Chapter 22
There's too much sun today—or at least that's what Diane thinks, because the window in her office is warm enough to make her feel like it's summer, and that can't be right, because it's March twenty-second and the real heat is still months away.
Her hands are buried in the pockets of her dark green slacks, her back slightly hunched, because straightening it seems to take a titanic effort.
The street below is crowded today, and she tries to focus on the faces down there, wanting to know if they're happy.
She doesn't understand why she cares, but she's been spending more than her usual five minutes at that window for two full weeks now, searching for something she can't name.
The door to her office opens after the two knocks she's been hearing for over fifteen years, and she turns slowly, without trying to relax her face, straighten up, or tell whoever it is to leave her alone.
"The eleven o'clock meeting got pushed to next week," Clara announces as she walks toward her.
She glances through the glass and then looks at her friend.
"The people from the pharmaceutical company in Phoenix are on board with the changes you proposed—they already sent back the new contract, signed. "
Diane finishes connecting the information in her head and nods.
"One year?" the head of development asks, her voice flat.
"Two. And if everything goes the way we promised, they'll extend our services to their subsidiaries. We did well."
Diane exhales and decides not to tell Clara Fitzgerald that all those proposals they spend long nights putting together are always well done. Today everything bothers her—the sun, the people, life itself—and she doesn't want to waste too many words on anything.
She walks to her desk, fastens her watch on her wrist, and sits down carefully in her chair.
"Do you have the new sales strategy ready for—" She stops. She can't remember the name of the company and has to shake her head to pull herself together.
"Gales?" Clara offers, watching her with quiet concern.
Diane nods and moves the mouse to wake up her monitor.
"You should have it in your inbox." Clara pulls out her phone and scrolls through the outgoing mail her team uses. Without looking up, she keeps talking. "Cassidy finished the final review yesterday, and after I approved it, she sent it to you like always."
Diane clenches her jaw and blinks several times to get her eyes to focus. She types her way to the message, opens it, and reads:
"Diane,
Here's the complete strategy for the new Gales sales campaign. It's been reviewed, but if you'd like to add anything, we can wait two days before sending it out.
Cassidy."
The same professional email as always—the right words, the perfect tone. A wave of nausea rises in her throat, and she barely manages to push it back down.
"I'm worried," Clara says suddenly, pulling a chair over to sit across from her. "And don't tell me you're okay. You've spent months looking more like a shadow than a person. I'm not going to force you to talk about it, but I need you to answer one question."
Diane fixes her eyes on Clara's serious face. The woman is watching her with a mix of apprehension and pain that she can't stand, because being pitied is a weakness she can't afford.
"Are you drinking again?" The question comes out shaky, and Diane closes her eyes for a moment.
"No," she replies immediately. "I'm still clean."
The marketing director lets the air out slowly, like someone who's been breathing at half capacity for weeks and has finally been handed an oxygen tank.
"Okay," she breathes, and shakes her head.
"Okay. Elizabeth is worried too. You've been turning down our invitations since you started wandering the hallways and basically living in this office.
We don't know what to think, and I don't want to smother you, but you're a goddamn locked safe and you don't tell me anything. "
Guilt settles heavier on her shoulders, and Diane doesn't even know what excuse to offer anymore.
"How about I come see you two this week?" she suggests, rubbing two fingers across her forehead. The headache won't quit, not even after the two Tylenol she took earlier.
"We're having a barbecue at the house tomorrow," Clara notes, watching her. "Small crowd, people we trust. You can come before it gets going and leave whenever you've had enough of listening to women getting way too excited about sports."
Diane wants to say no—she's been to a few of those gatherings Clara's wife throws.
Too much noise, too many people looking at her with interest. But if she turns them down one more time, her friends are going to run out of patience, and Diane, who can be a stone-cold bitch within the four walls of Whitestone Consulting Group, is outside them nothing more than a lonely woman with the extraordinary luck of having Clara and Elizabeth in her life.
"I'll bring dessert," is her short answer. She looks away. She wants Clara to leave her alone, because that expression on her face means more questions are coming.
