Chapter 10

~ I'll Stand By You ~

". . . I was sailing along, selling my magazine. My talk was going smoothly, the Directors seemed receptive, and then disaster struck One of the new Board members—Mickey Watanabe—pushed back his chair near me to get a better view, and it startled me so much that I tripped and fell and sat down in a waste basket." Betty made a face. "Unfortunately, it wasn't such a big waste basket and I got stuck." A collective groan went up from her audience, a large contingent of Meade staff seated around a mass of pushed-together tables at La Vie en Fuchsia.

She continued, "There I was struggling to get out, but all I managed to accomplish was to tumble over on my side. After that I could only roll around, trying to dislodge the darned thing. It seemed like forever before Horace Van Rine ran over and took my hands, and Watanabe grabbed the waste basket, and they pulled us apart." A symphony of guffaws arose from her co-workers.

"That must have been embarrassing, right in front of the whole Board," Grace from the Art Department commiserated. "I'm amazed you managed to keep going."

"It didn't bother me as much as you might think. You see, Daniel here," Betty glanced warmly at her former boss, seated next to her, "had prepared me for the possibility that I'd spazz out. He told me if it happened, to just treat it as an ice breaker. So when I looked around and saw everyone trying to keep a straight face, I told them, 'Oh, go ahead and laugh' which they definitely did. Then I had to laugh, too, and—do you know?—afterwards, I actually felt more relaxed giving the rest of my talk." Alex saw her brother give his ex-employee's hand a quick pat of support, and saw Betty look into his eyes and mouth back a silent "Thank you."

"So, apparently you were able to answer all their concerns?" asked Frank from Market Research.

"Well, I have to admit my strategy was a little cagey there." Betty lowered her voice. "Now what I'm going to tell you doesn't leave this room. From biographical information Claire sent me, I learned that one of the new Board members—Richard Ingle—is in a long-running feud with the publisher who puts out Global Kitchen magazine. Its target audience is actually smaller than ours—it's aimed at professional chefs rather than the home cook. But because it also focuses on ethnic cooking, I added it to my list of competing publications and then mentioned our projections show that—of course—Cuisine's circulation figures would leave it in the dust."

"Natch," nodded Claire approvingly.

"That was all Ingle needed to go to bat for Cuisine," Betty explained. "Obviously dreaming of seeing his rival's product crushed by a competitor, he went on a rant about how Meade needed to get this into production right away."

Claire chuckled at the memory, "Yes, Dick barely let other Directors get a word in, and at the end of the presentation, the Board voted 16-0 to approve a launch for Cuisine early next year."

"Sounds like you've been prepping Betty on some of your sneaky tricks for dealing with the Board, Mother," commented Alex appreciatively.

"Not at all, there wasn't time," replied Claire. "This one she came up with all on her own."

"Betty can have fine killer instincts when she needs to," beamed Daniel proudly. Betty beamed back and for a moment forgot everything else around her. Alex caught their exchange of looks and threw a puzzled glance at her mother, who simply shrugged.

"You're all missing the point," Claire objected. "In the end, what sold Cuisine to the Board of Directors wasn't tricks. They merely recognized that it's going to be a high quality magazine with a lot of appealing features. Anyone who knows magazines—or knows food, for that matter—can see that for themselves."

Taking her mother's words as a cue, Alex rose to her feet. "I suggest a toast, everyone. Please stand and lift your glasses." Amidst the clatter of chairs being pushed back, the entire Meade party followed orders. "To Betty Suarez, a woman who knows magazines and—as we all can testify to—knows eating. And who will never again be somebody else's assistant." Betty favored her co-workers with a self-deprecating smile, but her excitement was palpable as they raised their drinks in her direction. "To Betty!"

With all eyes on the newly elevated Editor-in-Chief, nobody noticed an elegant but chilly presence emerge from one of the secluded booths in the rear of the room and wind her way towards the front door. However, as the woman passed by their party, Claire recognized a familiar slink in her gait and turned to hail the current Commissioner of Culture of New York City, "I thought I caught a whiff of brimstone in the air. What a surprise to see you, Wilhelmina."

"Well, well, there's quite a gang of you here tonight. Enjoying happy hour, are you? Or is this a sort of Irish wake for Mode? Given the issues I've seen lately, it seems to be on its last legs."

