Christine Rimmer - His Executive Sweetheart

It was the second bottle of Chianti that did it. Celia probably could have kept her mouth shut if they’d stuck with just one.

But it was such a perfect evening. The three of them—friends since the first day of kindergarten, bosom buddies all through high school—together again, like in the old days.

Jane had cooked. Italian. Something with angel-hair pasta and lots of garlic and sun-dried tomatoes. After the meal, the three of them kicked off their shoes and gathered around the big fireplace in the front parlor. Jane had the stereo on low, set to Random, playing a mix of everything from Tony Bennett to Natalie Imbruglia.

Jillian raised her glass. “Triple Threat.” That was the three of them, the Triple Threat. Though, of course, they really hadn’t been much of a threat to anyone.

They were three nice girls from a small town, girls who studied hard in school and got good grades and didn’t get breasts as early as they would have liked—well, not Celia and Jillian, anyway. At the age of twelve, Jane had suddenly sprouted a pair of breasts that instantly became the envy of even the most popular girls at Mark Twain Middle School, eighth-graders included.

They were all well behaved. Yep. Jane and Jillian and Celia were good girls to the core, their transgressions so minor they generally went unremarked. They only dreamed of rebellions—at least until their senior year, when Jane ran off to Reno and married Rusty Jenkins.

That had been a real mess, Jane’s marriage to Rusty. He was trouble, capital T, that Rusty. He’d ended up getting himself killed three years later. Jane had scrupulously avoided all forms of rebellion ever since.

Jillian had tried marriage, too, when she was twenty-two. Her husband had a problem with monogamy—a problem he never bothered to reveal before the wedding. But it turned out that Benny Simmerson found being faithful way too limiting. That marriage had lasted a little over a year.

“Triple Threat,” echoed Jane. Celia said it, too. The three of them clinked glasses and drank.

Jillian grabbed a sapphire-blue chenille pillow from the end of the couch, propped it against the front of an easy chair and used it for a backrest. “So, how’s construction going next door?”

About six months ago, Cade Bravo had bought the house next to Jane’s. Since then, he’d been remodeling it.

Jane sipped more wine. “Who knows? He’ll probably never move in.”

“Why do you say that?” prodded Jillian. “What? He’s never there?”

“He’s there. Now and then. You can see he’s got the new roof on and the exterior painted. And I do hear hammering inside every once in a while. I’d say construction is moving along.”

“The question,” said Jillian, “is why? Why buy a house here? I heard he’s got a huge place in Vegas. And one in Tahoe, too, right? What’s New Venice got to offer that he can’t get in Vegas or Tahoe? And why an old house? Cade Bravo is not the fixer-upper type.”

“A hungering for the home he never really had?” Jane suggested. “A yearning for a simpler, gentler kind of life?”

Jillian pretended to choke on her wine. “Oh, right. Cade Bravo. Not.”

Jane shrugged. “It’s only a guess.”

“And speaking of Bravos…” Jillian wiggled her eyebrows. “Rumor has it Caitlin’s got a new boyfriend.”

“Could be,” said Jane.

Jillian giggled, a very naughty sound. “Janey. Come on. Who is he? What’s he like?”

“Hans is his name. I’ve seen him tooling around town in that black Trans Am of Caitlin’s.” Caitlin had owned the Trans Am for as long as Celia could remember. She kept it in perfect condition. It looked just like the one Burt Reynolds drove in that old seventies classic, Smokey and the Bandit. Jane added, “Hans has come in the bookstore once or twice.”

“And…?”

“Sounds like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Looks like him, too. At least from the neck down. Arnold meets Fabio. Remember Fabio? Long blond hair, major muscles. That’s Hans. Buys books on body culture and vitamin therapy.”

“A health nut.”

“Could be.”

“How old?”

Jane tried to look disapproving. “Honestly, Jilly. You’re practically salivating.”

Jillian let out a long, crowing laugh. “Boytoy! Admit it. I’ve got it right.”

Jane shrugged. “She always did like them young.”

“And vigorous.” Jillian giggled some more.

Jane gathered her legs up under her and stood. “I’ll get that other bottle.”

Celia looked down into her almost-empty glass, thinking of Aaron again, feeling disgustingly sorry for herself. There was no escape, really, from thinking of Aaron. Reminders were everywhere. She worked for him, they came from the same hometown where everybody loved nothing so much as to gossip about his mother. And now his brother was moving in next door to her best friend….

Jillian said, “What’s with you, Celia Louise?”

Celia looked up from her wine glass. “Huh?”

“I said, what’s with you?”

She made an effort to sit straighter and tried to sound perky. “Oh, nothing much. Working, as always.”

Jillian looked at her sideways. “No. I mean right this minute. Tonight. You’ve been too quiet.”

“A person can’t be quiet?”

“Depends on the kind of quiet. Tonight you are…suspiciously quiet. Something’s up with you.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

Celia put on a frown, as if she were giving the whole idea of something being “up” with her serious thought. Then she shrugged and shook her head. “No. Honestly. Just…enjoying being here.”

“Oh, you liar,” said Jillian.

Jane came back with the fat, raffia-wrapped bottle. “She said there’s nothing bothering her, am I right?”

“You are,” said Jillian.

There’s something,” Jane said. “But she isn’t telling.”

