After That Night. Ann Evans
to be a money thing. Men are always so generous before the wedding, aren’t they?” She spotted what appeared to be an available cab and waved her arm, but the driver whizzed right past them.
Jenna blew out a long, frustrated breath. It still didn’t make any sense. Mark Bishop struck her as a lot of things, some of them annoying, some of them downright infuriating, but not stingy. “It sounded as though he was willing to go to any expense for the wedding and honeymoon.”
“Why are you worrying about him? He looks like the kind of guy who knows how to land on his feet. And as good-looking as he is, he won’t have a difficult time finding someone to fill Shelby Winston’s shoes.”
“I just find it puzzling, that’s all.”
A cab squealed up to the curb at last. “Let’s get out of here,” Lauren said, clearly finished with the topic of Mark Bishop and his ex-fiancée. “I want to shop.”
Jenna backed away from the taxi. “I’m really not in the mood. It’s only a couple of blocks to the hotel. I think I’ll walk.”
“Spending money will put us both in a better mood.”
“You go on. It will give me time to think, let my nerves settle.”
“We’re in New York,” Lauren said. “You told me yourself that we blew all the frequent-flyer points the magazine has to come here. You can’t let this opportunity go to waste. Surely there’s something you want to see or do.”
“Maybe this evening.”
“Jen—” Lauren stared at her in complete exasperation now “—do you even remember how to have fun anymore?”
The question stung, but she wasn’t going to get into an argument. “I’ll see you later,” she said with a wave of her hand. Before Lauren could say another word, Jenna slipped into the thick, urgent river of people making their way home.
Back at their hotel, the phone was ringing as she unlocked the door. She kicked off her high heels and snatched up the receiver as she sank onto one of the beds. It was her father, calling from Atlanta.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he reassured her quickly. “I just wanted to see if you made it there safely—since you didn’t call me.”
Jenna stopped rubbing one sore calf muscle and switched to massaging her temple. After a day like today, she wasn’t prepared to handle a guilt trip for not checking in. “Everything went fine, Dad,” she said between gritted teeth. “I didn’t need to have a note pinned to my jacket, after all.”
Her father laughed, unfazed by her sarcasm. “You know I can’t help worrying.”
“I know.” She supposed there were a lot of things William McNab couldn’t help doing out of habit, but that didn’t mean she had to like them. She’d canceled her initial appointment with the real-estate agent, but now she made a mental note to call the woman again once she got back home. Time to start an earnest search for just the right place. “Are the boys there?”
“Chris took them out to the batting cages. He’s going to work on Petey’s swing. Fat lot of good it will do, just between me and you.”
Her oldest son was probably the worst Little League player in the history of the game. Her brothers and father had worked with him quite a bit over the summer, but he still “stunk to high heaven,” as his coach so charmingly put it.
“How did your interview go?” her father asked.
“Fine,” she replied. He didn’t need to know what a bizarre and miserable failure the whole experience had been. “We’ll be home tomorrow afternoon.”
For some reason not clear to Jenna, her father was a huge fan of the weather channel, and in no time he was lecturing her about a storm watch in effect for the whole eastern seaboard starting around midnight. The flight home was bound to be bumpy. She should remember to take her antinausea medicine. Barely listening, Jenna began paging through the hotel’s guest-information book that sat on the nightstand.
“Are you listening to me, Jen?”
“Every word, Dad,” she said absently. She squinted down at the laminated page in front of her—the list of contents of the room’s honor bar. Good grief, I can see charging a fortune for macadamia nuts, but can two ounces of vodka really be worth twenty-six dollars? She rubbed her temple again as her father warned her about a cold front blowing down from Canada. Maybe twenty-six dollars was a bargain, if you were desperate enough.
“Go to bed early tonight,” her father advised. “You’ll manage better tomorrow if you get a good night’s rest.”
Irritated that even her bedtime didn’t seem to be her call anymore, Jenna took perverse enjoyment in saying, “This is my only night in New York. I was thinking of painting the town red.”
There was a long pause. Then her father said in a low, serious tone, “Do you think that’s wise?”
“Maybe not,” she said. Then, remembering her last conversation with Lauren, she added, “But I’d like to think I haven’t forgotten how to have fun.”
“You haven’t forgotten, honey. You just grew up. You’re a good girl. And whatever else Jack may have been, marriage to him taught you some valuable lessons about responsibility and the dangers of reckless disregard and—”
Advice about the weather and keeping late hours she could tolerate. Discussions about her failed marriage were something else entirely. “I have to go, Dad,” she interrupted him. “Kiss the boys for me. I love you.”
Feeling frustrated and edgy, she crossed to the bar and started to remove every tiny bottle in the fridge. She hadn’t concocted mixed drinks in years, but she was pretty sure she could manage it. But then she put everything back. Not because she’d changed her mind, but because if she really wanted to improve her mood, she stood a much better chance if she was to go out, be around other people. Feel the ambiance of New York City, a little excitement, a touch of the unknown.
Though her feet were killing her—she hardly ever wore heels these days—she slipped her shoes back on, applied fresh lipstick and ran her fingers through her hair to give it a less-structured look. On the walk back to the hotel she’d passed at least a dozen bars and restaurants. One of them was bound to offer what she needed.
She didn’t know when Lauren would be back, but one thing was certain. She wasn’t going to spend the evening checking the weather channel, eating stale nuts and washing them down with thimble-size bottles of liquor. It had been one hell of a day, and she deserved to let her hair down.
After scribbling a short note to Lauren, she dropped the small container of macadamia nuts into her jacket pocket and headed back out the door.
Forty-five minutes later found Jenna sitting at a small table in Willowby’s Tavern. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a great view of the avenue and a golden, fading sunset that had turned the windows of every office building into a pretty caramel color. She was on her third drink, some festive rum mixture that was more appropriate for a tiki bar in the South Pacific than a dim, crowded watering hole in Manhattan. She’d drunk more today than she had in six months. But at least she no longer felt as though someone was sawing on her nerve endings with a dull knife.
The bar was noisy and full of New Yorkers having a few drinks with friends after a long day at work. Jenna ignored them, concentrating, instead, on the FTW file in her lap, which she’d pulled out of her purse.
Undoubtably Vic would find her interview with Mark Bishop lacking in substance, and they still needed something to fill pages. Maybe one of these other guys on the Ten Most Eligible list would be a better candidate. Of course, none of them were engaged to be married, so they’d have to come up with some other hook.
She flipped through the pictures, reading bios and trying to imagine having better luck with one of these rich, powerful, attractive men. Not surprisingly, when she came upon it, she couldn’t help focusing on the picture