Eye Candy: Chapter Eighteen

(Missed some? Read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17.)

Q: When can an ant not be an ant?
A: When it's an uncle.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #120

"You may not quit."

Ferrero threw up his arms and marched into my apartment without preamble.

"Won't you come in," I offered to his back.

He whirled around on me as I closed the door. "A muse," he boomed, "cannot quit being a muse."

I sighed. Clearly Kelly had no sense of the sisterhood's bonds of silence. She probably called six people before she even left my building. And, though I doubted she called Ferrero herself, someone—with hip-length platinum hair and a heavy hand with the eyeliner—had shared the news with him.

He looked tired.

Fashion week was always stressful for him, and I had heard there were problems with suppliers and an embargo on a tiny Eastern European country that exported handmade glass beads. Top it off with the news that I was quitting and no wonder he appeared on my doorstep looking haggard and ordering me not to quit.

"I'm no—"

"Once a muse commits to being a muse," he continued, pacing nervously on my living room rug, "she must be a muse until the artist is no longer inspired by her."

"But I'm no—"

"It is an unwritten agreement. A verbal contract." Stopping in the center of the rug, Ferrero faced me with a determined set to his jaw. "I could sue you."

"Franco!" I shouted, finally getting his attention. "I'm not resigning as muse. Only as sales executive. I'll be your muse as long as you want me."

He was struck frozen for the space of two seconds before his lips spread into a beaming, cosmetically-whitened smile.

A yip from the direction of my bedroom drew my attention to Fiona standing in the doorway. From the scowl on her face I knew she had heard everything—and wondered why she hadn't heard this from me first.

Straightening her spine, she pasted on her own brilliant smile and strode into the room like she owned the place.

"I don't think we've met." She extended a hand to Ferrero. "I'm Fiona, a friend of Lydia's."

Oh yeah, that should clear things up, since Ferrero still didn't know my name. Still, he took her hand, lifting it to press a gentlemanly kiss on her knuckles.

"Miss Vanderwalk is an inspiration. And you," he said, lowering but not releasing her hand, "are a vision."

Fiona smiled politely, but lacking genuine warmth. She was well-versed with the social platitudes of the world of fashion. It was often her job to smooth the feathers of designer and model alike at a show-gone-bad.

"Thank you, Ferrero," she replied, and when he began to correct her she added, "Franco. You are very kind to say so."

Even though I had told her of Ferrero's Jersey "outing" she knew we stilled played the game. Frankie Ferris would stay buried in the annals of the high school yearbook.

Ferrero, adequately bolstered, turned his attention back on me. From the look on his face—one of bleak desperation and abject determination—I had a feeling he was not satisfied with my concession.

Fiona, ever one to read situations with startling clarity, stepped forward. "Actually, I was just about to leave. Lydia," she said, turning to face me and screwing her face into an apologetic-but-leaving-you-anyway look, "I think you have your packing under control."

She said her goodbye to Ferrero—presumably not giving him a similar look—and make quick on her exit out the door.

Leaving me alone with a fuming Ferrero and a whining Dyllie. Unfortunately, Ferrero blocked my path to the bedroom so I had to hope that whatever she needed could wait. And that whatever she needed wouldn't end up as a stain on my bedroom rug.

"Miss Vanderwalk," he began, hands planted on hips and staring me down like a gunfighter, "I will not accept your resignation in any form."

"But I—"

When I started to protest his face softened and he looked more like a concerned father than a fuming boss.

"If you are not happy with the sales position then perhaps we can find something more..." He twirled his index fingers in the air, as if trying to swirl up the right word like he might swirl cotton candy onto a cone. Finally he found the word he was looking for. "...creative."

"But really I—"

"Stop." He quieted me with a wave of his hand. "Do not answer in haste. Think about this offer. You may give me your answer when we return from Milan."

He was serious. And right. No one should dismiss a career opportunity without ample consideration.

"Alright," I agreed. "After Milan."

"Good." Ferrero nodded in approval. Glancing briefly over his shoulder, he smiled broadly and came forward to shake my hand. "And, since it appears your little angel needs to be relieved, I will take my leave."

I peered around him to find Dyllie doing the potty dance, whimpering and tapping her little toenails on the wooden floor of the hall like rapid-fire Pop Rocks. Based on previous calculations, I figured I had about ninety seconds to get her outside before she decided that the chofa seat was as good a spot as any.

"I'll see you out," I threw at Ferrero as I ran to the front door and grabbed the leash. Dyllie dashed for the door, pausing only to wait for the click of the lobster clasp snapping onto her collar.

For a little dog, she sure had a heck-of-a-lotta power in those tiny legs. If the floors of the main hallway hadn't been tile, she probably could have pulled me all the way to the elevator.

As it was, Ferrero and I made our way accompanied by the sliding clicks of doggie toenails and desperate whimpering. The elevator arrived promptly and within moments we were crossing the lobby and onto the sidewalk, searching out the nearest patch of dirt.

Ferrero signaled his driver who immediately emerged from the limo and opened the rear door. Before lowering into the seat, Ferrero called my name. "Lydia," he said when he had my attention, using my first name for the first time, "you are an inspiration to the entire company. I will make whatever concessions I must to keep you. But, if you decide to leave I will help you in any way I can. Sometimes influence is the only thing separating success from failure."

His white head ducked into the car before I could respond.

I stood there, on the sidewalk of 76th Street, long after the limo pulled away and Dyllie began tugging on her leash to go back inside. I wasn't a fool, I knew what Ferrero had just done. By taking away the disadvantages of either option, he had just forced me to make an actual decision.

For good or bad, I had to choose which path I wanted to take. And, as I let Dyllie lead me back through the lobby, I knew that was not going to be an easy decision to make.

Did I really want to start my own jewelry line?

Or did I want to stay on at Ferrero in a more creative capacity?

Dyllie looked up sympathetically when I sighed.

"Well," I asked her, "what would you do?"

Just like a dog. She stuck out her tongue and looked away.

---

When the buzzing sounded at six a.m. on Friday morning I picked up the phone and groggily told whoever was calling, "I'm packed, really. Just about to get up."

Silence was my first clue. The continued buzzing—coming from the area around the front door—was the second.

"Good&Plenty," I muttered as I stumbled out of bed and hurried to the front door. Pressing the intercom button, I asked, "Hello?"

"Helloooo!!!" Two cheerful voices screeched through the speaker, jolting me out of whatever sleep haze remained.

I jabbed at the door release button, letting Fiona and Bethany in against my better judgment. They sounded much too cheerful for so early in the morning. If I didn't know they both had work today, I'd think they hadn't gone to bed at all last night.

They showed up at my door, laden with shopping bags and Fiona's suitcase-sized make-up case.

"Buongiorno!" Bethany squealed, dropping her shopping bags and flinging her arms around my neck. "Are you ready?"

"For what?" I asked around her tight embrace.

"Italy, silly," Fiona answered. She set her case down on the kitchen counter before adding herself to the hug.

"Yeth. All packed." It was a little difficult to speak through Fiona's fuchsia feather boa.

"Not quite." Bethany eased away, grabbing the shopping bags and holding them into view. "We brought some last-minute extras."

Each girl took me by an arm and led me to the couch, pushing me down until I sat. They moved in front of me, Fiona holding the shopping bags as Bethany prepared to display everything inside.

Under Where was not where I usually shopped for lingerie. I was more of a simple Victoria's Secret girl. Give me a pair of cotton bikinis and a full-coverage bra any day.

The first thing Bethany pulled from the bag looked more like a Barbie dress than underwear for a grown woman. Tiny and turquoise with gold accents; there was no way that was designed to fit an adult.

"La Perla," Bethany announced, tossing the scrap into my lap.

"The very best," Fiona added, eyeing the bit of lace with undisguised envy.

I inspected the g-string thong, shocked to find a tag identifying it as an adult small. The thing barely fit across my hips, let along cover— "Oh no," I announced, "there is no way I'm wearing this. Ever."

Fiona frowned, clearly disappointed.

Bethany, however, looked determined. Digging into the bag again, she pulled out a matching bra. She flung the coordinating scrap at me, admonishing, "Just try it on."

Looking from one friend to the other, I read their unrelenting determination. Reluctantly, I headed for the privacy of my bedroom, chased by the promise that I would like it once I tried it on.

Stepping out of the candy-hearts flannels, I turned the thong around every which way until I finally found what must be the right orientation. As I pulled the undies up into place, I was shocked to realize I didn't feel a thing. No uncomfortable wedgie sensation I'd read about in magazines. I could hardly feel the satin and lace that barely covered parts I'd always left under a solid layer of cotton.

Intrigued, I quickly slipped my arms through the bra straps and reached back to maneuver the hooks into place. Again, it was like I wasn't wearing anything. The straps lay softly against my shoulders without cutting and the lacy cups provided support without the chaste appearance of full-coverage.

Only one test left to pass.

Eyes closed, I crossed to the full length mirror hanging on the back of my closet door, managing to avoid the dresser and the bed without incident. When I felt sure I stood directly in front of my reflection, I opened my eyes and ... marveled.

My first thought was that I looked like an underwear model. Without the ample chest, of course. The color and texture against my bare flesh—an awful lot of bare flesh, to be sure—made my fair skin look as smooth as cream. Rather than simply covered, supported, and protected my body looked—dare I say it—sexy.

