the other side. Had this really been for me? Yes, that was my name on the outside, in the same standard computer font as the letter. It had to be from Mr. D.—who else could it be from?
I could phone him. I could …
I dangled the paper between my fingertips.
There was no such thing as privacy anymore. I might have an unlisted home phone number, but my information—everyone’s—was all over the place on any number of databases, easily found. I crumpled the paper and threw it into the recycling bin. Then I picked it back out, smoothed it with my palms and wished he’d written it, not typed it. There was one way I could determine it was from Mr. D.—quite simple. I could make a call to that number.
No, not now. I folded the paper and pushed it into a desk drawer, out of sight.
After all, I couldn’t be sure it was him. A good proportion of the male population assumed that a woman was on the radio purely to get a man, meaning them. They sent in photos, some with their cats or dogs, and some, the anonymous ones, proudly displaying an erection but not their face. They sent their resumes, or long rambling letters explaining how we’d been soul mates in Arthurian Britain. We attracted the sad lonely misfits, and that was the end of it.
“You look good. Did you get into Azure Sky okay?” Kimberly bent forward and examined her lipstick in the women’s room mirror.
“Uh-huh.” One of the razors Hugh had left behind had done perfectly well.
“Now be nice to him.”
“You sound like you’re running the best little whorehouse in Texas.” I tucked my small silver purse under one elbow, rearranged my shawl and willed my nipples to behave. I wasn’t wearing a bra—my top was a gray silk halter-neck, found at a yard sale. Above my knees, the taffeta rustled. To complete my happy-radio-hooker outfit I wore thigh-highs, black with a seam, and a pair of large dangly fake diamond earrings.
Kimberly gripped my elbow and escorted me out of the ladies’ room.
“You have the right to remain silent. You have—”
“Smart-ass.” She tugged me across the foyer, filled at intermission with well-heeled, mostly middle-aged patrons, mixed in with a few Birkenstocked old hippies, and some younger people in jeans and hiking boots and down vests. The symphony was nothing if not diverse.
We approached a group of people with champagne glasses; our station manager, Bill, was among them and the administrative director of the symphony. Kimberly made introductions, her mane of blond hair tossing, and I got to meet Willis Scott III.
He was the sort of man Kimberly would go for—I preferred them in faded blue jeans or baggy khaki shorts—dark with a bit of gray, handsome; expensive haircut, suit, cologne.
“I’m surprised you enjoy the symphony,” he said.
“Why?”
“You listen to music all day.”
“I don’t listen to it a whole lot. There’s quite a lot to do in the studio while the music’s playing.” Phone sex, for example.
“Sounds interesting.”
I nodded, searching for something to say. “Tell me about what you do.”
He was only too happy to, running off at the mouth about prime interest rates and equity, and how this was a great time to buy up.
I drank champagne and tried to look intelligent.
“I’ve got a new development just north of town,” he said. “Great architecture, real exclusive, beautiful setting. We’ve preserved the environmental integrity, lots of trees and stuff, and we’re keeping it upscale, you know what I mean? Second homes, mostly—”
“If you’re that concerned with environmental integrity, why develop it? It’s not as though you’re providing housing for people who really need it.”
He frowned, his handsome brow wrinkling. “There’s a demand, you wouldn’t believe it. But Jo, you know, if you’re in the market—”
I guess that was what happened when you wore designer clothes or possibly gave off some sort of involuntary slutty radar. “I don’t have any plans to—”
“Call me.” He produced a business card.
“Okay.”
Like a gentleman he held my champagne glass while I opened my purse and tucked his card away.
He moved a little closer to me and tugged my shawl back on to my shoulder. His manicured fingers rested on my bare skin a little too long. “You’re a very attractive woman, Jo. Maybe we could have dinner sometime?”
I stepped back. “I work most evenings, Willis.”
“Lunch, then. And we could drive out to the development after. Commune with nature. How about it?”
“I’ll let you know.” I couldn’t wait to throw away—in the recycling bin, of course—his business card.
“Great shoes.”
That was all I needed, a shoe fetishist. Maybe it was an attempt at empathy.
To my great relief the chimes sounded for the second half of the concert. As we walked back into the concert hall, one of the group—a fortysomething fair-haired woman—walked beside me.
“I wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your show.”
“Thanks.”
“You always sound so approachable. I think a lot of people get intimidate by classical music. It’s a shame.”
“It is. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Liz Ferrar.” She smiled and touched my arm. She whispered, “If Kimberly thinks Willis is a hot prospect for the station, she’s wasting her time. He’s a real tightwad. The whole family is. And he’s a jerk.”
“Fuck, yes. He hit on me so hard, I couldn’t believe it. Liz, don’t you run the women’s center in town?” She was the reference Patrick had given, the one I claimed to know. “I guess you know Patrick Delaney.”
“Oh, yes. He’s a sweet guy. He designed our site for free. How do you know him?”
“He applied to be my tenant.”
“Good. I’m glad he’s leaving Elise—I mean, you hate to see a couple break up, but when they’re both so unhappy …” She shrugged.
“Come visit us—me, I mean, and Patrick, too. Call me at the station.” We exchanged cards.
Happy that I’d made a new friend, I shushed Kimberly so I could listen to the music.
I arrived at the radio station by cab shortly after the concert ended, and settled myself in for a quiet evening. Time to get caught up on paperwork. I had an article to write for the newsletter, programming to select for the next couple of months.
I jumped every time the phone rang.
At two in the morning I shut down, tidied up the console and reached for the phone to call a cab home.
It rang. No data.
I stared at the ringing phone. I had no obligation to answer—we were off air. After seven rings the caller would be transferred to the station’s voice mail.
But I answered anyway.
“I’ve missed you,” he said.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
“I’m sorry, Jo. I pushed you too hard.”
“It’s okay.”
He sighed. “I want honesty between us. It’s been two nights and I’ve had time to think and …”
“And?”
“We