Hidden Gems (2 page)

Next time you invite a girlfriend on a business trip, don’t claim it’s a romantic getaway.

Clearly, we are not working out. It was a mistake to get involved in the first place, so I’m sure we can agree to pretend that this never hap

Your ex,

Marissa

THE FINAL VERSION of the letter was the one she’d stuck on the mirror in their suite, then removed at the last moment. She was better at face-to-face confrontation. But there’d been no time to wait around for that, and, anyway, he’d deserved to be left in the dark about her sudden departure.

She’d swept the wadded-up notes into her bag so he wouldn’t find them, grabbed her swimsuits off the shower curtain rod and hurried to the lobby to catch the late airport shuttle. After making a couple of calls to friends to let them know she was on her way home, she’d turned off her cell phone for the duration of the trip.

She had no intention of listening to Paul’s outrage at being left in the lurch. Recriminations weren’t her thing. Neither was wallowing and weeping. She always recognized when a relationship was over and believed in lopping off dead meat with a quick, decisive cut.

Which would be much easier if she hadn’t made the colossal mistake of hooking up with a workmate from Howard, Coffman, Ellis and Schnitzer, the Manhattan law firm where she’d been employed since graduation from Columbia Law. Fortunately, Paul would be even less inclined to bring their breakup into the office. She was still one of the multitude of associates, while he was on the fast track to junior partner. He had more to lose.

Marissa left the customs area and stepped sideways around a couple of city cops with radios clipped to their shoulders and holsters at their hips. They were coordinating with an airport official and his uniformed security staff, passing out photocopies of a suspect’s mug shot.

Uh-oh. Security sweep. Get a move on.

Marissa slipped in and out of the crowds of huggers and criers, still worrying about her job. She’d known it was a foolish move to get involved with Paul, yet she’d done it anyway. Even in the early days of the romance, when he was charming and attentive and neither of them had been thinking of practical matters, she hadn’t expected to avoid office gossip entirely. The legal secretaries always knew which of the firm’s employees were getting their briefs filed, even when the senior partners were oblivious.

Worse, she couldn’t blame Paul for the bad decision. She’d made the choice. She’d believed he was worth a risk. She’d believed maybe this time…

“When will I ever learn?” she muttered, digging into the straw bag to find her cell. She flipped it open and checked her messages, dodging an overzealous gypsy cabdriver who tried to snag her arm.

Four messages from Paul. She got a petty but satisfying spurt of retribution by deleting them with a punch of her thumb.

She almost bumped into a young woman in religious sect garb: head kerchief and a plain calf-length dress with a white collar and black stockings. The girl turned, smiled modestly and offered Marissa a bloom from the bucket of daisies and tulips at her feet.

A pure white Stargazer lily.

“Beautiful,” Marissa said, surprised. Even though she didn’t usually slow for hucksters, she dug into the straw bag and pulled a five out of her wallet.

“Blessings on you.” The young lady nodded. “May you find true love.”

“Yes, here’s to love.” Marissa meant to be sarcastic, but no conviction remained. Although coming home early was a smart step, she would have to continue traveling in a new direction if she hoped to find true love.

Ah, but did she? That was a question to ponder. Not looking for love wasn’t working. How likely was it that she’d have any luck if her expectations were even higher?

Juggling the phone, she tucked the lily behind her ear, then returned to her messages. One was from her mother in Miami, who had the notion that any time Marissa flew over Florida she should stop in to say hello, as if the airlines issued parachutes along with packets of stale peanuts.

The last message put a smile on Marissa’s face. Jamie Wilson. Her best friend, guy version. If there was anyone who could untwist her insides and aim her in the right direction, it was Jamie. She speed-dialed him.

He answered on the first ring. “Where are you, babe?”

“Back on U.S. soil. Making my way to the taxi lane.” Jamie was the only man she let call her “babe.” From a snake like Paul, the pet name would ooze with condescension. From Jamie, it was about cozy familiarity, as if they were an old married couple who finished each other’s thoughts. Which they almost were. Jamie was the straight Will to her Grace, proof that men and women truly could be “just” friends.

