Free Falling Angel by Clare Tisdale Page A

the window already? Or have you discovered that he’s actually a multi-millionaire?”
    “Even if he were, that wouldn’t change the fact that he’s not looking for the same things I am,” Cara said, bristling. “Obviously, we’re completely unsuited to each other. But he’s fun to talk to. We might get together this weekend. But we’re just friends.”
    “Sure you are.”
    “Why don’t you believe me?”
    Ann looked at her. “I can tell by the way you look,” she said. “You’ve got the glow.”
    “What glow?”
    “That love glow. I can spot it a mile away.”
    “You’re drunk,” Cara said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “I may be drunk, but I still know the love glow.” Ann got up and walked into the kitchen to extinguish her cigarette under the kitchen faucet. “I’m going to bed. Thanks for listening to my sob story.”
    “That’s what friends are for.”
    “At least one of us had a good time tonight.” Ann said as she headed down the hallway. “You, as usual,” she added under her breath, so that Cara barely heard the words.
    Cara stared after her as the bedroom door closed softly. The bitterness in Ann’s tone was unmistakable. Was Ann actually mad at her for having a good time?
    It must have been the whisky talking, she told herself. gathering up their empty tea cups and Ann’s gin glass and rinsing them out in the sink. Ann’s not mad; she’s just tired and upset. Don’t go making up problems where none exist.
    All the same, when she lay in bed and began to drift into sleep, the image of Ann’s pinched and angry face appeared before her like a warning.
     
    If she were being totally honest, Cara would have to admit that she spent the better part of her free time the next week waiting for Ben to call.
    And waiting.
    And waiting.
    Not that she had that much free time. Great Expectations had been hired to plan a high-profile wedding for the daughter of a colleague of Ingrid’s husband, and an honorary banquet for a retiring University of Washington professor. Both events were scheduled within a week of each other, and Cara had to put in several ten- and twelve-hour days to stay on top of the sheer number of small details involved.
    As soon as she got home, she would hit the answering machine button. On Tuesday her mother called and left a message.
    “Hello dear, it’s me. I wanted to find out how the party was. Also thought you’d like to know that Jemma’s test results came back and she’s fine. The bump on her hind leg was just a reaction to the rabies vaccine, not cancer.”
    On Wednesday, David called.
    “Cara, this is David Kendall. I hope you had fun at your party last weekend. If you get a chance, give me a call.”
     On Thursday after work, there were no messages.
    Cara paced the tiny living room, chewing on her lip. Ben had promised her he’d call to set up a date for Saturday. Was he going to wait until Saturday morning to call? Desperate to take her mind off things, she knocked on the door to Ann’s room. “Ann, are you in there?”
    A muffled sound came from inside the room. Ann came to the door, looking disheveled.
    “Sorry, did I wake you?”
    “No.”
    “I just wondered if you’d like to go out for a walk.”
    Ann shook her head. “I’ve got a splitting headache. I’m gonna take some aspirin and go to bed.”
    Since her outburst, Ann had been strangely distant. When Cara got home in the evenings she was either out, or closeted in her room with the music on loud and the door closed. She responded monosyllabically to Cara’s attempts to engage her in conversation, and most mornings was already at work by the time Cara got up.
    Resigned to staying in for the evening, Cara boiled spaghetti and warmed up a jar of marinara sauce. She sat alone at the kitchen table, nibbling despondently at her meal. She couldn’t help remembering the delicious, simple pasta dish Ben had prepared for her two weeks earlier.
    Seattle is a big city, she