Daniel swung around and faced his one-time nemesis. "Sorry to disappoint you, Willi, but Mode's circulation is actually holding up quite nicely. No, this is a celebration for Betty. She's just won approval to launch a new magazine of her own."

"Really?" Wilhelmina gave Betty's characteristically motley suit, now complemented by fiery red fingernails, the once-over. "Branching out into clown fashion, are you?"

Betty refused the bait. "I'm sure that would be novel and interesting, but actually my magazine has nothing to do with fashion. It's about ethnic foods and cooking.

"Do you know, I think Marc did mention to me something about your starting a food magazine. I hope it goes well, Betty. I really mean it. After all, the porkers of New York need something to read in their bathrooms like everyone else.'

"Thanks," replied Betty, "but actually it will be a nationwide launch. By the way, Madame Commissioner, what brings you to this bar tonight?"

"Oh, I'm just grabbing a drink with a colleague—and here he is now." Right on cue, Mayor Bigelow Cucci strode up behind Willi. "Our meeting was completely about business, of course." The Meade staff, if not the citizenry at large, was aware of the open secret that the Commissioner of Culture had presented her job credentials to the mayor from a horizontal position in his boudoir, and that she still updated her résumé regularly on his casting couch

"Sure—business," said Daniel. "I guess that explains why you're dressed for casual Friday," he mused, casting his eyes over her low-cut white satin brocade dress, shimmering with gold embroidery. He would have liked to land a few additional jabs, but a more serious topic now crossed his mind. "Say, Wilhelmina, I was wondering whether you can fill us in on how your sister Renée's doing? Is she back in the city, by any chance?" Betty slid closer to Daniel's side as she, too, scrutinized Willi's face, awaiting an answer.

"I did get the word that she's left Thornbush Psychiatric, but I've no idea where she went from there. We're no longer close, I'm afraid. Gee, I'd love to stay and catch up on old times, people, but I have to run along now."

"Here, I'll walk out with you," offered the mayor with a studied nonchalance, as he helped her don her coat. "Goodbye, friends. Oh, Claire, I didn't notice you before. It's a pleasure to see you again."

"Good to see you, too, Big." Claire's eyes moved to focus on a point just behind the Mayor and his business companion, "Oh, and good to see you, Mrs. Cucci."

The mayor whipped his head around, startled, then shot a puzzled glance back at the Meade matriarch, obviously trying to cover his relief at the continued nonpresence of his spouse. Claire offered a blithe apology, her eyes twinkling wickedly, "Oh dear, my mistake. So sorry." Then, as the guilty pair made their exit, "Betty, did you have more to say?"

"Yes, indeed." Betty turned to address her friends, "First, thank you for that lovely toast. Every one of you knows what you did on the proposal, on the dummy issue, or on today's presentation, and it was invaluable. I just wish Annette could have come with us, but she had an appointment with Cliff St. Paul. You all know Annette Bretonne, I think. Despite her young age she's been my strong right arm these last months, and I hope that the chance she got to work with so many of you has started her on her way to a stellar career in magazines."

Betty reached for the pea jacket on the back of her chair. "And now I have to go phone some other people who should share the good news. Beatrice and Nadie from our Caribbean and Asian branches, who we're all so fond of, sent such useful information. Then there's my brother-in-law Jamal and his associate Jackie Douglass, who lent their restaurant—The Platter in Hackensack—to be used for that feature in the dummy issue. Henry Grubstick, formerly from Accounting, crunched some numbers for me. And of course my father's the pillar of my life, and I want him to know how things went, too." A glint from the charm on her wrist drew her eye and for a trice her thoughts skipped to Gio. You were part of this from the start, she reflected. It's a shame I can't call you, too. I'll just have to remember you in my prayers. She turned to Daniel, "Okay, I'm done here." And with a quick farewell wave, Betty started toward the entrance.

"Wait, Betty! I'll be with you in a sec," called Daniel. Then, apparently feeling the need to explain, he turned back toward the assembled staff. "Um, Betty, um, Betty and I, we have some business. Some business that we still need to talk about, that is. We're going to talk about. . . magazines. Magazine business stuff, you know. Yes, well, everyone have a good evening." A pinkish tinge had bloomed on his cheeks and was spreading up towards his hairline. "I've let the house know that the drinks are on me tonight. You can . . . I'm going to . . . yes, well, you all have a good evening. See you Monday." The features of Daniel's handsome face seemed to reorder themselves foolishly into a discombobulated jumble as he took Betty's elbow and escorted her toward the door.

