Picking Up the Pace By Kimberly LaFontaine

Even though this novel has already been edited and is for sale, I'd still appreciate feedback. I may be published, but as far as I'm concerned, I'm still a rookie author and have a lot to learn. You can send me feedback by e-mail at kimberlylafontaine@yahoo.com. Thanks.

Chapter One

Angie Mitchell glanced around the office, thoroughly annoyed. Ceasing her tapping, she moved the mouse up to the left-hand corner of the computer screen and clicked on the refresh button, her fingers crossed that the e-mail she was waiting on would magically appear. Click, refresh, nothing -- just the same old messages, the newest of which promised a quick reply. And that one came in more than two hours ago.

Rifling through her drawer, she pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights and stuffed them in the pocket of her faded black jeans. Sitting for another few seconds, she hoped the phone would ring, but deciding it wouldn't, she got up and headed for the elevator. Time for another smoke break.

She had hoped for an easy day, but with every passing minute, her time in the office seemed to stretch out endlessly before her with little hope of going home on time. If only that city councilman could get his act together and send her the facts she needed to complete her story for tomorrow's paper. She didn't usually mind staying late or working hard -- that is, when a big story broke or she could spend most of her day outside the office reporting. But a reporter's day only goes one of two ways: Either shit hits the fan and the crew runs around all day tracking people down, excitement marking every step, every word, or they sit around all day waiting for that final phone call, not quite sure what to do with themselves.

As the rickety elevator brought her down to the ground floor, Angie sighed for what seemed like the tenth time that day. She was working on such a simple story  -- it would probably be buried somewhere deep in the metro section between briefs and a couple of ads anyway. She wondered what would happen if she just conveniently "forgot" about it. Her editors couldn't probably care less -- it looked like they already had enough stories for the day. But the thought of having to explain to city leaders why she didn't write about their new trash collecting policy overrode her desire to ditch the article for something more interesting.

"Just send me your shit already," she mumbled as the elevator door opened and the security guard looked at her questioningly. The reporter flashed a smile at the old man and wandered out onto Sixth Street while lighting her cigarette. The Texas summer heat did nothing to improve her mood and she quickly ducked into the loading dock where she would at least be in the shade and cooled by old fashioned fans. As her eyes adjusted from to the dim light, she spotted the usual crew and frowned, clearly not in the mood for pleasant chit-chat. She took a drag and waved, stepping back out onto the sidewalk. She ran her fingers through her short blond hair and tugged at the end of her once-crisp striped blouse before heading toward Sundance Square. A little walk certainly couldn't hurt, especially if it involved going to Starbucks for a mid-afternoon pick-me-up.

"Hey, I was beginning to wonder if you'd make it today," a young redhead greeted the reporter. "You gonna have your usual, or are you feeling adventurous?"

"Naw, just give me the latté."

"One giant caramel latté coming right up," the girl said and smiled. "So, you working on anything exciting today?"

"Trash collecting, pretty boring stuff," Angie said and made a face. The girl giggled and handed over the reporter's beverage. "How about you? Has it been busy today?"

"Busy in downtown Fort Worth? No, never," she snorted. "It's not nearly as exciting as working for the Tribune."

"That's not always exciting either," Angie sighed. "Though I honestly thought it would be. I need to get out of this city council stuff before it makes me crazy. Well, I've got to get going, see if anything new has popped up yet."

Stepping out of the coffee house, Angie looked around and spotted all the regulars right where she expected them to be. The yuppie couples occupied the outdoor tables, a policeman sat atop his horse at the corner of Houston and Fourth streets. Steve and Rick sat across the street playing some folky music, their open guitar case glittering with change dropped in from passers-by. But a few yards away she spotted a new-comer and frowned. Not that it was unusual to see a new person sitting around the square, but it was highly unusual to see a new homeless man, or at least, what appeared to be one. During her two years at the paper she had made it a point to get to know the square regulars because they were both interesting and sometimes came up with the best story ideas. But even the police knew they didn't really have to regulate too strictly because the homeless were territorial enough to chase off any competition.

Angie glanced at her watch -- 2:28 p.m. She still had two hours until. She was intrigued why Steve and Rick hadn't run the old and tattered-looking man off. They waved as she approached, eagerly anticipating her usual contribution.

"Hey there, sugar. What song you want to hear today?"

