Sybil called early the next morning. She was an early-morning person, as well as a night-owl party girl. I was amazed at how she managed to function, and to always look radiantly beautiful, with so little sleep. She knew it was safe to call early, as I, too, was an early riser. The difference was I rarely stayed up late. I needed my beauty rest. I didn't have the courage — or bank account — required for regular trips to the plastic surgeon. Plus, I hated needles. No Botox for me.
I sat in front of my computer by seven most mornings, a large mug of steaming hot coffee on the desk to my left. This morning I was up, had my coffee in hand, but hadn't made it to the computer. I was having difficulty coming up with a suitable storyline for my next novel. I just didn't have any fresh ideas at the moment. I had written eight stories in the past thirteen years. How many different exciting storylines could one conjure up? Even the most famous best-selling authors' books all began to sound the same after a while, especially those who wrote romance.
I began writing not long after Daniel perished when the planes flew into the twin towers on that horrible day now commonly known as 9/11. Before that day I had worked part-time as an interior decorator. That was how I met Sybil. She was a client who hired me to decorate her condo. We became best friends almost immediately. I couldn't go back to work after I lost Daniel. I didn't want to be around people; I tried to hide away from everyone and everything. While I knew everyone meant well, I just reached the point that I couldn't stand to hear one more person say the words I'm sorry for your loss. I started writing for something to do, a way to keep busy, to occupy my mind and my time. I had no plans to share my stories with anyone. Sybil joined me for coffee one morning. I had accidentally left my latest story pulled up on my laptop, which I left sitting on the coffee table. Sybil started reading while I was in the kitchen pouring coffee. She was impressed and insisted on sharing it with a friend, an editor with a small publishing company. That friend said her company didn't publish romance novels, but felt my work had potential, and passed the manuscript on to a literary agent she often worked with, Kerri Lane. A few months later I found myself signing a contract with Kerri. Just over two years later I was a published writer, and my first novel was on the best-seller list.
"So, tell me, Nicole. How'd it go last night?"
"How'd what go, and aren't people supposed to say hello, or good morning first?"
"Rubbish. No time for small talk. I want to know how it went with Frank last night."
"Oh, that. How do you think it went? He took me home after your dinner party, and we made mad, passionate love in the back of a squad car, with the lights flashing and the sirens howling all the way."
"Very funny, Nicole. For one thing, Frank Reagan doesn't ride in a squad car."
"I know that. But it made a good story, didn't it? And isn't that what you wanted?"
"Never mind. You can tell me later, while we're jogging in the park."
"I wasn't aware we were jogging this morning."
"Well, we are, and we need to hurry, or we'll miss him."
"Miss who? What are you up to, Sybil?"
"Frank Reagan jogs in the park. I've passed him several Saturday mornings. If we hurry we can —"
"You've got to be kidding me! No way are we doing that!"
"And just why not?"
"Seriously? Last night was obvious enough. Showing up at the park this morning would be way over the top. Forget it!"
"Did you like him?"
"Yes."
"Are you interested?"
"This is ridiculous. Even for you. He's the police commissioner!"
"So what! He's available; you're available. He's attractive; you're attractive. He jogs, you jog. And we're wasting time."
"No. I'm not doing it. Forget it."
"Okay, fine. If you won't do it for yourself, do it for me. I need to jog this morning, and I don't want to go alone. Please, be a dear friend, and go with me."
"That's just low, even for you. Have you no shame?"
"None. How do you think I always get what I want?"
"I was pretty sure it was those expensive boobs!"
"Ha! Ha! Very funny. Don't knock them, hon, 'til you've had a pair of your own."
"No thank you."
"I'll see you in fifteen minutes."
"Make that twenty. I need to throw on some makeup."
"You have twenty-five minutes. Do more than just throw on makeup."
I hung up, shaking my head. I couldn't believe I had let her talk me into going. I was, however, looking forward to the possibility of seeing Frank Reagan again. And I had just as much right jogging in the park this morning as he did, I told myself. If we happened to run into each other, so be it. I was ready and waiting on the front steps of my brownstone when Sybil arrived.
