Lessons Learned

passed it on to Carlo, he might challenge LaBare to a duel.”
    “Skewers at ten paces?”
    Juliet merely sent her a cool look. “What else have you got?”
    “There might be a problem with the Dallas feature,” she said as she gave Juliet a folder. “The reporter got carried away and listed ten of the recipes straight out of the book.”
    Juliet’s head flew back. “Did you say ten?”
    “Count ’em. I imagine Franconi’s going to blow when he sees them.”
    Juliet flipped through the clippings until she came to it. The feature was enthusiastic and flattering. The timid Ms. Tribly had used the angle of preparing an entire meal from antipasto to dessert. Carlo’s recipes from The Italian Way were quoted verbatim. “What was she thinking of?” Juliet muttered. “She could’ve used one or two without making a ripple. But this…”
    “Think Franconi’s going to kick up a storm?”
    “I think our Ms. Tribly’s lucky she’s a few thousand miles away. You’d better get me legal. If he wants to sue, we’ll be better off having all the facts.”
    After nearly two hours on the phone, Juliet felt almostnormal. If there was a hollowness, she told herself it was a skipped lunch—and breakfast. If she tended to miss whole phrases that were recited to her, she told herself it was hard to keep up with legalese.
    They could sue, or put Ms. Tribly’s neck in a sling, both of which would create a miserable mess when she had two other authors scheduled for Dallas that summer.
    Carlo would have to be told, she reflected as she hung up. It wouldn’t be possible, or at least ethical, to crumple up the clipping and pretend it didn’t exist as she had with the one from LaBare. The problem was whether to let legal inform him, pass it off through his editor or bite the bullet and write him herself.
    It wouldn’t hurt to write him, she told herself as she toyed with her pen. She’d made her decision, said her piece and stepped off the carousel. They were both adults, both professionals. Dictating his name on a letter couldn’t cause her any pain.
    Thinking his name caused her pain.
    Swearing, Juliet rose and paced to the window. He hadn’t meant it. As she had consistently for days, Juliet went over and over their last evening together.
    It was all romance to him. Just flowers and candlelight. He could get carried away with the moment and not suffer any consequences. I love you—such a simple phrase. Careless and calculating. He hadn’t meant it the way it had to be meant.
    Marriage? It was absurd. He’d slipped and slid his way out of marriage all of his adult life. He’d known exactly how she’d felt about it. That’s why he’d said it, Juliet decided. He’d known it was safe and she’d never agree. She couldn’t even think aboutmarriage for years. There was her firm to think of. Her goals, her obligations.
    Why couldn’t she forget the way he’d made her laugh, the way he’d made her burn? Memories, sensations didn’t fade even a little with the days that had passed. Somehow they gained in intensity, haunted her. Taunted her. Sometimes—too often—she’d remember just the way he’d looked as he’d taken her face in his hand.
    She touched the little heart of gold and diamonds she hadn’t been able to make herself put away. More time, she told herself. She just needed more time. Perhaps she’d have legal contact him after all.
    “Juliet?”
    Turning from the window, Juliet saw her assistant at the door. “Yes?”
    “I rang you twice.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “There’s a delivery for you. Do you want them to bring it in here?”
    An odd question, Juliet thought and returned to her desk. “Of course.”
    Deb opened the door wider. “In here.”
    A uniformed man wheeled a dolly into the room. Confused, Juliet stared at the wooden crate nearly as big as her desk. “Where do you want this, Miss?”
    “Ah—there. There’s fine.”
    With an expert move, he drew the dolly free. “Just sign here.” He held out a clipboard as Juliet continued to stare at the crate. “Have a nice day.”
    “Oh—yes, thank you.” She was still staring at it when Deb came back in with a small crowbar.
    “What’d you order?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Come on, open it.” Impatient, Deb handed her the crowbar. “I’m dying.”
    “I can’t think what it might be.” Slipping the crowbar under the lid, Juliet began to pry. “Unless my mother sent on my grandmother’s china like she’s been threatening