The Promise of Change - By Rebecca Heflin Page 0,3
Maybe you’ll meet your soul mate there, and we’ll all visit you at his family’s ancient estate.”
“Right,”—Sarah rolled her eyes—“the mistress of Pemberley.”
“Keep your mind and your heart open. It will happen. You’re too terrific not to find that one person who will feed your mind, your heart, and your soul. And speaking of feeding, let’s go eat.”
“You bought a Boxster?”
There it was. ‘The tone.’ Choosing to ignore it, Sarah said, “Yes. Do you like it?”
“What’s not to like? But what on earth possessed you to get rid of your safe, reliable Volvo and replace it with this Cougar Car?”
“It’s not a Cougar Car.” Sarah’s defenses went up. “It’s an intelligently-designed, precision-engineered sports car.”
“Good grief, Sarah, you sound like a car salesman.” Becca waved her hand in the air dismissing her sales pitch. “Don’t you think it’s a bit flashy? Red? Really?”
“You’re the one who’s always saying I should step out of my comfort zone.” Sarah shrugged nonchalantly, but she was definitely second-guessing her purchase under the weight of Becca’s scrutiny.
“The key word there is ‘step.’ Step. Not leap.” Becca whispered her hand across the sleek, curvy lines of the car. “What will the Admiral think?”
Sarah cringed. Admiral George Stovall Edwards, U.S. Navy, Retired, a.k.a. Daddy.
“Sends chills down your spine doesn’t it?” Becca replied with a grin, before Sarah could form an answer.
Avoiding the rhetorical question, Sarah replied, “Do you want to ride with me to the restaurant, or are you just going to stand there being judgmental?”
“Are you kidding?” she said as she opened the passenger door. “Of course I want to ride. But I reserve the right to be judgmental again once the adrenalin wears off.”
The trendy new restaurant was in an old warehouse district that was undergoing gentrification, but it could still be a rough area. It would be light until nine o’clock, so as long as they left before dark, Sarah, Ann, and Becca felt safe.
Parking on the street a block from the restaurant, Sarah put the top up while Becca worked the tangles from her blond hair.
“Okay,” Becca conceded, “that was fun, I’ll give you that, but not very practical if every time you arrive at your destination you almost snatch yourself bald trying to repair your coiffure.”
Sarah laughed as ran her fingers through her curls. “It gives you a nice wind-blown look.”
“So does hanging your head out a car window, but I wouldn’t do that either,” Becca groused as they walked to the restaurant.
The two spotted Ann already seated in a cozy booth. Ann looked up from her Blackberry with a frazzled smile. Between her husband and her two kids, she constantly shuffled her schedule to accommodate their many obligations.
Sarah and Ann Parham had been friends since their freshman year of high school. They’d been through the awkward teenage years, the dating, the crushes, the break-ups, and Sarah’s agonizing career change.
She and Becca were her Gibraltar when she went through her divorce. She couldn’t have made it through without their love and support . . . and their occasional well-intended nagging.
“Hey, Sarah, Becca.” Even though Ann had lived in Florida since the age of twelve, she’d never lost her molasses-sweet Alabama accent.
“What’s up?” Sarah asked as Ann stood up to hug first her then, Becca.
“Oh, Rob just texted me that he wants to invite some potential clients over for a cook-out this weekend. He’s apparently forgotten that the kids have a soccer tournament on Saturday, and we’re spending Sunday with his parents.” She tucked a strand of corn-silk hair behind her ear and tapped out a quick reply.
Although she married rather young, she married well. Despite her husband’s busy international travel schedule, they’d been happily married for over twenty years. Maybe that was the secret to their success, Sarah thought with a wry grin.
“I don’t know how you keep up with everyone’s schedules. Thank goodness I only have my own schedule, and Carlos handles that for me,” Sarah said with a shrug as she turned to her menu.
Ann gave her a sly look. “How’s it going with Carlos? He still giving you puppy-dog eyes? Not that I blame him. After all, you’re a gorgeous thirty-eight year old divorcee, and you know what they say about divorcees . . . .” A grin spread over her face.
Stunned by her comment, Sarah dropped her menu. “What?”
“You know, about divorcees being—”
“That’s not what I mean, the part about Carlos—”
“Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed. He’s got a first rate crush on you.”