Chapter 1

At a quarter to five, my boss, Pete Sylvester, steps into my cubicle.  His tie is askew against his white button-down shirt and his sleeves are rolled up like he’s getting ready to arm wrestle someone.  He glances furtively at the statue of Shiva amidst the votive candles, holy cards, sacred stones, and Tibetan prayer flags cluttering my desk.  His voice is soft and apologetic.  “My wife’s in labor.  I need you to attend my event tonight.”

My breath catches in my throat.

I cannot attend Pete’s event tonight.  Not because I’ll miss my weekly Love Addicts Anonymous meeting, which is bad enough, but because Pete’s event is to celebrate a new line of lingerie called Paramour.

Lingerie is one of my triggers.  And I thought I could coast to one year of sobriety after surviving Valentine’s Day.

“Can’t Betty take your spot?” I ask.

“Betty has her own launch tonight.”

“I’ll trade with her.”

Betty stands up in the cubicle next to mine.  “Oh, no, you won’t, missy.  I’ve been working my pants off for this granola company.  I’m not going to let you take all the glory.”

I don’t realize I’m panting until Pete asks, “Are you all right?”

I take a deep breath and hold it for the count of five before exhaling slowly.  

Pete’s cell phone beeps.  He reaches down and glances at the message.  His eyes widen.  “She’s dilated five centimeters.  I have to go now.”  He clasps his phone in supplication.  “Please, please, please, Jules.  I know it’s out of your element, but I trust you can rise to the challenge.”

I stare into Pete’s brown eyes.  They’re as soft and pleading as Romeo’s when he wants an extra doggie biscuit after I’ve already brushed his teeth.  How can I resist?  Pete’s the best boss in the world.  It’s not his fault I never told him I’m a recovering love addict.  Actually, I haven’t told anyone outside my twelve step group and the behavior modification specialist I see once a week.  Pete’s wife and baby need him more than I need him.  Surely, I can handle a room full of bras and panties.  Why else have I spent the last nine months sitting on a folding chair in the basement of Hope Church pouring out my heart and soul to other love addicted women if not to surrender to my Higher Power who can help me overcome a bit of silk and lace?  

“Okay.  I’ll cover for you.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.  You’re the best.”  Pete pulls me close and pecks my cheek.  “Go home and get dressed.  The event starts at seven.  Get there by six and ask to see Donnie.  I’ll let him know you’re replacing me.”

Pete tosses two black and white tickets on the desk before he leaves.  

I turn off my computer, grab my purse, and pick up the tickets.  The girly platinum script reads, “Enjoy a night of divine pleasure with Paramour Lingerie.  Champagne, chocolate fondue fountains, live music, free gifts.”

I stroll out of the office.  The Santa Rosa air is cold and thick with the promise of February rain.  The streets are crowded with evening traffic.  If I hustle, I can make it to my apartment before it sprinkles.  With each step, my thoughts settle around tonight’s event.

Champagne.

Chocolate fondue fountains.

Live music.

It sounds like a divine night of pleasure.  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll meet Prince Charming.  

Stop.  But my thoughts don’t stop.  They zoom forward into detail.  Prince Charming is six foot two and a half inches tall with a ruddy complexion and broad shoulders and hands that promise as much as they deliver.  

Dr. Zoe says you can’t stop thinking something because it leaves a void.  You have to replace it with positive self-talk.  What can I replace it with?  The launch of another boring meditation retreat center in the middle of nowhere that I’ll have to find a creative angle for promoting so we can secure another account on our way toward becoming a marketing powerhouse?  Really, I just need to walk faster.

At the stop light, I take a breath and watch the red hand turn to the white man walking.  Of course, if I meet Prince Charming, he’ll ask me to dance.  

Stop it.  I can’t walk any faster.  My feet ache.  Oh, why didn’t I wear flats?

I catch my reflection in the window of the deli.  A gentle breeze lifts the back of my hair and I think if we dance it will be a waltz.  He’ll be as quick on his feet as Fred Astaire.  I’ll follow each of his steps gracefully.  The rest of the world will fall away.  

