CHAMPAGNE AND CHEAP WHISKEY

THE LAST CALL — Love Is Never an Accident Vivienne Ashcroft had spent most of her fifty-six years avoiding cheap hotels, cheap liquor, cheap perfume, and cheap conversation, and now, stranded in Chicago by the worst October snowstorm anyone could remember, she was beginning to suspect that the universe had developed a rather unpleasant sense of humor, because her chauffeur had abandoned her at the Beaumont Grand Hotel, the airport had canceled every flight to New York, and the magnificent champagne she had ordered forty minutes earlier had arrived at precisely the wrong temperature. "This is unacceptable." The woman behind the bar regarded her with an expression of polite interest. "The champagne, madam?" "The temperature." "Ah." "It's supposed to be served at eight degrees." "An admirable temperature." "This is considerably colder." "Is it?" Vivienne set down her crystal flute. "I can assure you." The bartender, an extraordinarily composed woman with copper-red hair arranged in an elegant updo, wore a perfectly pressed white shirt beneath a tailored black waistcoat, a small black bow tie, and a discreet gold nameplate that identified her simply as Mirelle . She regarded the champagne for a moment. "Would madam prefer that I warm it?" Vivienne looked horrified. "Good heavens, no." "An unfortunate dilemma, then." Vivienne studied the woman suspiciously. "Are you making fun of me?" "Certainly not, madam, although I confess that champagne has always struck me as one of life's more forgiving pleasures." "Well, it isn't." "How disappointing." Vivienne almost smiled, but caught herself in time. She was wearing a beautifully tailored ivory cashmere dress beneath a pale gray jacket, with a double strand of pearls that had once belonged to her grandmother, diamond earrings that had cost more than her first automobile, and exquisite black patent-leather pumps whose narrow heels had already proved hopelessly unsuitable for navigating the snow-covered pavement outside. Her dark chestnut hair, streaked naturally with silver at the temples, was swept into an elegant French twist, and her makeup remained immaculate despite a day that had begun with a disastrous board meeting and progressed steadily toward catastrophe. Vivienne was accustomed to being listened to, accommodated, and occasionally feared, because the Ashcroft family owned a considerable collection of commercial properties, two expensive vineyards, and enough shares in various enterprises to ensure that people generally returned her telephone calls. Unfortunately, none of these advantages had persuaded the weather to cooperate. She glanced toward the windows, where enormous snowflakes swirled against the glass. "How long is this supposed to continue?" "The storm?" "No, the champagne." Mirelle smiled. "Apparently until morning." Vivienne sighed. "Wonderful." "Would another drink help?" "Only if it's better than this one." "Then perhaps something entirely different." Vivienne raised an eyebrow. "Such as?" Mirelle considered her thoughtfully. "Whiskey." Vivienne looked as though the bartender had suggested shoe polish. "Absolutely not." "Of course." "I don't drink whiskey." "Then we shall have to find another solution." Mirelle moved away to serve a customer who had just taken a seat at the opposite end of the bar, leaving Vivienne to contemplate the apparently deteriorating standards of modern hospitality. The newcomer was a woman in her early forties, tall and broad-shouldered, with sun-browned skin, strong hands, and short dark hair that had been flattened by a knitted woolen cap she had removed upon entering. She wore faded blue jeans, a dark green flannel shirt beneath a weathered brown leather jacket, and sturdy boots that had clearly encountered more than their share of mud, diesel fuel, and badly maintained parking lots. A small scar crossed one eyebrow, and her eyes, an unusually vivid shade of green, surveyed the luxurious surroundings with undisguised amusement. "Well, I'll be damned." Mirelle approached her. "Good evening." "Evening, ma'am." "What can I get you?" "Depends what you've got that doesn't require a second mortgage." Mirelle smiled. "Quite a respectable selection, actually." "Whiskey?" "Certainly." "The cheapest you've got." "An interesting preference." "Lady, my truck just broke down in the middle of a snowstorm, I've spent the last three hours arguing with a tow-truck dispatcher who thinks the entire world revolves around his lunch break, and the only reason I'm sitting in a place like this is because the motel across the street is full, so unless your whiskey comes with a complimentary mechanic, I'd rather not spend twenty dollars on it." Mirelle regarded her with growing