“Did you practice your yoga breathing on the plane like I said?” Jamie was always telling her she needed to slow her usual pace—full speed ahead.

“With a carpet salesman from Jersey and his horking wife at my elbow? Not a chance. But after the attendant had removed the airsick bags, I did wind down with one of those itty-bitty bottles of rum.”

“You’ll be dehydrated then.”

“I know. Want to meet me for drinks? Maybe a little cheese with my whine?”

“How about actual food?”

“I guess.” Her stomach was hollow, but she was too hyper to eat. Normally she’d channel her energy into a good workout—either at the gym or in the bedroom—but that was out for the time being. Tomorrow, she’d get back on the treadmill, literally and figuratively. If she never found an appropriate man, at least she’d qualify for the fitness Olympics.

“I need to stop by home first to dump my luggage,” she said, tugging at the shoulder strap of the suitcase. “Meet you there.” Jamie lived upstairs from her, in a vintage brownstone in the Village.

“Where are you now?” he asked.

She glanced up. “Almost to the exit. If the taxi line isn’t too long, I’ll be in the city by—”

“Turn left,” Jamie said.

“But—”

“Just do it.”

Because it was Jamie, she obeyed, making such an abrupt detour she almost tripped over the trolley of Louis Vuitton cases a chauffeur was wielding like a feed store wheelbarrow.

Jamie appeared out of the moving crowd, cell phone at his ear.

“You dork,” she said, blinking back the moisture that sprang to her eyes. “I told you not to go to the trouble of meeting me.”

“Hey, a vacation breakup deserves an airport pick up. It’s synergy.” He dropped the phone into the pocket of his baggy khakis and put his arms around her. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t find a car to borrow. We’ll have to get a taxi.”

She pressed her face into his shoulder, just for a moment or two. Three, four, five. Her heart surged with gratitude. He felt as warm and comforting as ever, but also muscled and solid. When had that happened?

He’d been a skinny dude with an unintentionally hip geekiness when they’d met three years ago while playing Ultimate Frisbee with a group of friends in the park. In between putting in eighty hours a week at work, she’d been dating one of her typical Mr. Right Turn To Disasters. Jamie had been seeing her ex-roomie, self-proclaimed bitch diva goddess Shandi Lee—an odd couple if ever there was one. The relationships had lasted just long enough for Marissa and Jamie to avoid the awkward “should they or shouldn’t they?” moment and settle into platonic friendship.

Lucky timing, Marissa had always thought. Jamie Wilson had become the only long-term chromosome XY in her day-to-day life, the only male, aside from her cat, Harry, that she wasn’t pressured to impress.

“Marissa,” he said, patting her back. “I’m sorry.”

She squeezed him, allowing his sympathy even though too much sentiment usually made her itchy and restless. Outside of the holidays, when she was a sap about family cheer and goodwill to men, she kept her game face on. A single woman in Manhattan had to be tough.

And yet once again she felt herself relaxing into Jamie’s patented comfort zone, the one place where she let down her guard. He felt strong. He smelled good. Not like Paul, granted, who’d given off the alpha wolf eat-or-be-eaten pheromones that typically revved her engine. But surprisingly good, all the same.

Surprisingly sexy for a best friend.

What? Her head cranked back.

Beep, beep, beep. Time to back up that truck before it drove over the cliff looming ahead.

“Enough of this. I’m not dying.” Marissa pulled out of Jamie’s arms. “It’s just another breakup. I’ve survived them before.” She tucked away the cell phone that was still clutched in her hand, watching his face through her lashes while she snapped the bag shut.

Jamie seemed unaware of her instant of sexual awareness. He looked the way he always did—strong nose and jaw, blunt cheekbones, big dark blue eyes with sleepy lids beneath the mop of nut-brown hair that fell across his brow. A mouth so mobile that she’d learned to read his emotions from the shapes it made.

