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drawer.
There had been entire days, weeks, even, when she’d been able to forget its existence.
It was like that with Harman. Wrapped up, safely tucked away, she could almost forget what life with him had been like. She could even forget how his rage at her leaving must fill his life, but she couldn’t forget it all the time. Every now and then, something would remind her. A man speaking sharply to a woman; a woman with a cowed look in her eyes. Then it would all come rushing back and she’d remember that Harman was still out there, still thinking about her, still relishing what he’d do when he found her.
Dawn sat up in bed. She thrust her hands into her hair, shoving it back from her face.
These were not things you wanted dancing through your head first thing in the morning. She pulled on her robe—she slept in a T-shirt and panties but she didn’t like walking around the apartment that way because it made her feel exposed—and went into the kitchen. She plugged in the coffee she’d set up last night and ran a glass of cool water from the faucet.
The only reason she kept thinking about Harman was because that man had helped her with her car yesterday.
She took a sip of water, then rolled the cold glass against her forehead.
It was an unlikely juxtaposition, to go from thinking about her cruel husband to a generous stranger, but she could see an awful kind of logic to it. She hadn’t stood that close to a man since she’d left Harman, hadn’t felt so vulnerable or so crowded by one, although—although, just for a moment, looking at his handsome face and his appreciative smile, she’d felt a stirring within herself that she hardly recognized.
Then he’d asked her all those questions about where she was from and she’d wondered why he wanted to know, if someone had sent him, even as she’d told herself how crazy that was. A man with all that polish and charm wouldn’t be, couldn’t be, involved in any way with her husband.
Dawn put down the glass and walked slowly through the little apartment, the worn linoleum early-morning cool against her bare feet.
Back to square one, and wasn’t that pointless? She couldn’t go through life letting everything, even a fleeting attraction to a man, drag her thoughts in the same direction. The therapists she’d dealt with in Phoenix would probably say it was a healthy sign that she’d found a man interesting, although the women with whom she’d had whispered conversations in the safe darkness of the dormitory had all warned her to be careful if she ever felt turned on by a man again or she might find herself back in a relationship with the same kind of lying, deceiving, cruel bastard as the one who had sent her fleeing into the night.
“Women like us,” said the world-weary black woman who had helped her gain a new identity, “are always going to end up with the wrong men. Forget all that therapy crap. I’ve been back and forth to this shelter enough times to know. There’s no way out. If you’re foolish enough to hook up with some guy, you’ll end up regretting it.”
Dawn wasn’t going to test the premise. She’d had enough of one man to make her more than content to stay away from all of them. There would never be room or need in her life for an intimate relationship. That was what the therapists called the man-woman thing, as if by giving it a fancy name they could change it from what it actually was to what they claimed it could be.
No sir, she thought as she gulped down a cup of coffee and a slice of fattening, delicious, cold, bad-for-you pizza. No relationships. If her car broke down again and a man with Mel Gibson’s looks, St. Francis’s disposition and Bill Gates’s bank balance dropped to one knee right in front of her and begged her to let him replace her old wreck with a convertible before he married her, she’d just smile and say no, sorry, but I’m happy just the way I am. No man, no worries, no trouble.
And no job, if she didn’t get a move on.
Dawn dressed quickly, put on her makeup and pulled her hair into a low ponytail. Cassie could weave all the romance she liked into a simple encounter. She knew better.
Her car started up right away, which was definitely a good omen. Traffic was light, and she scored a Perfect 10 for the drive when she didn’t hit one red light all the way to work. Dawn put her purse in her locker, checked the calendar above the desk and went looking for Betsy. She found her in the lobby alcove, frowning at a sheet of paper in her hand.
“Hi. How’s it going?”
“Slow, so far. I made a list of things you’ll have to do. Like, a one o’clock limo for the guy in the Ella Fitzgerald suite.”
“The banker?”
“Uh-huh.” Becky thumbed through her notes. “And that couple from Brisbane’s coming in later this morning.” She looked up. “The Allisons. I told you about them, didn’t I? He calls himself a sheep farmer. Well, he is, but he’s got a farm—sorry,” Becky said, raising her eyebrows, “a station the size of Rhode Island.”
Dawn nodded. “Okay. I remember. He plays poker. His wife shops.”
Becky grinned. “Succinctly put. What the lady shops for are gemstones. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds—the bigger, the better, and she likes to do her shopping comfortably, so I’ve alerted Roger.”
“Roger. The Rock Hound’s manager?”
“Uh-huh. He’ll be ready to take some things upstairs whenever she phones. I figure on putting them in The Blue Note. You agree?”
Dawn lifted her eyebrows. “La-di-da.”
“You better believe it. You’ll like them. He’s a little loud, she pretty much wears every sparkler she owns, but they’re nice people.”
“Anything else?”
“He likes Foster’s. Make sure the fridge stays stocked with it, and with Somerset Rambler. It’s cheese,” Becky said, by way of explanation, “imported from England. Made from ewe’s milk.”
“Baaa. I should have known.”