Lifting my gaze to smile at myself in the mirror, I noticed that the colors made my eyes glow. I always knew that my hazel eyes changed depending on what I wore, but this was extreme. The three tiny patches of lace turned my plain eyes brilliant turquoise. And the gold accents brought out the golden flecks in the centers.

Nothing could deflate my grin.

"Come on, Lyd," Fiona called from the living room, "what's the verdict?"

I was not about to walk out into the living room virtually naked—even if these were my two best girlfriends out there. Quickly changing back into the jammies, I carefully folded the lingerie and placed it on the bed to be packed.

My grin still intact as I emerged, Fiona and Bethany smiled knowingly at each other.

Bethany stood and handed me the rest of the shopping bags. "Now you know Victoria's secret."

Knowing that you and only you know what goodies lie beneath the business suit or the ball gown. Knowing every guy would be panting at your feet if he only knew. That was the secret.

Bethany was right; now I knew.

"Have I told you guys how much I love you?"

Neither answered, but I found myself at the center of another group hug.

"Okay," Fiona said, her voice sounding suspiciously sniffy, "are you ready for The Extras, Part Two?"

Eyeing the make-up case warily, I had a pretty good idea what they had in mind. An image of Fi's lime green glitter eye shadow popped to mind, but I shoved it aside. Though they might each be outrageous in their own way, there weren't two people I trusted more.

"Do your worst."

Something reminiscent of absolute power glinted in Fiona's eyes. Hoping I hadn't just handed myself over to be Picasso's next project, I let them lead me to a stool at the breakfast bar.

"Just remember, I have to get on a plane with my bosses and my enemies in a few hours."

"Don't worry, you'll put them all to shame," Bethany assured. "He'll be at your feet."

I frowned. Gavin and Elliot would both be on that plane. "Which one?"

Bethany smiled. "Which one do you want?"

Saved from giving Bethany an answer by Fiona's order to close my eyes, I knew I would soon have to answer that question for myself.

---

"Where are you, Mom?"

The connection to her cell phone crackled and hissed before I finally heard, "Off the coast of South Carolina, dear."

"Wow, you've gotten far in four days." It was hard to picture my parents—especially Mom—roughing it on the high seas. I was glad they had chosen to stay close to land, following the east coast of the United States to the Key West before heading across open ocean to the Caribbean.

"What dear?" she shouted. "I can barely hear you. Hold on, let me plug in the antenna." There were a few moments of silences and the sounds of metal clanking against plastic before she spoke again. "There. Is that better?"

"Sounds fine to me. How is everything on the ship?"

A few moments of silence that could have been satellite delay, but sounded more like hesitation.

"It's not a ship, dear. It's a boat," she finally responded, avoiding my question.

"Fine," I amended. "How is everything on the boat?"

"Fine." Her voice was low and tight. "Everything is just fine."

It sounded like everything was anything but fine. But Mom had a tendency to keep her problems to herself. If she were ready to talk about it, then she would tell me.

"How's the deck hand working out?" I asked. I had been a little surprised and a lot relieved to find out they intended to hire experienced help for the voyage.

Not that I know the first thing about sailing, but I had a feeling there were a lot of things to do and a lot of things that could go wrong. Better they had someone to make sure that didn't happen.

I thought I heard a short growl.

"She's fine, too," Mom bit out a little too sharply for me to believe her. "I'm fine. Your father's fine. The bloody boat is fine. Fine and dandy."

Wow. That sounded like anything but fine.

I was about to probe deeper when I heard a female voice say something in the background about Charleston and deploying fenders. That must have been the deck hand. She sounded competent.

"I have to go, dear. We're docking."

"Alright, I'll call you when I get to Ita—"

The phone clicked and I was talking to dial tone.

For several long moments I just stared at the receiver, uncomprehending. My mom had just hung up on me. Again.

Clearly, everything was not fine.

---

"Miss Vanderwalk," Howard announced over the intercom, "the limo is here to take you to the airport."

A shiver of excitement tickled up and down my spine. The same shiver I got every time I traveled, but this time it was much, much stronger. Like an iceberg parked itself on my back. There were so many things this trip signified. The start of a new career—whichever one I ended up choosing. Maybe the start of a new relationship—or the renewal of an old one. And in some ways, the start of a whole new me.

"Wow," I breathed to no one but myself.

Bethany had taken Dyllie with her when she left this morning, graciously volunteering to dog-sit for the duration of the trip. Both girls had left me with identical orders to enjoy myself in Italy.

And I didn't think they meant with my sketchpad.

Handle of my Tumi rolling Pullman in hand, I turned and surveyed my apartment one last time. Everything was neat, clean, and put away. Sterile came to mind. Mom always made sure we cleaned before going on a trip so the house would be nothing but welcoming when we returned. Somehow, that had become a mainstay in my life—that everything be sterile so I would never had to face a mess.

Well that had worked out just swell. It seemed like everywhere I turned in my life I faced a mess on top of a mess. Since everything else in my life was changing, this might as well change too.

Marching into the kitchen, I grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it with pineapple Fanta, took a single sip and dumped the rest right down the drain. As I set the dirty glass in the sink I smiled.

My life was changing; starting on the inside.

I said goodbye to my apartment—mess and all—from the front door. With a whoosh of the door and a click of the lock I bid farewell to neat and plain Lydia. The woman with a mess in her sink and an MTV-worthy wardrobe in her suitcase was taking over. And about damn time.

But as I waited for the elevator, I looked longingly at the black metal door with gold-toned numbers and matching peephole. All I could picture was that dirty glass and all the ants and roaches it would attract during the next few days.

By the time the elevator finally arrived I had added rats and feral cats to the image. Maybe a girl can't change all her stripes in one day.

My heart pounded and I knew I couldn't do this. Mental Post-It: send Danielle an email about the glass.

Decision made, my pulse calmed down to near normal as I crossed the lobby and emerged into the city night. While Howard and the driver struggled over who would load my suitcase in the trunk, I absorbed the magic of New York at night.

Other parts of town might be crazy with seas of people going clubbing, eating out, or just trying to get somewhere else, but my neighborhood saw only a few couples and families out for an evening stroll. A taxi cab dropped off an elegant looking woman clad in fur and heels across the street. My imagination pictured her knocking on her sweetheart's door, unwrapping her fur to reveal nothing but lingerie and stockings underneath when he answered.

A commotion from the limo drew my attention. The sound of raised voices and the shattering of fine crystal.

Trying to ignore whatever was going on I turned to the driver. "Do you have many more to pick up?"

"No, ma'am," he answered in a heavy Brooklyn accent, "you're the last."

Taking advantage of the driver's distraction, Howard jerked my suitcase out of his gloved hands and carefully set it in the trunk. "There you go, Miss Vanderwalk." He threw the driver a scowl, as if he had been planning on personally destroying my luggage. "All set and ready to go."

"Thank you, Howard. Have a good week."

The driver took my hand and lowered me into the back seat of the limo. Into the fashion world version of Animal House.

Looking Back at 2010

Inspired by Jen Lynn Barnes's 2010 in Review post, I think I'll try to do the same. I didn't keep track of my reading this year (though it was woefully little) but I'll do my best to sum up the writing and travel categorie.

Writing

This year I revised Fins Are Forever (the sequel to Forgive My Fins) and went through copyedits and page proofs. I wrote and edited the (secretly-titled) first Medusa girls book. Copyedits for that book are due January 6th so that counts for next year.

My third book, Forgive My Fins, came out in hardcover and Goddess Boot Camp came out in paperback. Forgive My Fins has sold to a number of foreign countries, including Scandinavia, Germany, the UK, Hungary, and Indonesia.

I participated in NaNoWriMo for the first time and completed the (extraordinarily rough) first draft of Left Behind. I will tackled revising this in the new year sometime. Maybe.

I worked on several Secret Projects this year. I wrote proposals for Secret Projects IW and RH (which both got shelved for now) and Secret Project LBM (which my agent loves and is sending out after the holidays). I also wrote (and submitted) a Secret Project that I don't remember mentioning (it would be Secret Project GDC) but I'm regrouping on that in January.

With the always adorable Rosemary Clement-Moore at the RITAs.

I attended the TLA conference in San Antonio (Oh. My. Gods. was on the TAYSHAS reading list) and the RWA conference in Orlando (I got to present the RITA award for Best First Book).

Travel

This was the year of my big fabulous trip. On the first of March I left Oklahoma city for New York with nothing but a small, carry-on-sized suitcase, for a seven week trip around the continent. From New York I took the train to visit family in New Jersey and then up to Montreal, then to Quebec City (where I took a side trip to the Ice Hotel), Toronto, and then onto the Canadian across to Vancouver.

Cherry blossoms in a rainy Vancouver park.

I took the bus back into the states to visit good friends in Seattle and immediately decided to move there. (I haven't gotten there yet, but it's on the plan for the coming year.) Then I continued on by train to San Francisco for a week researching the Medusa girls books, which are set there.

Then I rounded out the trip with a flight to Houston to hang with friends and headed over to San Antonio for the TLA conference.

