Debbi Rawlins - A Glimpse of Fire

“I’m in charge of doing the Fifth Avenue window display for the Fourth of July sale. It’s also the store’s tenth anniversary.”

“Sounds like a big deal.”

“Yes,” Trudie said miserably. “And I’m about to blow it big-time.”

“How?”

Trudie shoved the pink slip she’d been studying across her crowded desk, between a stack of fashion magazines and a pile of fabric swatches.

Dallas picked up the phone message. It was from someone named Starla Jenkins. It simply said she had a stomach virus and had to cancel tomorrow evening.

“Okay,” Dallas said slowly, sliding the pink slip back toward Trudie. Her friend was obviously upset, so she forwent the wisecrack that came to mind. “And?”

“I am so screwed.”

“Who’s Starla Jenkins?”

“A model I’d hired.” Trudie exhaled sharply. “Stomach virus, my ass. I haven’t heard of anything going around.”

“So? I’m sure there are fifteen others who’d love to take her place. Call the agency.”

“It’s not that simple,” Trudie said and then remained silent as she stared at Dallas with an odd expression on her face. Her gaze dropped to Dallas’s hands and she wrinkled her nose. “Your nails are horrible.”

Dallas reflexively balled them into fists. “I just got off work.”

“That’s okay.” Trudie flashed her a quick smile. “We can fix them.”

“I don’t want them fixed.” She studied her friend for a moment, a bad feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. “Look, if you need to cancel dinner so you can find a replacement, I totally understand.”

Trudie’s gaze stayed steady. “I already have.”

Dallas stared back, feeling uneasy. Trudie couldn’t possibly be thinking— No, of course not. Ridiculous. She knew better. But just in case… “No.”

“Come on, Dallas. I’m not asking you to do it for free.”

“Why ask me period? You could find a replacement in half an hour.”

“No way, toots.” Trudie shook her head. “I promised my manager something special. A live mannequin.”

Dallas’s mouth opened but didn’t cooperate any further.

“You gave me the idea,” Trudie said in an accusatory tone. “Remember how in college you used to fake everyone out. Jill and I’d take bets you could stay perfectly still for a half hour at a time. Hell, we used to clean up. Pay for all our gas and entertainment.”

“That was eight years ago.”

“You did it again at the Christmas party last year and took fifty bucks off that snobby Chandler Whitestone.”

“That was different. He ticked me off.”

“Please, Dallas. You have to bail me out.”

Dallas sighed. Did she have Sucker written across her forehead or something? “I have faith you’ll find someone else. Or come up with another window display.”

“By tomorrow?”

“I’m not standing in a damn department store window. I’m too out of shape.”

“Bull. You should have never left the business.” Trudie glanced at Dallas’s hands again. “Your nails suck, but other than that you’re every bit as pretty and—”

“I’m twenty-nine.”

Trudie’s mouth twisted wryly. “There’s that.”

Dallas stood. “Moot point. Are we doing dinner or not?”

“Look, my career’s on the line here.” Trudie hesitated. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.”

“Have you even tried to find someone else?”

“Yes. I swear.”

Dallas sank back into the chair. She believed her. Trudie wasn’t one to ask for favors. Even after her jerk of a boyfriend had moved out along with half of Trudie’s furniture and the next month’s rent, she hadn’t asked Dallas or Wendy for a thing. Hadn’t accepted anything that was offered either.

“Come on, Dallas. As soon as Starla gets over her virus or whatever, she’ll call and you’ll be off the hook.”

“I’m not on the hook.”

“Oh, God, are you going to make me beg? Do I have to get down on my knees?”

Dallas sighed, knowing she was going to regret this. “Okay,” she said slowly. “How long do I have to pose and what do I have to wear?”

Trudie’s smile faltered. “Come on, let’s go have a drink or two first.”

“Trudie…”

Her friend got up from her desk, grabbed her purse and headed out the door. “I’m buying.”

Dallas followed. She was not going to like this. Not one bit.

ERIC HARMON PAID THE cabdriver and got out near Sixth and Lexington. No sign of Tom. He checked his watch. Traffic had been surprisingly cooperative, and he’d apparently beaten his friend to the rendezvous point a block from their office where they both worked for Webber and Thornton Advertising.

He squinted up at the twentieth floor and counted four windows from the corner, which was Tom’s office. The light was still on. But of course, so was the light in Eric’s office, two over from Tom’s, and Eric had no intention of returning to work. Not today. He was too beat.

They really should’ve met at Pete’s Grille, he realized. After the meeting he had just left, he could really use a double scotch about now. He checked his watch again, moved out of the way as a horde of pedestrians left the crosswalk and headed for him, then withdrew his cell phone from his suit jacket pocket.

“Put that away. I’m right behind you.”

He turned toward Tom’s voice and slid the phone back into his pocket. “I need a drink.”

“Me, too.”

Eric looked down at the briefcase his friend was holding. “Since when do you take work home?”

Tom shook his head, his expression grim. “I don’t care how bad your meeting went, be damn glad you weren’t in the office this afternoon.”

“Great. Tell me it doesn’t have to do with the Mercer account.” The advertising business could be a bitch. When you bonded with the client, you were on top of the world. But then there were those times when you thought about ordering a one-way ticket to Siberia.

“I’m not talking work until after I have a scotch.” Tom stepped back, accidentally bumping into a short blonde in a khaki suit. “Excuse me.”

At his dimpled smile, her irritation promptly vanished. “No problem.” She returned the smile, laced with a brief but obvious invitation.

Eric sighed. “Come on, Romeo. Let’s get to Pete’s before your wife calls and tells you to get your ass home.”

Tom gave the blonde’s swaying rear end a final appreciative look before turning toward Fourth Avenue. “Speaking of wives, since you don’t have one—” Tom said as if it were a crime “—who are you taking to Webber’s annual thanks-for-the-job-well-done-but-you’re-not-getting-a-bonus party?”

“Who says I have to take anyone?”

“Unspoken rule, my friend. You always show up and you don’t show up alone. The guy’s old school. He thinks everyone should be married and settled by the time they’re thirty. A mark you’ve already bypassed. Besides, didn’t you get the picture after the Christmas party? He didn’t like it that you were the only one flying solo.”

Eric scoffed. “That attitude’s not only ridiculously antiquated, it’s illegal.”

“Tell him that.” Tom’s head swung around after a redheaded jogger in a skintight green tank and running shorts who’d passed them.

“And then there are some guys who just shouldn’t be married.”

“What?” Tom glanced at him and laughed. “Only looking, pal. Only looking. Something you should be doing more of.”

Frankly he didn’t know how Tom did it. Juggle a wife, a successful but demanding career and an active and strategic social life. Of course, Tom’s first putt in life came with a handicap. Prominent Westchester family. Ivy League education. No student loans to repay. A wife with an impressive social pedigree.