amusement. "Understood." "And make it a double." "Of course." The woman shrugged off her jacket, revealing a plain black T-shirt beneath the flannel, and settled onto the stool with the weary relief of someone who had spent rather too much of her life sitting behind a steering wheel. "What's your name?" she asked. "Mirelle." "Pretty name." "Thank you." "I'm Jo." "A pleasure, Jo." "Josephine when my mother's angry with me, Jo to everybody else, and Trouble if you happen to ask my ex-wife." Mirelle's smile deepened. "An impressive collection of names." "Depends who's calling." Mirelle poured the whiskey into a sturdy tumbler. "Here you are." Jo took a sip, closed her eyes, and sighed with genuine appreciation. "Now that's what I call a drink." At the other end of the counter, Vivienne made a small noise of disapproval. Jo turned. "Something wrong, ma'am?" Vivienne looked up, startled. "I beg your pardon?" "Sounded like you disapproved of my whiskey." "I don't believe I said anything." "No, ma'am, but you made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a woman watching somebody put ketchup on a filet mignon." Mirelle lowered her head slightly, concealing a smile. Vivienne regarded the newcomer. "I simply happen to believe that certain things are worth paying for." Jo glanced at the champagne flute beside her. "Like that?" "Precisely." Jo looked at the glass. "Looks like fizzy apple juice to me." Vivienne's expression became glacial. "It's vintage champagne." "Congratulations." "From a particularly exceptional year." "Then I hope the grapes enjoyed themselves." Mirelle suddenly developed an urgent interest in polishing the counter. Vivienne stared at Jo for several seconds, then, quite unexpectedly, laughed. It was not a particularly dignified laugh, and it startled Vivienne almost as much as it did the bartender. Jo grinned. "Well, there we go." "What?" "First smile I've seen in this place since I walked in." Vivienne straightened. "I smile." "Sure you do." "Frequently." "Then I'll have to keep an eye out." Jo Mercer had been driving trucks for twenty-one years, beginning with local deliveries in Ohio before moving to long-distance freight, and although she had encountered almost every kind of weather imaginable, she had never developed much affection for snowstorms that arrived without warning and left eighteen-wheelers stranded on roads designed by people who apparently believed gravity was an optional inconvenience. Her truck, a lovingly maintained blue Kenworth she called Bertha , had suffered a spectacular mechanical failure on the outskirts of Chicago, and by the time a tow vehicle had finally arrived, the weather had deteriorated so badly that even the repair shop's night mechanic refused to venture outside. Jo had been directed toward a nearby motel, discovered it was full, and eventually found herself at the Beaumont Grand, where the night manager had explained, with genuine regret, that the storm had stranded dozens of travelers and every available room had already been taken. "Look, I don't need anything fancy," Jo had told him, gesturing toward the snow swirling beyond the revolving doors, "because I've spent half my life sleeping in a truck, and right now I'd be perfectly happy with a bed, a blanket, and somewhere to put my boots." "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am, but we genuinely haven't a single room left." "Well, that's just wonderful." The manager had considered her for a moment, then lowered his voice. "However, given the weather, you're more than welcome to remain in our lobby until conditions improve, and I'll make certain nobody disturbs you." Jo had looked toward the luxurious armchairs arranged around the enormous fireplace. "You're telling me I can sleep in one of those?" "I would prefer to say that you're welcome to rest there." Jo had grinned. "Buddy, you can call it whatever you like, just as long as nobody throws me out before breakfast." The manager had smiled and directed her toward the bar, where she might find something warm to drink before settling in for the night. Now, nursing her whiskey, Jo glanced toward the elegant woman at the other end of the counter, wondering whether she'd ever spent a night in a hotel lobby, and privately deciding that the answer was almost certainly no. There was no denying that she was beautiful, in a rather intimidating sort of way, with magnificent silver-streaked hair, an expensive-looking dress, and the kind of posture that suggested she had been taught to sit properly before she had learned to walk. Jo suspected the woman had never changed a tire, eaten breakfast from a paper bag, or spent a night in a truck-stop parking lot, and under ordinary circumstances she would have considered