Chapter 13
The week at Whitestone's offices has been frantic, especially since Frances Hartwell showed up.
Diane has worked with absolute focus every single day, arriving at her office at seven in the morning and leaving when the security guard makes his third round of the night.
She isn't afraid — she's being careful, because she knows exactly what that wolf in sheep's clothing will do: walk into her department with the intention of finding anything she can grab and twist into a noose around Diane's neck.
"And then?" She's standing at the window, watching pedestrians bundled in heavier jackets. December has arrived with a significant drop in temperature, and Californians aren't taking it particularly well.
"A call with Arnico — I've scheduled it for a maximum of twenty minutes, at four o'clock." Across from her, Tatiana reviews the calendar. "You have a confirmed reservation tonight at seven at Marlowe."
"How are things in the finance department?" Diane asks. Tatiana locks the iPad and sets it on the table.
"My guess is we still have about a week before she makes it up here. She's made few changes, she's been very open, and generally everyone is happy."
Diane holds back the urge to click her tongue and curse Frances out loud.
That's what she does — acts like someone receptive, wins everyone's goodwill, and in the end gets people on her side.
The moment she reaches business development, no one will be surprised when the oh-so-helpful consultant presses a hand to her chest and claims the reception wasn't welcoming despite her genuine desire to help.
And they'll believe her, because as far as everyone at the firm is concerned, Diane Carter is a ruthless woman capable of anything.
"Don't worry. We'll be ready," Tatiana adds.
Her assistant picks up the iPad and gets to her feet.
She doesn't know the full story behind whatever exists between her boss and the outside consultant, but she does know some kind of conflict arose between them a while back that they've been carrying ever since.
Diane told her in brief terms that same afternoon — short sentences, clipped delivery — that they already knew each other, it hadn't ended well, and she was certain Frances wouldn't make things easy.
Tatiana doesn't need to know more. She's simply become more diligent, staying one step ahead of whatever is needed so she can make Diane's life easier.
Her assistant leaves the office, and Diane lingers at the same window for a few more minutes, tracing the links of her bracelet with the pad of her index finger.
She sighs, exhausted, as though she's spent seven days running a marathon without rest in her Manolo Blahniks — so worn down she hasn't been able to see her personal trainer or find time to be with Cassidy.
That last part produces a sharp little pang in her stomach she's never quite prepared to feel — she won't say it out loud, that much is certain — but it's what happens when that green-eyed girl gets into her head for whatever reason.
Since the argument that ended in fast, desperate sex against the wall of her office at a completely inappropriate hour, the dynamic between them has been strictly professional.
The blonde has done her job flawlessly, as everyone in both departments has come to expect from her, meeting Diane's demands and working alongside Clara without any shift in her mood.
Cassidy hasn't given her a single extra glance, not once. Exemplary behavior.
She goes back to her desk to keep working. She has too much to do to keep her head somewhere else. Rubbing her eyes, she remembers she should reschedule — for the fifteenth time — her ophthalmologist appointment, and then buries herself in documents for the rest of the day.
● ● ●
That night, chef Anton Roe's restaurant Marlowe is as quiet as always.
It's the kind of place where people don't talk — they whisper, chew with care, and handle their silverware with precision.
The restaurant occupies a prime corner on Third Street Promenade, where wide floor-to-ceiling windows let the golden light of evening flood the dining room.
It's Diane Carter's favorite. She found it her second week living in California, during an afternoon walk — the restaurant caught her eye with its pale brick facade, black steel details, and a discreet illuminated sign in brass lettering.
Something about it seduced her, and she made herself a promise: when she finally ran a department inside a major company, she'd celebrate there.
Seventeen years have passed since she sat there for the first time.
"Good evening, Mrs. Carter," one of the waiters who already knows her greets her. "Right this way, please — your guests are waiting."
When they reach the table, two women talking quietly look up, smile, and rise to their feet.
