Cheating at Solitaire

"I say what's right and wrong," Richard corrected. "And believe me, this is right! Hey, who needs Hamlet? We've got Taming of the Shrew." Richard laughed at his own cleverness. "Whatcha waiting for?" Richard asked. "Tell your girlfriend to come over!"



"You've got the wrong idea. She isn't my girlfriend." "Not your girlfriend?" Richard asked as if this were a kink in his master plan to take over the universe. "Who knows?" "Who knows what?" Lance asked.



"That you're here with her," Richard said, growing impatient.



"I'm not here with her," Lance insisted.



"If nobody knows you're not, then you are," Richard said, flipping his hands like a magician who had just made a quarter disappear. "You're here. She's here. A few tasteful photos and—"



"This was a mistake." Lance stood and left the table.



As he headed to the door, he passed Julia and heard her on her cell phone saying, "You can't make it? That's fine. I just hope you get to feeling better. Take care of yourself. Bye-bye." As she hung up, she looked at him and asked, "How did it go?" But the expression on his face must have been answer enough because she said, "That's a shame."



She'd placed his pilfered rose in the vase on her table. Water spots still darkened the linen tablecloth, but it seemed to Lance as if it had been a year since he'd joined her there.



"I'm sorry," she said, no doubt sensing that Lance hadn't enjoyed his time on the other side of the room.



"Thanks anyway," he told her and walked away.



Was it the entire basket of bread that Julia had eaten or the morose look on the man's face as he turned and walked out of Stella's that caused her to lose her appetite? She honestly didn't know. But since Harvey, her agent, wasn't feeling well and wouldn't be joining her for lunch, Julia laid some bills on the table and went to say good-bye to Giovanni.



Two free hours felt like an unexpected blessing. She could window-shop or people-watch in the park—theater of the living, she'd always called it, and Manhattan was its greatest stage. But when Julia stepped beneath the restaurant's awning, a cool, wet wind slapped her across the face. Rain pelted the sidewalks, and pedestrians darted past like darkened blurs with newspapers and briefcases held overhead.



Definitely not people-watching weather. On the street, traffic crawled, so Julia shivered beneath the awning, remembering that sudden thunderstorms always produced a shortage of taxis in Manhattan, while dry weather led to a bumper crop—the very opposite of rain's effect in Oklahoma. Shivering, she considered going back inside to finish her meal when she glanced behind her and noticed she was sharing the shelter of the awning with the same man who, moments before, had shared her table. An awkward pang flashed in Julia's gut, but the rain grew harder, and she wasn't eager to brave the weather and walk away.



Do I know him? Julia found herself wondering. He didn't seem like someone who worked in publishing, and she hadn't exactly been a social butterfly during the years she lived in Manhattan, but she couldn't shake the sense that she'd seen him somewhere before—maybe on a Wheaties box. Tall and strong, with sharp, gray eyes and broad shoulders, he had a clean-scrubbed, fresh-faced, All-American Quarterback way about him. She saw him cross his arms—strong, agile, hunky arms—and she thought she might be right, but then he caught her staring, so with the customary grace of every gangly girl who has ever been caught staring at the captain of the football team, Julia jerked her eyes back to the street. Where's a bathroom to hide in when you need one?



When at last a cab did pull to the curb, they both stood awkwardly for a second before she nodded at him and said, "It's yours."



"No," he said, shaking his head. "Take it."



"Really," Julia said and gestured toward the waiting car. She gave him her best "I'm an independent woman who appreciates the gesture but is happy to decline" nod, but the young man took her arm and led her out into the rain, opened the cab door, and once she was inside, closed it behind her.



Julia suddenly felt out of her element. "Where to?" she heard the cabbie say, but her eyes never left the man who had turned up the collar of his jacket and was lumbering down Seventy-fifth Street, a dark silhouette in the gray shower. "Lady," the driver said impatiently, drawing her back to the task at hand, "where are we going?"



"FAO Schwarz," she told him, and they pulled away from the curb.



They drove slowly, trying to meld back into the heavy traffic, so the pace of the cab matched the pace of the young man who hunkered against the wet wind. It looks really cold out there, she thought. Pneumonia weather. A shower of guilt washed over her. It violated her every feminist notion to take the only available taxi in New York when it was pouring rain. Plus, her mother would have told her it was rude. She cracked the window and yelled, "Stop!" When the cab halted, she cracked the window wider and yelled to the dark, wet figure on the sidewalk by the car. "Hey, come on. Stop."



He looked at her, and Julia no longer saw a cocky quarterback who was concentrating on the big game. Maybe it was the way the rain ran through his hair and streaked across his face, or maybe it was the way he slouched, hands in pockets, as if the weather was the least of his problems, but Julia said, "Come on, share it with me."



