"MEN. BAH, HUMBUG," SALLY White grumbled loudly as she reached the bottom of the staircase.
Brooke Bailey lifted the tip of her calligraphy pen from the burgundy velvet cuff of the Christmas stocking and grinned. Leave it to Sally to twist Dickens to suit herself.
"C'mon, Sal. It can't be that bad, can it?"
"No. It can be worse." Sally punctuated her statement with a very long, very Sally sigh. She stepped into the lobby of the apartment building she and Brooke shared with their elderly landlady and six other young, upwardly mobile professionals.
From her seat on the hardwood floor, Brooke followed her friend's progress across the Victorian—style room, which really was beginning to look a lot like Christmas. The common area on the first floor of the four—story walk—up had required but a fraction of the time she spent each year decorating her parents' home for the holidays.
And that left her more time for, well... She counted at least a dozen projects that would keep her busy for the next twelve days. Maybe this wouldn't be such a bad year after all. This first Christmas ever away from home. This first Christmas spent with friends instead of family. Friends she was determined would become like family.
She capped her pen, looked up and mulled over Sally's expression, then stated the obvious. "He canceled."
"Yes, he canceled." Sally paused in front of the Christmas tree, blocking the sparkle of the tiny white electric candles reflected in the pink and gold antique balls. "Being stood up for a date I could handle. But this was business. A potential client."
"Not to mention an enormous coup for White Publicity. Which means you'll reschedule as soon as possible," Brooke added, though Sally hardly needed the reminder.
Four years living across the hall from the blond bombshell had taught Brooke more than she'd thought there was to know about determination. Persistence. Tenacity.
Any of the traits could have gained Sally status as an honorary Bailey. She'd certainly make a better one than Brooke did at times.
"Of course I'll reschedule." Sally began to pace, her steps a staccato echo in the small room. "I told Dr. Howard I'd call first thing Monday. Lord, Brooke. Do you know what it would mean to the agency to sign Mercy Hospital?"
Oh, Brooke knew exactly. More hours for a friend who already slept less than six hours a night all week and devoted the remaining eighteen each day to business, except on weekends. "Exhaustion?"
"I won't have time to be exhausted," Sally said.
"You won't have time for anything. Forget that personal life you're so fond of." Having a personal life was not a high priority for most of the career—driven people Brooke had known, her parents included.
But then, this was Sally. Sally loved her personal life, and actually had one. One worth bragging about. Lucky wench. Brooke made a face. "Of course you know I'm kidding."
"Of course I know you're kidding. We both know my personal life is the only thing that keeps me sane." Sally smiled the same smile that had convinced Brooke four years ago she'd made a friend for life.
"I'm not sure your sanity—retention plan is working," Brooke said to that same friend. "Otherwise, why would you even consider taking on Mercy Hospital as a client with the schedule you already have?"
"That's easy," Sally answered. "I love what I do. Which is the exact same reason you're able to turn a store the size of Fielding—Lane into a Christmas showpiece even though it requires months of meticulous planning."
She stopped her pacing and glanced from the Christmas tree to the row of hanging stockings, to the freshly lettered cuff of the one drying on the seat of the deacon's bench Brooke was using for a table.
"At least I leave my work at the office," Sally said, lifting one brow.
The expression was one of concern, not accusation. Brooke knew that, knew her friend's interest was genuine, a true indication of Sally's caring nature.
"Since when?" Brooke countered. "Besides, this isn't work. This is Christmas. I love Christmas." More than she was going to admit to Sally. Or to anyone.
It seemed a bit silly to be this sentimental. This attached to a season. But even though she wouldn't make the admission, neither would she deny the wealth of all that Christmas made her feel.
"I love Christmas, too," Sally said, fingering the delicate gold chain at her neck. "But that doesn't mean I'd spend my Saturday morning decorating this lobby."
"And no one would expect you to," Brooke returned, the corner of her mouth hinting at a wry smile. "But if Santa was here, you'd be advising him which stop on his world tour to make first for most impact."
"Ah, touché." Her brown eyes sparkling, Sally made her way across the room to where Brooke sat. "And if you ever see me bringing work home, remind me of this conversation."
"That'll be tough to do since I'm usually asleep by the time you drag in from the office"—she arched both brows—"with reams of paperwork tucked under both arms, no doubt. I can barely hear your front door from my bedroom, you know."
"You listen for my front door?"
"I do when it gets late and I know you're not home. Not that I worry. I just... worry." Brooke thought of Sally as family. A bit of worry wasn't out of order.
But listening for Sally didn't make her crazy. Oh, no. That came in the morning when she waited for the running of the shower in the apartment upstairs. It always came minutes after she stepped out of her own and turned down the music she played to help her shake off the remnants of sleep.
It had become the strangest habit, listening for the early morning footsteps, the creak of the wood flooring, the squeal of hot water through stubborn pipes. Stranger that she heard the shift of body weight from tile to porcelain, the slide of metal rings over the shower—curtain rod.
The latter part she imagined. A ridiculous imagining, really, thinking of Duncan Cox stepping into his shower. She barely knew the man. He'd lived above her for only one month. Long enough for her to realize that the hours he kept were not to her liking.
Not that his comings and goings disturbed her. He was quiet. Except for the shower. And most of that distraction was in her own mind. No, what disturbed her was that he worked incessantly and she found him attractive regardless. She knew better.