As usual, I spent the summer in Las Vegas with my parents (who are there every summer) and only took a break from the dry Vegas heat to visit the wet Orlando heat for the RWA conference.

Hugs,
TLC

What I Learned From NaNoWriMo

It's been almost three weeks since I survived finished my first year as an official NaNoWriMo participant. That's enough time to be able to look back on the experience objectively and draw a few conclusions, about the process and about myself.

1. Consistency is overrated. Even though I know it would have been much easier to just write the 1,667 words every day than to have to make up 20,000 in the last four days, my brain refuses to take the easy route. And you know what? I still made the 50,000 word goal. The only things that matter are the goal and the deadline. How you choose to get there is your business.
2. Shifting genres has a learning curve. My NaNoWriMo book, Left Behind, is an emotional contemporary story, a far cry from the fun, romantic, adventurous fantasies I usually write. Storytelling methods I'd learned writing my previous books did not apply and the end result was one of the roughest first drafts I've ever written. But that just means I'll have to dig in harder on the rewrite.
3. Encouragement is empowering. Every time I felt overwhelmed or doubtful that I could make it through the month, I put out a cry on Twitter and Facebook. And every time my friends and fans and followers came back with cheers and encouragement. I honestly don't think I would have made it through without that support.

I don't know yet if I'll be able to participate again next year—it will depend on contract deadlines—but I'd like to think I'll be better prepared after this year's nightmare success.

Hugs,
TLC

A Thalassinian Christmas

Merry Christmas! As promised, here is a (very) short story of a Thalassinian Christmas. I hope you have a wonderful, peaceful day.

Hugs,
TLC

---

‘Twas the night before Christmas
and all through Thalassinia
not a creature was stirring
not even a stenopodidea

Lily smiled as the words of her father’s annual storytelling echoed through her mind. At fourteen maybe she was too old to enjoy listening to her father, the great and mighty King Whelk of Thalassinia, read bedtimes stories to the mer children of the kingdom. But she loved seeing the smiles on all the guppy faces of the mer boys and girls.

And, if she was being completely honest, she loved hearing the tale of Santa Claus getting into his sea-reindeer-drawn sleigh for his trip through the oceans of the world.

She hoped she never grew out of it.

As she stared out her bedroom window, the twinkling bioluminescent Christmas lights decorating the homes and businesses of her kingdom spread out before her like a great sea of glitter. On this one night of the year, the people of her kingdom turned off all interior lights so the Christmas lights would shine brighter in the contrast.

It was as close to seeing the stars as you could get at the bottom of the ocean.

Lily turned away from the window and closed her eyes. She could picture the real stars, the ones that swam over her aunt's house in Seaview. On the mainland. She had been living with her aunt for the past few months, had made a new human friend named Shannen, and had fallen head over fins for a human boy who swam like a shark.

Down here, under the water, that world on land felt an ocean away. Back home for the first time she since she decided to go live with her Aunt Rachel, since she learned that her mother was an ordinary human and not a mermaid princess, it was like the past few months washed away and there was only Thalassinia.

Lily sank into her bed and thought back to her memories of the day. She had arrived home early this morning, excited to be spending Christmas Eve with her father. She had known, too, that Dosinia came with the package. Lily loved her cousin, but the girl could try the patience of ... well, anyone. Even Aunt Rachel.

The rest of her family had been there, too. Uncle Portunus and Aunt Bells and their sons Kitt and Nevis. The palace staff was like her extended family and the guards, Cid and Barney, and housekeeper Margarite had joined them for the feast in the royal dining hall.

Lily had devoured the offerings of course-after-course of holiday-themed sushi.

A sound jerked Lily from her memories. A scraping noise across the roof above her head.

"Oh Daddy," Lily cried, a smile beaming across her face.

She had wondered if this year he would forget. Or decide she was too old for the tradition. Even though she was long past the age of believing in Santa Claus, she still believed in the magic of Christmas. And that magic always meant Daddy on the roof.

Without hesitation she swam out her window and, keeping close to the wall, kicked up toward the starfish- and anemone-covered roof of her tower.

She peeked over the edge of the roof. There, in an ornate curving sleigh that had once belonged to his grandfather, sat her father in a head to toe Santa costume. He had the shiny black boots, the white-trimmed red suit, and the big fluffy white beard. Perched on top, at a precarious angle, was a red and white Santa hat.

A pair of white seahorse stallions with undulating white manes pulled at the harness. Not quite sea-reindeer, but close enough.

The king’s secretary, Mangrove, sat next to him.

“But Your Highness,” he was saying, his voice full of concern, “I really think you ought to let me carry the—“

“I’ve got it!” King Whelk bellowed. With a powerful tug, pulled the giant brown sack of presents from the back of the sleigh.

Mangrove reached for the bag at the same time, and the momentum knocked him out of the sleigh.

Lily couldn’t stifle the giggle.

“Lily?” Her father spun away from the sleigh, searching the roofline for the source of the laugh.

“Oh Daddy,” she said, kicking up over the edge and swimming to his side. “You really didn’t have to, you know.” She nodded to the bag of presents. “I have everything I need.”

Not to mention she couldn’t exactly take mer fashions or pricey pearls back to the mainland.

“I know,” he answered. “But I can’t help wanting to spoil my only child.”

Lily smiled, knowing how lucky she was to have such a caring and generous father. And the thought led her to think about those less fortunate that she was.

“You know…” she said, throwing a hopeful look at the collection of packages. “I can think of one place where these might do a world of good.”

Two hours later, Lily stood with her father at the base of her tower. Mangrove had gone home exhausted after delivering the sack full of presents to the Thalassinian Orphanage. They had left the packages on the back steps, with all gift tags and royal seals removed. Tonight they were anonymous Santas. Lily could just imagine the looks of pure joy and surprise on the children’s faces when they came downstairs the next morning.

“You did a wonderful thing tonight, daughter,” the king said.

She hugged her arms around his neck. “I have so much,” she said, “it only seemed fair to share.”

Her father pulled back and reached into the pocket of his jacket. “I saved one present that is only for you.”

Lily took the small clamshell package. As she pried open the two halves she saw the glint of gold sparkling on the soft fabric inside. She pulled out the fine gold chain and a plain gold ring hung down like a pendant.

She must have looked confused, because her father explained. “It was your mother’s.”

Somehow she had already known. She felt her mother.

“Thank you,” Lily whispered. Her father took the necklace and she spun around to let him hang it around her neck. As the heavy gold band sank against her collarbone, she knew that there could be no more precious gift than this one. She could not imagine a more perfect Thalassinian Christmas.

Eye Candy: Chapter Seventeen

(Missed some? Read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16.)

Q: Why couldn't the shoes go out and play?
A: They were all tied up.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #126

"Um," I stalled, wishing I had any plausible excuse for saying, "sure."

"Great, I'll be there in ten minutes." Kelly hung up before I could protest. Or disagree. Or agree, even.

As the dial tone buzzed in my ear I felt my head begin to drop. Mere millimeters from slamming my forehead to the table in hopes of knocking myself unconscious, or at the very least necessitating stitches—either instance would result in an undeniable reason for sending Kelly away—I caught sight of the field of fuzzy pastel hearts covering my pajamas.

"Dubble Bubble damn!"

Lurching off the stool, I dashed into the bedroom to change into something moderately more presentable. I was just slipping my pantyhose-clad feet into my Ferragamos when the doorbell buzzed.

Two and a half minutes later, I opened the door, tasteful makeup hastily applied and hair twisted up into a butterfly clip to hide the fact that I couldn't find my brush.

"Wow, you look fabulous," Kelly exclaimed as she burst into my apartment like an overfilled balloon. "You'd never catch me looking so glam on a home day."

Ha, I snorted—unintentionally out loud—and earned a scowl from Kelly.

"No, really," she asserted. "It's sweats and slippers for me. Every day, if I could."

One glance at her head-to-toe designerwear and I knew this KY had never seen the pilly side of a sweatshirt. Since the day they started at Ferrero, all three KYs dressed impeccably. The only exception was the night Kathryn showed up in emotional distress, but that was a definite once-an-eon occurrence.

"Yeah, I'm sure you snuggle up in your DKNY workout suit on chilly nights." My tone came out a lot more snippier than I intended. Rather than apologize, I got to the point. "What’s so urgent?"

She looked taken aback by my abrupt change of subject. But, like any determined KY, she refused to be deterred.

"I think you have the wrong idea about me, Lydia."

What idea was that? That she was a career- and social-climbing siren set on stealing my job and my fiancé?

Whoa! That came out of nowhere.

Well, not nowhere exactly. The woman did currently have my job. In a manner of speaking. But the second part? First of all, Gavin was no longer my fiancé. In any manner. And second of all, what did I care if she stole him—not that someone can steal something that doesn't belong to you.

"I'm sorry Kelly, I'm just a little strung out at the moment."

Leading the way into the living area, I headed for the buffet cabinet and plucked the lid off the antique soup tureen that had belonged to great-great-great-great-grandma Vanderwalk. A sea of gummy bears smiled up at me.

"Gummy bear?" I offered, ladling out a handful into my palm.

"No... thank you." Kelly looked a little frightened.

As I glanced down at my fistful, I was a little frightened, too. Just to prove I was not some insane candy freak—accuracy aside—I poured half of the gummies back into the tureen. And slammed the lid back on before I could retrieve them.

