Ms. Taken. Jo Leigh

It was no use fighting it. He’d simply get up a half hour earlier tomorrow. He closed the file, then leaned back. “Tell me about it,” he said.

      His mother did just that. In excruciating detail. She’d worn her hair up and used a charming little Hermès scarf across her forehead to give her the look of a flapper. He heard about her dress, her bag, her shoes, her dinner. On and on. When she’d pause he’d say something. Nothing much, just an acknowledgment that he was indeed still there. Still listening.

      But his mind did wander. Not too far, or she’d have guessed. Just to his day, then, naturally, to the decision he’d made last Friday. As his mother waxed lavish praise on the lobster claw hors d’oeuvres, he toyed with the idea of telling her. What an uproar he’d cause from here to the Caribbean. She’d tell him he mustn’t go back to Holly. That he needed someone who had a heart. A soul. His mother was very big on souls.

      What she didn’t understand was that Holly was exactly what he needed. Her no-nonsense approach to life suited him. She knew how to entertain, and she was savvy enough about business to make any dinner conversation flow. She was attractive, she came from a good family. What he couldn’t remember was exactly why they’d split up. It had been a few years. Probably something to do with his father’s death. That had been a difficult time. But Charles had survived. He’d taken over the company. He’d taken over the care of his mother. Now it was time for the next phase. A wife. A child. He’d be thirty-two soon. By then, he wanted this marriage business over and done with.

      It all depended on whether Holly still read that damned magazine. Why she’d left no forwarding address or phone number with her last landlord, he couldn’t fathom. Her parents had died several years ago, and she had no siblings. He’d tried finding her through the alumni association, the Harvard club. He’d even called Le Cirque to ask the maître d’ if he’d seen her.

      The only information Charles had was that she’d been living abroad. Maybe she was back in the States, or maybe not. Wherever she was, she’d subscribe to Attitudes. When he’d known her, it had been her favorite reading material.

      “Darling?”

      “Yes, Mother?”

      “You didn’t answer me. Are you reading the Wall Street Journal while I’m talking to you?”

      “No. Of course not. I was just distracted by this headache.”

      “Did you take something for it?”

      “Yes.”

      “Chamomile tea will do wonders. You should brew some up right away.”

      “That’s a great idea. As soon as we’re done, I’ll do just that.”

      Her sigh carried across the ship-to-shore phone line. “You won’t. But I can’t do anything about that, can I?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I mean you think I’m a crackpot, with crackpot ideas. Imagine, winning a costume party at my age.”

      “If you like it, there’s nothing wrong with it. You’ve earned your fun, Mother.”

      “I suppose. Kim and Molly are taking good care of me. You don’t have to worry.”

      He winced. She wasn’t supposed to know about Kim and Molly. They’d been hired to keep a discreet eye on his mother. They’d obviously done a poor job of it.

      “It’s all right,” she said. “Stop pouting. You knew I would figure it out sooner or later. You’re nothing if not predictable, Charles. Now go to bed. It’s far too late for you to be up. You need to sleep.”

      “Good night, Mother.”

      “I’ll call again soon.”

      He put the phone down and thought about opening the Riverside file again. For once, though, he obeyed his mother. He put away his reports and papers and headed off to brush his teeth. He must remember to set his alarm for four-thirty instead of five.

      As he got down to the business of preparing for sleep, he tried to remember the specifics of his breakup with Holly. He’d instigated the proceedings, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember why. It was probably nothing. Nothing at all. She’d make a fine mother to his children. A very capable wife. And, if his memory wasn’t playing tricks on him, she was very capable in bed, too.

      He just hoped she’d answer him soon, or he’d have to hire a private detective. Charles wanted to be married soon. If he couldn’t find Holly, it would mean looking for someone new. The thought made him shudder.

      It would have been so much easier for him if Mrs. Robinson hadn’t gone off to Idaho for the holidays. Or was it Ohio? He didn’t recall. His work was getting done, but everything took far more of his time than he cared to give. At least that girl—what was her name? Joan? At least she had a firm grip on the English language, and she could spell. Granted, it wasn’t much. But his luck with employees had never been stellar. For now, she’d do.

      2

      THE DAY THE AD CAME OUT, Jane got up with the sun. Streams of light flowed into the room, buzzing with tiny dancers, the flotsam and jetsam that filled the world and filled her with each breath. She liked knowing she had company all the time, even if it was microscopic.

      Her dreams had been delicious, all about Charles and her. Her and Charles. The season had affected him, or was it just the nearness of her? Probably both. He’d been so tender.

      Shivering in anticipation, she pushed off her blankets, all three of them, and sat up, her feet immediately searching for her fuzzy slippers. The floor was always painfully cold in the morning, dull wood that seemed to hug the chill like an old friend. But she couldn’t afford to heat the place when she slept. Manhattan might be a magical city, but it was also expensive as hell. She could have mitigated her circumstances by sharing a room with, say, one or ten other people, but that wasn’t for her. She needed her own space, and her little shoe box of an apartment was as private as could be.

      Grabbing her robe from the end of the bed, she found her teeth clattering loudly as she headed for the bathroom. This was the worst place in the apartment. The coldest. But she’d worked out a system where her behind never had to actually touch the seat. Creative. That’s what you needed to be in New York. Creative and warm-blooded.

      After the loo, which sounded so much nicer to her ears than bathroom, she walked down the short hallway, eager to see her Christmas tree in the morning light. It was so beautiful. Not in the traditional sense, of course. But then, traditional beauty had never appealed to her.

      She turned the corner and her gaze fell on the couch, covered with a wonderful old afghan that she’d found at a rummage sale to hide the aged patches and stains. Then the tree, her tree, listing a bit to the right, missing more needles than it should, but decorated with all the love and care she had in her. She’d made bows and sewn little hanging cloth baskets, which she’d filled with candy canes. And she’d made the most adorable fabric frame ornaments, putting a picture of someone she loved in each one.

      Of course, Charles’s picture was given the place of honor. Although none of the decorations would claim more than a nickel at the flea market, they meant a lot to her, and that was what really mattered, right?

      So what if others couldn’t see what she saw? So what if they thought she had a screw loose? Her vision held wonders, and that’s what made it worthwhile to get up every morning.

      It had always been like that. Her poor parents had never understood her. They’d had their nice Long Island life, filled with worries about the right schools and the right clothes and the right friends. Her mother had planned great things for her daughters, and only Jane had disappointed. She’d tried to get through law school, honestly, but it wasn’t her. She’d ended up daydreaming in class, getting into trouble. So what if she hadn’t found her niche yet? There was still time, for heaven’s sake. She was only twenty-six. She had her whole life in front of her.

      Only,