Something sticks in my throat, and I reach for my glass. I am suddenly short of breath, dizzy. Too much champagne, I think, but now my throat is closed. I can draw no air.
My heart, my heart is palpitating. I cannot breathe!
The plate slips to the floor, and so do I. I am flushed with heat, fighting for breath as the world spins.
I hear voices. Who are they? Who are they?
I see Owen. Am I in his arms? I cannot speak. I would reach for him, but my arms are so weak.
I know fear, such terrible fear that clings to me as I die in my Worth gown on the ballroom floor.
I seem to be standing aside, watching and fearing as Owen holds me. I see the woman in black walk in. Why don’t they see her? I would call out, but I have no voice.
She takes the ring from my finger, the beautiful wedding ring designed only for me.
She puts it on her finger where she wears three others.
She looks at me, and I am so afraid. She looks at me and smiles a terrible smile, and I am more afraid still.
Then she is gone, as I am.
* * *
Sonya spent the early part of her workweek ignoring the occasional bangs and slams, the bell ringing when she pushed herself down to the gym.
She sent proposals off to the Doyles and to the florist, and made what she considered solid headway on the caterer’s project.
Midweek, she took a call from her old boss.
“I waited until noon,” Laine told her, “hoping I’d catch you on a lunch break.”
Lunch was usually half a sandwich or some cheese on crackers, maybe an orange at her desk. “It’s good to hear from you, Laine.”
“How are you doing, Sonya?”
“Really well, thanks.”
Her iPad blasted out “R.O.C.K. in the USA.” She swiped it off.
“How are you, how’s Matt, and everyone?”
“We’re good. Situation normal, so, you know, controlled chaos. Sonya, we got a call from Burt Springer. Ryder Sports.”
“I remember Burt, sure.”
“Ryder’s opening another branch in Portland, Maine. They’ll still have their three Boston stores, including their flagship.”
Puzzled why Laine would contact her about an account, Sonya answered cautiously. “Business must be good.”
“Must be. They want to refresh everything with a major campaign. It’s a big expansion for them. Keep the logo, but with an update. Burt asked for you specifically.”
“Oh.” Torn between pleasure and regret, Sonya reached for her Coke. “That’s flattering.”
“You did good work for Ryder, and Burt knows it.”
“I had a team.”
“You did. And I’m going to be honest. I told him you were no longer with us, and we could certainly handle the project. I also gave him your contact information. Matt agreed with me on that.”
After the quick jolt, she struggled to keep her voice even. “That’s more than generous of you, both of you.”
“Fair’s fair. He’ll certainly contact you. In the meantime, we’re going to work up a proposal and presentation.”
“Of course.”
“We’re fond of you, Sonya, so I’m going to tell you, take the shot only if you’re sure you can hit the target.”
“That’s damn good advice, and I’m going to take it.”
When she hung up, she drank some Coke and tried to think. She got up and paced, and tried to think as Yoda took that to mean time for a walk outside.
She took him out, let him do what he had to do, let him romp through the snow. And thought.
She could hit the target if she got the shot. Yes, she’d had a team working on the designs—the signs, the ads, the beefed-up web page, on all of it. But she’d headed that team.
And an update, a refresh wasn’t an overhaul like Burt and Ryder’s had wanted four—no, five, five years ago. Nearly six, she remembered. The first time she’d headed a team on a major project.
She was better now, she told herself.
Yeah, damn right. If she got the opportunity, she’d take the shot.
She started to call the dog, then heard someone coming up the road. And recognized Trey’s truck when he rounded the last turn.
Surprise.
Of course she wasn’t wearing makeup. When would she learn? And had tossed an old jacket over older sweats.
He looked so damn perfect when he pulled up, got out. Leather jacket instead of a parka, as the temperature had inched up a bit. Jeans, boots, sweater. His hair just the right amount of windblown.
He’d smell good, too, she thought. He always did. Like … easygoing man. Nothing specific, nothing overt, just, well, mmm.