that a perfectly reasonable reason to leave her alone. Unfortunately, she had also noticed that the woman looked profoundly unhappy. Not irritated, although there was certainly plenty of that. Unhappy. Jo recognized the expression because she had worn something very similar during the months after her marriage ended. "Another?" Mirelle asked. Jo glanced down at her empty tumbler. "Maybe one more." Mirelle poured the whiskey, then looked toward Vivienne. "Would you mind terribly helping me settle a small disagreement?" Jo raised an eyebrow. "Depends what kind." "Nothing serious, merely a question of taste." "All right." Mirelle leaned closer. "The lady over there believes that champagne is the superior drink, while I have suggested that a respectable whiskey can be every bit as satisfying." Jo grinned. "Well, I like a woman who knows what she's talking about." "Naturally." "What's the disagreement?" "She considers inexpensive whiskey beneath her standards." Jo looked toward Vivienne. "Oh, does she?" "Apparently." Jo lifted her glass. "Well, I suppose that explains why she looks like she's just swallowed a lemon." Mirelle gave her a warning glance that somehow managed to look almost affectionate. "Perhaps you could explain the appeal." Jo considered this for a moment. "Well, whiskey doesn't pretend to be something it isn't, does it?" "An interesting observation." "It's brown, it's strong, it warms you up, and if you drink too much of it, you'll regret it in the morning, which is a pretty honest arrangement as far as I'm concerned." Mirelle smiled. "Perhaps you should tell her." Jo looked across the bar. "Nah." "Why not?" "Because she's probably got enough problems without some truck driver explaining life's mysteries over a cheap drink." Mirelle tilted her head. "Perhaps you're underestimating her." "Wouldn't be the first time I've underestimated somebody." At twelve twenty-three, the lights flickered. Only briefly, but long enough for several guests to glance nervously toward the chandeliers, and Vivienne looked up from her telephone with obvious annoyance. "Oh, for heaven's sake." Jo turned toward the windows. "That's not good." "What isn't?" "Power lines." Vivienne regarded her. "What about them?" "With snow coming down this hard, especially when it's wet and heavy, branches start falling and transformers start complaining." Vivienne glanced toward the ceiling. "Is there a possibility we'll lose electricity?" "Sure is." "Wonderful." Jo smiled. "You say that a lot." "Because things keep being wonderful." "Well, at least you're consistent." Vivienne looked at her, then unexpectedly laughed again. "Are you always this cheerful?" "Nope, only when everything's going wrong." "Then you must be having a splendid evening." "Lady, my truck's broken down, my dispatcher probably thinks I've disappeared somewhere in Mexico, and I'm stranded in a city that's rapidly turning into one enormous snowdrift, so I'd say it's been a pretty memorable day." Vivienne smiled. "Well, at least you can get a good night's sleep and worry about everything tomorrow." Jo laughed. "That's one way of looking at it." "What's that supposed to mean?" "Means I'm spending the night in the lobby." Vivienne stared at her. "The lobby?" "Yep." "Here?" "No, the one across town." Vivienne gave her an exasperated look. "Jo, I'm serious." "So am I, because every room in this place is taken, every motel within walking distance is full, and I'm not about to hike through a blizzard looking for a bed when there's a perfectly good armchair downstairs." "That's absolutely dreadful." "Could be worse." "How?" "Could be outside." Vivienne shook her head. "Surely the hotel can do something." "They did, they said I could stay as long as I needed, which was pretty decent of them, considering I look like I ought to be delivering something through the service entrance." Vivienne studied her for a moment. "You're a remarkably cheerful woman under the circumstances." Jo grinned. "Well, complaining won't get my truck fixed, will it?" "No, but it might get you a better room." "Lady, unless you've got a spare one in your purse, I don't think that's going to happen." Vivienne looked at her, then took another sip of champagne. She said nothing, although somewhere behind the counter Mirelle de Valcour appeared to find the conversation particularly interesting. Half an hour later, a particularly violent gust of wind rattled the tall windows, and Jo glanced at the enormous arrangement of white flowers behind Vivienne. "Mind if I ask you something?" Vivienne looked up. "That depends." "On what?" "Whether it's impertinent." Jo laughed. "Probably is." Vivienne sighed. "Go ahead." "Why are you sitting here looking like somebody stole your favorite