"Well, I'm in sort of a mood today -- restless, you know? Let's see," she tapped her finger on her chin. "Something rough, loud. Oh, I know. How about 'All Along the Watchtower'?"

The two laughed and Rick said, "You are too young to be such a Bob Dylan nut."

"I know, I know. Just get on with it, alright?"

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a five dollar bill and dropped it in the guitar case. She added a couple of cigarettes and sat down on the pavement expectantly, keeping an eye on the newcomer just a few yards away. She didn't want him to disappear without finding out who he was. Her curiosity wouldn't allow it.

Rick nearly ripped a chord as he played the old song more Jimmy Hendrix than Bob Dylan, though Steve's voice certainly sounded like the old folk-singer's -- beaten down, most likely, by too many cigarettes and cheap whiskey from the corner convenience store. They smoked together afterwards and traded street gossip for a few minutes before Angie lowered her voice and asked about the old man.

"He says his name is Rob and we let him stay because he's had a real rough time over by I-30," Steve said. "His buddy was stabbed the other day. You know, the guy that was in a story ya'll had in the paper. We figure he can hang out here for a while until he finds a new buddy. He's strange, though, and that's why he ain't sitting with us."

Angie glanced over at the man again and debated talking to him. She glanced at her watch again and decided she just didn't have the time. Something about the way his shoulders were hunched over, the tired look on his face made her hesitate, but she couldn't exactly hang out at the square all afternoon.

"Well, I've got to get going," she said as she stood up. "You guys going to be here late again?"

"Not today," Rick said. "There's some stuff we gotta take care of later on. Thanks for the smokes. God bless."

*               *             *

"Tom, I just dropped my story in the server so I'm going to go ahead and leave, if that's okay. It's a little short, but it has everything it needs. Tomorrow will be more interesting, I hope."

"I'm sure it will be," her boss replied, ignoring his ringing phone. "Can you come in a little early tomorrow? There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

"Nothing bad, I hope."

"I think you'll like what I have in mind. Just come in at eight. We'll talk over coffee."

"Sure thing. I'll see you tomorrow. Just give me a call if you have any questions."

Dismissed, she shouldered her black leather bag and headed out, curious about the meeting but knowing better than to press for details. Her boss was always the busiest the hour after deadline hits. She had gotten back earlier to discover the e-mail had finally arrived and was able to complete her story in less than half an hour. But a few messages on her voicemail forced her to stay a little later than she'd liked.

She didn't know why she was in such a hurry to leave. It's not like she had any plans for the evening, hadn't really had plans not involving work for months. Walking to the parking garages, she was tempted to return to the square and see if the old man was still there, but she resisted the urge. Maybe she could catch up on some reading or write a little on her book -- whatever it took to get her through the evening.

A wreck on I-30 made her fume. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and barely contained herself enough not to honk. It seemed to her she was feeling like this a lot lately -- just wanting to get from point A to point B with minimal fuss and as quickly as possible. And not just while driving. She wanted to get through work and get home, only to want to get through the evening so she could go back to work the next day. Come to think of it, she couldn't remember the last time she actually felt relaxed enough not to hurry things along. Sighing, she turned up her radio's volume and tried to sing along for a while, nearly missing her cell phone's insistent beeping.

Not recognizing the displayed number, she picked up and said, "This is Angie."

"Hey reporter lady," a chipper voice replied. "How are you?"

Jimmy. It had been a while since they'd spoken, and she wondered why he was calling, though perhaps she shouldn't have. She tried to remember if she'd missed something and an image of an e-mail popped into her head.

"I've had a long day, but it's getting better now that you called," she said, smiling. Tonight, she thought, was going to be the night that she didn't sit alone at home again. "Are you calling about the party?"

"You remembered. I'm impressed. As a matter of fact, I am calling about the party. Are you going to come this time, or are you going to give me another lecture about why reporters shouldn't hang out with their sources?"

"Nope, I'll be dropping by. Do I need to bring anything?"

"Bring whatever you want -- a bottle of wine, a hot friend, you know."

"I'll bring some wine," she said and laughed.

"Okay then. Nine o'clock sharp and dress nice."

"You got it," she said and hit the end button.

The traffic eased up a little ahead, and she shifted into third gear. So, she was going to a party. She thought about the early meeting with the boss and giggled, thinking it would be her first all-nighter since she graduated two years ago. Well, that would be the case if the party wasn't completely awful.

