The Apple Orchard

“Why not? Lots of people like things that are soft and mushy.”

“People in old age homes, maybe.”

“Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

“Then pour me another drink. I’m celebrating tonight, too,” she reminded him.

He refilled her champagne flute. “Ah, yes. We’re celebrating the fact that you’ve done the firm out of a Holmstrom original.”

“Don’t be bitter. We’re getting a mint condition Tiffany service, right down to the sugar tongs. The other things, as well.”

“I’d rather have it all. What was the old lady thinking, that hanging on to the necklace is going to bring her mother back from a Nazi death camp?”

“Gee, how about I ask her exactly that?” Tess drank more champagne.

“Okay, sorry. I’m sure you tried your best.”

“She’s a nice lady. Kind, filled with stories. I wish I had more time to spend with her. Do me a favor, and get a ton of money for her Tiffany.”

“Of course. I’ll send over our best appraiser. By the way, Nathan’s brother is checking you out.” He glanced over her shoulder.

“And?”

“And, are you available?”

“If you mean, am I seeing someone at the moment, the answer is no.”

“What happened to Motorcycle Dude?”

“Rode off into the sunset without me,” she confessed.

“And Popeye the Sailor Man?”

She laughed. “The navy guy, you mean. Eldon sailed off into the sunset. What is it with guys and sunsets?”

“You seem heartbroken.”

“Not.” In order to have her heart broken, she had to give it into someone’s care, and she simply wasn’t willing to do that. Too dangerous, and men were too careless. Both her mother and her grandmother were proof of that. Tess was determined not to become a third-generation loser. Tess knew what she was good at—primarily, her work. In that arena, she was in control; she had been raised to keep a firm grip on things. Matters of the heart, however, were impossible to control. She found intimacy unsettling, especially in light of her friends’ defection to marriage and even starting families.

“I’m going to stop trying to keep track of the men you date,” said Jude. “None of them stick around long enough for me to remember their names, anyway.”

“Ouch,” she said. “Touché.”

“Do you secretly hate men?” he inquired. “Could that be the problem?”

“God, no. I love men,” she said. She broke eye contact and turned to stare out the window. Night lay over the city in a blanket of gold stars. “I’m just not very good at keeping them around.”

“You want to get a room, make wild monkey love for a while?” Jude suggested, lightly running his finger from her shoulder down to her elbow.

She gave his arm a smack. “Don’t be a creep.”

“Just being practical. We’re the only ones here who aren’t coupled up, so I thought—”

“What, us? We would destroy each other.”

“You’re no fun, Sister Mary Theresa. When are you going to give in to my charms?”

“How about never?” She tossed back the last of her champagne. “Does never work for you?”

“You’re killing me. Fine, I’m going on safari to soothe my poor, rejected ego.” Bending down, he gave her a peck on the cheek, then smiled at her with fond familiarity. “Later, Gorgeous. I’ve got a one-night stand to organize.”

“Okay, that’s depressing.”

“No. Going home alone is depressing.” He moved toward the moodily lit bar, where young women were lined up like ducks in a shooting gallery.

Tess had no doubt he’d make a conquest. Jude always made an outstanding first impression. Not only did he look as though he’d stepped out of an Armani ad; he had a way of gazing at a woman that made her feel as though she’d instantly become the center of his world.

Tess saw straight through him, though. In his own way, he was as lonely and damaged as she was.

She set down her champagne flute and went to look out the window. San Francisco on a clear night was pure magic, the city lights like a necklace of diamonds around the bay, the sky as soft as black velvet. The bridges were swagged by golden chains formed by their cables. Boats of every size glided back and forth in the water. The skyscrapers lined up like gold bars of varying heights. Even the traffic in the streets below moved along in ruby-studded chains of gold. Tess had visited dozens of the world’s cities—Paris, Johannesburg, Mumbai, Shanghai—but San Francisco was her favorite. It was the kind of city where being independent was valued, not pitied or regarded as a problem to be rectified by well-meaning friends.

She approached the newly engaged couple to say her goodbyes. Watching her friends together, flushed and smiling, joy shining from their eyes, Tess felt a twinge of bittersweetness. Lydia was one of those people who made love look easy. She wasn’t naive enough to regard Nathan as perfect. Instead, she simply trusted him with her heart. Tess wondered if that was a learned skill, or if you had to be born with it.

“I’m taking off,” she said, giving Lydia a hug. “Call me.”

“Of course. Be careful going home.”

Tess left the bar and stepped into the elevator. The angled mirrors of the car were oddly placed, so that her image grew smaller and smaller, into infinity. She studied that image—pale skin and freckles, wavy red hair, a Burberry trench coat she’d bought in Hong Kong for a fraction of its price in the U.S.

She stared at her image for so long that she began to look like a stranger to herself. How was that possible?

For no reason she could discern, her heart sped up, hammering against her breastbone. Good God, how much had she had to drink? Her breathing grew shallow in her upper chest, and her throat felt tight. She gripped the handrail, trying to steady herself against a wave of dizziness.

Maybe she was coming down with something, she thought as the sensations persisted, accompanying her all the way down to the opulent lobby of the hotel. No. She didn’t have time to come down with something. It was out of the question.

There were mirrors in the lobby as well, and a glance told Tess she didn’t look like a woman who was about to collapse. But she felt like one, and the feeling chased her out the door. She dashed outside, into the night, heading toward the Lower Nob Hill neighborhood where she lived. No need for a taxi. The brisk walk might do her good.

Her heels clicked nervously on the pavement. The metallic squeal of a streetcar pierced her eardrums. Her vision blurred in and out of sharpness as though she were peering through binoculars and adjusting the focus. Her heart was still racing, breathing still rapid and shallow. Maybe it was the champagne, she thought.

If she had a doctor, she would ask him. But she didn’t have a doctor. She was twenty-nine years old, for Pete’s sake. Doctors were for sick people. She wasn’t sick. She just had the occasional feeling her head was going to explode.

She took out her phone and dialed her mother without much hope of getting her. Shannon Delaney was traveling somewhere in the Lot Valley in France, an area famed for its history, its wines and scenery—and notorious for its lack of cell phone signals.

“Hey, it’s me, checking in,” she said. “Call me when you get a chance. Let’s see, Lydia and Nathan are getting married, but you don’t care about that because you don’t know Lydia and Nathan. I found a complete set of Tiffany today. And some other stuff. Call me.”

She put the phone away, wondering when the jittery feelings would abate. A cigarette, that was what she needed. Yes, she was a smoker, having fallen thoughtlessly into the habit on her first major business trip to France. She knew the horrific health effects as well as the next person. And naturally, she intended to quit one day. Soon. Just not tonight.