Both Jane and Jillian looked at Celia, their faces expectant, waiting for her to come clean and tell them what was on her mind. She kept her mouth shut.

Finally, Jane shrugged. “More of this nice, rustic Chianti, anyone?”

Celia and Jillian held out their glasses and Jane filled them. They all sat back and stared at the fire for a minute or two while Tony Bennett sang about leaving his heart in San Francisco.

“Good a place as any,” Jane said softly.

Jillian sighed.

Celia drank more wine. She grabbed a couple of pillows of her own, propped them against the wall between the fireplace and the side door that led out to Jane’s wraparound porch and leaned back, getting comfortable.

“So, how’s the book biz?” Jillian tipped her glass at Jane.

“The book biz is not bad. Not bad at all.” Jane’s dark eyes shone with satisfaction as she talked about her store. “Events,” she said. “They really bring in the customers. Events. Activities.” Not a week went by that she didn’t have some author or other in to answer questions and sign books. “I still have my Children’s Story Hour, Saturdays at ten and Thursday nights at seven.” And then there were the reading groups. She offered the store as a place to hold them. “So far, I’ve got four different groups meeting at the Silver Unicorn at various times during the week. Now and then I’ve been doing a kind of café evening on a weekend night, with a harpist or a guitar player, that sort of thing. They can have coffee and tea and scones and biscotti. They can read the books while they enjoy the music. Folks love it. I’m building my customer base just fine. I get the tourists in the summer months and during the winter, the locals have started thinking of the store as a gathering place.”

Jillian said, “Speaking of speakers, how ’bout me? I am an author now, after all—more or less, anyway.”

Jane grinned. “I thought you’d never ask. Maybe we could set something up for next month. You could talk about the column. Give a few helpful hints on wardrobe basics, tell them what items they just can’t be without this year.”

Jillian had her own business, Image by Jillian. She showed executives and minor celebrities how to spruce up their wardrobes; she gave makeovers and seminars on dressing Business Casual. She also wrote an advice column, “Ask Jillian,” for the Sacramento Press-Telegram.

Celia sipped her wine, growing dangerously mushy and sentimental as she listened to her two oldest and dearest friends talking shop. Really, she was glad she had come. It was just what she’d needed, to be sitting here by the fire at Jane’s, getting plotzed on Chianti.

And also, I need truth, she thought, with a sudden burst of semi-inebriated insight. Truth. Oh, yes. I need it. I do. I need to share the truth with someone—and who better than my two best friends in all the world?

So she said, “Well, the truth is, I’m in love with Aaron Bravo.”

J illian, who’d been making a point about flirty reversible bias-cut skirts in light, floaty fabrics, shut her mouth right in the middle of a sentence. Jane turned to Celia and stared.

Celia took another large sip of wine.

“Get out,” said Jillian, after several seconds of stunned silence. A wild laugh escaped her, but she cut it off by clapping her hand over her mouth. Finally, she whispered, “You’re serious.”

“I am. I love him.” Celia looked into her glass again and wrinkled her nose. “Maybe I’ll become a drunk. Drown my sorrows…”

Jane reached out and snared the glass.

“Hey,” Celia protested, but without much heat.

Jane scooted over and set the glass on the coffee table, then scooted back to the nest of pillows she’d made for herself on the pretty lapis-blue hand-woven rug in front of the fire.

Jillian asked, “Does he know?”

Oh, no, Celia thought. Here come those pesky tears again….

Well, she wasn’t having any of them. She jumped to her feet and looked down at her friends. She swallowed. Twice. Finally, her throat loosened up enough that she could tell them, “He hasn’t got a clue.”

“Oh, honey,” cried Jillian. She reached up her arms. So did Jane.

With a tiny sob, Celia toppled toward her friends. They embraced. It felt really good, really comforting.

So much so that she didn’t end up bawling like a baby after all.

Once they’d shared a good, long hug, Jane gave Celia back her wineglass. “But don’t get too crazy with that.”

“I won’t. I promise. This is all I’ll have. I was only joking about becoming a drunk.”

“Good.” Jane folded her legs lotus-style and adjusted her long, soft skirt over them. “So. All right. Talk to us. Tell us everything.”

Celia explained about V-day.

“Wait a minute,” Jillian said. “So you’re saying, all this time you’ve been working for him and you were—what—fond of him and nothing more?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Fond? Is that the word that comes to mind when I think of Aaron Bravo?”

Jillian made a low, impatient sound. “What I’m getting at is, this is way too sudden, don’t you think? Out of nowhere, you’re in love with him? On Valentine’s Day?”

Celia nodded. “Yes.” Then she shook her head. “No.” And then she looked at the ceiling. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“Well, that clarifies it for me.”

“Jilly, I can’t be sure if it started on Valentine’s Day. Maybe…I’ve loved him for months. Maybe years. But if I did, I didn’t know it until a week ago.”

Jillian started to say something. But Jane shot her a look. Jillian blew out a breath.

Jane said, “Go on.”

Celia poured out her woes. “He doesn’t notice me. Not as a whole person. And certainly not as a woman. I’m…a function to him. And it hurts. Bad. Which I know is totally unreasonable. My falling for him wasn’t in the job description. He hired a secretary/assistant. Not a girlfriend. He doesn’t need a girlfriend. He’s got his pick of those.”