Heather Macallister - Skirting The Issue

That was it, then. She’d made her decision, the one she’d come all the way from San Francisco to think about. She’d intended to come alone, but Kevin had surprised her. Would it have made any difference if he’d stayed behind as she’d asked? She’d half-seriously quoted, “absence makes the heart grow fonder” at him, but he’d countered with, “while the cat’s away, the mouse will play.” The animal theme again, but honestly, she’d set herself up for it.

And speaking of setups…while Sam was pondering her future, Kevin steered her through an incredibly aggressive throng of single women until she’d reached a decent field position, one well within bouquet-throwing range. Then he’d kissed her on her cheek and got the heck out of Dodge.

Sam watched Kate search the crowd, her face lighting with radiant bliss—truly, she looked like the women in those diamond ads—when she found her husband. At her nod, Brock approached the band-leader, and then came a remarkable announcement: the bride would be throwing a skirt, not a bouquet.

Well, now. Sam edged toward the side. This she had to see. Oh, sure, she’d heard the rumors about this great skirt. Kate and her bridesmaids all swore they met their husbands while wearing it. Others must have heard about it, too, because as the bride and her attendants climbed the circular dais, they were practically mobbed.

Kate stepped forward and scanned the crowd. Taking a deep breath, she tossed the skirt high into the air, right toward the spot where Sam had been standing.

Then it seemed to float in the air, drifting left, as though caught by a draft from the ventilation system. It twirled and fluttered. It may have even glinted.

Then it dived. Straight toward Sam. Like she had a homing beacon attached to her, or something. Whatever, Sam ducked and waved her arms to fend off the attack. The crowd pushed and shoved, grasping for the black fabric. Sam backed up, and felt one of the white folding chairs against her calf. She lost her balance and grabbed blindly, hoping to prevent her fall. She grabbed a fistful of air—and the skirt. Astonishingly, the thing nearly molded itself to her hands, but it didn’t prevent Sam from a hard landing on the dance floor. She sat, dazed, her legs splayed in front of her, the skirt in her hands.

The single women of Seattle gave a disappointed groan. Make that a menacing groan.

“Sam…You caught it! Way to go!” Kevin made his way through the knot of resentful women.

“But I didn’t mean to catch it,” Sam said. But she knew nobody heard her and wouldn’t believe her if they had.

Kevin stood behind her and struggled to haul her upright by taking hold of her beneath her arms, almost like he was wrestling with a ninety-pound German shepherd.

Sam didn’t weigh ninety pounds, but she was no German shepherd, either. She waved him off with skirt-covered hands and got to her feet.

“So, what’s this mean?” he asked.

“That Kate wanted to dry her bouquet and keep it for herself?”

At that moment, Gwen, one of the bridesmaids, made her way toward them. “Hey, Sam!” She hugged her. “We were hoping you’d be the one.” And Gwen smiled pointedly, beamed, actually, at Kevin.

Kevin was beaming back in perfect understanding. This was not good.

Gwen tapped the skirt with the pink rose she’d carried in the wedding. “Kate sent me over here to make sure you knew the skirt rules.”

Sam held the skirt out in front of her. It shimmered enticingly. “There’re rules?”

“Oh, yeah. Rules and a warning. It works fast.”

“Is that the rule or the warning?”

Gwen laughed. “I got the skirt right after Christmas and I was married on Valentine’s Day.”

Sam stared at her. How horrible. Fortunately, she didn’t say so.

“What exactly does it do?” Kevin asked.

“It attracts men,” Gwen answered.

Kevin frowned.

“One of whom will be your true love,” she added to Sam.

“What if she’s already met her true love?” Kevin stepped forward and fingered the material of the skirt. It must have been a trick of the light, but the lustrous black material seemed to take on an ashy hue. It hung limply from Sam’s hand.

“Then she’ll know he’s the one.” Gwen gave one of the gooey smiles so prevalent today as a well-built man ambled over and tucked his arm around her waist. “After all, I already knew Alec, here, but it wasn’t until I put on the skirt that I knew he was the one for me.”

“If I recall, there was a certain red sweater you wore with it.” Alec grinned. “I liked that sweater.”

Gwen batted at his arm. “Anyway, when you find him, you’ll know. And then you toss it at your wedding to some extremely lucky woman.” After exchanging goo-goo eyes with her husband, Gwen went off with Alec.

Sam stared at the skirt and then at Kevin. He stared back. She knew all right, and she didn’t need the skirt to tell her.

SUMMER IN NEW YORK CITY. It was…great. Really great to be here, Sam reminded herself. Just great. It would be greater if she could find an apartment, though. And she’d thought San Francisco rental prices were high.

But today, she was committed to making something happen. Nothing and nobody was getting to her today.

Dropping off a report with the receptionist, Sam headed for the banks of elevators that would take her from the executive offices to the fabulous lobby of Carrington’s flagship hotel in Manhattan.

She rounded the corner in time to see an elevator close behind a tall man—being tall herself, Sam always noticed tall men. He was walking away from her with a confident loose-limbed stride that seemed vaguely familiar. He wore a sports coat that she could see was well-cut, though the plaid was too loud for her taste, just like the jackets Josh—

She froze, staring at the back of the man’s head. No. This man didn’t remind her of anyone, certainly not anyone who might jinx the day for her.

Certainly not Josh Crandall, scourge of the convention sales circuit and Sam’s own personal nemesis.

An involuntary shudder rippled through her. Nope. Not Josh Crandall. Couldn’t be. Sam got into the express elevator and rode it all the way to the lobby. She had left Josh Crandall far, far behind. He was still scrambling—in his usual underhanded, sneaky way—to book conventions for Meckler Hotels, while she, who prided herself on honesty and fair dealings, was about to become Carrington’s east coast sales manager.

Sam exited the hotel and crossed Forty-second Street on her way to the post office. She was currently staying in a substandard room at the Manhattan Carrington. Once maintenance repaired the problem—the air-conditioning wasn’t as enthusiastic as it needed to be—then she would move to another unrentable room. She’d been living like this for two weeks now and this weekend, her housing vouchers, such as they were, ran out. Sure, she could have an employee discount, but even with that, the hotel was too pricey to stay in the whole summer.

Today, Sam had been at her desk two hours early and was taking a long lunch, determined to find some place to live, or at least a cheaper hotel.

She pushed open the door to the post office, thankful for the air-conditioning. She did miss San Francisco’s temperate weather.

Because it was noontime, there was a line at the post office, but Sam figured there was always going to be a line in New York and she might as well get used to it. Sam got at the end of the line, which looped back on itself three times like an amusement park ride. Since all the clerk windows were open, the wait shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes or so. And if it was longer, well, what could she do about it?

She fanned herself with her soft bulky package. In it was the skirt. She’d never had so much attention as she’d had since catching the thing at Kate’s wedding. School friends she hadn’t heard from in years had contacted her for progress reports. And magazines, too, for pity’s sake! There had been articles about the thing. And not one, but two reporters had tracked her down here in New York.