For a second, I thought I heard the tiny, high-pitched screams of a hundred little voices.

Was halucination one of the signs of addiction?

I closed my eyes and tried to remember the addiction checklist from that recovery book Mom gave me last Christmas. One was denial and there was concealment. Oooh, yeah, personification was number seven.

Turning off my inner voices, I lifted the lid once more and dropped the rest of the bears back inside.

When I turned back around, Kelly was eying me like you eye the crazy person walking down the street talking to himself. A little wary and a lot concerned.

I crossed to the chofa and sat as if nothing bizarre had just happened.

Kelly snapped out of her deer-in-headlights stare and lowered herself onto the couch, perching on the edge of the cushion and clearly ready to get back to business.

"I know we never have gotten on real well." She set her briefcase on the floor and leaned forward, forcing a conversational intimacy I had no interest in sharing. "I just want to tell you that I—"

"Can we just get on with what you came for?" I cut in.

What was wrong with me? It couldn’t be just gummy bear withdrawal. And it couldn’t be about the job, because I’d already decided to quit. That only left—

No. It must be gummy withdrawal.

I was so not jealous of her relationship with Gavin.

She looked taken aback, but quickly recovered her composure. "Yes. Of course. I had a few questions about the numbers from the Bay Area campaign."

As I looked over the papers she handed to me, I realized that she had caught a couple of errors. Not significant, career-breaking errors, but errors nonetheless.

My heart broke.

Why I was so concerned about a job I had already decided to shuck anyway I don't know. Maybe it was just the failure factor. I knew that everyone makes mistakes, especially in such a high stakes, high pressure, fast-paced world. But it still bit that I had screwed up and Kelly had been the one to catch it.

Sitting up straighter in my seat, I knew I had to do the right thing.

"You're right. I miscalculated the overhead. You have a real head for this business," I said, handing the papers back to her. Hard as it was for me to form the words, I made myself add, "You should be doing my job."

And I even did it without cringing.

Her eyes brightened and for a second she looked like she might cry. "That," she gasped, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her fingers, "was the kindest thing you have ever said to me."

Now it was my turn to be taken aback. Kelly was not the sort of girl who made it through life without being praised at every turn. She was beautiful, stylish, obviously intelligent, and must be regularly swamped with compliments. She didn’t need mine on top of all that.

"Well, I'm sure—"

"No." She stopped me, refocusing her attention and pinning me with an earnest look. "Let me say this. I have not had the easiest life, and I know I don't relate very well with other women. But I've always wanted to be a fashion executive. And from the moment I came on board at Ferrero, you were my role model. I wanted to do everything as smoothly and gracefully as you. And what you just said—well, that's just the greatest thing that you could ever say."

Before I could react, she was out of her seat and next to me on the chofa. Her arms wound around me in what felt alarmingly like a hug.

"Of course, I would never ever want to take your job away from you. Then again, everyone knows you're going to be pro—"

She slapped a hand over her mouth, apparently realizing she was about to say too much. Her eyes widened comically.

"—Oh no! I wasn't supposed to say a word. Not to anyone."

She fell silent.

Funny, but an hour ago that news would have made me the happiest woman in the world. To realize that I was about to achieve the Year Six goal from the master plan. To know that I had overcome the adversity of Jawbreaker's Barnard-bias and the KYs' conniving.

But an hour can make a huge different in a person.

In an hour I had decided to quit the job I had no love for. I had learned that maybe the KYs are more than what they seem. And I had learned that maybe, just maybe, my obsession with candy was more than a harmless fascination.

How could a person's life change so quickly?

"It's okay, Kelly," I soothed, trying to calm that horrified look off her face. "It doesn't matter anyway. When we get back from Milan, I'm quitting."

"No, no, no. You can't quit. Why would you quit?"

"To finally do something I love." It sounded like the simplest answer in the world. Maybe it was. "I've never loved the business side of fashion the way you do. I want to design full-time."

Though there was a tinge of sadness in her voice, she congratulated me. "Everyone should get the chance to do something they really love." Her whole person brightened. "And I'm sure Ferrero will use your pieces in every collection. He just raves about your work."

I felt the beginnings of a blush heat my cheeks. "Yes, well, we'll see." I stood, grabbed her briefcase off the floor, and urged her to her feet. "You'd better get back to work if you want to be ready to do my job in two weeks."

She protested all the way to the door, insisting that she could at least stay to finish our chat. But I wanted to be alone with all the thoughts sloshing around in my head.

Besides, after a year of conflict, I was not quite prepared to bond with KY Kelly. Things can't change that fast.

I got her out into the hall, briefcase in hand, and was just about to shut the door when she shoved her foot in the way.

"Before I go," she panted, struggling against the weight of the door, "I just wanted to tell you that there isn't anything going on with me and Gavin. We're friends, that's all."

I scowled and pushed harder on the door. "Great. Thanks."

"The only woman he ever talks about," she added as the door closed on her flawless face, "is you."

The door clicked shut. Turning, I leaned my whole weight against it, sliding to the floor as my legs gave way.

Gavin talks about me.

As if I needed more life-altering news today.

---

"Good morning, dear."

Mom's cheerful voice was more pep than I was ready for at five o'clock on a Tuesday morning. Or any morning for that matter.

I mumbled something like mermig, hoping she would accept the slurred greeting, and tried desperately to get back into the dream where I was on a desert island with no one but a devoted cabana boy and an endless supply of Lemon Drops and coconut-scented suntan lotion.

"We're on the boat now. Your father insists we leave right at sunrise." She paused—perhaps noticing that I was not participating. She probably thought I fell back asleep. No such luck. "Lydia, dear, your father and I are setting sail in half an hour. The least you could do is wake up and tell us goodbye."

I bolted up in bed—knocking Dyllie off my chest and onto the floor with a squeak—instantly alert. In my whole life I had never heard Mom speak so sharply. To anyone, let alone me.

"I'm awake," I defended. "Of course I'm awake. You're leaving and I'm saying goodbye."

Silence.

"Mom," I ventured, "is everything okay? Are you okay?"

"Perfectly. Why wouldn't I be?" She sounded like the same, cheerful, never-upset-unless-she's-worried-about-me mom, but there had been no mistaking the tightness in her voice just seconds earlier. "I was just getting your attention."

For some reason—call it unexplainable daughter's intuition—I knew it was more than that.

I heard a muffled shout in the background about hoisting something and tying off something else. Sounded like Dad was really getting into the sailing thing. If they were about to sail around the world, then I guessed that was a good thing.

"I have to go," Mom stated, her words sounding distracted. "The deck hand just arrived."

If I didn't know better, I'd have thought she was grinding her teeth. That worried me.

"Okay, Mom. Do you want to give me a call before you—"

The drone of a dial tone buzzed in my ear as the call cut off. Mom had hung up on me. Now I knew something was up.

---

"Have you packed?" Fiona asked, reclining on my couch as I recounted the events of the past few days.

There was a lot to catch up on.

"For Milan? Not yet. We don't leave until Friday." I heard her mm-hmm around the piece of chocolate on her tongue.

When Fi showed up at my door with a 16-piece box of Vosges gourmet truffles I knew she'd had a tough day. Nothing but the roughest of days could induce her to bring out the big guns. And, although chocolate was not my personal favorite—if it's not gummied, sugared, sour, or caramelized, it's not really for me—we shared this indulgence once every black and blue moon.

Selecting a chili pepper truffle from the box, I leaned back into the chofa and bit into the sweet and spicy ball.

"Do you know what you're taking?" she asked when she had absorbed her first truffle.

"Huh-uh. Haven't even thought about it."

Too busy thinking about my life’s drastic change of direction. A change I still hadn't told Fiona about. Not for any particular reason—I just needed to ruminate on it a little more before I sent out the press release.

"Think about it now," she suggested. "Let's have a look at your wardrobe."

Fi was on her feet and heading through my bedroom door before I could answer. Slowly rising, I replaced the lid on the truffles box so Dyllie wouldn't get interested, and followed to my room.

Half my closet was draped across the bed. The half in the back that I was too chicken to wear.

"I am not taking any of that!"

"You have been hiding behind your Ann Taylor's and Liz Claiborne's for too long, sister. You have the perfect body to pull all these off. All you need is a little confidence."

I looked down at my scrawny self. Flat chest. Chicken legs. Protruding collarbone. My body was not perfect for anything. Hence the carefully concealing layers of Ann and Liz.

"These clothes," she added, holding up white eyelet Tocca sundress, "were designed for models with your figure."

"You mean your figure," I countered. Fiona had the perfect body: tall, lean but shapely, full-breasted. I had always envied her that.

And she had the fashion sense to show it all off. Right now she wore a red cashmere v-neck sweater that accentuated and displayed her pushed-up chest and a skintight black pencil skirt that molded her hips into seductive curves.

Only her face didn't fit the package. She looked exasperated that I would even argue this point. Without hesitation she pulled off her sweater, peeled off the skirt and tugged the sundress over her head.

Though we wear the same size, the dress stretched way-too-tight across her hips and chest. Her pushed-up breasts were pushed even more into view, nearly cut in half by the low v-neck of the dress.

