally, I understand that the last thing you need when planning a major
event is for the event planner herself to be a distraction.”

“Poor
dear,” said the woman. “I know at times like this, I always turn to my faith.”

“Yes,
ma’am,” Suzanne responded distractedly. She appreciated the sentiment, but this
sort of platitude felt hollow coming from a virtual stranger. She was already
opening the file of her next client, when Mrs. Banks surprised her completely.

“You
know what the Bible tells us, dear: ‘For the wages of sin is death, but the
gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.’ Suzanne, do you believe
in Jesus?”

Seriously?
Today?

Suzanne
had no idea what to say. Yes? No? I don’t know? She had never understood why
some people, who would never dare ask whether you colored your hair or had your
teeth whitened, were perfectly comfortable asking total strangers about their
deepest religious beliefs and the state of their souls.

Thinking
quickly, she dropped her can of pencils on the concrete floor. It had the
desired effect of a loud clang and scattering sound. “Oh, my! Chad, are you
okay?” she called. Chad rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid we’ve had a little
accident here at the office, Mrs. Banks. Thank you so much for your kindness
and we’ll be in touch.”

She
hung up and put her forehead on the desk. Suzanne barely recognized herself.
Six weeks ago she had been at the top. She knew basically everyone in Atlanta,
and there wasn’t a major party or charity event that she didn’t either plan or
attend. She’d dated professional athletes, been the president of the Atlanta
Junior League. She’d played tennis with Elton John, for heaven’s sake.

Now
she was a social pariah with a broken arm, faking clumsy accidents to avoid
talking to people. Not that any mishap would be unbelievable after the past
week. “I’m like the Mr. Bean of party planning,” she said out loud.

Chad
laughed sardonically. “Except that there’s a chance he’ll be working this year.”

She
flinched. Normally she prided herself on being able to handle his little jibes,
but not today.

“God,
Suzanne, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t
worry about it,” she said. “You’re right.”

He
shuffled papers for a moment, and then ventured softly, “You okay?”

“No,”
she said truthfully. “But I have to be. Right?”

He
nodded and went back to his desk to sort through bid sheets from the silent
auction. One silver lining of Suzanne’s semi-nude encounter with the reflecting
pool was that people attending the event had stayed much later than
anticipated, buzzing about what they’d seen and trying to get themselves
interviewed by the media. In a fantastic display of leadership under pressure,
Chad had enough foresight to keep the bar open and extend the silent auction
for thirty extra minutes, during which many of the high bids on the auction
items had doubled. Financially, at least, the event had been far more
successful than anyone could’ve hoped.

Whether
Dylan Burke and his people would see it that way, however, was another matter.
Every time the phone rang, Suzanne expected it to be Yvette, bringing the ax
down. So far, however, the hottest thing in country music was one of only three
clients from whom they had not heard a word. Maybe Yvette was having an
attorney draft a letter instead of contacting her personally. The thought gave
Suzanne heartburn.

#

She
and Chad worked silently into the afternoon and all the next day, writing the
usual thank-you notes and filing receipts, just as they always did. A few stray
calls came in here and there, but they had talked to most of their clients
except Dylan, and a high-profile corruption trial downtown was now occupying
the attention of the local media.

By
late Friday, their event-related tasks were done and the phone was quiet. She
had nothing left to do but call Yvette, who naturally did not answer her phone.
Suzanne left the most chipper message she could manage, casting it into the
universe the way her grandfather had cast fishing lures into the Chattahoochee
when she was a little girl.

She
shrugged at Chad, who shouldered his messenger bag to go. He stopped halfway to
the door, hesitated, and spoke.

“Um,”
he said.

“Um?”

 “Well,
I don’t know how to say this exactly, but…”

“That’s
unusual,” she remarked, attempting a teasing smile.

“You
know how much I like you.” He said this as though he were telling her she had a
terminal illness. “Like working for you, I mean.”

“Jeez,
don’t start getting all mushy on me, okay? I can’t handle that. Don’t worry
about it. I’m fine, really.”

“It’s
not that. I mean, I was wondering…”

Realization
dawned. “You’re wondering whether you need to find another job,” she said
softly.

“Yes.
Suzanne, please don’t be hurt. It’s just that David knows someone who has an
opening for an executive assistant in Midtown, really close to our apartment,
and—”

“I
think you should take it.”

“I
mean, normally I wouldn’t even consider it. I love working for you, but I’m
planning to start graduate school—”

“Take
the job, Chad.”

“Of
course I can come back if…” he trailed off and they looked at each other for a
long time. “If things get better.”

You
mean if a miracle happens and I am resurrected from the dead
, she thought. Her eyes welled.
“Write the best recommendation you can for yourself and I’ll sign as many
copies as you want,” she said.

He
nodded, took a step toward the door, and then spun and crossed the room, his
face contorted with uncharacteristic emotion. He embraced her awkwardly. “This
sucks,” he said, wiping his eyes and speeding away. When the door closed behind
him, the silence in the office was oppressive.

That
night Suzanne had a bottle of wine and a can of spray cheese for dinner while
watching
Gone With the Wind
. She fell asleep on the couch and stayed
there for a long, restless night. Her broken arm still ached and itched, but
she had refused to take any pain killers since Saturday. She woke often, and
when she slept she dreamed of Scarlett O’Hara, trapped inside an antebellum
mansion that was somehow sculpted by Roy Lichtenstein—all bold lines and
primary colors. Scarlett flitted from window to colorful window, screaming
wordlessly for help that would never come, while Atlanta burned.

Suzanne
spent the weekend in her pajamas with the ringer off, feeling sorry for herself
and filling her kitchen counter with food delivery containers. By the following
Tuesday, she had to force herself to go into the office. She had little to do,
but she watered the plants and walked around with the feather duster, trying to
be cheerful. Chad had called to say he had an interview with a law firm today,
but had promised to stop by afterward to see whether she needed anything. No
word from Yvette.

The
mailman came around noon, delivering  a check from the museum for her fees for
the event. Well, at least Dylan’s people hadn’t been angry enough to refuse to
pay the museum her fee. A pink sticky note stuck to the top of the check bore
Betsy Fuller-Brown’s elegant scrawl.
S—Call me in a couple of months when
everything has died down and I’ll see if I can help. Chin up,—B

She
opened the database in which she and Chad kept the books for their operation,
added the check and did a few calculations. With the cash on hand before the
event and one or two clients who had not accepted refunds of their deposits,
there was enough money to pay Chad for another week, and keep her afloat until
the end of July.
Then what?

Suzanne
pulled up her résumé on the computer and stared at it. She couldn’t remember
the last time she actually sent a résumé out looking for a job. Somehow the
jobs had always found her—through a client, a League connection, whatever. The
prospect of sending out cover letters was daunting.

Her
desk phone rang shrilly. She glanced at the caller ID before answering. “Hi,
Mom.”

“Hello,
honey.” Her mother’s phone voice was somehow both warm and formal, with her thick,
parlor-Southern accent. “What are you doing?”

“I’m
working,” Suzanne replied. “I’m at the office.”

“Do
you have time for lunch Thursday? We could meet at the club.”

“Thanks,
Mom, but I promised Marci I’d have lunch with her on Thursday. Rain check?”