So, I'm a bad blogger...

Okay, I should just admit it. I'm a terrible blogger. A fairweather blogger if you will. Not at all dedicated to my craft. If my blog were my boyfriend, we'd break up because I don't pay him enough attention.

I'd like to swear that I've learned my lesson but chances are that I'll fall off the wagon again. But I can try!

Sorry, blog. I love you, you know.

By the way, I saw this really touching blog today on Oprah. I don't usually love Oprah, but this was worth checking out. Sad and not at all related to romance novels, but still worth looking at.

http://mattandginny.blogspot.com/

***

An electronic bell chimed when Cass opened the door to Debbie’s office. The receptionist, a youngish, skinny woman with razor thin lips and eye brows to match, glanced from her computer and looked at her sharply. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on Cass’s knee-high boots and designer bag.

“Can I help you?” she asked, curtly.

“Um, yeah, I hope so. Just looking for Debbie.”

“She isn’t here yet. Do you want to take a seat and wait?” She gestured toward the cracked plastic chairs in the waiting room, piled high with dog-eared magazines.

“I guess so. Do you know where she is or how long she’ll be?”

“Nope, sorry.”

“Okay then, I’ll just sit down.”

The receptionist gave her a sarcastic smile and rolled her eyes before turning back to her computer screen.

Cass sat down and placed her bag beside her. She inhaled deeply and looked around at the fading East coast promotional posters on the wall. Bad 80s fonts and cheesy taglines: “There’s no place like foam” on a picture of waves crashing on the shore, “A lobster is a lobster is a lobster…but a lobster from Nova Scotia is a lobster.” Gertrude Stein would throw up on the floor of this waiting room if she were here. Cass sifted through the stack of old magazines. Reader’s Digest, Maclean’s, Chatelaine. Cass picked up a five-year-old Chatelaine and flipped through it quickly, all the while watching the door for Debbie’s flame-red bob. After fifteen minutes or so, she impatiently put the magazine down and surprisingly met the receptionist’s gaze. The receptionist glanced away quickly and Cass wondered how long she’d been staring at her.

“Um, listen…what’s your name?”

“Sandra,” the girl said, looking back.

“Sandra, do you think you could call Debbie?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“She doesn’t have a cell phone.”

“Who doesn’t have a cell phone?”

“Lots of people. Especially in this town.”

“But she’s a real estate agent! How does she do business?”

“She checks in from pay phones to get her messages.”

“What? That’s insane.”

“Well, that’s what she does.”

Cass gave her a look, and the receptionist stared right back. She impatiently twitched her leg, in a stare down with this unhappy woman. Neither of them spoke, until Sandra said “Is that a Miu Miu purse?”

“What?”

“Your bag?”

Cass looked down. “Oh, yeah,” she said, a little confused. She looked at Sandra.

“What, you think we don’t have magazines?”

“Well, you don’t have cell phones.”

“I have a cell phone.”

“And apparently a brand fetish.”

“Maybe. But I especially have a thing for purses.”

“Me, too,” she said. “Not that I’ll be able to get my hands on a Birkin bag in this place.”

“Not a Birkin, but The Closet has some pretty great vintage stuff.”

“The Closet?”

“Yeah, it’s a second-hand store, kind of. We have a bunch of them, but The Closet is the best. It’s not your average garage sale stuff; Liz goes all over to find things. I have a gorgeous Chanel bag…”

“Chanel?” Cass said, surprised.

“Yeah, vintage Chanel.”

It was then that Cass noticed Sandra’s shoes. Christian Louboutins. Signature red sole. Where did this girl get $700 shoes?

“Vegas,” she said, with a smile. “I know they’re wasted on everyone here, but I love them. My boyfriend won a few grand playing the slots so he bought them for me.”

“Wow,” Cass said, seriously impressed. Hey, this girl had good taste. And was actually very pretty when she smiled. She just needed help with the too-thin eyebrows.

Debbie bounced through the door just then and Sandra’s smile faded. She curled back into her previous troll-like state as Debbie asked happily “Any messages, Sandy?”

“It’s Sandra,” she said, “and no. Just a client here for you.”

Debbie looked over at her. “Oh, Cassidy! You’re here!”

“We had an appointment, remember? For ten?”

“Yes, I know, but you’re early!” Cass opened her mouth to protest, but Debbie continued. “Your boxes are in the truck, with Mr. McPhee.” Debbie was the only woman she’d ever met who referred to her husband as Mr. anything. “He’ll follow you out to the house to deliver them.”

“Okay, that’s great. Thank you, Debbie.”

“Not at all! Enjoy the new house, missy!”

Cass smiled politely, nodded to Sandra and headed outside.

Just as she pulled her sunglasses off of her head and headed in the direction of her car, she saw him. Christian, holding the door of The Sea Bean for a couple of older women. He was different in the day light – thinner, friendlier. He looked across the street and caught her staring at him just then; she looked away too quickly and jarred her neck. She could feel her face flush and she didn’t dare look his way. She saw a big burly man with a full beard sitting in a truck just down the way and assuming it was Mr. McPhee, who looked nothing like she pictured, she walked toward him. She could see Christian from the corner of her eye. He watched her until someone called his name from inside the coffee shop, catching his attention.