"Mother," Alex draped her arm around Claire's shoulder, "did I just see what I think I saw? Are Daniel and Betty headed for a business meeting like Willi's and Mayor Cucci's business meeting?"

"Alex, I don't know what you saw . . ." Claire held up her glass to examine the liquid therein more closely, then swirled it around and upended it down her throat. ". . . and supposedly, this is ginger ale I'm drinking, but I could swear that I just saw some pigs winging South for the winter."

"Well then, I'm gonna bundle up well going home tonight, because it seems the weather report is calling for Hell to freeze over."

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Emerging from an elevator into the lobby of the Meade Building, Cliff St. Paul found his attention tugged in multiple directions. Across the broad expanse of marble floor, the night guard sat behind the security desk, conversing solemnly with a stunning and stylish African American woman of about Cliff's own age. The woman, who appeared tense and disappointed, struck Cliff as familiar. However, since he couldn't place her, his eye soon drifted away wistfully through the glass doors that led to the well-lit plaza in front of the building.

Out there a few of his fellow photographers manned a straggling picket line. Had Cliff not been recently elevated to a management position at Meade, he would be among them, his handmade protest sign, like theirs, lying on the ground or propped up against a wall or lamp post as he fought off fatigue and waited for a monotonous evening to wind down. Instead, he was headed home to prepare for a weekend filled with work that fell to him precisely as the result of his former colleagues' enforced idleness. Pinched by a twinge of guilt, he reminded himself that he was not a scab but an officer of the company and that his continued plying of his trade was entirely legitimate and appropriate.

Now contemplating the busy day facing him tomorrow, he turned to engage the slender young woman who had accompanied him from the elevator. "I guess Betty is off with the whole crew, celebrating somewhere. You should be with them. Sorry I had to pull you away, but I thought it was important that we touch base tonight."

"Oh, that's all right," replied Annette with a smile. "I saw Ms. Suarez right after she got the good news, so I know everything came out well. Since I'm under age, she and her friends couldn't have gone to a bar if I'd been with them. She and I can celebrate on our own another time. Besides, frankly, that's the past and the assignment you're offering me is the future, which is what interests me more at the moment. Especially since you're paying me."

"I hope you understand that this weekend is special. You'll get a paycheck because it's for time you wouldn't normally be on the job. Mainly you'll be helping me set up equipment and props and work as my go-between to the models, but I may actually ask you to take a few test shots on your own, too. That's why I wanted a helper who really knows photography. Nevertheless, most of the time from here on out, there won't be pay involved. You'll just be working the same hours as you've always done, but reporting to me instead of Betty. Do you mind that?"

"No, I'm looking forward to it. After my work on Cuisine was finished, things frankly got dull around here. Danny Meade gripes about working the mailroom, and I was based back there mainly to keep an eye on him, but the truth is I find it as boring as he does now. It was fun when I first started my internship because it helped me to get to know people throughout the company, but now I've been there, done that. I'm much happier moving on to something where I can use my arts background again."

"And I can't tell you how pleased I am to acquire your services. Now, here's a list I've put together for you for tomorrow morning . . . "

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A stretch limousine sat idling by the curb in front of the Meade building, and inside, concealed behind tinted windows, the Deputy Commissioner of Culture was primping.

The breath mint currently dissolving in his mouth was his thirteenth. His breath had now reached the sweetest it could possibly aspire to, like hitting absolute infinity on a thermometer of mintiness, but he kept popping in the candies anyway because he found the tingle they gave his tongue reassuring. Likewise his hair, as reflected back to him in the hand mirror he kept stowed in the limo, was perfection, held in place by high-priced product so reliable that nary a tress was afforded the freedom to express itself.

Marc had a word for the effect that he sought, and tonight the image in his mirror blew that word back to him like tossed kisses: debonair. Marc St. James was the visual and olefactory epitome of debonair. Secure in the flawlessness of his exterior presentation, he now lowered his window in search of a distraction to tame his inner butterflies.

"Danny . . . . psst! Danny Meade! Is that you, all grown up?"