"When's the appointment?" Clara asks carefully, shifting to the other thing she considers more important.
Diane sighs and stands up from her chair.
"Next Tuesday." She opens the mini fridge and takes out a bottle of water. "I need to make a call." She takes a sip. "On your way out, send Tatiana in."
Clara knows the call is nothing but an excuse to put the subject to rest, so she gets to her feet, but before she goes she says:
"You don't have to go alone." Her voice is gentle. "Either of us can come with you."
"It's just a routine checkup. I don't need anyone to come with me."
Diane tries to control the shiver that runs through her when she thinks about why she has to drive an hour to Dr. Presley's office.
It was a week ago, a Sunday she had to fight her way out of bed because she had absolutely no will to do anything.
She looked at herself in the mirror—a woman with blue eyes that had lost their light, disheveled hair, skin too pale to be healthy.
She decided to take a shower, and without any reason at all, the image of Cassidy Collins slammed into her all at once.
Her mind had the brilliant idea of replaying that weekend three months ago when the girl had shown up at her house and they'd spent those days working together.
The night they slept in the same bed, the sex on the couch, the kisses at the kitchen table.
Her body woke up just like that, all at once, and Diane slid her hand down to find herself completely ready for those green eyes.
She started touching herself, feeling the tremor in her belly almost immediately as she traced circles over her swollen center while running her other hand across her breasts without restraint.
She came fast, with such force that she had to brace herself against the wall—but when she recovered, she brought her hand back to her right breast, and there it was.
A lump. Small, but large enough to feel.
She didn't panic; when she was younger, she'd had a few cysts that resolved on their own over time.
Still, the next morning she called her gynecologist, who gave her the earliest appointment available.
Clara leaves the office, and almost immediately Tatiana comes in, ready to take down whatever her boss needs.
"Get two boxes of those chocolate pastries from the French bakery on Montana Avenue for tomorrow. I'll pick them up at four."
The personal assistant nods and finishes jotting down her notes, then looks up.
"Anything else?"
"That's all." Diane thinks for a moment. "I'll be out for a few hours this afternoon. If anything urgent comes up, call me."
Tatiana would love to know who her boss is having some hot, messy affair with, the one who keeps pulling her out of the office for hours at a time.
According to Mandy, one of the secretaries on the sixth floor, she saw Diane leave a hotel with a silver-haired man at two o'clock on a Thursday afternoon.
Mandy had a doctor's appointment nearby, and by the time she was back out on the street, Diane was wearing a smile Tatiana had never once seen on the Cobra's face.
She had, of course, told Mandy to keep her mouth shut—her boss could do whatever she wanted with her private life. Still, Tatiana would love to know.
"Of course. Don't worry about a thing." The girl leaves her office, and Diane sinks back into her chair.
● ● ●
She grabs the bag from the passenger seat and opens the car door.
She adjusts her sunglasses and takes a breath, searching for a peace she lost a long time ago.
From where she stands, Diane takes in Clara and Elizabeth's house—so different from her own.
An open front yard, full of color, no walls, because they have nothing to hide.
She shakes her head, clenches her jaw, and lifts her chin before crossing the street.
When she's about to press the doorbell, she notices the door is ajar, so she pushes it gently and peeks inside.
"Hello?" She's not sure her voice was loud enough for anyone to hear.
A head of long, full hair appears around one of the hallway corners.
"Diane, sweetheart," Elizabeth smiles as she walks toward her, drying her hands on a small towel. "Thank you for coming."
Elizabeth hugs her, forcing her to juggle the bag in her hand and her purse.
"The door was open," Diane says, frowning.
"I know. On barbecue days we leave it that way—easier for everyone."
The brunette bites back a noise of disbelief. Who does that?
"Come on, we were waiting for you." Elizabeth takes her by the arm gently. "Clara made lemonade."
They walk through the familiar space together, drop off the dessert Diane brought in the kitchen, and continue out to the patio where Clara is waiting, stretched out in a hammock.
For one brief moment, Diane envies the easy, relaxed look on her friend's face.
"You owe me twenty dollars," Elizabeth announces when she reaches her wife.