horse?" Vivienne stared at her. "My favorite what?" "Horse." "Why would you assume I own a horse?" Jo looked at her expensive dress, pearls, and immaculate hairstyle. "Educated guess." Vivienne laughed before she could stop herself. "For your information, I don't own a horse." "Really?" "Not anymore." Jo's eyebrows rose. "Well, I'll be damned." Vivienne took a sip of champagne. "And I'm not unhappy because of a horse." "Good, because horses are terrible listeners anyway." "Are they?" "Every one I've met." Vivienne studied her, increasingly amused. "And what makes you think I'm unhappy?" Jo shrugged. "Because you keep checking your phone like you're waiting for somebody to apologize, and every time it lights up, you look disappointed." Vivienne lowered the telephone slowly. For a moment her expression became guarded. "That's rather personal." "You're right." Jo nodded. "Sorry, shouldn't have said anything." She turned back toward her drink. Vivienne looked down at the telephone, then toward the stranger who had so casually identified something her closest friends had failed to notice for months. "No," she said quietly, "you were right." Jo turned. "About what?" "I am waiting for an apology." Jo said nothing. "Although I suspect I'm going to be waiting a very long time." "Somebody hurt you?" Vivienne gave a small, bitter laugh. "Something like that." Jo nodded slowly. "Yeah." "Yeah?" "Know the feeling." Vivienne studied her. "Do you?" "More than I'd like." A small silence settled between them. Then Vivienne glanced toward the empty stools separating them. "Would you like to sit a little closer?" Jo looked surprised. "Me?" "Unless there's another truck driver hiding behind you." Jo laughed. "Well, when you put it that way." She picked up her whiskey and moved to the stool beside Vivienne. For several minutes they spoke about entirely ordinary things, beginning with the storm, moving through the absurd cost of airport parking, and eventually arriving at a lively disagreement over whether expensive restaurants were worth visiting when a roadside diner could serve perfectly good food for one-tenth the price. "That's ridiculous," Vivienne declared. "Why?" "Because fine dining is about more than simply putting food on a plate." "Sure is, it's also about charging forty dollars for three carrots and calling it an experience." Vivienne laughed. "You've clearly never been to a proper restaurant." "I've been to plenty." "Name one." Jo thought for a moment. "There's a little place outside Tulsa where they serve chicken-fried steak big enough to cover the entire plate." Vivienne looked horrified. "That is not what I meant." "Best gravy in Oklahoma." "I'm sure." "And the waitress calls everybody sweetheart, which is more than I can say for the last fancy restaurant I visited." Vivienne smiled. "Perhaps you simply chose the wrong restaurant." "Maybe." Jo leaned back. "Tell you what, you take me somewhere fancy, and I'll take you to a proper truck-stop diner, and we'll see who comes out ahead." Vivienne regarded her. "Are you inviting me to dinner?" Jo hesitated. Then she smiled. "Would you come?" Vivienne surprised herself by answering immediately. "Possibly." Jo laughed. "Well, I'll take possibly." At one fifteen, Vivienne finally told Jo why she had been checking her telephone. "My husband left me eleven months ago." Jo looked at her. "I'm sorry." "Don't be, because I spent the first six months convinced it was the greatest tragedy of my life, and the next five discovering that I had apparently been living with a man I barely knew." "How long were you married?" "Thirty-one years." Jo let out a low whistle. "That's a long time." "It certainly felt like one." "What happened?" Vivienne traced a finger around the rim of her glass. "He met someone else." Jo winced. "Ah." "A woman who works in his office, naturally, because apparently men of a certain age have an irresistible attraction to women who admire their business accomplishments." "How old is she?" "Thirty-two." Jo raised her eyebrows. "Oh, hell." "Quite." "Any kids?" "Two sons, both grown, both successful, and both currently avoiding any conversation that might require them to acknowledge that their father behaved like a complete fool." Jo shook her head. "That's rough." Vivienne sighed. "The most humiliating part isn't that he left me for somebody younger, because I know perfectly well that I'm no longer thirty, and frankly I wouldn't want to be, but that he spent months telling people our marriage had been unhappy for years, as though I were some dreadful burden he had finally found the courage to escape." Jo listened quietly. "And was it?" Vivienne looked at her. "Was what?" "Unhappy." Vivienne opened her mouth, then closed it again. For