What Happens in Paris. Nancy Thompson Robards

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СКАЧАТЬ and meandered down my cheek. I wiped them away with my sleeve.

      “You blame Blake for taking away your life. Don’t give him your soul.”

      I heard Rita’s sandals clicking on the concrete floor, walking away from me. I wanted to shout at her, If I’d wanted to go to Paris I would have sent in the damn application myself. Well, okay, I wanted to go to Paris. Someday. Just not right now.

      Arrgh. Too much. Too much. Too much was coming at me too fast.

      “I have a challenge for you.” My sister’s voice was softer. I glanced over to see her hitching her purse up on her shoulder.

      “Don’t withdraw. Just let the application ride. Toss it up to fate and see what happens. Okay?”

      CHAPTER 4

      After six weeks of having the bed to myself, I decided I liked sleeping alone. I woke up at six-thirty that particular morning smack-dab in the middle of the king-size bed. No one poked me in the back and told me to keep to my own side of the bed. No one elbowed me for inadvertently kicking him when I stretched out.

      It was kind of nice, this newfound personal space. If I wanted to I could take my half out of the middle. It was a good thing, sleeping alone. I lay there and waited for reality to jolt my sleep-befuddled mind and expose the big dark hole that had taken up residence where my heart used to live.

      I waited, but the familiar pain didn’t stir.

      A good sign.

      Never mind that waking up was the easy part. Going to bed alone was still a challenge. After eighteen years of sleeping with the same person, I’d found comfort and reassurance in being able to reach out and touch Blake whenever I wanted—even though we rarely touched.

      There was something in just knowing he was there, something comforting in the occasional brush of his foot against mine, no matter how unintentional; something in the rhythmic ebb and flow of his breathing; even something in his snoring, although until I discovered earplugs it used to drive me nuts.

      I guess my newfound personal space—room to stretch—was one fringe benefit of living alone.

      I spread my arms and legs to the four corners of the bed, just because I could, and moved them back and forth like a child making a snow angel. I reveled in the softness of the sheets under my body, and then lay spread-eagle for a moment, and listened to the quiet until the shrill ring of the telephone interrupted my calm.

      “Annabelle, I didn’t wake you, did I?”

      Blake. My heart skipped a beat. “No, I’m up.”

      “Good. I wanted to catch you before you went to work.”

      His brisk tone hinted that I might not like what he had to say. But I waited, holding firmly to the old adage she who speaks first loses.

      “Annabelle, are you there?”

      “Yes.”

      “Listen, I’ve secured a Realtor, Jared Helmsley, to list the house for us.”

      “Excuse me?”

      I sat up and swung my feet over the side of the bed.

      Not quite a fighting stance, but at least I wasn’t taking it lying down.

      “I’d like to bring him by this afternoon to see the place so we can get it on the market as soon as possible.”

      “No.”

      “No?”

      “No, Blake. I told you at least ten times already, I’m not ready to list the house.” I’d just found an attorney to represent me and we hadn’t gotten that far yet. “I’m not doing anything until I talk to my lawyer. So just cool your jets.”

      He heaved a sigh in my ear. A huffy, sissy sigh that irked me to the core. Oh, be a man.

      He cleared his throat. “Annabelle, we’re going to have to do something soon because my partner and I are starting our own business and we need the capital. I want my half.”

      Whoa! Wait a minute. Rewind. The implication propelled me to my feet.

      “Your partner? Since when do you have a partner? You always worked better alone. That was the principal reason you broke off from the firm and started your own business.”

      He cleared his throat again. God, it sounded like a chain saw sputtering and dying in my ear, and it was getting on my nerves. I got to my feet and started downstairs to keep myself from snipping at him about the ugly noise. On the way down, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the stairs. Holding the phone with one hand, I tried to tame my wild curls, which sprang out in every direction and made me look like the Raisin Bran sun.

      “Not that kind of partner. Jared Helmsley is my…um…my partner.”

      I braced myself on the kitchen counter. It took a few seconds before it sank in. “Oh my God, this Realtor is your boyfriend? Well, you certainly work fast. Tell me where you two met. No, wait—let me guess. Live Oak Park, right? Aww, I love hearing about blossoming romance.”

      Not.

      “Don’t be crass, Annabelle.”

      Don’t be a pansy, Blake.

      “I’m retiring from architecture, and Jared and I are starting an antiques business.”

      Antiques. How typical. My husband was a gay cliché.

      So much for the small pleasures of sheet angels and taking my half out of the middle of the bed. I needed a good strong cup of joe after waking up to this. I picked up my French-press coffeepot, measured water from the refrigerator and poured it into the kettle to boil.

      “Don’t you think it’s a risky move to cash it all in and set up shop with a guy you just met?”

      “I’ve known Jared a while.”

      “Like six weeks a while? Or longer a while?”

      “Longer.”

      “How much longer, Blake?” I dumped some French-roast beans into the grinder. I pressed the start button and the machine hummed and chomped; the rich, aromatic promise of a good cup of coffee lulled me into hoping the day would get better.

      He planned it this way, didn’t he? He had to have some sort of Annabelle Happiness Radar that sounded an alarm when my misery dropped to a bearable level. Because just when I started to feel okay he’d fling another doozy. I turned around and picked up the glass pot, getting it ready for the fresh coffee.

      “Jared and I have been together for three years.”

      I caught the answer just as the grinder stopped. The press pot slipped from my hands and shattered on the slate floor.

      “What?”

      He’d been in a relationship for three years?

      “Did СКАЧАТЬ