Finally she made her way to the back of the gallery. Kicking off her platform sandals, she took the paper napkin her friend offered her, blotted her forehead and sighed. “I’m hot.”
“You certainly are,” Cynthia said. She handed a glass of ice water to Amanda. “By the number of pieces you’ve sold tonight, you’re about the hottest glass artist in Seattle and that, my friend, is saying something.”
“I was talking about the weather, but thanks.” She wiggled her toes on the cool tile floor and gulped down the water. Glancing around at the crowd she said, “It feels like something weird’s going on, doesn’t it? I mean, nothing terrible has happened so far but … ”
Cynthia rolled her eyes. “Everything’s going great. Try to relax and enjoy this, will you? God knows you’ve earned it.” She reached into her purse and, with a “ta-da” flourish, brought out Amanda’s favorite Dagoba chocolate bar. “Here, see if this helps.”
Amanda swapped the now-empty glass for the candy. “You’re wonderful. I was too nervous to eat before I came here and my stomach’s paying me back by growling.”
As she nibbled on the sweet she continued to inspect the crowd. Surely there were people here who remembered what had happened in Portland. Who would resurrect the scandal first? That woman over there who looked kinda reporter-ish? The man who kept staring at her? Would it happen here, tonight, or would she have to wait for the newspaper tomorrow? What if … ?
Dear God, she had to stop this. Not only was she driving herself crazy, but she was sure her friend found her way past “annoying” on the Richter Scale of Irritating Emotions. Starting soon after the five o’clock opening, Amanda had forced Cynthia to accompany her around a conversational loop that quickly rutted from wear as she begged to hear over and over that the evening was going okay.
Now, more than two hours later, somewhere in the middle of the eighth, or maybe tenth, circuit of the reassurance loop, Cynthia’s attention wandered, mid-sentence, apparently caught by something she saw over Amanda’s shoulder.
Amanda felt the blood leave her face. “What’s wrong? What did you see?” Cynthia only smiled, still looking into the distance. Amanda tensed, what remained of the chocolate melting on the fingers she clutched around it. “Tell me. Please!”
“Calm down. It’s nothing bad,” Cynthia said. “This sexy guy just sauntered in, out of a Levis’ ad if the jeans and cowboy boots are any indication, and he’s staring in this direction. When I smiled at him he didn’t respond. So, unless he’s all Brokeback Mountain over Josh, that leaves him looking at you. Do you know him?”
Jeans and cowboy boots? Amanda swallowed hard, trying to shift gears from panic to a feeling she didn’t recognize at first. A flicker of optimism? A little shiver of anticipation? She shook it off. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t. Besides her gut told her nothing good was in store for her tonight, only something bad.
And she was tired of waiting for it. She wanted the ax to drop, the sword of Damocles to fall, the roof to cave in. Pick a cliché, make it happen, and be done with it. Then she could say, “I told you so” and go back to Cynthia’s apartment where — please, God — it would be cooler.
But, no, she wasn’t headed out of the gallery. She was staring at her friend who was grinning about some random guy in Levis. She knew Cynthia would pester her until she looked, so Amanda turned around, her eyes down. If this was the messenger of doom she’d been expecting all evening, it was time to get it over with.
When she looked up, however, her breath stopped for a heartbeat or two. It was no stranger or harbinger of disaster. It was Sam; all 5ꞌ11" of him, broad shouldered and slim hipped, in a white shirt open at the neck and boot-cut jeans with his ubiquitous cowboy boots. He was standing near the front door, people streaming past him like water around a rock, looking directly at her.