"You look good," she said. "Good choice for jogging outfit. I always like that color on you."
I had dressed in fuchsia. It was my favorite color choice as well. It worked well with my ivory skin tone, blonde hair, and blue eyes. I envied Sybil, who glowed in blacks, whites, and vibrant reds with her dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skin. I also envied her long, straight hair. Slicked back in a ponytail, it looked stylish. My long, wavy hair was much less impressive in a ponytail. I had been hesitant to pull it back this morning but knew it would look much worse if I didn't by the time we finished our jog. This chilly May morning Sybil was dressed in bright red. Our clothes clashed; we would certainly stand out at the park. I was sure that was Sybil's plan.
She seemed to know exactly where to start our jog. We completed our usual three miles. I normally ran five when I was alone, but Sybil insisted three was all she could handle, all she needed. I doubted she needed to jog at all. She was one of those women who could eat anything and everything, it seemed, and never gain an ounce. I, on the other hand, had to work a bit harder to keep my figure. We were in the middle of our cool-down walk when we met them coming from the opposite direction. Frank Reagan and his chief of staff, Garrett Moore, were walking toward us, deep in conversation, while two men, security guards I assumed, walked a bit behind them.
"Good morning, ladies. I didn't expect to see the two of you here this morning," Frank said.
"One of us didn't expect to be out here this morning," I replied, giving Sybil the eye.
"Well, I'm glad that you are. It's a pleasure to see you again. Both of you."
Frank introduced us to his chief of staff.
"So, are you just starting out, or done?"
"We're done and headed for a cup of coffee. Perhaps the two of you would like to join us," Sybil said.
"Umm—" Frank replied, looking first at Garrett, and then at me. "Sure," he finally said. "We have time for that, don't we Garrett?"
"I'm not sure we do, sir."
"Sure we do."
"Whatever you say, Commissioner. You're the boss."
"Then that's settled."
Frank smiled, his usual smile I had seen him flash during televised news conferences. It was the smile where his whole face scrunched, emphasizing his wrinkles, his character lines, the smile that made him even more attractive, more appealing. It was so unfair how men became more distinguished as they aged, while we women just got old. Even the glasses he wore added character. I had found myself fantasizing about removing those glasses at just the right intimate moment.
A group of five young men jogged past us, each one saying Morning, Commissioner in unison.
"Morning, gentlemen," Frank replied as all but one passed by.
"Hey, Dad," the young man said, stopping to chat, as his jogging buddies continued without him.
"Jamie," Frank replied, nodding his head. "Shouldn't you keep up with your friends?"
"Nah, they're slow. I'll catch up. Besides, Eddie's dragging behind. It'll give her a chance to catch up."
I recognized the young man as Frank's youngest son. He stood smiling, apparently waiting for an introduction to the two women chatting with his dad. At that moment, a young woman appeared.
"And so she has. Ms. Janko, good to see you this morning."
"Good morning, sir."
"I'd like you to meet Mrs. Sybil Rosenni, and her good friend, Ms. Nicole Richardson. It is Ms., not Mrs., is that correct?" Frank asked, looking at me.
"Yes, Ms.," I replied.
"Rosenni, as in Anthony Rosenni?" Jamie asked.
"Yes," Frank replied, annoyance in his voice. He continued the introductions. "This is my son, Jamie, and his partner, Officer Eddie Janko."
"Have we met before, Ms. Richardson?" Officer Janko asked.
"I don't believe so."
"You just look so familiar."
"Don't you two need to move along, catch up with your friends?" Frank asked.
"Yes, Dad," Jamie said, smiling.
"I'll beat you to them," Janko said, laughing, as she took off running.
"Hey, no fair," Jamie said, anxious to take off after her. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Rosenni, Ms. Richardson. Dad, see you at Sunday dinner tomorrow?"
"I will be there, as always."
As Jamie chased after his partner, Frank sighed, shrugging his shoulders.
Our youth," he said, "gotta love them. Now, weren't we headed for coffee?"