Angie rolled down the window, lit a cigarette and couldn't help thinking of Danny. She cringed at the memory of his baby-blue eyes and sandy brown hair. Chastising herself, she pushed the mental image away. Six months was long enough to get over the man, and it wasn't like she would be trying anything with Jimmy anyway. Her ex could just stay wherever the hell it was he ran off to and out of her head. She released a breath through clenched teeth and wondered how long it would be before she quit feeling guilty about having fun without her lover of three years. Her eyes misted over slightly and she sighed angrily, but the memories were persistent.

Well, enough. Angie saw her exit sign and cut across two lanes to make it, horns blaring at her little red Honda Civic. Laughing nervously, she decided a nice little run would take the edge off before going to the party. A long, hard run would be better.

It was almost eight o'clock by the time she made it home. Much to the amusement of fellow joggers she had gone straight to the park without bothering to change anything other than her shoes. The striped blouse and black jeans had stood out like a model ordering a donut at Krispy Kreme. She peeled the sweat-drenched clothes off and ran a hot bath, which she sprinkled with lavender-scented bath salts. Slipping a CD in her stereo she visibly relaxed as she began her favorite ritual: Sinking into steaming water while Beethoven's music wafted softly into the bathroom. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling of being enveloped in the hot liquid.

Methodically, she washed her hair and body, concentrating on the act and nothing else. When she finished, Angie toweled her hair dry, delighting in the cool air that raised goose bumps on her arms and legs. Only then did she allow other thoughts to creep back into the foreground, each to be picked apart thoroughly. The most pressing of which was whether she was ready and able to handle being out again, having fun. She thought of the framed picture in her living room that indicated she hadn't yet let go enough.

Wrapping her hair into a towel turban-style, she walked into the living room, her skin still dripping, and pulled the picture off the wall. Danny's blue eyes and charming smile stared up at her, his arms wrapped around her younger self. A photographer friend of theirs had taken the picture as a Christmas present when they were still fairly happy with one another. Her fingers trembled as she held the silver frame, and making a decision, she took it into the bedroom and set it on the bed. She pulled an empty box out of her closet and began collecting objects around the apartment to be hidden away. The picture was the first to go, followed by several others. She threw in an old T-shirt she still sometimes slept in, and several books made their way into the box. When it was full she went to get a second box.

She was so preoccupied with cleansing her apartment of his presence that she didn't realize how late it had become. Satisfied she had found everything, she stuffed the containers in the far back corner of her closet, then went into the bathroom to do something with her hair. With a start, she realized she was late and slapped some gel on her hands and ruffled her hair a little, then shook it into place. She ran back into the closet and grabbed an ankle-length green skirt and a sleeveless black blouse, hoping Jimmy's advise to dress nice didn't mean formal wear.

Before she left, she stopped to check herself in the mirror and saw the now familiar dark circles under her eyes. Annoyed, she opened her makeup bag and decided that fixing the problem that way was fine for one evening, but that she'd better get over this pity crap she'd been doing for far too long now. It was time to move on.

Angie found Jimmy's apartment easily, having been there several times before for interviews when she was still the Telegram's computer beat reporter. She met him while covering Quakecon during her first few months at the paper, and he had proven to be a valuable source. He could set up an interview with just about any kind of expert she could think of. After the gaming convention, she had called him several times for other stories -- bullying over the Internet, the growing blogger population in the Metroplex and so forth. Their conversations were relaxed, and each time he would ask if they could just hang out sometime over a cup of coffee. But ever concerned with journalism ethics, she had declined, telling him they couldn't become friends if she were to continue using him as a source.

She missed the computer reporting and again regretted having been "promoted" to a city council reporter. The issues she wrote about usually weighed more in the paper and the community and the budding reporter was excited at first but quickly became bored -- even annoyed -- with each article she produced. Again she wondered about the meeting with her boss and worried that he was not pleased with her work despite his assurance that it was "nothing bad."

Running her fingers through her hair, another nervous habit, she stepped out of her car and set her shoulders tight, as if marching into an interview she knew would be unpleasant. She had to remind herself that she had agreed to this willingly. His door swung open seconds after her hesitant knock, and a smiling Jimmy invited her in.

