Вдова Хана. Ульяна Павловна Соболева

or wardrobe boy from whatever set he was currently working on.

      “No, no. Never, in fact,” he said, puckering his lips as the waitress placed our tea before us and slithered away once more. “John has been permanently replaced.” He began fishing around in the shiny tote he had with him. Pulling out his wallet, he flipped to the photo section and handed it to me.

      I was shocked to find myself looking at a photo of an Indian woman dressed in traditional robes, a bindi firmly in place on her forehead, a gentle smile on her lips. Not only was she female—an unimaginable possibility as a new partner for Sebastian—but she was alarmingly unfettered by the kind of female things that normally gave Sebastian pleasure—like lipstick, cleavage and a well-groomed brow.

      “Meet the woman who saved my life,” he said, smiling.

      I stared at him, perplexed. “I don’t get it.”

      “Emma, I have undergone the most amazing transformation.”

      “You haven’t gone straight, have you?”

      “God forbid!” he cried, shaking his head. “No, it’s nothing like that. This is my guru!”

      “Guru?”

      He smiled pleasantly, as one might at a small child in serious need of enlightenment. “Let me start at the beginning. I ran into John a couple of months ago, and you would not believe what he looked like. Completely bald, for one thing.”

      “John?” I said, remembering how much he had always treasured his long dark locks.

      “I know, I know,” Sebastian said, looking sad for a moment, as if the loss of that beautiful head of hair might still hurt, despite whatever revelations about life he had recently been given. Getting hold of himself once more, he continued, “He had this look of serenity about him. It had almost changed his face—he was even more gorgeous, if you can imagine that!” His eyes widened at the thought. “I asked him how he’d been, and he began telling me that he was following a new path in his life. When I questioned him further, he told me he was practicing a form of Hinduism—and was training to be a healer.”

      “Wow. Who would have thought,” I said, gulping chamomile and suddenly wishing it were something else…like a martini. I had a sinking feeling about my hair prospects, especially when I suddenly noticed that Sebastian had let his eyebrows grow in. Not a good sign in a man I once worshiped for his beauty regime.

      “Next thing you know, he was inviting me to a meeting,” Sebastian said, lifting his teacup and holding it between his hands in front of him. “I will confess that when I first agreed to attend, I had sex on the brain. You know that no matter what happened between John and me, we never had trouble in that department. But from the moment I stepped through the doors of the Holistic Center for Life Healing, I was a new man. Within weeks, I was on the path, and now I’m close to being certified as a healer myself. I’ve even planned a trip to India in the fall, to meet the guru. I can’t wait to go.”

      I felt contrite. He did look happy. Who was I to mar his happiness with my own selfish desires? “That’s wonderful, Sebastian.”

      “I knew you’d understand, Emma. In fact, I’ve been meaning to call you and invite you to a meeting. I think you, especially, could really benefit from it.” He put down his tea, then reached across and grabbed both my hands in his.

      I will admit, I felt something like a soothing strength in those fingers. Of course, unable to acknowledge such things, I made one last halfhearted, half-humorous, plea.

      “So I guess this means a few ash-blond highlights are out of the question, huh?”

      “Oh, Emma,” he smiled beatifically at me, releasing my hands. “That world seems so removed from me now.” Then he winked. “Besides, you know I always saw you as a golden blonde.”

      Confession: I get in touch with my inner career woman—and discover she is out to lunch.

      The next day as I was poring over some old notes in an attempt to put together a piece on current trends in floral arrangements, Marcy Keller, the production assistant and resident office gossip, slipped into my cubicle.

      “What’s up, Emma?” she said, sitting down in my guest chair.

      I immediately went on red alert. The only reason Marcy Keller would ever sit down in my guest chair to chat would be a) because she had some juicy bit of gossip she had already shared with everyone in the office and I was her last resort or, b) she had some juicy bit of gossip about me that she was coyly trying to verify.

      A shiver went through me. They knew. They knew about my recent, brutal breakup. But how?

      “So what brings you to this corner of the world, Marcy?” I asked with trepidation.

      She looked up and leaned close, her eyes narrowing to slits behind the big square black frames she wore on her sharp little hook of a nose. “Sandra quit,” she hissed at me. Then, smoothing her short, dark brown hair behind her ears, she leaned back, folded her arms over her painfully thin frame and watched her words take their effect.

      Relief swept through me, followed by a realization. Sandra was one of the three reigning senior features editors at Bridal Best and had just given up one of the few management positions a contributing editor like myself could aspire to. Now I understood why I had been chosen to receive this particular bit of gossip. Since I was the contributing editor with four years’ experience under my belt and the most seniority, I was the most likely candidate to apply. So Marcy had come on a verification mission. I decided not to give her the satisfaction.

      “Sandra quit?” I began, leaning back in my chair. “That’s wild.” I paused, pondering this for a moment to increase the dramatic tension. “Huh. And I thought she’d be a lifer. What has she been here, five, six years?”

      “Seven and a half,” Marcy said, glee in her voice at the scandal created by such a long-term employee’s leaving. “I heard that she and Patricia had it out.”

      Now I knew she was embellishing. Our editor-in-chief was soft-spoken, poised, and probably the least likely person to start a brawl at Bridal Best, the magazine that was her life’s blood. Which made me wonder about this battle she’d allegedly had with Sandra, who wasn’t exactly a brute, though she had been rumored to have a temper. “Huh. That’s hard to imagine.”

      “Yeah, well, you know Sandra. She can be a bitch when things aren’t going her way. And they haven’t been, ever since her husband left her.”

      “Her husband left her?” I asked, suddenly sucked in, in spite of myself.

      Marcy rolled her eyes behind her square frames. “That was six months ago. God, Emma, where have you been?”

      I snapped my gaping mouth shut. “Well, usually I’m too busy with work to pay attention to the gossip,” I replied, deciding now was probably the perfect time to put Marcy in her place.

      Marcy swallowed hard and began backpedaling. “Yes, you do work a lot. I’ve even seen you here late a few times,” she said, changing tactics when she realized ridicule wasn’t going to get her anywhere with me.

      “Yeah, well. Once in a while. When I’m on a deadline,” I replied, embarrassed that someone might think me one of The Devoted, some of whom had given up their lives, their dreams and, apparently, in the case of Sandra, their husbands, for the sake of getting out a monthly magazine on how to make happily-ever-after a reality.

      “No, you work hard,” she protested, gazing at me steadily and making me notice for the first time that her eyes were actually gray behind those thick black cakes of liner. “I read your piece ‘The Cinderella Syndrome: Finding the Perfect Wedding Day Shoe.’ It was amazing.”

      Now she had me. “Ah, well, thanks. I kinda liked working on that piece.”

      “I just loved the way you captured the anxiety of finding a shoe that’s both comfortable and captivating. And the fairy-tale angle was very clever. What was that line