"So one dress doesn't fit," I conceded. I held up my gunmetal gray Calvin Klein, knowing it would look better on her. "Try this one."

After struggling out of the tight cotton sundress, Fiona slipped into the slinky number. Like the sundress, this dress stretched tighter across the hips than it should, and her ample breasts pushed out on the panels of the halter top, leaving a gaping view of her bra and abdomen.

"Okay, so two dresses—"

"No," she interrupted, passionate in her argument. "All dresses. There isn't a single dress in my closet that hasn't been professionally altered to fit my figure. I probably spend as much on tailoring as I do on clothes. Maybe more. So trust me when I tell you, these clothes were designed for you."

Shocked, I stared at her like she had sprouted Sour Straws for hair. A candy-haired medusa.

"Really?" I finally ventured when I could speak.

Fi rolled her eyes dramatically before slinking out of the Calvin Klein and pulling her clothes back on. "Not that I would trade figures with you for anything—I happen to enjoy my full C-cups, thank you very much—but yours is the body type gracing all the runways and magazine spreads. So shove your poor body image into the garbage disposal and let's pack you a wowser wardrobe for Milan."

My courage bolstered, I headed for the closet and dug into the way back. "And this," I said, finding the hanger and lifting it off the bar, "is the first thing in."

Holding the strapless minidress up to my chest, I faced Fiona. Every golden bead and sequin sparkled in the bright light of my room.

Her beaming grin said everything.

I hung the dress on the valet hook next to my closet and reached for the silver-gray shoe box on the top shelf. "I even have a pair of killer heels to match."

Beneath the lid were 4-inch gold strappy Versace sandals a la Liz Hurley.

"You wear that outfit around any guy with eyes and you won't be wearing it very long." Fiona grinned when I threw a wad of tissue at her. Which only made her goad me more. "Better wax up that zipper."

I was just about to forget the six-hundred dollar price tag and fling a shoe at her when the buzzer sounded.

And a good thing, too. That was six-hundred per shoe.

The Jane Austen Path to Publication

Jane Austen's birthday was last week and, had the venerable author possessed the power of immortality, she would have been an impressive 235 years old. The special date got me thinking about how much her life has impacted mine. If she had never been born, or if she had never become a writer, my life would be very different right now.

jamelah and I share a favorite hero.

When I was in elementary school I read. A lot. I read every book in the Baby-sitter's Club series, Sweet Valley High, Nancy Drew, The Westing Game, The Egypt Game, and pretty much every book that came via the Scholastic catalog. But there came a point, maybe in high school, when I realized (aka was led to believe) that the books I liked to read "didn't count." They weren't important like the works of Stephen Crane and Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck.

I kept reading for fun, but my tastes moved to action-adventure thrillers like Michael Crichton and Clive Cussler. I still felt like those books "didn't count" because they were fun and I enjoyed reading them; the complete opposite of my required reading for school. (I can count on less than one hand the books I enjoyed reading for school: The Diary of Anne Frank, Romeo & Juliet, A Separate Peace, and Animal Farm.)

Then I went to college and a magical thing happened. At Columbia, all freshmen are required to take a two semester literature sequence called Literature Humanities (aka LitHum). In my first semester we read things like Dante's Inferno, Augustine's Confessions, and Homer's The Iliad. And then ... we read Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.

I will make a confession now: Pride and Prejudice was the first school reading I actually read cover to cover. I fell in love with Darcy and I admired Lizzy and I cared about them. I wanted to be transported into that world. In that moment, my view of literature changed. There was no longer a heavily-guarded dividing line between "books I like" and "books that count." They could be one and the same.

Thinking about what my life would be like right now if Jane Austen had never been born, if she had never written Pride and Prejudice for me to read in my freshman literature class... well, it's just to scary to imagine. Thank you, Jane Austen, for making me realize that great books can be fun, too.

Hugs,
TLC

Help a Heifer Out

By now I think you all know how I feel about Heifer International. (If not, read this.) Well, it seems that former-agent and publishing insider Nathan Bransford agrees.

In honor of the holidays and the spirit of giving, Nathan and his wife will donate $1 for every comment on his blog before 6pm Pacific time on Wednesday (up to $1,000). What are you waiting for? Get over there and comment!

But wait! He's also encouraged others to do the same. Ink Spells already has a great Llama-thon going going and I don't want to be left out. So I am pledging $1 per comment on this post before 6pm Pacific time on Wednesday, up to the value of a goat in the Heifer gift catalog ($120). Comment away!

[ETA: Deadline extended to midnight Pacific time 12/31.]

Hugs,
TLC

A Confluence of Cosmic Events

In the wee hours of the morning tonight, from about 1:30am to 5:00am EST, there will be a spectacular full lunar eclipse visible from all of North America and parts of South America. And the special part of this eclipse is that it falls on the Winter Solstice for the first time in over 400 years!

A lunar eclipse captured by SqueakyMarmot.

Find out more specific, scientific details on the eclipse on The Big Think (one of my favorite science geek blogs, btw) and be sure to set the alarm for a couple of viewing in the night.

Hugs,
TLC

Eye Candy: Chapter Sixteen

(Missed some? Read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15.)

Q: What kind of nut sounds like a sneeze?
A: A cashewwwww.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #12

"Rhonda?" Phelps repeated.

I watched in horror as he ran forward and tried—unsuccessfully—to lift the obscenely pregnant Rhonda into a twirl. Though he couldn't get her off the ground, he threw his arms around her neck and returned the hug she gave him.

"You look fat," he teased.

"Pay no attention to him," Rhonda advised me. "He's been incorrigible since we were children."

I must have looked as confused as I felt, because Ph— Elliot explained. "We're cousins."

Cousins? Well that explained the big bear hug. But that didn't mean that she was welcome in my bedroom. Or my house for that matter.

Of course, it wasn't really my house to begin with, and it wouldn't even be in my family for much longer, but that was moot.

“Rick called me as soon as he dropped you off,” Rhonda explained. “Said he though he recognized Elliot from the family reunion three years ago. And when I found out he was accompanying you, I rushed right over.”

All this happy coincidence was making me ill. "If you'll excuse me," I said rather curtly, "I need to change for dinner."

I shut the door on three bewildered faces.

Whatever actually happened that night in Gavin's office, I was not ready to forgive all the involved parties. Rhonda may have found herself a new man—a husband even, if the nine-month bulge and impressive solitaire were any indication—but that didn't mean she was entirely innocent.

What kind of secretary kneels before her half-naked boss, no matter the situation?

My shoulders slumped. I knew I had been rude. Mixed feelings about kissing Ph—Elliot, getting caught by my mom, and facing the woman responsible for breaking up my last relationship overwhelmed me. Definitely mitigating circumstances.

A soft knock roused me from my recriminations. I figured it was most likely my mother, or maybe Ph—Elliot.

When I called out, "Come in," the last person I expected to see was Rhonda.

"Lydia," she said gently as she closed the door behind her, "I'm sorry if my presence has upset you."

"It hasn't, really, it's just that,"—I fidgeted with the hem of my blouse—"it was a surprise."

"We used to be friendly. Before..."

I sighed. "Yeah, before."

"I never knew what happened." She stayed next to the door, as if afraid to venture too far into the room. "What happened between you and Gavin."

She glowed with the inner light of expectant motherhood. A woman ready to nurture, and willing to use that nurturing instinct on me.

"Actually, Rhonda," I confessed as I lowered onto the bed. "What came between us was,"—my brained screamed out the word you, but my heart knew the real answer—"me."

"I don't understand."

As I started to explain what I saw that night, what I thought I saw, Rhonda walked over to the bed and sat by my side. Tears came as I recounted how betrayed I felt at the thought of Gavin cheating on me. And with a woman I considered a friend.

"Sweetheart," she soothed, rubbing a reassuring hand along my back, "you know that never happened."

"I-it just looked that way," I sobbed, "I was so sure of what I saw."

Rhonda patted her protruding belly. "This little angel will be our third. I've been happily married, and fully satisfied thank you very much, for five years. I would never cheat on my Rick." She leaned in for emphasis. "And if he cheated on me, I'd chop off his wiener and throw it in the blender on puree."

She spread her arms and I turned into her hug.

The tears didn't stop. My heart hurt.

"Did I make a horrible mistake?" I asked.

"If you were that quick to judge, even in the most compromising of circumstances, there must have been something lacking in your relationship to begin with. No woman confident in her love and her man's love so readily believes he's cheating. If it hadn't happened the way it did, it would have happened another way. Your relationship just wasn’t right."

What she said made sense. I had always believed that if a woman has doubts about the man she's with, then he's not the right man. I had never wanted to acknowledge that I had doubts about Gavin. I wanted to believe that our relationship was perfect, that we were made for each other, that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, we would be happy forever.

Yeah right.

Gradually the tears dried up and I realized that what Gavin and I had was never a relationship. It was a façade. At least on my part.

He was the picture perfect boyfriend—two years older, highly successful, dangerously attractive, and willing to settle down. When I looked at him that was all I ever saw. A good catch—a cardboard cutout of the perfect man I could unfold and stand next to on social occasions.

Gavin was right; I had never really loved him.

I never even really knew him.

"How did my life get so messed up?"

