Judy Baer - The Whitney Chronicles

“Row twenty, seat B.”

“Welcome. I’m seat A.” He patted the chair beside him, and I dropped into it gratefully. Then he turned and looked me straight in the eye. “And, someday, maybe, if things work out, could we renegotiate that friend thing?”

My stomach did a little flip-flop. I knew what he was asking and it scared me. Why, I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was because I knew how easy it would be to love Eric. He saw the deer-in-headlights look in my eyes and drew back.

“Never mind. Just friends.”

I couldn’t say for sure, but I’m ninety percent positive he added under his breath, “For now.”

As we walked out of the Las Vegas terminal, waves of heat shimmered up from the concrete. I felt as if I’d stepped into a life-size toaster oven. The linen I didn’t think could wilt any further did, like a lettuce leaf in boiling water. My shoulder-length hair is thick and heavy. (Mom calls it my “crowning glory.”) Unfortunately I didn’t put it up for the trip, and as soon as I hit the heat, it clung to my neck and forehead, making me look as though someone had dumped a glass of water on my head. I was not in great shape to see Eric’s father, who was there to pick him up.

Mr. Van Horne is the polar opposite of his son. Eric is casual, wears his light brown hair just a tad longer than normal, so he always looks like he has bed-head, shops only at the GAP and believes God would have done us all a favor if we were simply born wearing tennis shoes. His dad wore black trousers, a white shirt and a camel-colored jacket that oozed expensive. His hair was styled, his shoes polished to a high gloss and I’m almost positive his nails had been professionally manicured. Eric and his father did, however, share the same boyish charm.

Unfortunately, they didn’t share the same taste in automobiles. Eric drives a ten-year-old Jeep with cargo room for an entire apartment. His dad drives a brand-new BMW meant to hold nothing more than a briefcase and golf clubs.

How humiliating. My luggage appeared larger than the car by which it was piled. But never underestimate a man. Thanks to good breeding, excellent manners and a lot of grunting, groaning and pushing, they got it inside the car and were still smiling.

“Here you are.” Mr. Van Horne pulled around the spouting volcano to drop me off at the front door of my hotel.

“I’ll call you and we’ll set a time for dinner.” Eric patted the piece of paper in his pocket containing my phone number.

Then they left me to the perils of Sin City. How dangerous could it be, surrounded as I was with what looked like the entire population of the Midwest? Grandpas, grandmas, mothers pushing strollers and fathers carrying toddlers swarmed around me like locusts as I made my way to the reception desk. I tried to count how many fanny packs I saw and finally decided it would be easier to count the people who didn’t have them on.

I tipped the bellhop double for hauling my weighty bags to my room, a cavernous arena with a great tub and blackout curtains. With room service, I wouldn’t have to leave for a month—if the trade show weren’t such an interruption, of course. I flung myself onto the bed to make sure the mattress was up to my standards and debated the question of showering and changing before or after I checked on how the booth setup was progressing. Occasionally the people I hire to help me with logistics don’t show up on time and I’m stuck doing it alone. Not showering and changing clothes first was, of course, the totally wrong decision.

I put the final touches on the trade-show booth—the laptop that would give my PowerPoint presentation, a bouquet of flowers just for color and a dish of imported chocolates in case some of the participants needed an extra incentive to hang around my booth. If I’d been thinking about my diet, I would have given away toothbrushes.

Hot, I’d mopped my forehead on my arm—makeup and all—tied my hair back with a piece of string I’d found in one of the shipping boxes and removed my shoes when Matt Lambert found me.

“So you are here! Harry told me you would be.”

I spilled a bottle of water on my lap and tried to dissolve into the floor, but unlike the Wicked Witch of the West, I discovered liquid did nothing for me. “Oh, hi, Matt. What a surprise to see you!” I’ll bet he was surprised to see me, too, especially looking like something drooping off the end of a fishing line.

But he never flinched. What a great guy. What élan, what sophistication, what finesse, what…was he blind?

He must have selective vision, because he asked me out for dinner. Since the show was only open for a couple hours that evening and the big event really started the next day, I jumped at the chance. If I could pull myself together and show him that I didn’t always look like a bag lady, I could trade in my rumpled image for something more…dare I say it?…glamorous.

“It’s three in the afternoon. I have to be here from seven to nine, but I’m free after that.”

“I’ll be here at nine. I know just the place we can eat. There’s a little French hideaway within walking distance.” He gave me a look that was half James Bond and half Indiana Jones and that made my fingertips tingle…then he was gone. Okay, so maybe my imagination was on overdrive and my hand had fallen asleep, but what’s the fun in that?

The hotel spa was full, so I settled for a shower, an hour ironing the crumpled clothes in my suitcase and a bag of pretzels from the hotel minifridge for which I would pay a minifortune when my bill arrived.

The first time Kim stayed at a hotel that provided stocked refrigerators, she assumed everything was free and decided to eat it all. She’s almost got the loan paid off on the hotel bill.

My hair still wrapped in a towel, I sat down to leave messages for clients with whom I needed to touch base. I’d just hung up from the last call when my phone rang. It was the salon. A masseuse had had a cancellation. If I still wanted to have a massage, she could bring a table to me. The luxury was irresistible. My mouth said “yes, yes” as my checkbook screamed “no, no.” As usual with me, the mouth won.

A tiny woman arrived toting a portable massage table and a gym bag full of towels, oils and a tiny CD player. Practically before I could say “Come in,” she had everything set up and music playing. Discreetly she turned her back as I slid under the sheets and lay back with a deep sigh.

“Do you like a light massage or deep?”

I gave her the once-over. She was smaller than my mother and looked less robust. “Deep,” I said, wanting my money’s worth.

And, oh boy, did I get it. Looks are deceiving. I was a loaf of bread being kneaded, a meat loaf being pounded into shape, a potato being squeezed through a ricer. While my masseuse had looked a little like David with his unobtrusive slingshot when she’d walked into the room, she massaged like Goliath.

When she left me lying on the table while she went into the bathroom to wash her hands, I took my thumb and index finger and pried open one eye. My muscles refused to go back to work. Eventually I slithered to a chair and sprawled there until the masseuse returned.

“Feeling better?” she asked. “Be sure to drink lots of water tonight.”

I nodded and handed her a check with a large tip, my “mad” money for the rest of the month. But I rationalized that I’d be too limp to go shopping for a couple weeks anyway.

The show was typical of such events, with somber businessmen and computer geeks roaming the aisles. As closing time neared, I saw Matt strolling down the aisle toward me. I recalled the old commercials where a man and a woman run toward each other across a vast field in slow motion, arms out, faces blissful, eyes locked in a gaze of love. But Matt wasn’t running in slow motion or in a field or looking blissful. He did, however, have me in an eye-lock that made my heart pound. The man was gorgeous.