a long moment she stared into her champagne. "I don't know," she admitted. "That's an answer." "Not a particularly satisfying one." "Doesn't have to be." Vivienne looked toward the windows. "We had a beautiful house, wonderful holidays, successful children, more money than either of us could ever reasonably spend, and friends who considered us the perfect couple, but somewhere along the way we stopped doing anything together unless there was an audience." Jo nodded. "That sounds lonely." "It was." Vivienne turned toward her. "And the extraordinary thing is that I didn't realize how lonely it was until he left." Jo reached across the small space between them and gently touched Vivienne's hand. "That's a hell of a thing to discover." Vivienne looked down at the hand resting upon hers. It was a strong hand, with short nails, faint scars, and a small patch of rough skin near the thumb, and there was something unexpectedly comforting about its warmth. "Yes," she whispered, "it is." Jo withdrew her hand after a moment, then lifted her whiskey. "My wife left me four years ago." Vivienne looked up. "Your wife?" "Yep." "I didn't realize you were married." "Used to be." Vivienne considered this. "And what happened?" Jo smiled sadly. "Nothing dramatic, which almost made it worse, because we spent thirteen years together, built a little house in Tennessee, bought a dog, planted tomatoes in the backyard, and convinced ourselves we'd grow old sitting on the porch." "That sounds lovely." "It was, for a while." "What changed?" Jo stared into her glass. "I kept leaving." "For work?" "Yeah, and at first we managed it pretty well, because she'd come along on some trips and I'd take time off between runs, but eventually the miles got longer, the bills got bigger, and every time I came home there seemed to be a little less of us left." Vivienne listened. "Did she meet someone else?" "Eventually." "I'm sorry." Jo shrugged. "Can't really blame her, because she wanted somebody who was there in the morning, somebody who'd help with the garden, somebody who'd remember to buy milk without being reminded, and all I ever seemed to bring home was dirty laundry and another story about a broken-down truck." "Surely you brought more than that." Jo looked at her. "Maybe." "Did you love her?" "Very much." "And did she love you?" "I think so." "Then perhaps neither of you was entirely wrong." Jo smiled faintly. "You're pretty good at this." "At what?" "Making complicated things sound reasonable." Vivienne laughed. "I've spent thirty years negotiating business contracts, darling, and compared with some of the people I've dealt with, human relationships are practically straightforward." Jo grinned. "Darling, huh?" Vivienne suddenly realized what she had said. "Oh, I didn't mean—" "I like it." Vivienne blushed. "Well." Jo smiled. "Well, indeed." Mirelle returned with a small plate of warm pastries and two fresh napkins. "Compliments of the house." Vivienne looked at the plate. "What are these?" "Miniature apple turnovers." Jo's face brightened. "Oh, now you're talking." Vivienne eyed them suspiciously. "Are they freshly made?" "Certainly." "With real butter?" "Naturally." "And proper pastry?" Mirelle smiled. "Madam, I would never insult you with anything less." Jo laughed. "I think she's got you figured out." Vivienne selected one of the turnovers, took a cautious bite, and closed her eyes. "Oh, my goodness." Jo grinned. "Good?" "Extraordinary." Mirelle inclined her head. "I shall pass your compliments to the kitchen." Jo took one too. "Well, I'll be damned, that's better than anything I had for dinner." Vivienne turned toward her. "What did you have?" "A cheeseburger from a gas station." Vivienne looked genuinely appalled. "That is dreadful." "Wasn't bad." "Jo, nobody should have to eat dinner at a gas station." "Funny, I was thinking the same thing about people who pay fifty dollars for a piece of fish." Vivienne burst out laughing. Mirelle watched them with unmistakable satisfaction. "Perhaps, ladies, the truth lies somewhere between the two." "There's no middle ground between gas-station hamburgers and properly prepared sea bass," Vivienne declared. Jo grinned. "Sure there is." "Where?" "A diner." Mirelle smiled. "An excellent suggestion." At one thirty-seven, Vivienne's telephone rang. She glanced at the screen, and her expression changed. Jo noticed immediately. "Him?" Vivienne nodded. "My ex-husband." "Going to answer?" Vivienne hesitated. "I probably should." "Why?" "Because he might need something." Jo considered this for a moment. "Does he?" Vivienne looked at the screen again. Then, quite deliberately, she turned the telephone face down. "No." Jo smiled. "Good for you." Vivienne exhaled slowly. "Do