"Sweetheart, everyone's life is messed up," Rhonda countered. She stood and pulled me to my feet. "Most just don't realize it. Now let's go eat, I'm starved."

---

"Lydia, you remember Dustin Davenport," Mom called out the moment I walked in the kitchen. She indicated the well-dressed man to her left. "He's a doctor."

I rolled my eyes—on the inside—and smiled at the Screech-grown-up replica. He wore a black Brooks Brothers suit with the Regis-style gray shirt and gray tie, but his frizzy black hair detracted from his classy look. Maybe if he got it professionally straightened and used a weekly deep conditioning treatment and—

I stopped myself.

Judging on appearances again, Dum Dum?

What good was coming to a life altering realization if you didn't let it alter you life? I was judging Dustin on the same superficial criteria with which I'd judged Gavin and everybody else.

This was not a path I wanted to continue traveling.

Forcing myself to relax into an open stance, I stepped forward with hand extended. "Hello, Dustin."

After five minutes of conversation that concentrated on his medical practice and his relationship with his mother, I knew this was not a guy I could be interested in. But at least I knew, which was a lot better than assuming.

We all know what assuming did, right?

Besides, I already had a compatible guy at my side for this party. Who, at that very moment, was buddying up with my dad at the grill on the back porch.

At that moment, there was nowhere I'd rather be than by his side. I gracefully made my exit and sidled up next to Ph—Elliot. His name was Elliot, and I was determined to remember that.

"Hey, Hot Tamale," he teased as I slipped an arm around his waist. "I was just thinking about you."

"Really?" I asked, knowing from the twinkle in his eye that he was full on fabricating.

"Yeah. We need more barbecue sauce."

He winked and I twisted out of his reach before he could pinch me on the backside.

"Just don't get used to this kind of service," I admonished. "This is a one-time-only return to Fifties mentality."

When I returned with the jar, I paused in the doorway to watch Elliot and my dad deep in discussion about the best placement of chicken parts on the grill. This was not a conversation I would have witnessed between Dad and Gavin. Gavin just wasn't a guy's guy.

He'd rather go to the symphony than a Yankees game. Preferred opera to Frisbee golf. And at this moment, I didn't know for sure which kind of guy I preferred.

Elliot—yes! got it on the first try—turned to me, that cocky grin spreading across those full lips. We shared a simple moment of connection as Dad concentrated on the chicken and Mom and Rhonda were in the kitchen chatting with the ever-growing number of arriving guests. One moment of knowing that, of all the people filling the house, he was thinking of me and I was thinking of him.

Feeling all warm on the inside, I marched across the deck and handed the bottle over.

"That's the last time you'll see me fetch, mister."

He reached out the take it, but I pulled away before he could. His brow furrowed in a petulant pout.

"I expect payment for services rendered." My boldness surprised me, but then again a lot of things were surprising me lately. Even with my dad standing not two feet away, I tilted my head back and offered up my mouth.

"Oh, you'll be paid." His voice was a predatory growl.

With the same lightning fast reflexes that must have saved his life on that Class V rafting trip down the Colorado, he snatched the barbecue sauce out of my grip, spun me around, and pulled me flush up against his chest.

"Here you go, Mr. V." He clutched my wrists in one hand and tossed the sauce to my dad. "Excuse us for a moment, your daughter and I have a payment to discuss."

Dragging me—well, not really, I went willingly—around the corner of the wrap-around porch, Elliot—gee, that name was really growing on me—led me to the isolated porch swing and lowered his graceful frame onto the seat. When I tried to take the spot next to him, he held me back, swung his legs up on the bench, and pulled me down on his lap.

Arms wrapped tightly around my waist, he set the swing into a gentle sway.

"Hmmm," I sighed, "this is nice."

Though the simple words didn't capture the depth of my contentment—with both the current situation and, for once, myself—they were all we needed.

“Nice,” he said, reaching around to turn my face up, “is not what I was going for.”

It wasn’t what I wanted either. With a wicked grin, I twist my torso and lifted my mouth. He didn’t close the distance, though. Instead, he held back the fraction of an inch from my lips.

He smiled. He did wicked way better that I ever could.

“Did you want something?”

Grrr. “You know what I want.”

Slipping my hand behind his head, I tugged his mouth towards mine. For a second he resisted. Then he relented and his hot lips brushed mine briefly before pressing harder and—

"Muses!" The lyrical call came from within the house.

With a instinctive reaction, I twisted back around and ducked down. My head thumped back against his warm, solid chest behind me. "Maybe he won't find us."

I felt Elliot's chuckle rumble through his chest and mine.

"He doesn't seem like the kind to give up easily." Elliot nipped at my exposed neck with quick kisses. "Maybe we should hide while we still can."

"Have you seen my muses?" I heard Ferrero ask, followed by a negative response from Rhonda.

"No chance," I answered, eyes closed and absorbing the sensation of his lips against my pulse. "The only way out is right past the open kitchen door."

Ferrero forgotten, I sank deeper into Elliot's welcoming warmth. If I closed my ears to the sounds of chirping crickets and televised football announcers, I could almost imagine we were hanging in a hammock over the turquoise blue waters of Tahiti. Cool breeze coming off the lagoon. Wind rustling the palm fronds above. Water lapping at pure white sands. Solar eclipse.

Eclipse?

Blinking out of my reverie, I found Ferrero standing over us, a beaming smile on his tanned face as he blocked out the fading light of the setting sun.

"Here you are," he exclaimed. He grabbed my hands and pulled me up from the swing in one swift motion. "We have much work to do."

Just as quickly, I was unceremoniously nudged aside so Ferrero could tug Elliot up and toward the house. Looking back over his shoulder as Ferrero dragged him inside, Elliot silently pleaded with me to save him.

"Sorry, Sugar Daddy." I didn't even try to hide my grin at his distress. "A muse's work is never done."

How right I was. Except for meals, I scarcely saw Elliot the entire weekend.

---

After a relaxing weekend in the country—okay, so Westchester isn't exactly rural, but even L.A. feels like farmland compared to the urban density of New York—I found myself full up on inspiration and initiative and short on things to do.

With Dyllie sufficiently passed out after a weekend of squirrel chasing and ball fetching I headed for the workroom and worked on turning my industrious mood into jewelry.

Two hours later the phone rang and, since Fi is usually swamped at work, I figured it must be Bethany.

"Hi Beth," I said as I brushed some eraser crumbs out of my way.

"Hey sugar, what's shakin'?"

"Just working on a new design."

The line was silent for a few seconds.

"On Monday morning? Shouldn't you be at work."

Should was the operative word. I should be making sure KY Kelly was not getting too comfortable with my job. I should be doing my job. But Ferrero, Jawbreaker, and Kelly had seen to it that I stayed far away from my duties. Ferrero's exact words on dropping me off at my apartment Sunday afternoon were, "Channel your creativity. Meditate. Do nothing."

Do nothing? That wasn't in my DNA.

He had this absurd notion that I needed to "clear my creative chakra" before we went to Milan. Five long days of nothing but packing, meditating, and channeling. That was going to get old fast.

"Lydia?" Bethany prodded, reminding me that she had asked a question.

"Work doesn't really need me right now. Kelly's doing my job and Ferrero's focused on finishing up the Fall collection but won't let me do anything 'non-muse-like'. I'm bored."

I doodled absently as I spoke, unconsciously letting my mind wander through my pencil.

"You've never had so much free time to work on the jewelry before. How's that going?"

"Actually, it's going really well. In fact," shifting the phone to my other ear, I elaborated on the tangle of vines that appeared in my doodle, adding strategically placed red M&Ms, "I'm having a lot of fun. I have about a dozen sketches for the Spring Ferrero collection and the makings of some spectacular designs of my own. I feel like I have time to actually flesh out a design. To work it out until it's right instead of just good enough."

"Sounds like you're having fun." She paused, her hesitation reclaiming my full attention. "You've never gotten this excited about work."

"Bethany, I—"

"Listen, sugar. I know I keep saying I want you to go into design full time because I want your pieces in my shop, but that's only a very small part of the reason. I want this for you because you're talented and you are wasted in that number-crunching job. The only time I hear you really, truly happy is when you're talking about your jewelry."

We'd had this conversation several times. Even though she said it was for purely selfish reasons, I had always known that there was deeper meaning in her urging. Bethany didn't have a selfish bone in her polite, Southern-raised body.

"I—"

"You need to quit your job."

I dropped my pencil and held the phone away, staring at the receiver. She never was one to beat around the bush much, but Sweet Saltwater Taffy this was more frankness than I was prepared to hear.

If for no other reason than I had been thinking the very same thing.

When I woke up this morning I bounded out of bed, took a leisurely shower, and made myself an indulgent breakfast of sparkling orange juice and a chocolate croissant. I sat at the breakfast counter in my candy-hearts jammies and let myself enjoy the unhurried peace.

For the first time in a long, long time, there was no weight of worry in the pit of my stomach. No dread over what might happen at work, if today would be the day Jawbreaker gave her position to Kelly. Or the day she found a way to have me fired for not really enjoying my work.

And the number-crunching? Calculating sales data, projecting sales, evaluating advertising expenditures. Maybe this was what I should expect with an econ major from Columbia, but that hadn't been my dream.