At the moment he was holding a faintly quizzical smile, his expression as clear and innocent as a choir boy’s. No sign of any of the messy, secret yearnings she’d occasionally worried he might harbor for her, that Shandi, among others, had sworn were there.

Who knew that Marissa, the tough chiquita from the barrio, would crack first?

She shrugged. Well, whatever had happened was only a momentary weakness. Gone like a speeding bullet, she told herself, although an alarming amount of warmth toward Jamie still simmered inside her.

Ignore it. No more mistakes, remember?

“You okay?” he asked, taking her rare uncertainty for Paul Beckwith aftereffects.

“Sure.” She tossed her ponytail. “You know me. Paul’s roadkill in my rearview mirror.”

“But this time, you’ll have to keep seeing him.” Jamie had warned her not to have a workplace affair. He was always so sensible, telling her in his evenhanded way exactly what was wrong with the man she’d chosen. That he was invariably right but never said “I told you so” was one of his most endearing characteristics.

Which didn’t mean she’d ever learn to listen to him! But it was nice having someone looking out for her.

“Not to worry,” she said. “We’re both too busy for office drama.”

“If you say so.” He scowled as he took her bag.

“Now, Jamie. I only need one stern papi and I left him behind in Little Havana.” Jamie’s brotherly concern was nowhere near as stifling as the concern of Alberto Suarez, an old-fashioned Cuban American who thought that his eldest daughter should be married and popping out babies like a good little Catholic. Two years shy of thirty and she was already considered an old maid by her family. “So don’t look at me like that.”

Jamie blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you know what’s best for me.” She kissed his cheek. Another tingle of awareness chased itself over the surface of her skin, which she continued to ignore. Jet lag could knock anyone off center.

“Someone has to,” he teased. His eyes went to the lily in her hair.

She touched it, feeling an emotion so rare she almost didn’t recognize it. Shyness.

“You look very tropical.” His voice rasped.

“Even without the tan I was promised?” She made a face. “Instead of lying on the beach, most of my time in the Caymans was wasted holed up in the suite or hanging around the bar, waiting for Paul.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Exactly. Once I realized that, I made my escape.” They walked through the exit doors. She scanned the cordoned taxi line, dismayed to see that it would be another wait for transportation. “Men don’t treat me that way more than once.”

“Like what, specifically?”

Marissa gave a snort. “Like an accessory.”

Her father had attempted to raise her to be what he considered a “good” girl—obedient and humble. Obviously that lesson hadn’t taken, perhaps because he’d also taught her pride and pugnacity by example. Instead of accepting a gender role, she’d preferred to outdo his expectations for the boys in the family, even when that meant working as a waitress to put herself through the first years of community college, even when she was told over and over that she would never make it.

The desire to achieve a success that would show them all what she was made of had become her driving force. She couldn’t be like her cheery, tolerant mother, née Mary Margaret McBride, who was content in her little cottage, still in love with her bantam rooster of a husband after thirty-two years of marriage. Or her sister, Graciela, who’d married at twenty and now had a husband who spent more evenings out drinking with his muchachos than at home with his family.

Marissa appreciated her parents for the stability and love they’d given her and her brothers and sister. But she’d known from the age of ten that she had to be aggressive or she’d never get away. If she was single-minded and frequently too abrupt, that was why.

Until she was where she wanted to be, she couldn’t let up. She couldn’t slow down.

Except with Jamie. He was her release valve, as she was his energy pill. They went together like salt and pepper, up and down, yin and yang. Each gave as good as they got, and it worked.

“An accessory?” Jamie had to know there was more to her early return than that, but he wasn’t one to push. “For a smart man, Paul sure is dumb,” he said cheerfully. “You’re a treasure.”

Marissa shook her head. “I’m a woman in need of a giant Cubano sandwich.” Suddenly she was starving.