Summer smiled indulgently. “And Joel? Did fate have something to do with you meeting him?”
“Of course. It’s all part of the same plan. If it hadn’t been for you, Derek wouldn’t have asked me to serve as his hostess, or even if he had, I wouldn’t have accepted. So my meeting Joel at the party is all wrapped up in this. Awesome, isn’t it?”
“Totally,” Summer agreed gravely, pleased that Connie was so smitten with Joel. Summer liked the quiet, personable man. When she’d first met him, she’d worried a little that Joel was too gentle for Connie, that Connie would tire of him too quickly. But now she thought that perhaps Joel was just what Connie needed to rebuild her self-image and put some stability into her haphazard life without subduing her irrepressible spirit.
Perhaps it was fate, she mused as she washed her coffee cup and prepared to leave for work. Already she was anticipating the delivery she knew would arrive that morning.
THE HOURS PASSED with painful slowness. Even Mr. Gleason looked mildly surprised when no oddly garbed messenger had arrived with a delivery by late morning. Summer and Connie were both disappointed. They had been so sure that Derek would send one last message.
“I knew it,” Summer muttered at one point. “He is trying to drive me crazy.” He would have known, of course, that she was expecting something from him. Trust Derek not to do the expected.
At eleven Connie walked up to Summer’s desk with a comical frown. “What do you suppose he’s up to?” she demanded.
“I have no idea,” Summer replied with complete honesty.
Connie sighed. “Oh, well. We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose. By the way, Joel’s picking me up for lunch and he wants you to join us. Interested?”
“Sure, I’d love to. Unless you want me to politely decline,” Summer teased, grateful for the distraction.
“No. I want you to get to know Joel. And he you.”
“Then it’s a date.”
Summer enjoyed lunch very much. Joel was charming. He was thirty-five, never married, serious, but not too much so, and quite handsome with his black hair and mustache and smiling blue eyes. He was also visibly infatuated with Summer’s vivacious roommate. He didn’t seem at all disturbed by Connie’s less-than-circumspect past, but rather seemed to admire her for her unapologetic individuality. He made a very good foil for Connie, and Summer found herself crossing her fingers under the table, hoping that the budding relationship would flower into a serious romance.
Joel was vastly amused by Connie’s tale of Derek’s unusual courtship of Summer. In fact, something about his amusement puzzled Summer. She had understood that Derek and Joel did not know each other very well, but now she was beginning to think that they knew each other quite well, indeed. She studied Joel more closely throughout the remainder of the meal, wonderin
g if he were quite as mild-mannered and innocuous as he first appeared to be. There was something about him that reminded her faintly of Derek, though she knew better than to mention that fact to Connie.
The thought of Derek distracted her, making her forget her curiosity about Connie’s newest friend. Summer couldn’t quite believe that the series of deliveries was over. She continued to wonder about the delivery that had not yet been made.
Promptly at three o’clock two packages arrived. Summer grinned when Connie gave a low cheer. Derek hadn’t let them down. He’d just wanted to keep them on their toes. Mr. Gleason didn’t even bother to scowl. He simply waited for Summer to open the packages with almost the same overt curiosity as the rest of the gaping spectators.
The larger of the two boxes was neatly marked Open First. Summer obediently opened it first. Inside was nestled a somewhat smaller box marked Weekend Survival Kit. She swallowed and tore open the taped lid. She blinked back tears as she silently examined the contents—a small alarm clock with a smashed front and a shredded calendar.
The contents needed no further explanation to Summer or to Connie, though the rest of the observers looked somewhat bewildered. Summer and Connie knew that Derek was offering his weekends to Summer to fill any way she wanted, no schedules, no itineraries.
The smaller box contained a delicate gold chain on which dangled a gold, heart-shaped pendant. Inscribed on the charm were the words I love you.
“Now I am going to cry,” Connie announced thickly.
“Good. I’ll join you,” Summer replied. And did. So did half the women in the accounting department.
Mr. Gleason got up and left the room.
11
THE TALENT SHOW was going even better than Summer had anticipated. Crowded into the hallway that opened off the old ballroom, she had a clear view of the stage. In lieu of curtains, sheets had been hung between the stage and the opening to the hallway, which served as the backstage area. The young performers of Halloran House waited restlessly in the hallway for their turn on stage, at which time Summer motioned them to walk behind the sheets and onto the plywood platform. To her relief and that of the director and staff of Halloran House, the troubled youths were exceptionally well behaved that evening, with only one fight backstage during the show and a minimum of clowning onstage.
Summer was trying very hard to concentrate on the show and her responsibilities to it. Her blue eyes focused fiercely on the performers, as if there were nothing at all on her mind but that talent show. Nothing could have been further from the truth. She hadn’t been thinking clearly since the delivery she’d received that afternoon. She fingered the gold charm at her breast. She was a goner, she thought dispassionately. Derek had won. Hands down. If he asked her to tie herself to a block of concrete and throw herself off the Golden Gate Bridge, she’d probably do it. She would live on a schedule, she would start working harder at her job, she would do anything she had to do to keep this man in her life.
She loved him.
“Good show, huh?” Clay murmured in Summer’s ear as he looked over her shoulder to the stage.
“Very good,” she whispered, smiling back at the handsome blond. “You must be proud of your kids tonight.”
“You bet,” he replied with a dazzling, toothpaste-ad smile. Crazy Clay had dressed in a manner that he considered appropriate for opening night of a youth home talent show. He wore a tuxedo-printed T-shirt, black denim jeans and red, high-topped sneakers with orange laces. Though Clay was thirty-four years old, he looked younger, like a virile, carefree surf bum. Only the faintest of lines around his blue-green eyes gave any indication that there might have been problems in this man’s past.