you know, I think that's the first time I've ever ignored one of his calls." "How's it feel?" Vivienne considered the question. "Surprisingly wonderful." Jo lifted her glass. "To surprisingly wonderful things." Vivienne laughed and raised her champagne. "To surprisingly wonderful things." Their glasses touched. For a moment their fingers brushed, and neither woman seemed particularly inclined to withdraw. The snow continued falling, and by one forty-five the Beaumont's magnificent bar had become almost deserted, with only a few guests remaining near the fireplace and the last waiter quietly preparing the tables for morning. Mirelle selected an old jazz recording, a warm, unhurried melody that drifted through the room like the memory of another age. Jo looked toward the speakers. "Now that's a beautiful song." Vivienne smiled. "You know it?" "My mother used to play it." "Mine too." Jo laughed. "Well, there's something I didn't expect." "What?" "That you and I would have anything in common." Vivienne looked at her. "Neither did I." "Guess we were both wrong." "Apparently." They smiled at each other. Then Jo glanced toward the small open space beside the fireplace. "Would you like to dance?" Vivienne stared at her. "Here?" "Why not?" "Because this is a hotel bar." "Looks like a perfectly respectable place to dance." "And I'm wearing shoes that cost more than your whiskey budget for an entire year." Jo laughed. "Well, we can't have you damaging those." Vivienne considered her for a moment. Then she bent down, slipped off her black patent-leather pumps, and placed them neatly beneath the stool. Jo's eyebrows rose. "Well, I'll be damned." Vivienne stood. "Are you always going to say that?" "Probably." "Then I suppose I'll have to get used to it." Jo offered her hand. "May I?" Vivienne smiled. "Please." They moved toward the fireplace, where the golden glow of the flames mingled with the soft light from the chandeliers, and Jo placed one hand gently at Vivienne's waist while Vivienne rested hers upon Jo's shoulder. For several seconds they moved awkwardly, laughing at their own uncertainty. Then Jo drew her a little closer. "Is this all right?" "Yes." "You're sure?" "Very." Vivienne had danced with men for most of her adult life, at charity balls, corporate receptions, family weddings, and countless formal dinners, but there was something unexpectedly different about being held by Jo, whose movements were unpolished but confident, whose strong hand rested against her back with genuine care, and whose green eyes regarded her with an openness she had almost forgotten existed. "Jo?" "Yeah?" "You're a surprisingly good dancer." Jo smiled. "Had plenty of practice. "At truck stops?" "Mostly in my kitchen." Vivienne laughed. "With your wife?" "Sometimes." "That sounds lovely." "It was." Jo looked at her. "And you're a surprisingly good dancer yourself." "Surprisingly?" "Well, I wasn't sure whether you'd approve of dancing without a reservation." Vivienne laughed so hard she nearly lost her balance. "You're impossible." "So I've been told." She drew Jo a little closer. "And do you know something?" "What?" "I'm beginning to find it rather attractive." Jo stopped moving for the briefest moment. "Are you now?" Vivienne looked into her eyes. "Very much so." They continued dancing until the music faded, and neither woman immediately released the other. Jo's hand remained at Vivienne's waist, while Vivienne's fingers rested lightly against the collar of Jo's flannel shirt. For a long moment they looked at each other. Then Jo smiled. "Mind if I ask you something?" "Of course not." "Have you ever kissed a woman?" Vivienne's eyes widened. "That's rather direct." "Sorry." "No, don't apologize." She hesitated. "Once." Jo raised an eyebrow. "Really?" "A very long time ago." "Tell me." Vivienne smiled at the memory. "I was twenty-three, visiting a friend in Paris, and we met a woman who worked at a little art gallery near the river, and she was absolutely beautiful, with dark eyes and the most magnificent red hair I'd ever seen." Jo laughed. "Sounds like the bartender." Vivienne glanced toward Mirelle, who was quietly arranging bottles at the counter. "Actually, she does rather." "What happened?" "We spent an afternoon wandering through galleries, had dinner at a little restaurant, and afterward she walked me back to my hotel." "And?" Vivienne smiled. "She kissed me." Jo studied her. "Did you like it?" Vivienne looked into her eyes. "Very much." "What happened then?" "I went home." "Why?" "Because that's what I was supposed to do." Jo nodded slowly. "Ah." Vivienne sighed. "I've spent an extraordinary amount of my life doing what I was supposed to do." Jo's expression softened. "And what would you like