Stop it.  Stop it.  Stop it.  Right.  Now.  Only three more blocks until I get to my apartment.  I love my apartment.  It’s one of those new live work spaces that I lease from Carol, the gallery owner who can’t afford to make the payments.  I wouldn’t mind owning the entire unit including the business, because then I wouldn’t have to sell my jewelry on consignment.  When I confided in Carol about my fantasy of creating a world-renowned jewelry line, she kindly commented about my ambitions.  “Be content with what you have,” she said.  “You don’t have to worry about anything.  When your jewelry sells, you get a check for 60 percent.  I pay for advertising, staff, and sales tax.  You don’t even have to file taxes to claim what you’ve made unless it’s over $600.  What could be easier than that?”  Why do people always assume I want the easy way out?

Oh, well.  Being a full-time jeweler is just another fantasy I have.  It seems I’m full of fantasies.

Like the one in which he asks for my phone number…

Stop these thoughts immediately.  Surely, I can think of something besides men and work.  Just two more blocks, then I’ll be home.

…and he’ll send a provocative text message, something tasteful yet flirty, maybe a quote from Shakespeare’s sonnets and I’ll respond with a pithy line from one of the New Age poets I’ve read.  Our banter will go back and forth until we finally meet again.

Oh, why won’t these thoughts stop?

At least, I’m home.  

I unlock the door and my black pug, Romeo, greets me.  He jumps up against my nylons and I shake my finger at him, reminding him to stop, but he never listens anyway.  I wander into the living room trying desperately to avoid tripping on Romeo’s feet.  I sink into the sofa and kick off my heels and rub my aching soles before I call my sponsor.

Romeo barks.

“Not now,” I say, leaning over to rub him beneath his chin.

Ally answers on the second ring.  “What’s up?” she asks, although she knows exactly why I called.

“It’s work,” I say.  “I have to attend an event tonight.  For a new line of lingerie.”
“But I thought you marketed spiritual products,” Ally says.

“I do.  It’s my boss’s event.  He’s off to deliver his first child and he asked me to go.”

“Why didn’t you set a healthy boundary?”

“Ally, I don’t need to be reminded of what I should have done.  I need help to stop it from getting worse.”

“Ask another co-worker to go for you.”

“I can’t.  Betty has her own launch tonight and Lance is on vacation.   I have to go.  But I don’t want to go alone.  Can you come with me?”

Ally groans.  “I can’t.  I have to attend Maya’s play tonight.  She’s Kate in The Taming of the Shrew.”

I sigh.  “What am I going to do?”

“Call everyone on the list.  I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone to go with you.”

That’s no help whatsoever.  But what else am I to do?

I start going through my contact list, calling and leaving messages for everyone in our group.  Romeo tugs the hem of my dress, nudging me to go.  Oh, that’s right.  I haven’t taken him out for his walk.

I grab my rain jacket and the leash.  “Okay, let’s go.  But you have to be quick because I have to leave in a half hour.”

I try not to think about tonight as we walk to the park.  Rain drizzles through the setting sun.  A devilish gray mist rises against the ancient stone bridge where Joseph and I sat to take our engagement pictures before he was indicted on one count of bank fraud.

The broken engagement, the public humiliation, still hurts.

Romeo strains against the leash when he notices the cocker poodle he’s madly in love with.  I try to tug him toward home, but he starts to bark.  I think he’s just as hopelessly romantic as I am.

I glance at my watch.  “We have to go, Romeo.  Or I’ll be late for the event.”

He tugs and whimpers and tugs some more.  The cocker poodle disappears with her owner over the bridge toward the other side of the park.  He watches her with forlorn eyes.  If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was crying.

“C’mon, let’s go home and eat.”

At the mention of food, Romeo begins to trot toward home.  I make him a bowl of his favorite dog food – half dry, half moist – and slip into my bedroom and close the door so I can finally get dressed.  I don’t have time to shower, so I roll a lint brush over my stockings to get rid of the dog hair and spray Euphoria on my pulse points.  My closet is half empty.  I don’t have as much evening wear as I used to have, not since I returned all the gifts Joseph gave me (actually, they were seized as part of the FBI investigation, even the diamond tennis bracelet from Tiffany) and I haven’t had time to shop for any replacements (actually, I haven’t had the need to dress up since I’ve been promoting companies with a more spiritual emphasis).  I finally settle on my old standby – a black sheath dress with enough of a plunging neckline to be provocative but tasteful and a hem short enough to say sexy not slutty.  I pair it with a chunky statement necklace I fashioned out of pearls and white satin.  Add a pair of black strappy heels and a clutch purse, and I’m ready to go.

I grab an umbrella, blow a kiss to Romeo and step out into what promises to be a challenging night.