I found myself very amusing. She found me less so.

Now, Martin said, “Liabelle, what do you want me to do? The man is my boss.”

Now I was suspicious. In classic Martin fashion, he hadn’t directly answered my question. “But has he said anything about me?”

Martin shrugged coyly, and I reached for the martini he was delivering to our chic slipper couch, which was covered in a high-shine, low-pile velvet the exact color of a pink Akoya pearl, and gave him the evil eye.

He sighed, dramatically folding himself into one of the beautiful Lucite creations, trimmed in gold, that Mom and Aunt Tilley had procured from a thrift store in—where else?—Palm Beach in the ’70s.

Every thought of Palm Beach was a reminder of Parker, of that spark I felt and, maybe most of all, of the way in which I had failed him. The Summer Splash was coming up, and, normally, I would have been excited to go home for days of parties and croquet and tennis and, obviously, fishing. But this year I had told Mom I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face Parker. I couldn’t be reminded of all the pain I had caused.

“I just told him that you hadn’t done much getting back on the horse since Thad, and that I didn’t know if it would be that easy to convince you.”

I was aghast. “Martin! I liked him. You knew that. I at least wanted to go on a proper date before I wrote him off.”

He looked shocked. “Well, that’s not what you’ve been saying for the past five months.”

He wasn’t wrong. “Well,” I sputtered. “You’re my best friend. You should be able to read my mind.”

He smiled at me wickedly, and, as though he had conjured it, the doorbell rang. I figured it was a new neighbor dropping off a casserole. I had obviously forgotten momentarily that I was no longer in the South, where casseroles were social currency.

I looked at Martin. “I thought I was living with a man so he could protect me in situations when unexpected strangers ring the doorbell.” He crossed one leg over the other and sipped his martini. I was on my own.

I got up and crossed the room, noting that I did feel impossibly glamorous in my mirrored apartment, holding my martini. Martin had even insisted I get a blowout today to lift my spirits. I wasn’t exactly financially secure at the moment and hadn’t wanted to part with the money, but it had been worth every penny.

I opened the door to an unspeakably devastating Harris, in a tux, holding two dozen red roses and a bottle of champagne. He grinned. “Martin suggested that a text might not win me another date.”

I laughed, even more grateful my hair wasn’t in a messy bun. “Come in, come in.”

Now Martin stood up, taking the flowers and the champagne. “Well played, boss. Well played.” Then he paused. “Oh God. There isn’t some heinous limo waiting downstairs, is there?”