to do now?" Vivienne looked at her for a long moment. Then she smiled. "Something entirely inappropriate." Jo laughed softly. "Like what?" "Like kissing a woman I met in a hotel bar who drinks cheap whiskey, drives an enormous truck, and apparently considers gas-station hamburgers acceptable cuisine." Jo's smile widened. "Sounds like a terrible idea." "Absolutely dreadful." "She probably has questionable table manners too." "Undoubtedly." "And I hear she snores." "Then I shall have to take that into consideration." Jo stepped closer. "Vivienne?" "Yes?" "Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?" Vivienne smiled. "My dear Jo, I was beginning to think you'd never ask." Jo leaned forward, one hand settling gently against Vivienne's waist while Vivienne lifted her fingers to Jo's cheek, and when their lips met, the kiss was soft, hesitant, and unexpectedly tender, as though both women were discovering that something they had long ago stopped expecting might still be possible. Vivienne closed her eyes. For the first time in months, she wasn't thinking about her ex-husband, her business, her carefully arranged schedule, or the thousands of expectations that had shaped her life. She was thinking only about the warmth of Jo's arms and the extraordinary pleasure of being kissed by someone who seemed to want nothing from her except the kiss itself. When they separated, Jo was smiling. "Well." Vivienne laughed softly. "Well, indeed." "That was nice." "Nice?" Jo grinned. "Very nice." Vivienne slipped her arms around Jo's neck. "Josephine Mercer, you have a remarkable talent for understatement." "Been told that too." "Then perhaps you'd better kiss me again." Jo smiled. "Yes, ma'am." And she did. When they returned to the counter, Mirelle was waiting with their bill and an expression of impeccable professionalism. "I trust the evening has improved?" Vivienne looked at Jo, then back at the bartender. "Considerably." "How gratifying." Jo glanced at the clock. "Nearly two." "Indeed." "Well, I suppose we'd better call it a night." Vivienne looked at her. "And what exactly are you planning to do?" Jo shrugged. "Find myself a comfortable armchair downstairs, take off my boots, and hope nobody starts vacuuming at six in the morning." Vivienne stared at her. "Josephine Mercer, you are not spending the night in the lobby." Jo laughed. "Well, unless you've got another suggestion, I don't see much choice." "As a matter of fact, I do." "Oh?" "You can stay with me." Jo blinked. "What?" "In my suite." "Vivienne—" "I have an enormous suite upstairs, Jo, with a sitting room, a ridiculous bathroom, and a bed large enough to accommodate a small orchestra, and I refuse to allow you to spend the night sleeping in a chair when there's perfectly good space available." Jo looked at her for a long moment. "That's mighty kind of you, but I don't want to put you out." "You wouldn't." "And I don't want you thinking I'm taking advantage." "Jo, you're a grown woman, I'm a grown woman, and I believe we're both perfectly capable of deciding whether we'd enjoy spending a little more time together." Jo smiled. "Well, I certainly wouldn't mind that." "Good." "But I can sleep on the sofa." Vivienne raised an eyebrow. "Why on earth would you do that?" Jo hesitated. "Well, I just figured—" "Josephine." "Yes?" "I didn't invite you upstairs to sleep on the sofa." For several seconds Jo merely stared at her. Then a slow grin spread across her face. "Well, I'll be damned." Vivienne laughed. "You really must learn another expression." "I'll work on it." "Excellent." Jo leaned a little closer. "Vivienne, are you sure?" Vivienne reached for her hand. "My dear, I've spent thirty-one years sharing a bed with a man who eventually decided he preferred somebody else, and eleven months sleeping alone in a bed that suddenly seemed much too large, so I can assure you that the prospect of sharing one with a woman who makes me laugh, holds me beautifully when we dance, and kisses me as though she genuinely means it is not something I find particularly frightening." Jo's expression softened. "That's about the nicest thing anybody's said to me in a long time." "Then perhaps you ought to hear nice things more often." "Maybe." Vivienne smiled. "And before you ask, no, I don't expect anything from you except that you stop worrying about being an inconvenience." Jo took her hand and kissed her fingertips. "Deal." Vivienne paid the bill, leaving a generous tip that caused Jo to whistle softly. "Good grief, woman, that's more than I spend on groceries in a week." "Then perhaps you should let me take you grocery shopping." Jo laughed. "Now there's an adventure." Mirelle accepted the receipt with a gracious nod. "Thank you, madam." "No, Mirelle, thank