As an idealistic college student, I had dreamed of getting my degree in economics and pairing it with my jewelry design and starting my own business. But when graduation came around, the panic of not having a steady job with benefits struck and I bit the corporate bullet and took the job at Ferrero.

Steady. Benefits. Opportunity for advancement. And the prestige and cool factor of working at a couture fashion house.

I enjoyed the company and my coworkers—for the most part—and I let the idea of my own jewelry business melt away, like cotton candy in the rain.

Several years and a master plan later, the dream was but a distant memory.

But memories tend to flood back in when you have some free time. It started as a tickle at the back of my mind after filing the sketches for Ferrero into a portfolio and turning to my own designs. As I sketched out a necklace made from ceramic peppermint beads, the first teasing thought of what a good central piece that would be to a collection wiggled its way into my head.

Inspiration bombarded me and I now had plans for two dozen candy-themed pieces.

I could almost picture them on the "Must-Haves" pages of Lucky Magazine.

When the tinny sounds of my name repeated over and over reached my ears, dragging my wandering brain out of the land of daydreams, I held the phone back up to my ear.

"Lydia?" Bethany sounded almost desperate. "Lydia!"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"For goodness sake, why didn't you—"

"I think you're right."

"—say so...." Silence. "You do?"

Preparing for the biggest risk in my life, I held my hand over my eyes and said, "I need to quit my job."

Bethany's scream of joy was so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear for the safety of my eardrum. Thunk. Sudden silence from the other end and I listened closely, barely hearing a muffled, "No ma'am, not the lottery. A friend just made a very good decision."

After a few scuffling sounds, Bethany came back on the line. "Oh sugar, I am so proud of you. This will be the best decision you ever made."

My heart beat a sugar-high pace and adrenaline dashed through my veins, leaving my arms and legs feeling like Jell-o Jigglers.

"I hope you’re right," I said in a terror-weakened voice.

Why were the most important decisions always the most nerve-wracking?

"I promise," she replied, uncontrolled joy lifting her voice to a squeal, "you will be happier than ever. When are you giving your notice?"

The sooner the better, I almost said. Best get it over with before I lost my nerve.

But I had Milan to consider. And the Spring collection. I owed it to Ferrero—and myself—to finish what I'd already promised. Both Fashion Week and designing the collection accessories would be excellent experiences that I couldn't buy.

The sooner the better resonated in my mind. After so many years of delaying my dreams, I wanted to put them into motion as quickly as possible.

"After Milan," I decided out loud. "I'll still do the accessories collection, but I'll resign my executive position as soon as we get back."

"I couldn't be happier—" Beep-beep. "—you."

"I've got another call."

"Okay, call me—" Beep-beep. "—night. Bye."

"Bye." Click. "Hello?"

"Lydia?" the hair-raisingly sweet voice asked. "It's Kelly. Can we meet?"

Calvin Coolidge on Persistence

From the 30th President of the United States:

"Press on. Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent."

If this is true in politics and the rest of life, it is even more so in publishing. Nothing—not talent or education or connections or the luck of the Irish—can take the place of persistence in pursuing a writing career.

Keep going, even when your soul is screaming to stop. There is only one guarantee in this industry: If you give up, you'll never get published.

Hugs,
TLC

P.S. Today is Jane Austen's 235th birthday. Happy birthday, dear Jane.

Give a Non-Gift This Holiday

Recently, my agent blogged about her favorite charity, the wonderful Reece's Rainbow, an organization that sponsors the international adoption of children with Down's Syndrome. In lieu of any holiday presents this year she has requested a donation instead. Giving a donation in a recipient's name instead of a traditional gift is a brilliant idea for many reasons.

1. It's Green

Think of all the resources that go into giving a physical gift. All the energy and raw materials that are required to manufacture, ship, distribute, and wrap the precious object. The negative side effects of using fossil fuels, mining, deforestation, pollution. It all adds up.

2. It's Giving

What better expression of holiday generosity than to give a gift that is not only selfless on the part of the giver, but also the recipient? As a child I might have cared more about the gift. As a compassionate adult, I understand the deeper value.

3. It's Clutter-Free

We live in a consumerist society that thrives on acquiring more. Newer. Better. Shinier. The truth is we need less stuff than we want, by a lot. And all that stuff we collect and don't need takes up space in our homes and our minds. Save someone the trouble of adding more more thing to the pile.

All good things.

If you're like me you still want to make the gift giving ceremony as special as possible. With a non-physical gift this can be difficult. If you want to try something more exciting than just a note in an envelope, try this idea from one of my favorite blogs, Chez Larsson.

(Side note: Benita of Chez Larsson is going the non-gift giving route this year, too. She's buying a donkey for a woman in Ghana.)

Following in my agent's illustrious footsteps, I'm going to make the same request. Anyone thinking of sending me a gift for Christmas (or who might want to do something charitable in my name) please direct your donations to Heifer International. Their mission is to end hunger and poverty and care for the earth by creating self-reliant people and communities through gifts of livestock and the training needed to raise it.

Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day;
teach a man to fish and you feed him for life.
~Chinese proverb

I am amazed by their work and want to do whatever I can to support them. Heifer has even made giving super easy this year by providing a simple Give Now widget to post on blogs and websites.

(Get one to put on your blog or website here.)

If you don't want the restriction of giving to a particular charity, you can do like my editor and give when the inspiration strikes. Fulfill a child's holiday wish from the mall Christmas tree. Text a donation to a charity if their commercial moves you. Support a family member's donation drive for school books or canned goods. At Christmas time, the value is in the thought not the dollar signs.

In the spirit of holiday non-gift giving, leave a comment telling me about your favorite charity and why it's your cause and I will make a donation of $25 in your name to your charity for one lucky (and generous) winner.

Hugs,
TLC

Pick Your Short Story

So I've decided that the advent calendar isn't enough this holiday season. It's been a long time, but I think I need to write you a short story. The only problem is that I don't know what to write. That's where you come in.

Below is a poll with some possible short story ideas. Vote for your favorite or, if you're feeling inspired, add your idea in comments. If you come up with something so fabulous I just have to write it you'll win your choice of one of my books.

I will not announce the chosen short story. You have to wait until I post it to find out if I chose the popular vote or a write-in idea. Happy voting!

Hugs,
TLC

Eye Candy: Chapter Fifteen

(Missed some? Read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14.)

Q: Why do bees have sticky hair?
A: They use honeycombs.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #95

When Dyllie finished inspecting every blade of grass for the perfect spot to squat, we turned to head back to the limo.

In what couldn't have been more than sixty seconds, the limo had disappeared, leaving Phelps, Ferrero, and the driver standing next to the pile of luggage. One of the bags—mine, of course—had fallen open in a brisk wind, sending my weekend wardrobe flying across the heavily trafficked Cross Westchester Expressway. And a dozen police cars had the parking lot surrounded.

"What the hell happened?" I shouted, running as fast as my Stuart Weitzman's could carry me, and tugging on Dyllie to keep up.

A stern voice on the megaphone stopped my return. "Don't move and raise your hands above your head."

I froze and tried to lift my hands, but Dyllie's leash kept my right hand from rising above shoulder height.

"Both hands above your head."

Stifling a growl of frustration, I shouted back, "I can't, my dog is attached to my—"

"Lydia Vanderwalk?" The voice asked.

"Y-yes," I ventured.

"Hey, it's me," the voice continued, as if that were an enlightening statement of identity, "Rick Pearson."

In the space of two words I was back in high school, crushing on the Bingley Academy quarterback. Rick of the surfer boy good looks, West Coast laid back attitude, and truly generous nature. Always in the nebulous zone between popular and not, I had flourished under the platonic friendship Rick offered when his family moved in next door. After a while platonic wasn't enough.

But he had only ever seen me as a friend. More as a little sister than the cherished girlfriend I fantasized of being. Mom had said he became a cop. Apparently she was right.

"Sir, take off the trench coat and lay it on the ground."

A swarm of cops with service revolvers aimed at her hire-a-date had a way of popping a girl out of a daydream.

"Rick, what the hell is going on?" I asked as he sidled up next to me.

"We got a—" He dropped the megaphone, probably realizing that if he could hear me I could hear him. "We got a report of a carjacking."

"That was us, you moron," Phelps shouted, trench coat in hand. "We were carjacked."

A ruby blush colored Rick's cheeks.

Turning his attention to the gathered police, he announced over the megaphone, "These aren't the perps. Spread out into a vehicular canvas of the area. Kirby, post an APB on a black Lincoln limousine."

In a flurry of activity, the cops rushed back into their patrol cars and roared out of the parking lot, sirens blaring.

"Sweet Saltwater Taffy, Rick," I gasped as we met in front of the sad pile of luggage. "What was that about?"

"A mistake," he admitted. He always had more integrity than any ten men. "I apologize. We've had a rash of carjackings lately, I guess we rode into the wave before we figured if it was rideable or not."

I took that as surfer-speak for leaping before they looked.

"Um, Lydia..."

"So you really became a cop. You always said that's what you wanted to do."

"Yeah." He baby blue eyes sparkled with the excitement of someone who loves their work. "Became sheriff even."

"Um, Lydia..."

"Sheriff, really? Aren't you a little young?"

I felt old. Very old.

