Midnight Resolutions. Kathleen O'Reilly
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white flower in her direction.
“Let me be the judge of nothing.”
Carefully Rose made neat stacks of the envelopes on the blotter, then dabbed at the smudged glass with the edge of her blazer, and finally adjusted the tiny silver desk calendar, all of which made her feel better, but did nothing to stop Sylvia’s tapping foot.
Of all the topics that Rose would love to discuss with Sylvia, this wasn’t one. Although, maybe if she talked about it, maybe if she put it out there, it would be no big. After all, it was no big, not big at all. The countess’s shoe clicked on the marble like a ticking time bomb.
Frantically, Rose scanned her desk, but there was absolutely nothing else to straighten. Because she was not a coward nor intimidated by the idea of confessing meaningless minutiae, Rose crossed her legs and lifted her chin in her best “it was nothing” attitude.
“I kissed someone last night.”
“Remy?”
“Another him,” Rose admitted.
Now looking completely intrigued, the countess raised her eyebrows, but didn’t speak. Rose was on her own. Grudgingly she owned up to the truth.
“I met someone. Times Square. It was a total fluke. I dropped my phone. He helped me out. He was…I don’t know, but…”
“And you kissed this flukey someone?” the countess asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.
“Yes.”
“At midnight?”
Evenly, Rose met her eyes, showing no fear at all and nodded.
“I see.”
“What do you see?”
“New Year’s Eve. Times Square. Midnight. Stranger. Handsome, I presume.”
“Certainly, but it wasn’t the handsome that bothered me.”
The countess flew to the desk. “Bothered you? Grab the police sort of ‘bothered you’?”
Rose shuffled the envelopes. “No. Worse.”
“Are you going to make me play twenty questions, Rose?”
There was an empty pit in her stomach when she looked up. The countess was a friend, the mother Rose had always known existed, but confiding never came easy to her. This time, however, the temptation to talk was strong, to understand, to purge.
“You had a plan, you executed, you got exactly what you wanted. Along the way, did you ever get sidetracked? Did you ever think you weren’t in control? That life wasn’t going to cooperate with what you wanted? Or is that part of it? A test of strength to see if you can overcome getting sidetracked?”
That nefarious possibility crept up on her, making Rose nervous. When you needed your life to be plotted, planned and perfectly implemented, the idea of bigger forces being at work was a disaster.
No, the bigger force was self-will and determination. Rose had to stay focused. Think Sun Tzu, think tough. Think…magic.
No.
Yes.
Maybe?
All muddled inside, she looked to the countess for advice, not even concerned that she was frowning, which wasn’t her best look.
“You believe in fate, an invisible nudge that is pushing you toward that perfect someone?”
“No.” Probably not.
Sylvia tapped a finger to her head. “And that is the correct answer, young grasshopper. Never forget. As women we can’t sit back and let the world whip us around, gusting this way and that, all because we’re too spineless to design our own destinies. Take this place. Do you think this is destiny? Hell, no. I adore Anton, there is no other man for me, but…”
“But what if we have a soul mate?” The words were clearly audible, yet Rose’s gaze flicked worriedly around the room, because there was no way that she had said that.
“Right, and there are three crones sitting around a pot, cackling like constipated hens. The hard truth is that they all live on the thirty-second floor of Central Park West, not somewhere in the wilds of a Shakespeare fable, missy.”
Relieved, Rose nodded once. “You’re right. When you’re right, you’re right.”
The countess patted her hand. “Don’t get caught up in the fantasy, Rose. A kiss can linger, sticking in your brain like yesterday’s chewing gum. Are you going to see him again?”
“I can’t. I don’t even know his name.”
“Problem solved!” Sylvia popped away from the desk, and spread her arms wide.
“It’s a billion to one shot I’d even run into him a second time,” Rose reasoned. Manhattan was huge, it was impossible to find someone unless they, for example, wanted to be found, or put an ad in missed connections. Why, if she didn’t read missed connections then she’d never know. On the face of it, the odds against her ever meeting him again were boggling.
“Not just a billion to one,” the countess corrected, “a gazillion. But, let’s walk down the primrose path. Let’s say you do run into him. Then you let him take you home, screw his brains out and promptly get him right out of your head. Unless he’s royalty. And then, dear Rose, you have my permission to marry him. But there’s no screwing with royalty. At least not at first. Women must appear to be patient, passive and never, ever, eager beavers. You have to think about these things. Sex has repercussions. Consequences.”
Rose didn’t want to think about sex; she’d spent all last night not thinking about sex, and frankly, all that not thinking about sex was making her dizzy. Finally she snapped back to the present. “I’m pretty sure he’s not royalty. Maybe finance.”
Sylvia’s mouth tightened into a disapproving moue.
“He looked like he was still doing okay,” Rose added, wanting to defend him.
Still, Sylvia appeared doubtful. “I can see you’ve got your mind preoccupied here. It’s written all over your little dreamy face.”
Hearing that, Rose removed all traces of dreamy from her face, and Sylvia continued.
“If you do have a chance encounter, go ahead, work him out of your system, and then come back and we’ll start in immediately on Plan B.”
“The bachelor auction?”
“Of course. You’re going to win the bid, you’re going to bed him, and it will turn out to be the best night of your life.” Sylvia strolled over to her flowers, then looked up and shot Rose a wink. “But do not forget. If there’s any sex to be had with this Prince Charming, you have to share every sordid detail. And leave nothing out.”
Rose held up a solemn hand. “I promise.”
FOR IAN, BEING A RUTGERS men’s basketball fan was a testament to his unwavering loyalty. Win, lose or pulverized, the three friends were always there. It had started during college. He, Beckett and Phoebe had hung out at the games between exams. After graduation, after all the life choices had been made, they moved from the student section into the moderately snazzy mezzanine where the alumni presided, secure in their life choices and their employment decisions.
On the first day of the New Year, Ian was no longer secure in his employment decisions, but the Rutgers team was sucking like a vacuum and the arena was empty, so hey, he kept his head high.
After grabbing a soda and springing for an order of nachos, Ian jogged up the concrete steps to his spot. There was the standard ritual of unspoken greeting. Phoebe waved a red cup, slightly rumpled in jeans and a Knights sweatshirt. Beckett merely grunted.
All social obligations aside, Ian checked the score. Down by ten already. Okay, not a good night at the RAC,