Champagne Rules. Susan Lyons
the sacrifices his mom was making for him, he’d been determined to succeed. To make her proud, justify all she’d done for him.
If he stuck to work, ignored all distractions, he’d make partner in another year or two. Then, maybe, senior partner.
Just the thought of it made his heart pump. An immigrant kid from Jamaica, raised by a single mom who worked two minimum-wage jobs, becoming senior partner at one of the most prestigious law firms in San Francisco. Now there was a dream he could buy into!
But this was Tonya’s day, not his. “When the incorporation comes through, I’m buying you a bottle of Dom Perignon.”
“Sonoma bubbly will do me just fine. I’m a California girl and I absolutely refuse to get all pretentious.”
“Not going to serve French wine at that restaurant of yours?”
“No way. I’m going to focus on local products. The cuisine’ll be a blend of everything that’s gone into the making of California. Kind of like me.”
Tonya had been born here, but her grandparents truly were an ethnic mix, with roots in Africa, China, Scotland and Mexico.
“Jax?” Her voice was breathy with excitement. “I just thought of a name. What about ‘Made in California?’”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Gotta go. I’m going to call Benjamin and see what he thinks of the name.” As always, there was a little fizz in her voice—a sexual one—when she said her husband’s name.
He envied her those damned bells and whistles.
Caitlin tapped on his door, opened it and poked her orange-tipped head through. “Your next client’s here.”
Tonya had Benjamin; he had a client.
Bells and whistles? Yeah, sure. That’d be the day.
2
The Awesome Foursome had decided to hold their ad-drafting meeting at Suzanne’s place, rather than a restaurant.
Her apartment was a renovated garage at the back of her parents’ yard in Kerrisdale. Furnished with hand-me-downs and garage sale bargains, the cozy space was divided into a small eating-and-living area, an even smaller bedroom-and-office and a closet-sized bathroom. Suzanne loved its compactness, plus how it allowed her to have both closeness to and independence from her parents.
Tonight, though, she could have done with it being about a hundred miles rather than a hundred yards removed from her mom and dad’s kitchen window.
She was nervous enough about what she and the girls were contemplating; she definitely didn’t need parental scrutiny. Of course, chances were, after drinking a bunch of wine and tossing out a few silly ideas, they’d abandon the whole project.
Pausing in the act of opening the Yellowtail cabernet sauvignon Ann had brought, Suzanne glanced out her own window to see her mother standing on the back porch, saying hello to Rina.
Rina, in black leggings and gauzy black tunic top, with a red scarf draped around her neck, was a gypsy in an English country garden. She handed two pizza boxes to Suzanne’s mom.
What on earth? Was she giving away their dinner?
Ah. Rina was rooting around in her tote bag and finally pulling out a brochure. For the Pacific Northwest Opera, no doubt. She played second clarinet, as well as teaching clarinet and piano to students of all ages.
She passed the brochure to Suzanne’s mom and retrieved the pizzas just as Jenny joined them, bearing a pan that hopefully contained her decadent double-chocolate brownies. The three chatted cozily—and far too long for Suzanne’s peace of mind. Jenny in particular was not noted for verbal restraint, and the last thing Suzanne wanted was for her mother to know about tonight’s agenda.
With a touch of desperation, Suzanne went to the door, waved the wine bottle and called, “Anyone ready for a drink?”
That did it. Her friends said quick good-byes, and hurried over. Rina said, “Your mom’s going to get tickets for PNO’s next concert.”
“Great.” Suzanne took one of the Martini’s pizza boxes. “You didn’t tell her what we’re doing tonight?”
“You betcha!” Jenny said loudly. “Told her we were pimping her daughter out to a Greek god.” Then, “Jeez, Suzie, give us credit for having a little discretion.”
Ann came in from the other room. “I’m hungry. I’ve laid out some deli salads. Would you guys get a move on?”
Jenny opened the pizza boxes. “I got a chicken-spinach-feta and a pepperoni-onion-mushroom.”
“Good,” Rina said, “I can eat everything but the crust.”
She was always on a diet, saying she was too fat—though as far as Suzanne could see, what she hid under all those layers of clothes was the kind of curvy body men drooled over.
“And I brought retsina.” Rina extracted a bottle from her tote, eliciting a chorus of “yucks.” She shook her head. “We don’t have to drink it all, just spill a few drops. A libation to the Greek gods, so they’ll bless this enterprise.”
Suzanne gave her the corkscrew and Rina opened the bottle and poured a bit into all their glasses. They flicked a few drops around. Melody and Zorro, two of Suzanne’s three cats, eagerly darted forward, took one sniff, then retreated, whiskers twitching in disgust.
“My feelings exactly,” Ann said. She lifted her glass. “Okay, girls, a toast. Down the hatch. Then we can have some decent Aussie cab.”
“To snaring a Greek god,” Jenny toasted, and they all clicked glasses.
Ann popped a couple of pills into her mouth before drinking.
“You okay?” Suzanne asked.
“Just a headache. Missed lunch, stressful day.” She grinned. “And it’s no fun writing a sexy ad with a headache.”
“You work too hard.”
“Don’t I know it.” She pointed toward the door, where she’d dropped her briefcase on the way in. “Yeah, I can leave the office at six. But only if I lug about three hours work home with me.”
“Sorry. God, Ann, you shouldn’t be wasting your time on this silly stuff, then having to work to all hours.”
Ann shook her head vigorously, then winced. “I needed a break anyhow. Besides, if a girl can’t make time for her best friends, there’s something seriously wrong with her.”
Suzanne reached over to hug her. Then they all settled around the coffee table. After the first few nibbles and sips, they got down to work, tossing out suggestions.
“Notes,” Ann said, putting down a half-eaten wedge of pizza and scrambling over to pull a legal pad from her briefcase.
Soon she was busy scrawling, crossing out, reading back. Finally, when they were into a second round of brownies—for all but Rina who’d only nibbled on her first one—she cleared her throat. “All right, children, I think this is it.” She held up the pad and began to read, putting on a breathy, sexy voice that was completely unlike her normal speaking voice.
“‘Are you the man who shared sizzling sex with a hot blonde in the cave above the nude beach on Crete four years ago? If you feel like another erotic adventure, drop me a line. Be sure to tell me what you remember about that afternoon, so I’ll know it’s really you.’”
“Escapade,” Jenny said. “Rather than ‘adventure.’ Comes from ‘escape’—i.e., to escape restraint, inhibition.”
“I keep forgetting you’re a writer,” Ann said, scribbling the change.
Jenny was a freelance journalist who scraped together a living researching and writing articles, mostly on