Mind Over Matter

convenient.”
    Furious, she swung away from him. “You make me sound like a—”
    “No. I make us both sound like it.” He didn’t reach for her again. He wouldn’t crawl. “I make us both sound like precisely what we are. And I don’t care for it.”
    She’d known it would end. She’d told herself she’d be prepared when it did. But she wanted to shout and scream. Clinging to what pride she had left, she stood straight. “I don’t know what you want.”
    He stared at her until she nearly lost the battle with the tears that threatened. “No,” he said quietly. “You don’t. That’s the biggest problem, isn’t it?”
    He left her because he wanted to beg. She let him go because she was ready to.

12
    N ervous as a cat, A.J. supervised as folding chairs were set in rows in her mother’s garden. She counted them—again—before she walked over to fuss with the umbrella-covered tables set in the side yard. The caterers were busy in the kitchen; the florist and two assistants were putting the finishing touches on the arrangements. Pots of lilies and tubs of roses were placed strategically around the terrace so that their scents wafted and melded with the flowers of Clarissa’s garden. It smelled like a fairy tale.
    Everything was going perfectly. With her hands in her pockets, she stood in the midmorning sunlight and wished for a crisis she could dig her teeth into.
    Her mother was about to marry the man she loved, the weather was a blessing and all of A.J.’s preplanning was paying off. She couldn’t remember ever being more miserable. She wanted to be home, in her own apartment, with the door locked and the curtains drawn, with her head buried under the covers. Hadn’t it been David who’d once told her that self-pity wasn’t attractive?
    Well, David was out of her life now, A.J. reminded herself. And had been for nearly two weeks. That was for the best. Without having him around, confusing her emotions, she couldget on with business. The agency was so busy she was seriously considering increasing her staff. Because of the increased work load, she was on the verge of canceling her own two-week vacation in Saint Croix. She was personally negotiating two multimillion-dollar contracts and one wrong move could send them toppling.
    She wondered if he’d come. A.J. cursed herself for even thinking of him. He’d walked out of her apartment and her life. He’d walked out when she’d kept herself in a state of turmoil, struggling to keep strictly to the terms of their agreement. He’d been angry and unreasonable. He hadn’t bothered to call and she certainly wasn’t going to call him.
    Maybe she had once, she thought with a sigh. But he hadn’t been home. It wasn’t likely that David Brady was mooning and moping around. A. J. Fields was too independent, and certainly too busy, to do any moping herself.
    But she’d dreamed of him. In the middle of the night she’d pull herself out of dreams because he was there. She knew, better than most, that dreams could hurt.
    That part of her life was over, she told herself again. It had been only an…episode, she decided. Episodes didn’t always end with flowers and sunlight and pretty words. She glanced over to see one of the hired help knock over a line of chairs. Grateful for the distraction, A.J. went over to help set things to rights.
    When she went back into the house, the caterers were busily fussing over quiche and Clarissa was sitting contentedly in her robe, noting down the recipe.
    “Momma, shouldn’t you be getting ready?”
    Clarissa glanced up with a vague smile and petted the cat that curled in her lap. “Oh, there’s plenty of time, isn’t there?”
    “A woman never has enough time to get ready on her wedding day.”
    “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? I know it’s foolish to take it as a sign, but I’d like to.”
    “You can take anything you want as a sign.” A.J. started to move to the stove for coffee, then changed her mind. On impulse, she opened the refrigerator and pulled out one of the bottles of champagne that were chilling. The caterers muttered together and she ignored them. It wasn’t every day a daughter watched her mother marry. “Come on. I’ll help you.” A.J. swung through the dining room and scooped up two fluted glasses.
    “I wonder if I should drink before. I shouldn’t be fuzzy-headed.”
    “You should absolutely be fuzzy-headed,” A.J. corrected. Walking into her mother’s room, she plopped