“I’m not sure this is the best way to fix your problem with her.”

“Look, Annabelle, do you want to help me or not?”

“It’s just that—”

“Right,” he said abruptly. “I keep forgetting we have different philosophies about running a business. I like to please my clients, and you don’t care. But then maybe you enjoy limiting yourself to senior citizens.”

She shot up from her chair, whale spout quivering. “Fine. You want to go to the party with me tomorrow, go ahead.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up at noon. What’s the dress code?”

“I’m so tempted to tell you black tie.”

“Casual then.” Through the window, he spotted Bodie pulling up to the curb. He propped a hip on the corner of her desk. “Let’s not mention to Phoebe that I asked you to bring me along. Just tell her you think I’ve been working too hard, and I need a little relaxation before I meet any more of those women you have lined up.”

“Phoebe’s not stupid. You don’t really think she’ll believe that?”

“If you’re convincing she will.” He straightened and headed for the door. “Successful people create their own reality, Annabelle. Grab the ball and get in the game.”

Before she could tell him that she was already playing as hard as she knew how, he was on his way down her sidewalk. She walked over to the door and shut it behind him. Once again, he’d seen her at her worst: no makeup, phones out of order, and wrangling with Mr. Bronicki. On the positive side, Rachel was going to look really good to him this evening by comparison.

Annabelle wondered if they’d sleep together. The idea depressed her way too much. She headed for the kitchen and poured herself a glass of iced tea, then carried it back to her office, where she called John Nager to check on the lunch date she’d arranged.

“She had a cold, Annabelle. Noticeable congestion.”

“John, women come with germs.”

“It’s a question of degree.”

She wondered how Heath would deal with a hypochondriacal client. “She wants to see you again,” she said, “but if you’re not interested, I have other clients who will be.”

“Well…She’s very pretty.”

“And germy, like every other woman I’ve fixed you up with. Can you handle that?”

John eventually decided he’d give it a go. She dragged out the vacuum and made a few desultory swipes at the downstairs, then filled a pitcher to water Nana’s African violet collection. As she added a few drops of fertilizer, she contemplated arranging a date between Mrs. Porter and Mr. Clemens. They were both widowers in their seventies, two more of Nana’s clients she couldn’t quite shake. Mrs. Porter was black and Mr. Clemens white, which might give their families trouble, but Annabelle had sensed a lot of interest when she’d run into them at the grocery store, and they both loved to bowl. She carried the pitcher into her office. Would she ever get rid of these seniors? No matter how many times she explained to them that Marriages by Myrna had closed its doors, they kept on showing up. Even worse, they expected her to continue charging Nana’s fees.