Danny was loitering aimlessly on the sidewalk, having only just summoned Arthur for a ride, and was feeling melancholy and adrift for reasons he could not fully explain to himself. Suddenly hearing his name invoked, he raised his eyes to the droll countenance of one of his earliest and most entertaining American friends. A broad smile dawned across his princely features, rendering them carelessly radiant. Marc, the target of this sudden illumination, who had known the Meade heir as an appealing little kid, now found himself dazzled by the boy's post-pubescent beauty. "It's Marc St. James. Willi Slater and I bought you your first dinner in New York. Remember?"

"Marc, what are you doing here?"

"Waiting for a friend. Do you know Cliff St. Paul?"

A cloud passed over Danny's hitherto sunny countenance. "Yes, I know Cliff. Is he meeting you here?"

"He said he would. You haven't you seen him, have you?"

"Not recently, but I think he's busy right now with someone I know."

A small spasm of jealousy gripped Marc. "Someone you know? A model, perhaps?"

"No, another photographer, I guess you could say."

Marc couldn't suppress an impulse to ask, "Would you mind telling me, is this photographer attractive?"

Unexpectedly, Danny found himself so flummoxed by the question that he failed to wonder about the motive behind it. Falling back on what was by now his accustomed criterion for assessing the individual under discussion, he responded, "Well, she wears braces."

Why was Marc suddenly all smiles? "She? You said, she . . .?"

"Wears braces, yes. But, you know, they're not so bad. Other than that, her smile is kind of . . ."

"Her!" declared Marc with satisfaction.

". . . cute."

"Cute?"

"Well, if you like that sort of thing. In a girl, I mean."

"Oh," said Marc. Then, "Well, I don't." Danny was staring at him quite oddly now, evidently confused. "I don't like girls, I mean. That is, I like them fine but I don't find them cute." At this point, it occurred to Marc that—while Danny was obvious jailbait and he himself was no pervert—the lad did hold promise for attaining studmuffin status in the years to come. Curious, he followed up: "Do you find girls cute, Danny?"

Now the son of Daniel Meade, horndog extraordinaire, was looking at him as though he were insane. Marc sighed. "That's okay. I can see that you play for the other team. Like your Dad—he was all over the other team. I was just wondering whether you might be interested in joining mine sometime."

"Your team?" A light went on behind Danny's eyes. "I see, you're talking about being gay. Sorry, I can't sign up for that one." Marc noticed Danny's gaze had fallen for a second on his left cheek, then darted away. "Are you here for a date with Cliff, then?" asked the boy.

"Not exact . . ." Marc halted, for Danny was stealing another look at the left side of his face. What was the matter? He started to raise his hand to his cheek, but now glimpsed Cliff, heading out of the building, and not alone. "Oh good, here he comes—but he seems to have acquired a pet monkey."

Danny spun, spotted Cliff and his companion, then spun back to fire a look of naked hostility in Marc's direction. "You know what, I used to be the only Meade who liked you," he snapped. And with that he sped away, calling, "Annette, hey, wait up!"

What happened? Marc asked himself. I guess he means there are no Meades now that like me? The corners of Marc's mouth slid down. Or maybe he means now there are two! This cheered him momentarily, until he recalled Danny's preoccupation with his face. Pressing the button to raise his window and stealing a surreptitious peek in the hand mirror, Marc spied with dismay an angry red pimple.

Immediately he heard tapping on the window. Despite the tinted glass, Cliff had somehow ferreted out his presence and stood waiting by the car to gain entrance. Marc put away the mirror and opened the door.

"How did you know I was in here?" he asked his former lover.

"Gee, it was the only stretch limo in the vicinity. So just a lucky guess, I suppose."

"Well, hop in, why don't you? I was hoping we could talk." As the photographer hefted himself into the car, Marc could not help noting that his clothes were as slovenly as ever. And yet his heart ached to touch and be touched by this man. How could that be?

"Marc, I just want to say I appreciate your sending Sancho back to me."

"Think nothing of it. Every boy needs his teddy bear."

"He's not a bear, he's . . . oh, never mind. Just thank you. You can be very thoughtful sometimes, you know. Those are the times I miss you."

"Miss me enough to maybe give me another chance?"

"Do you miss me enough to stop being the Deputy Commissioner of Culture?"

"You don't like my job?"

"I don't like your boss."

Marc looked down at his impeccably manicured fingernails. "Just because she's my boss doesn't mean she owns me. But when you're Deputy Commissioner of Culture, it's pretty hard to dump the Commissioner of Culture. She pretty much comes with the territory. Besides we're a talented team, you know, an asset to the city."