Lance looked up at clouds and reached down to open the door. As they pulled into traffic and disappeared down Seventy-fifth Street, Richard Stone bolted from Stella's, climbed into a chauffeured Town Car, and yelled, "Follow that cab," as if he'd been waiting his entire life to say it.



Chapter Three  



WAY #22: Be careful with your money.



Having a single household almost always translates into having a single income. For some people, making sound financial decisions comes naturally. For others, it's a  challenge  . Know your economic thresholds and take responsibility for living within your means.



—from  101 Ways to Cheat at Solitaire



He still going to FAO Schwarz?" the driver’ asked.



Julia and Lance looked at each other. Before Julia could respond, Lance said, "Wherever you're going is fine with me. I don't have any place I need to be." "Are you sure?"



"Yeah," Lance said. "Go on," he said to the driver, then turned to Julia and eyed the toy advertisement in her hands. "Your kids must be crazy about you."



"Oh." Julia glanced at the laser-printed page. "No. I don't have kids. It's my niece's birthday."



"Oh, that makes more sense. That looks about right for an aunt."



"True." She laughed, and Lance thought he'd never seen a face so pure. After three years of looking at artificial lips and eyes and breasts, he felt like he was seeing genuine features for the very first time. "It's my job to spoil them," Julia admitted.



"I'm Lance Collins, out-of-work actor," he said and offered his hand. "Thanks for the lift."



Julia reciprocated. "I'm Julia James, person who buys the love of children."



Lance laughed and said, "No harm in that."



"So what happened back there? Who was he?"



Lance opened his mouth to reply, but Julia quickly waved her hand. "No. Never mind. That's none of my business."



"That's okay," Lance said. "That was my agent. He . . . well . . . we're experiencing creative differences."



"I'm sorry," she said.



"Don't be. You did your part."



When the taxi stopped, Julia handed the driver some money and told him to keep the change. She and Lance slid out of the backseat of the car, and Julia extended her hand again and said, "It was nice meeting you. Good luck."



"You, too," he told her. Then, instead of hopping back into the cab, he began walking down the wet sidewalk through the still-heavy drizzle. Julia stood in the plaza in front of the store's main entrance and watched him. What if he's suicidal? she thought to herself. What if he walks in front of a bus? Julia imagined waking up the next morning to a headline about a depressed, out-of-work actor who'd thrown himself on the subway's third rail. If that happened, she'd never forgive herself.



Then she looked through the glass storefront at a busy, public place filled with stuffed things and snappy music. "Do you want to come shopping?" she found herself calling after him. "Toys? Games? Lots of happy childhood memories? It might cheer you up." Lance looked back at her.



Then, with the exuberance of a child, he said, "Cool," and led the way inside. As they stopped to admire a towering display, they didn't see Richard Stone staring at them through the window, hands cupped around his eyes.



"Oh, this is honey!" Richard muttered, then began dialing his cell phone. "Tammydonotputmeonhold!" he yelled. "Listen very carefully, and do exactly what I say."



Lance hadn't been able to see over the pile of toys in his arms for several aisles. Bright colors bore down all around them, and in the distance, the sounds of children playing superhero filled the air. He couldn't imagine that there was something in the store Julia hadn't bought yet, but they kept walking.



"All of this is for your niece?" he asked.



"I have a niece and a newborn nephew. Cassie is turning five on Saturday."



Her high heels tapped out a steady beat on the tile, and Lance marched dutifully behind, kind of enjoying the balancing act he was performing with an Etch A Sketch that teetered on top of the pile. "I hate to disappoint you," he said, "but some of these seem a little advanced for a five-year-old."



"You don't know Cassie. She's five going on forty."



"Ah"—he nodded—"one of those."



"Yes," Julia said, tucking more boxes beneath her arms.



Lance was beginning to think that he could get used to being around someone so comfortable in her own skin. That's the problem with the theater, he thought. Everybody's acting.



"So," he asked, trying to sound casual, "where's this party going to be?"



"Tulsa, Oklahoma. That's where I live."



"You don't live here?" Lance asked, a little dumbfounded and surprisingly disappointed. "Wow. I never would have pegged you for a tourist."



"Oh." Julia was quick to correct. "I'm not. I used to live here—years ago. I come back for business every now and then. You might say I'm more like an expatriate."



"Well," Lance said, mustering up a smile. "Welcome back."



"It is you!" a woman squealed behind them and ran through the aisle of toys, dragging a little boy behind her. Judging from the look on the child's face, Lance guessed that his arm was about to pop right out of its socket, and would have if the woman hadn't stopped in front of Julia.



"Miss James! Miss James! Oh, it is you! I'm Linda. Linda Westerman Worthington. I've read everything you've ever written. Everything!" The woman jerked the little boy's arm and said, "His sorry SOB of a father ran off and . . . Oh! I can't believe it's really you."



"Hi," Julia said, with her most professional smile. She leaned down to the little boy. "And what's your name?"