"Well, look who it is," sings Elizabeth Olman, Clara Fitzgerald's wife, as she hugs Diane. "You're never around, sweetheart, though you're as gorgeous as ever."
"Hey, I'm standing right here," Clara complains with an exaggerated pout.
"You shouldn't be jealous, honey," Elizabeth replies with an amused shake of her head. "After all, you're the one who had her for a few years."
Diane rolls her eyes but lets herself be held. Then she repeats the greeting with her friend, and the three of them sit down.
Elizabeth squeezes her hand with warmth, and Diane wonders what this woman ever saw in her to love her the moment they met in person.
She remembers when Clara met Elizabeth at that dingy karaoke bar on Wilshire Boulevard — the excitement of those first months, the way things started getting serious.
When they'd been together a year, Clara wanted to introduce her to Diane, because it mattered to her.
Diane hesitated, but she did it for her friend's sake, and the surprise turned out to be a genuinely good one.
Elizabeth already knew that Clara and Diane had been in a relationship for three years, everything that had happened in between, and especially everything that came after.
Anyone else might have looked at Diane with contempt, with rejection. Not Elizabeth.
"The past is the past," she said once while the three of them were walking on the beach. "What matters is who you are to each other now."
And it's true — the friendship that has taken shape between them over the years hasn't buckled, not even through all the difficulties, including the very significant one of working alongside the Cobra and being, on occasion, on the receiving end of her poisonous bite.
"So, what are we celebrating?" Clara cuts in. "Coming to this place always means something special."
Diane sighs. She knew this wouldn't be easy.
"I've been a little distracted lately." Clara raises an eyebrow, wry, at the words. "I forgot about Sean's surgery, I've turned down every invitation you've sent, and I've been a bit more irritable than usual."
"And you took your time telling me that Frances Hartwell is our new expert consultant," Clara notes, pointing at her, eyes narrowing.
"Fair enough," Diane admits with a slight tilt of her head.
Clara's nephew's surgery had gone well, but she'd taken the rest of the week off to help her sister — a widow with another child younger than Sean — so she'd been largely disconnected from what was happening at Whitestone. Because unlike Diane, family always comes first for her friend.
When Diane called to ask about Sean, she didn't mention what was going on at the firm either. So when the marketing director came back, she walked into an unpleasant surprise.
"What a soap opera," Elizabeth says, eyes wide.
"I'd love to know how in the hell a woman you worked with almost twenty years ago, who swore she'd make your life hell, ends up at your company as someone capable of suggesting" — she makes air quotes with her fingers, because she knows the real word is convincing — "to management that something isn't working and needs to change. "
Diane shrugs and runs her fingers along her jaw.
"I have no idea. What I do know is that she's enjoying every second of it."
The waiter appears and takes their drink orders: sparkling water for Diane, wine for the couple.
Dinner moves along pleasantly, the conversation leaving everything happening at Whitestone at the door.
Elizabeth talks about her softball games and lets it slip that a couple of her teammates wouldn't mind taking Diane out to lunch.
But the most surprising thing of all is that the woman with the perpetually stern expression is smiling — relaxed, even gesturing a little more than usual.
Nobody knows this version of Diane except Clara, and now Elizabeth, because she learned a long time ago how important it is to keep a good armor on, and she rarely, if ever, lets it drop.
"We have to do this again soon," Elizabeth says, hugging her goodbye. "It's been a great night."
"Mostly because she paid," Clara adds with a wink, and Diane scorches her with a look.
"I'll come watch you play next time," Diane promises, privately unable to picture herself in a baseball cap and sneakers shouting things she doesn't even understand to cheer her on. "Just give me a little time to deal with Frances and get my head back on straight."
They say goodbye, and Diane walks through Third Street Promenade, which by that hour is buzzing with lively crowds heading out to dinner or grabbing drinks.
She breathes in the smell of coffee mingling with the salty breeze drifting in from the Pacific, and she can't help admiring the bookstores, trendy restaurants, and small cafés with terraces that are always full.