"
"Damn it. It's not me."
I proceeded to relate to her my own recent discoveries, pointing out Seth's observation concerning how long it took for works to come out in print. When I finished, I think I had mostly convinced her of my innocence, though sordid stories flying around the workplace still obviously distressed her.
Studying nothing in particular, Paige drummed her lacquered red nails against the desk as she thought about what to do. "This will get cleared up with the staff in time. That, or they'll just get over it. What I don't like is the idea of any outsiders drawing conclusions. You do sound like that character, and anyone else who reads the story could make the same mistake. I don't want rumors starting that half of Seth's reason for working here is that he gets sexual favors on the side, courtesy of our employees."
"Oh Lord." I covered my face with my hands, wondering how celebrities dealt with truly large-scale scandals. This small one was bad enough. I wanted to disappear. It tainted the beauty of what Seth and I were trying to build.
"I think the best way to approach this is - "
Her words dropped off as a grimace crossed her face and one hand clutched her stomach.
I started toward her. "Are you okay?"
She nodded, forcing a strained smile. "It...it's nothing."
"The hell it is. You should call your doctor...or at least go home."
"No, it'll pass. Besides, I've got too much to do. I need to make the new schedule and go over some inventory stats."
"That's crazy. I can do that stuff."
She shook her head, arguing again, and I argued right back. At last, Paige yielded, which only verified something must be seriously wrong. Those who went head-to-head with her rarely won.
So, I finished my shift doing her extra jobs and serving as backup. It was exhausting, but I was happy to do it, still worrying about her and her baby. When we closed, I headed straight over to the suburbs, following the directions Bastien had given me.
When I pulled up to his house, I could only sit in my car and stare for a few minutes.
Now, I had a few well-formed ideas about the American Dream. After all, I'd been alive in the days when the term was first coined. I'd seen it arise, seen the mythology that surrounded it, seen the white picket fences and cute, well-kept neighborhoods. I'd even watched Leave it to Beaver. Seth's brother, for example, lived north of the city and had a pretty nice chunk of it carved out.
But this? This was an American Wet Dream.
Bastien's house went on forever, expanding ostentatiously beyond its marble and taupe facade. Even if he'd had a wife and family, I doubted they could have filled it up, and anyway, the kind of people who lived in these places didn't have large families. After all, this was the generation that had, what, 1.75 kids?
The garage had three doors, as advertised, and tasteful shrubs and ornamental trees decorated the lawn. Since it was dark now, I couldn't see the rest of the neighborhood in detail, but I suspected I'd find more of the same. One house, next door, was lit up and busy with people. It was even bigger than Bastien's and probably the location of the party.
"Are you compensating for something?" I asked when the incubus opened his door.
Mitch Hunter flashed me the million-dollar grin. "My sweet sister, you and I both know that's not true. Love your haircut."
I'd come as Tabitha Hunter, lean and blond, though I'd conceded to his earlier complaints and given myself shoulder-length hair. He kissed my cheek and ushered me inside for a quick tour.
After a few rooms, it all started blurring together. Cherry hardwood floors. Gorgeously painted walls. Sleek black appliances. Wainscoting. A hot tub out back. Enough guest bedrooms to house a Girl Scout troop. And cute, cleverly placed knick-knacks everywhere.
"Isn't this going a bit far?" I asked, pointing to a framed copy of the Lord's Prayer in the foyer.
"Tabitha, my love, man cannot survive on bread alone. We can, however, survive on delicious appetizers and hamburgers, so let's head over."
We arrived considerably after the starting time, since I'd been at work, and the party was in full swing. Maybe I shouldn't have been so quick to dismiss these suburbanites after all.
"Mitch!" called a loud voice as we shouldered our way through the people. Most were dressed for the barbecue theme in shorts, T-shirts, and Hawaiian prints.
"Hey, Bill," returned