you." "For what?" Vivienne glanced toward Jo. "For suggesting that I might enjoy something other than champagne." Mirelle smiled. "My pleasure." Jo picked up her leather jacket. "Well, I suppose I should get my bag." "Where is it?" "Downstairs, behind the reception desk." Vivienne turned toward Mirelle. "Would you mind terribly asking someone to have Miss Mercer's belongings brought up to my suite?" "Certainly, madam." "And please inform reception that she's my guest." "Of course." Jo shook her head in amusement. "You certainly know how to arrange things." Vivienne smiled. "Darling, I've been arranging things for most of my life." "Yeah, but I have a feeling tonight's a little different." Vivienne slipped her hand into Jo's. "Very different." They walked toward the elevators, Jo carrying Vivienne's expensive black patent-leather pumps in one hand and her battered leather jacket over the other arm, while Vivienne padded barefoot across the magnificent carpet with an expression of happiness that would have astonished anyone who had witnessed her earlier disagreement about champagne temperature. At the elevator doors, Jo stopped. "Vivienne?" "Yes?" "Just one more thing." "What is it?" "You know I'm probably going to wake up before you do." "Why?" "Twenty-one years of getting up at ridiculous hours to drive a truck." "Then I shall simply have to persuade you to stay in bed." Jo grinned. "That sounds like a challenge." Vivienne stepped closer. "Josephine Mercer, you're about to discover that I can be a very persuasive woman." Jo laughed. "Well, I've got nowhere else to be until they fix my truck." "Then I suggest we make the most of it." The elevator arrived, and Jo stepped inside with Vivienne, who promptly slipped her arms around the younger woman's neck and kissed her with a warmth and confidence that left very little doubt about how she intended to spend the remainder of the evening. As the doors began to close, Jo smiled against her lips. "You know, for a woman who doesn't drink whiskey, you're full of surprises." Vivienne laughed softly. "And you, my dear, are about to discover that champagne tastes considerably better when shared." Then the doors closed. Mirelle de Valcour stood alone behind the magnificent marble counter, examining the signed receipt while Daniel, the night waiter, returned from the service corridor carrying a tray of clean glasses. "Another interesting evening, Madame de Valcour?" "Rather." He glanced toward the elevators. "Wasn't that Mrs. Ashcroft?" "Indeed." "She's a very important woman, isn't she?" "So I'm told." "And the other lady?" "A truck driver." Daniel blinked. "A truck driver?" "Apparently." He looked toward the elevators again. "Well, that's an unusual combination." Mirelle smiled. "Is it?" "An enormously wealthy businesswoman and a truck driver?" "Both women, Daniel." "Yes, madam." "Both lonely." "I suppose." "Both rather fond of dancing." He laughed. "Well, when you put it that way." Mirelle began extinguishing the small lamps along the counter. "People have an unfortunate habit of dividing themselves into categories, Daniel, and then spending their entire lives wondering why nobody understands them." "That's rather philosophical." "Occupational hazard." He smiled, gathered his tray, and wished her goodnight. When she was alone, Mirelle glanced toward the two empty glasses that remained on the counter, one delicate crystal flute and one heavy whiskey tumbler, and for a moment her expression became almost wistful. She remembered other improbable couples, women separated by countries, languages, fortunes, and circumstances, who had nevertheless discovered that the heart was remarkably indifferent to such distinctions. She also remembered, although she seldom allowed herself to think about it, a time when someone had told her that a Weaver ought to concern herself with matters considerably more important than the fleeting attachments of ordinary people. Mirelle had never agreed. There were very few things, she had discovered, more important than giving someone a reason to look forward to tomorrow. She collected the glasses, placed them carefully beside the sink, and switched off the final lamp. "Champagne and cheap whiskey," she murmured with a satisfied smile. Then she shook her head. "And they say good taste can't be taught." Outside, the snow continued falling across Chicago, burying the streets beneath a soft white blanket, while high above the sleeping city, in a luxurious hotel suite overlooking the river, a wealthy woman who had spent years believing she knew exactly what she wanted was discovering that happiness sometimes arrived wearing faded jeans, a flannel shirt, and a pair of thoroughly inappropriate boots. THE END