Cliff shrugged, "Okay, I've followed your latest career and I have to confess you've turned out to be good at your job. In fact, I even have to confess Willi's good at hers."

"We are good. New York's had a 22 percent increase in culture since we took over."

A chuckle escaped Marc's rotund visitor. "Damn, you could always make me laugh."

"I live to amuse. That's what you should remember about me. Just because I've let Willi lead me astray with a few pranks from time to time doesn't mean I'm evil."

"I've never thought you were evil, Marc. I do take more seriously than you some of the harm your boss has done, including things you've had a role in. But our problems amounted to more than that. It's not just that you're loyal to Willi. It's that she always comes first. As long as that's the case, your romances will never be more than flings, and I'm past needing another fling in my life." Cliff reached up a hand to grip Marc's chin and bring him face to face. But Marc was holding his head rigid and wouldn't budge.

Disappointed, Cliff nevertheless soldiered on. "I'll tell you what. Let's have an experiment. Thursday is Thanksgiving. Spend it with me, just the two of us."

Although Marc remained in profile, his eyes slid to the side, attempting to meet Cliff's. "I'd like that, sweetheart. I'll even volunteer for turkey duty."

Cliff brightened. "Wonderful! You'll make a great turkey, because you're so scrumptious I could just gobble you up."

"Oh, Cliffy, how I miss your corny flirting. There's just one thing, though. It can't be the whole day."

Cliff slouched in his seat, disappointed. "Uh-oh, here it comes."

"Well, if it just weren't a holiday. But you know, those can be hard on lonely people."

"Tell me about it."

"And Wilhelmina's got a man in her life, but he can't be with her on that day this year. . . ."

"Or any year. For God's sake, Marc, do you two honestly think people don't know she's boinking the mayor? She's a big girl. Being with a married man—that's a decision she made for herself. It needn't affect you unless you let it. Look here, this is make-or-break time as far as I'm concerned." Now Cliff leaned forward and attempted to position himself face-to-face with the object of his affections. Damn it, Marc could at least look at him! But Marc turned his head away. Cliff pulled back in disgust. "Okay, I guess I have my answer."

Marc bowed his chin and looked miserable. "Why can't you cut me some slack?"

"Because this is too important."

"I still love you. I don't know what more I can say." Finally, choking on tears, Cliff's beloved twisted around and stared him straight in the eye.

When Cliff saw what he had been hiding, he shook his head. "I'm fighting for our relationship and you're fighting to hide a pimple?"

"I'm fighting for our relationship, too, Cliff. And fighting to hide a pimple. Life is more complicated than you realize sometimes. That doesn't mean I can't prioritize. All right, I'll do as you ask. Willi's on her own Thursday."

Stroking Cliff's plump cheek tenderly, Marc leaned in for a kiss. But suddenly Cliff became aware that his companion had frozen in mid-gesture and was staring with horror through the window. Following Marc's gaze, Cliff was bewildered. All he saw were the weary photographers on their picket line, Annette and Danny deep in conversation off to the side, and the African-American woman he had recently observed at the security guard's station, now sauntering down the front steps looking sullen. "What is it, Marc?" he asked. "What's wrong? What are you seeing?"

"My worst sin ever, coming back to haunt me."

"You're talking about a sin here? Not a boo-boo, not an oopsy—a sin? That's not like you."

"Now that I think about it, maybe I was wrong. Maybe I am evil, after all. You'd probably do better to stay away."

"Wow, okay, I'm going to go and let you think about things, why don't I? But, Marc, I'll call you later."

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"Annette, hey, wait up!"

Hearing her name, Annette glanced up, saw Danny approaching, offered him a brief wave and went back to perusing the list Cliff had just given her.

Irritated at not having garnered her full attention, the boy drew up beside her and peeked at the list. "What's that?"

Annette met his query with dancing eyes. "Mr. St. Paul's giving me a job this weekend, a paying job. On top of all his work as Creative Director, he has to shoot a lot of the principal photography for this month's Mode. Because of the strike, you know. So he wants me to come along as his assistant, and I'm going to be able to earn cash for my Christmas fund, to boot."

Danny brightened. "That's great! He was down looking for you in the mailroom earlier, and I was worried he was getting you reassigned to him during your regular hours."

"Actually, that's happening, too, but why are you worried? You won't get stuck with all the mail yourself. I'm sure Ms Suarez will send someone else to help you. Hey, perhaps she'll put Elise there! You'd like that, wouldn't you? I don't think she's done that rotation yet."

