The Promise of Change - By Rebecca Heflin Page 0,67

so Sam was surprised that she’d chosen to write a contemporary novel, and was a little concerned that Sarah wouldn’t be able to pull it off.

The American and the Aristocrat. Catchy title, she thought. She clicked on page one:

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single female in possession of little fortune must be in want of a rich husband. A title didn’t hurt either.”

Good start, Sam thought, love the allusion to Jane Austen. Sipping on her wine, Sam settled in for what she sincerely hoped was a good read.

A fretful week passed with still no word from Sam. Sarah didn’t want to nag her about it. She was busy, right? And not just avoiding her. Maybe.

With the manuscript completed and no job, Sarah found herself at loose ends. The glut of nervous energy meant her house was spit and polished, her running shoes were worn out, and her legs toned from frequent endorphin-releasing runs, and her weeds were afraid to show their faces for fear of being yanked out of her garden by their roots. She’d had lunch and dinner with Ann and Becca so many times, that they, and their husbands, were probably sick of her.

It also meant she had more time for introspection, particularly where Alex was concerned. She often wondered what he was doing. Was he working on his next film? Had he mended the rift with his brother? Were the tabloids still dogging his well-heeled heels?

More importantly, did he have some glamorous super-model, actress, or entertainer on his arm, or worse, in his bed? Someone who could handle the heat of the limelight?

She frequently questioned what he saw in her, given his apparent penchant for illustrious, sophisticated women, and what Robert called his “playboy lifestyle.” Of course, from what she’d seen of his conservative brother, anything short of the priesthood would be deemed a playboy lifestyle.

The phone rang, startling her into awareness. She hadn’t realized she’d stopped in front of the French door with a load of laundry in her arms, and stood staring out at her garden.

Dropping the laundry on the sofa, she dove for the phone, thinking it must be Sam.

“Sam?”

“Er, no. Sarah, it’s Albert Cheswick.”

Mr. Cheswick? What could he possibly want? Dejected, Sarah said, “Hello, Mr. Cheswick. What can I do for you?”

“I was calling to ask if you were available for lunch tomorrow. We can meet wherever is convenient for you,” he continued, as if she’d refuse otherwise.

“Sure.” Even more confused, and not a little curious, she said, “We can meet at J.J.’s Grille on Park, if you’d like.”

“Okay, say around noon?”

“That’s fine. Mr. Cheswick, what is this about exactly?”

“Sarah, I don’t mean to be so secretive, but I’d rather discuss it in person.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow then.” She hung up the phone and plopped down on the couch. Had they found a problem with one of the legal matters she’d handled?

Maybe he needed some legal advice. But no, he probably had a team of lawyers who advised his accounting firm. He couldn’t be offering her job back. Impossible. The Bitchkrieg would never stand for that.

She’d just have to wait until tomorrow. Just one more thing she’d have to wait for. And whatever it was would be a surprise. Waiting and surprises. Neither of which sat well with her.

Chapter 4

Sam sat in her hotel room, a hard copy of Sarah’s manuscript on the desk next to her. She’d finished it about an hour earlier, but not soon enough. She’d hoped to have finished it in a day or two, as per her usual routine, but other obligations interfered.

She’d apparently fallen asleep with it on her lap. The plopping of the pages as the entire second-half of the manuscript slid onto the floor woke her. After the frustrating process of arranging the pages back into numerical order this morning, she’d finished it.

Drumming her fingers on the desk, she waited, impatiently listening to what was supposed to be soothing ‘hold music,’ but it only made her count the seconds as they ticked by. She had a flight to catch, and needed to get this ball rolling.

“Sam. Sorry for the delay. I couldn’t get off the phone with one of my more needy clients. What’s up?”

“Marlene, do you still have that client who’s in the market for an adaptable novel?”

“Sure. He’s always in the market for good option opportunities. What do you have?”

“I’m sending it to you now, and I’ll give you the synopsis in a hundred words or less.” Sam clicked