"You look charming, my dear," he said and took her bottle of 2000 Riesling wine. He walked into the kitchen and set it on the counter. Sarah McLachlan was playing on the stereo. Chips and queso were set out on the coffee table. His place was just as she remembered -- spacious and decorated with his friends' art. Photographs lined one wall, a sculpture sat in the corner, two oil paintings framed the fireplace and -- to her surprise -- a laminated, front-page article of hers now hung on his fridge.

She pointed at it with a raised eyebrow. He chuckled.

"Hey, it's about blogging, and I respect your work. Besides, I'm in it."

"And everyone can see that by the yellow highlighting you've done."

"Some people on this planet still think it's a big deal to see their name in the paper, you know."

"Point taken."

Apparently, she was first to arrive despite her fear of being late. She always had that party faux-pas problem -- arriving on time when you're not supposed to. He assured her others would trickle in shortly. She nodded and sipped on the glass of wine he offered.

She didn't exactly feel awkward, knowing that she could pull a descent conversation out of anyone, especially Jimmy. All she had to do was mention anything computer related to get him talking. But they hadn't spoken in quite some. Their last talk was over coffee downtown while she interviewed him about presidential candidates using the Internet to snag younger voters. It was during the time when she was fighting with Danny a lot, less than a week before he left with little more than a note on the coffee table. Jimmy had tried to cheer her up after she confessed why she wasn't in the best of spirits.

As expected, he asked how she was, how her social life was going. She almost laughed at the hopeful look on his face that told of the many times she'd avoided personal questions, much to his obvious frustration. Angie sighed and decided it couldn't hurt to be honest with the computer technician. He couldn't possibly make her feel worse.

"I've been better."

"Yeah, I get that."

"Am I that transparent?"

"No, but you're here."

"Oh ..."

"I don't take it personally. You're busy, I'm busy, there's that bullshit you always cite about not getting too close to your sources --  I'm not a source anymore, right? So cut the crap and tell me what's going on or I'll have to try out this reporting thing and interview you." He laughed. "Should I get a pen and notepad?"

She giggled, surprised at his boldness, and took a drink of her red wine. It would be refreshing to make a friend of his sort -- a touch sarcastic, bordering on rudeness with his frank honesty but nonetheless a funny guy.

"Aren't the others going to show up soon?" Now it was his turn to raise an eyebrow at her. "Okay, fine," she said, relenting. "Last time I told you Danny and I were having problems, remember? Well, he ditched me a couple of days later. I came home from work and most of his shit was gone and he left a note that said, 'Sorry, babe, but we can't be together anymore. I need someone who can be there for me and you're just too busy. Good luck and have a nice life.' I'm still a little depressed about it, especially since our friends decided not to talk to me anymore."

It was true that Angie loved her work, most of the time, and worked as much overtime as her editors would let her get away with, even crafting stories over the weekends and late at night. After an internship, six months of freelancing and two years of hard work, she had earned the respect of her peers -- not bad for a 24-year-old budding journalist. But he didn't appreciate that. He didn't care. He had been the needy kind of boyfriend and it had caused many, many arguments. And it sucked.

She was a strong girl. But she hadn't been prepared to lose him, to lose their friends. Her family lived halfway across the country in North Carolina. Her college friends had moved away, doing anything to find jobs in the wrecked economy. One friendly soul remained, but she was out of the country for another two months, researching art in the museums and archives of Paris.

"Ouch," Jimmy said.

"No shit. I haven't been out much because I get hit on, and I'm not in the mood to deal with that. And my best friend is in Paris poking around some dusty museum or another. My family is on the other side of the country. It just sucks, you know?" She stared into her glass and took another sip.

He pulled out a cigarette, lit it and handed it to her. She smiled at him and took a drag. "Continue, darling," he said, and held a pillow in his lap. She suddenly felt like she was talking to an old girlfriend and smirked.

"Well, I don't know what to do with myself, half the time. And the other half the time I wonder why I can't get over him. I mean, we weren't madly in love or anything, not from the beginning, and certainly not toward the end. But it was nice, you know?"

"Comfortable," he interjected.

"Right," she paused. "I never believed in that 'The One' thing. There are just too many possibilities. But he was great, his friends were great, or so I thought. My parents loved him -- he was a law student -- and I thought we had a decent chance. I was so wrong."

"Was it passionate?"