Almost thirty-three, unattached, uncertain, and under the influence of a successful, bright-eyed, California boy with a lot more muscles than he'd had as a high school football player.

"Nah. I worked hard to get this job."

"I would imagi—"

"Lydia!"

"What?" My irritation at being interrupted made my question snappish. But Phelps should see that I was happily flirting here and—

"Don't you think we should retrieve your underwear before it gets stuck to the tires of an eighteen-wheeler and decides to hitchhike to Canada?"

Just then a blur of pink rolled past my feet. Rick and I both bent to grab it, but his reaction was quicker. As he handed me the thong, color again staining his sculpted cheeks, the glint of sunlight on gold flashed in my eyes.

Of all the luck. A wedding band.

I stuffed the wad of lace in my pocket and took off to save the rest of my belongings from a trip to the border.

---

Rick dropped Phelps, Ferrero, and me at my parents house before heading to the police station with the driver to take his statement. Ferrero was inconsolable, bemoaning the loss of his precious limo and wondering how we would ever get back to the city from the godforsaken country. No attempts to explain that Westchester is suburban and not rural could convince him that we had any number of options for transport home, not the least of which was my dad's SUV.

But from the moment the squad car pulled up in front of my house, there was not a moment for self-pity.

"Lydia, my God," Mom squealed as she ran down the porch steps, "what happened? Are you hurt? Have you—"

"No, Mom, we're fine."

"—been to the hospital? Have you—"

"Really, no one's hurt."

"—done something illegal? And what—"

"Of course not."

"—is that?" She finally stopped to point an accusatory finger at me.

"What?" I turned in a circle, trying to discern what had her so concerned. Finding nothing, I asked, "What is what?"

"That, that, that thing under your arm."

Lifting my arm I saw Dyllie poking her furry head out of my purse. Though the carjacker saw fit to leave us our luggage—my guess was that Ferrero negotiated for that—he did not leave the doggie tote.

"Oh, this is Dyllie. She's a— um, I'm not sure what she is, actually."

"A dog?" Mom squealed.

"Yes, I'm just not sure what kind."

She looked odd, both horrified and furious, like she could go either way. When she rushed me with arms outstretched, I instinctively tucked Dyllie behind my back. Mom had been a little emotional lately, and I didn't want a defenseless puppy to bear the brunt.

Next thing I knew, Mom threw her arms around me and engulfed me in an enthusiastic hug.

"How wonderful, darling," she exclaimed. "I thought you would never get over your fear of dogs. I can't believe you actually bought a pup—"

"Actually," I interrupted, "it was Phelps who bought me the dog."

Mom jumped back, as if she just realized that there were other people present. And that one of them was my purported boyfriend. She quickly brushed down the floral apron covering her skirt in a homemaker's instinctive primp for company.

"Mom," I said by way of introduction, "meet Franco Ferrero, my boss. Franco, my mother, Jeanette Vanderwalk."

While they exchanged pleasantries I looked at Phelps, uncertain that I could carry on the charade in front of my mother. In two steps he was by my side, his arm around my waist. No turning back now.

"And this—" I took a deep breath and leaned into Phelps's side. "—is my date, Ph—"

"Elliot," he interrupted, thrusting out a hand in offering. "Elliot Phelps."

I blinked what felt like a thousand times, watching as Mom took Phelps's hand in both of hers, welcoming him into her household.

Why had he introduced himself that way? No matter how hard I concentrated, I couldn't come up with a single valid reason. It just didn't make any sense.

"Welcome home, gumdrop." Dad emerged on the porch, barbecue tongs in hand and sporting an apron that read, Kiss the Cook. "Let's get these cityfolk settled so we can start the party."

Just like that, Dad set everyone to action. Ferrero picked up his worn leather briefcase. Phelps hoisted his duffle bag onto his shoulder and grabbed the two suitcases. I tucked Dyllie down into my purse. Mom herded us up the steps and into the house.

I had told Phelps that we would probably be in separate rooms. My parents were kind of old fashioned in a lot of ways. Which only made their sudden decision to uproot and sail around the world even more peculiar.

So, when Mom showed Phelps and me to my old bedroom—now devoid of all but a bed and a nightstand—and told us to come downstairs when we were ready, it only added to the shock.

"I can't believe she put us in the same room."

Phelps set the luggage and his duffle at the end of the bed before flopping his lean length onto the quilt-covered mattress. "After the day I've had," he exhaled as folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes, "I'm just glad to have a bed at all."

"What?" I asked. Spying a few inches of space, I sat down next to his hip. "You mean more than being stuck in a limo with Ferrero in an artistic tizzy, pulling over to get a trench coat out of the trunk, and getting carjacked in the process?"

He unfolded one tan arm and rubbed his eyes. I'd never seen him look quite so worn out.

"I had the gig from hell this morning."

I leaned down on one elbow and took over his temple massage. Come to think of it, he had been uncharacteristically quiet during the drive up. I had chalked it up to Ferrero's obsessive attitude, but maybe it was more.

"Tell me about it," I ventured as I rubbed gentle circles across his forehead.

He smiled a wicked grin. "I spent six hours surrounded by fawning swimsuit models."

His eyes flashed open and before I could react he reached around my neck and pulled me flush across his body. Settling me across his chest, he clasped his hands over my lower back and held me close.

I closed my eyes and absorbed the feeling of every single inch of his fitness model body. I found myself sinking into him. Startled, my eyes jerked open, only to find him fully relaxed against the pillow, his own eyes dreamily drifted shut.

"Poor baby," I cooed, laying my head down on his chest. Mesmerized by the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing, my mind drifted.

How long had it been since I felt this way? So content. There was something about this wild man that, paradoxically enough, soothed my mind. He might not be the kind of guy I would settle down with, but he sure was the kind that made me feel like a princess. And most of the time I didn't even remember that he was seven years younger.

Most of the time.

He was fun and exciting and always came up with ways to shake up my life. Like when he—

"Hey," I admonished, shaking him out of our contented slumber, "Why did you introduce yourself to my mom as Elliot Phelps?"

"Because that's my name," he answered sleepily.

"Your what!"

"My name." His eyes drifted open and he looked at me with the blurry admiration of a puppy dog—not that Dyllie would ever stoop to blurry admiration.

"No," I argued, "your name is Phelps Elliot. Fiona told me. You told me. I saw it in a magazine."

I rolled off his chest and off the bed to better project my indignation. He sat up, stretching the beautiful, tight t-shirt-clad chest.

"I'm sure you did." Stifling a yawn, he jumped out of bed and pulled me into a hug. "But my real name is Elliot Phelps. Elliot Richard Phelps, actually. Famous Faces thought Phelps Elliot sounded a little more fashionable. A little less—"

"Geeky?" I supplied.

He frowned. "Exactly."

Okay, that might have been a low blow. "But why didn't you tell me the truth before?"

"Never came up." He shrugged, as if it didn't matter, but the wariness lurking in his bright blues said it did.

And none of this explained... "Then why did you tell my mom the truth? Why not just keep up the façade."

"It wasn't a façade, Lyd. It was just... easier." He looked away for an instant before meeting my eager gaze. "I didn't want any half-truths between us anymore."

Holy Hot Tamales. There was some kind of intensity in his eyes, in his entire body as he confessed this. He might as well have said I want there to be more between us.

My first instinct was to run. To back away and never, ever mention this again.

But his arms tightened around me before I could flee.

Forced to look at him, to answer, I faced the deep down realization that maybe I wanted there to be more, too.

My eyes dropped to his mouth, so full and masculine and begging to be kissed. To kiss. He licked his lips and I lost the ability to breath. At that moment I had to kiss him, or die.

Suddenly I knew that all those romance novels were on to something.

And I needed to find out more.

Framing his beautiful, chiseled cheeks with my hands, I looked up into his searching, questioning eyes. Phelps, the man who drove me around Southampton on a yellow Vespa, would never reveal that much uncertainty. But Elliot, the man who came home to meet my parents with an open heart, showed a vulnerability that tugged at me.

In answer to his silent question, I lifted onto my toes and kissed him.

Right there on the mouth in my childhood bedroom.

It was like magic. He tasted better than any penny candy or gourmet sweet ever could.

His arms tightened around my waist, pulling me into him as his tongue nudged my mouth open. I willingly let him in.

We were as close as we could get, but I needed to be even closer. Finding the hem of his t-shirt, I tugged it up to reveal his washboard abs. The instant my fingers touched his heated flesh, I knew what real lust felt like.

Never one to be overtaken by passion, I felt the red-eyed monster take over, urging me to uncover more skin, feel more, reveal more. Lust was carrying me away.

Until my mother burst in.

"Oh, my, dear, I didn't— I mean, I'm sorry to— well, color me embarrassed."

I tried to jump away, but Ph— Elliot held me close.

"What is it, Mom?" I asked as I continued to struggle, finally breaking free of his embrace just as another figure stepped into the doorway.

"Well, you see, there's a young woman here who claims to know your Mr. Phelps."

After seeing to it that my clothes were back in order—it seemed that he had done some uncovering of his own—I looked up.

My jaw dropped at the sight of the extremely pregnant woman in the doorway.

"Rhonda?" Phelps and I exclaimed at the same time.

Then Phelps ran up to embrace the woman I had last seen on her knees in front of my fiancé.