"You sound pretty happy about it," he sounded resentful.

"Of course I'm happy. Working for Mode's Creative Director is going to open the door to all kinds of interesting assignments. Danny, please don't be jealous. I know you hate the mailroom, but your time there can't last that much longer. Christmas is only a few weeks away, and we don't have to work over the holidays. And then a new set of interns will be brought in after New Year's, and I'm sure mail duties will revolve to a couple of them."

"I'm sorry. Congratulations, I mean. Anyway, it's not the mail. It's just that . . ." he trailed off.

The girl raised her eyebrows inquisitively. "What?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to talk to you about something, but never mind."

Danny seeking her out for conversation—that was a new development. Annette was at a loss for words and so searched for another topic. "Did you hear Ms Suarez got a unanimous vote from the Board to go ahead with her magazine?"

"Yeah, actually that's partly what I wanted to talk about. Oh, here's Arthur." The Meade family limo was pulling up to the curb just in front of Marc's. "We could continue our conversation if we gave you a ride home. Why don't you let us?"

"All the way to Astoria? You've got to be kidding."

"No. We could do that."

"Well, it's really nice of you to offer, Danny, but me coming home in a limo would have my Mom sending up all kinds of worry signals. And if she knew there was a rich boy with me, she'd be twice as anxious."

"Would it help if I came in and met her?"

"So she could see the rich boy was also good-looking? Wow, now we're hitting a perfect trifecta on the parental freak-out meter."

A smug smile escaped the Meade scion. "You think I'm good-looking, do you?"

"Of course I think you're good-looking. Everybody does. You know that. And by the way, you think so, too, so don't be giving me some false modesty garbage." This was exasperating, she thought. Did he think she was trying to flirt with him, for pete's sake?

A couple of impatient honks sounded from the limo, but Danny ignored them. "Sorry, you're right. I'm full of crap. I won't mention it again. But just wait a minute, okay?"

The chauffeur was out of the car now. "Danny, I'm on call to pick up your father soon. We've got to get moving."

"Never mind, Arthur, I'll take the subway instead. You can go on without me."

Annette felt near to fainting in amazement. What was up with Danny? What did he want from her? Something must be really wrong. "Are you thinking I need you to look out for me again, like the other evening? Because I'm fine. Why don't you ride along with your driver when he gets your Dad, and that would save him a trip? Plus you could spend time with your father."

"That's just it. My father won't be alone." He turned and waved Arthur off: "It's okay, you can run along." Turning back to Annette, he continued. "Dad called me earlier after the Board met to let me know what they decided, and then he asked me to spend the night at my grandmother's apartment. He does that sometimes and it always means one thing. He's entertaining at home, if you catch my drift." Worry lines creased his brow.

"So your Dad has a date? But doesn't he date a lot? Why do you need to talk to me about it?"

"Because this time he said he's bringing Betty home. I mean, he said it's for a celebration dinner, but . . ."

"You're thinking something more might happen."

Danny nodded.

"But weren't you saying the other day that you wanted them to get together? This could be just what you've been hoping for."

"I don't think I like hoping. Hoping can be dangerous. Come on, we'd better head for the subway."

Annette fell in beside him and patted his arm sympathetically. It seemed that she was going to have a new role in Danny's life—confidante. So apparently they were really friends now. Friends—good—she was comfortable with that.

"You know, maybe your Dad and Ms. Suarez really just want to have dinner and share this moment of victory. It could be as simple as that."

"Perhaps, but what if he makes a move on her? I'm afraid that he's going to get hurt. Or he's going to hurt her. Annette, what if he blows it? He could ruin everything."

"Look, whatever happens, even if they have an awkward moment, they're really close friends and they care about each other. Maybe they're going to be something more than friends, maybe not. But I can't believe that they'd throw away what's already between them. And, together or not, you'll still have both of them in your life. I'm sure of that." Annette gave an ironic little chuckle. "Did it ever occur to you that what you're feeling now is kind of like what parents feel watching their kids grow up and have love lives of their own?"

Danny stopped walking and stared at her. "Oh my god, you could be right. My poor father. I am so going to be a better son from now on."

She laughed. "Then my work here is done."

Her companion laughed, too, and slipping his arm around her shoulder, gave it a quick squeeze. "Maybe, maybe not."