Another Holly and Roger story! I thought I had nothing more to write about them, but I guess I was wrong…This one takes place in 2001, a few years after Roger moved to California with his new wife Amanda Spaulding. Enjoy!

Beverly Hills, L'Ermitage Berverly Hills Hotel

Holly dropped her suitcase on the bed and glanced around her suite with satisfaction. She congratulated herself on opting for the deluxe apartment; her rooms were exquisitely done in black and white and the view on the hills was breathtaking. She stripped out of her pantsuit and slipped into a light summer dress. Glancing at her watch, she decided that it was late enough for a glass of white wine, especially considering the time difference with Springfield, and so she headed for the mini-bar.

Glass in hand, she picked up her laptop from its case and went to the balcony, where she slumped into a long chair with a sigh of contentment. She opened a PowerPoint presentation and looked at her notes. Being invited as a speaker to the Los Angeles Annual Media Convention was a major coup for her. Then again, she reflected as she took a sip of wine before putting down her glass on the balcony floor, she deserved it. In the last few years, she had devoted almost every waking hour to work, and it had finally paid off.

Ross, Blake and Ed had all advised her to take it slow after her divorce from Fletcher, to get her bearings, but she hadn't listened to them. She knew that work was her only escape, the only thing that would prevent her from going crazy. So instead of crying over spilled milk with a bucket of ice cream in hand, she had rolled up her sleeves and gotten down to business. Since it was unthinkable for her to continue working with her ex-husband, she had sold him his shares of the Journal and bought back WSPR. The year after, she had become the major shareholder in another local station in Chicago, and the year after that, she had bought a third and a fourth station in a neighborhood state. She now found herself at the head of a respectable, albeit small media empire.

She wondered idly if Roger would be proud of her.

She frowned and put her laptop down. Picking up her glass of wine, she walked to the edge of the balcony and bent over the railing as far as she could. In the distance, she could make out Los Angeles' skyscrapers. She peered at them, trying to guess which one held the Spaulding Enterprises headquarters. She imagined Roger sitting at his desk with Amanda by his side before shaking her head and polishing off her glass.

Most of the time, she could fend off the memories, but not here. Not when he was so close.

It wasn't so much Fletcher that she had tried to erase from her heart after her divorce. It was Roger. She recalled that afternoon, a few years ago, when he had been ready to break off his engagement to Amanda, if only she would promise to take him back. He had poured his heart and soul into their last kiss. Out of fear or misplaced loyalty, she could barely tell anymore, she had chosen Fletcher, only to regret it hours later. By then, it had been too late; Roger was married and on a plane to California. As for Fletcher, he had finally read the writing on the wall and had left her. Weeks later, he had made his way back into Alexandra Spaulding's bed.

And Holly had been left alone. Not that she complained anymore, she had made good for herself. She had long ago decided that men were not to be a part of her life anymore, except for nights at a time.

There had been only one man for her, and she had lost him.


She woke up from her nap and glanced at her watch. She felt like rolling over and sleeping some more, but she needed to get ready. The conferences would only start the following morning, but there was a cocktail followed by a formal dinner that very night to welcome the attendees.

She jumped into the shower and mentally reviewed the dresses that she had brought while the hot water ran over her shoulders and down her spine. Somehow, none of them seemed to fit the occasion anymore. She made a quick decision to run over to Rodeo Drive as soon as she finished doing her hair. She was in the mood for something spectacular.


A few miles away, Roger Thorpe was pouring over the papers littering his desk, deep creases running across his forehead. He then pushed back his chair abruptly and walked over a floor-to-ceiling board, also covered with various documents and pictures. His eyes followed a path that was only visible to himself, and after a few seconds, a small smile finally appeared on the corners of his mouth.

"Gotcha," he said softly.

He unpinned the picture of a middle-aged man from the board, folded it carefully and put it in his jacket's inside pocket. He would have to hurry if he wanted to change into his tuxedo and make it to the Annual Media Convention's cocktail on time.