“But maybe you did make a mistake,” she said aloud as she slipped out the kitchen door, in no mood for a run anywhere, except maybe far away. “Maybe it wasn’t Tabak you saw.”
It could be like her first days in Palm Beach when she’d expected alligators, lizards, and fat, hairy spiders at every turn. Once she’d mistaken the shadow of a passing seagull for a snake. Maybe it was that way with her and the man last night.
Except it wasn’t, and she knew it.
She made her way along a brick path to the front of the garage. Leonardo had expected her to use the main house, but it was so big and sprawling she decided she’d feel like a pea rolling around in the bottom of a barrel. The guest quarters were just fine. She’d converted the living room into an office and still had plenty of room to stretch out and feel as if she were living in the lap of luxury, which she was.
Hard to believe, she thought as she punched in the code to open the front gates, that a year ago she was ensconced in her job with the Boston branch of an international communications firm, safe, satisfied, even a little smug. She’d planned on upgrading to a condo and taking a trip to Australia. Then two things happened that caught her by surprise and forced change upon her. First, her thirtieth birthday came and went without fanfare. A non-event. She had dinner with her parents and sister and drinks with a sometime boyfriend, a guy her age just as immersed in the status quo. There was no bow from the universe, no bolt of lightning, no tip of the hat that today she’d turned thirty. The next morning she got up and went to work, thirty years old instead of twenty-nine, and that was that.
Second, Leonard Pascarelli blew into town three days later, when she was still trying to sort out why she’d gone into a funk. They cooked dinner together in her apartment—the world-famous tenor, son of a Boston butcher, and his urban, upwardly mobile goddaughter—and he’d drawn her out, urged her to pour out her soul, insisted on it.
She was thirty, she’d said. She had no man in her life she gave a real damn about or who gave a real damn about her. She had a job she loved but didn’t absorb her as it once had. She had a great apartment and a nice wardrobe, but so what?
“That’s my life,” she’d told Leonardo. “A big ‘so what?’ ”
He was a big man, black-haired, clean-shaven, round-faced, with dark, penetrating eyes and a keen intelligence that people often underestimated because of his passionate nature. He loved to eat, drink, fall in love, sing. He seemed to fear nothing—loss, failed relationships, disease, old age, death. Yet his singing betrayed a deep, intuitive understanding of all life offered and all it demanded. He was a complex man who cared very much about other people, even as, in his late fifties, he was alone, without wife or children.
“Is this self-pity I’m hearing from you?” he’d asked without a hint of criticism.
“Just honesty. I can’t delude myself anymore.”
He’d removed his wooden spoon from his bubbling saucepan and pointed it at her. “What do you want from life, Mollie? Now, at this moment. Don’t think, don’t hesitate. Just answer.”
“Adventure,” she said immediately, surprising herself. “Something new and exciting and different. Something that engages my heart, my mind, my soul. You know, I always thought I’d be in business for myself by thirty.”
“And why aren’t you?”
“It’s not that easy. I’ve got a good job. I’d have to give up the security, the benefits. If I fell flat on my face, how would I pay my rent? What would I do for health insurance? There’s something to be said for a steady paycheck, you know.”
“Ah. If you left this job and found that you didn’t want to be out on your own after all, or you failed, you’d never find another job?”
“No, of course not. I’m good at what I do—”
“Then what’s stopping you?’
She didn’t know. Fear of failure? Fear of success? Inertia? In the end, Leonardo decided she just needed a kick in the pants, and so he offered her use of his Palm Beach house. He was doing a mammoth yearlong tour of Europe and Russia and could get to south Florida for only brief spells. He couldn’t see leaving the place closed up.
That was Leonardo. Boisterous, generous, egotistical, and unconditionally in Mollie’s corner.
“You’ll have your adventure and your fresh start,” he’d said. “And no overhead.”
Mollie had stared at him. “You’re asking me to jump off a cliff.”
He’d smiled, his dark eyes intense and gleaming. “Then jump.”
And so she had, quitting her job, vacating her apartment, and moving south. She printed up business cards and stationery and let her contacts know she’d put up her own shingle in Palm Beach, Florida. It was slow, steady going, but she was making money and establishing a reputation for herself as a creative, inventive, ethical publicist.