She gave him a funny look and ran her hands through her hair. She took another sip of wine and noticed the glass was empty. He quickly got up to refill it, and then urged her to answer the question. She gave it some thought and then said, "Not really."

"We met in a political science class and talked about current affairs a lot -- me with my obsession with the news and him with his obsession with becoming a politician. It was fascinating. I learned a lot of insider-type stuff from him, and he taught me a lot about the law. We gradually became closer until we were just kind of going out. Then we moved in together. A year later he ditched me."

"You know you were doomed from the beginning, right? Come on, a wannabe politician and a reporter? That never works. And no passion? Girl, you're missing out big time. You need to find yourself a honey who will rip your clothes off."

Jimmy set the pillow aside and scooted a little closer. He placed his hand on her shoulder and continued in a softer tone, "But seriously now, I'm sorry about the breakup. Look on the bright side of it, you have to. Just think -- nobody to be disappointed when you come home late, nobody to bitch at you about stupid little things, plenty of people out there to flirt and have fun with."

She laughed. Angie knew he was right, but as with so many things in life, it just wasn't that easy. But she admitted she would have to try a little harder.

"Look," he butted into her thoughts. "I'll even be your guinea pig if you want. You wanna flirt? Trust me, there will be no negative consequences with me."

She looked at him again, a puzzled look on her face. Hadn't she just said she didn't want to deal with getting hit on? Hadn't she just told him she felt like shit and life sucked and now he wanted her to flirt with him? He just sat there and let her puzzle, speechless, for few moments.

"I'm gay, Angie."

"Wha... Oh." And then someone knocked on his door.

"Trust me," he said, amused with his new friend. "You won't find that kind of trouble at this party, Miss straight-laced."

*         *        *

Jimmy opened the door to find a crowd filing up the stairs. He swung the door open, jumped out into the crowd and yelled, "Well, if it isn't typical of a bunch of queers to stand around talking in the parking lot for half an hour, just so they can be fashionably late. Well," he said in a chastising tone. "Shame on you, shame on all of you."

Everybody laughed and clapped. Jimmy bowed and then ushered them inside.

"Everybody, meet my straight reporter friend, Angie. Angie, meet my friends. I won't introduce them all because I know you're terrible at remembering names."

"Thanks, Jimmy," she replied sarcastically. "He's right, though. You'll have to forgive me."

The twenty or so girls and guys brought in fancy dishes and lined the kitchen counters with them. Rapid conversations quickly ensued. Angie didn't have trouble bouncing in and out of this or that conversation, years of practice making her a good crowd-mingler. For the most part, she found his friends amusing, some annoying, and some fascinating.

There were Paul and Mike who talked politics with her. Sean and Dillon who appeared obsessed with music. Jamie and Mel who talked about abortion and women's rights. She collected phone numbers and e-mail addresses and knew she had stumbled across a pool of active, interesting people who would give great quotes -- especially since Jimmy had told everyone that she was "the bomb." And she loved the fact that Jimmy flirted with her ravishingly and everyone thought it was so funny, a great game.

Six glasses of wine and several hours later she was lying on his bed with three men, discussing the future of the nation. Angie was drunk, and she didn't care. It was like a breath of fresh air talking with these people from all walks of life about everything under the sun. A clock on the wall read one o'clock and she decided she would stay until she was sober, then go to IHOP to read the paper and have a long breakfast before going to work.

"We should go outside on the balcony," Paul suggested. "Jimmy has a great view."

They stumbled across the room and struggled with the sliding-glass door for a minute. The four clumsily plopped down on a big, cushy swing conveniently situated there. Angie had to admit, the view was great -- his apartment was perched at the top of one of the few hills in Fort Worth. She let out a contented sigh and the others giggled, also drunk.

Jimmy stepped out onto the balcony and lit a cigar.

"You are so sexy when you do that," Paul said, slurring. "You look so sophisticated." They all laughed.

"You better not let Peter hear you saying that. I really don't feel like having to explain, again, why you flirt with me so much."

"You know I'm not thaaat serious."

"Right."

They sat in silence for a moment, and Angie lit another cigarette. As she took a drag, they heard a shriek inside and were startled for a moment, Angie coughing on smoke she had released a bit too quickly.

"God, I hate it when he does that," Paul sighed and relaxed.

"He's your man," Mike quipped.

Jimmy went inside to see what was going on and came back moments later with a woman in tow.

"Everybody -- that doesn't include you, Paul -- I'd like you to meet Lauren. She's been overseas in Micronesia and Africa for the last two years with the Peace Corps. Lauren, you know Paul. This is Mike, he's a musician. And Brian's the photographer who took the pictures hanging in the living room, and this is Angie, a reporter for the Tribune and a damned good one at that."

"It's nice to meet you all," she said in a rich, deep voice and shook their hands.

Angie looked up into dark brown eyes and a smooth face framed by jet-black hair. Her handshake was strong and warm. She couldn't help noticing that the woman wore a tight black tank top -- very flattering -- with nicely fitted black jeans. She obviously exercised -- her bare arms were finely sculpted -- and she was tan from working, as Angie imagined, in the sun. The reporter immediately thought that if she were to write an article about Lauren, it would most certainly be a fascinating read.

The handshake left an unfamiliar tingle running up Angie's arm and down her back that momentarily dazed her. Seconds passed. She realized she was staring and dropped the hand and her cigarette at the same time. Her reflexes were slow, and chuckling, the stranger retrieved the cigarette for her with a warm smile.

"Can I get you another drink?" she asked with that rich voice.

"Um, yeah, sure, I guess. Thank you."

The dark-haired woman sauntered off into the apartment. Jimmy stared at Angie. The others stared at her, too. She, for her part, blushed a bright red and was glad it was dark out on the balcony.

"Straight as an arrow?" Mike questioned.

"Not one of the family?" Paul added.

"Quiet, guys, she's coming back," Jimmy chastised, though he hid his smile behind his cigar. Angie decided she wouldn't drink anymore after that last glass of wine.

*             *               *

Angie woke up with the worst hang-over she'd had in years. She groaned at the terrible throbbing in her head and the queasiness that erupted when she moved. She found a pitcher of water, a glass, a bottle of aspirin and a card on the coffee table next to her. She picked it up and read, "Don't try to go anywhere, you are going to be sooo sick. I'll be back in a few. Jimmy."

Well, if nothing else, the boy was considerate, she thought. She sat up and remained very still for a moment, afraid of making a mess on the nice, cream-colored carpet. Then she gratefully poured herself some water and popped a couple of pills. She lay back down on the couch and pulled the wool blanket back around her shoulders. What a night.

Her eyes popped open and she checked her watch, praying she wasn't going to be late. Six a.m. She sighed and relaxed back into the cushions, informing her body that sleep was not going to be an option. She wondered for a brief moment what had become of her plans of breakfast over news when she remembered that Jimmy had refused to let her leave, citing that she was far too drunk and it was far too late. She didn't remember much after that last glass of wine. She would have to pump him for information later.   He showed up a few minutes later, a bag of groceries in his arm. He smirked at the sleeping reporter and quietly began preparing an early meal in the kitchen. He knew it would have to be bland.

"Time to wake up, sleepyhead."

"Mmm... Don't wanna."

"No, you have to. For as many times as you told me not to let you sleep in, I would have thought you would be freaking out by now. Besides, I'm making oatmeal."

"Oatmeal? I don't know, I feel like crap."

"Come on, it'll make you feel better. It's my grandma's recipe -- not that stuff from a box. You'll love it."

Angie sat up again slowly, carefully, her head still aching and her stomach protesting. But the smell of the oatmeal did not disgust her, so she accepted it with a bit of a forced smile.

"There, see? Good girl."

"Thanks," she said and began spooning the stuff into her mouth.

"So ... Did you have fun last night?"

"Yeah, I did. Thanks for inviting me. I do wonder about something, though. After that last glass of wine, I don't really remember much."

"Oh, that. Well, let's see," he said, settling in on the couch next to her. "You stumbled into the living room and took body shots off of Lauren's stomach and then made out with her, followed by a wild table dance."

Angie looked up, pale as a ghost, her face stricken.

"Gotcha," he said and jumped up before she could smack him. He had decided not to press for details of her reaction to his friend quite yet. That would come later. Instead, he danced to a small but satisfying victory.

"Not funny," she protested, nervously giggling. "Not funny at all. What kind of impression would that leave on your friends? Not what I had in mind."

"Oh, but you left an impression, my dear. Yes, you certainly did that."

Chapter Two

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