Rough Trade

lying neatly folded on the end of the couch. He’d also left an autographed football card on the kitchen table along with five crisp, new one-hundred-dollar bills. He’d probably taken a good look at the apartment and decided we could use the money.
    I took my time getting ready, deciding that I deserved it, and took a detour to the Starbucks across the street after I parked my car at the office. Juggling two hot lattes and my briefcase, I arrived upstairs and set them all on top of Cheryl’s desk. From the pocket of my coat I extracted the money that Jake the Giant had left and handed it to my secretary.
    “What’s this?” she asked, her head cocked to one side.
    “Donation to your scholarship fund. Bring in your pad and I’ll tell you where to send the thank-you note.” Ipicked up my coffee and stopped in my tracks. “Before you do that,” I added, “do me a favor and get Jeff Rendell on the phone for me.”
    “He already called. There was a message on your voice mail when I got in.”
    “What did he say?”
    “Just thanks for picking up the package.”
    “Some package.”
    I hung up my coat, gave my hair a distracted pat, and made my way to my desk, which was already lined with dozens of pink message slips arranged by Cheryl in order of importance. I picked up the first one; it was from my mother reminding me that Stephen and I were scheduled to meet the following afternoon with the decorator to make our final selections of fabrics and wallcoverings. Stephen had already canceled or rescheduled four times.
    “I want you to call Rachel over at Azor and tell her that if Stephen isn’t back from London tomorrow afternoon and at the meeting with the decorator as promised, his ass is grass,” I said.
    “Do I detect a hint of irritation in the famously unruffled Millholland manner?” demanded my secretary impishly.
    “I swear, if I have to face my mother and Mimi and talk about wallpaper all by myself, I really am going to kill him.”
    My phone rang, and I pushed it across my desk to my secretary. I make it a policy to never answer my own phone when my mother is in town. Cheryl shot me a look.
    “Oh, come on,” I pleaded. “If it’s her, just tell her I’m in a meeting or something.”
    “You are such a baby,” replied Cheryl, who was happy to talk to her own mother every day. But then, of course, her mother was a normal person. “Good morning, Ms. Millholland’s office,” she chirped with exaggerated cheerfulness. She listened briefly, her smile slowly dissolving into an expression of concern. “She’s right here,” she said. Then she put her hand over the receiver. “It’s Chrissy Rendell,” she whispered, and handed me the phone.
    “Hi there,” I said.
    “Oh my god, Kate, I’m so glad you’re there.” She sounded breathless and upset, her words practically tumbling over each other.
    “What’s wrong?” I demanded.
    “I just got home from the grocery store. When I walked in the door, the phone was ringing and I rushed to answer; it. It was a reporter.”
    “Oh, no,” I groaned. It was hoping too much that of all the people at The Baton last night there wouldn’t be at least one who would talk. “How bad is it?”
    “It’s terrible,” she sobbed.
    “Why don’t you just try to calm down and tell me everything that’s happened.”
    “I don’t know how it happened. Nobody told me anything. All I know is that he’s dead.”
    “Dead?” I demanded. Suddenly I felt sick. I should never have let Jake out of my sight. I thought of the blanket and the football card and wondered where he’d gone after he left my apartment. “How did he die?”
    “The reporter didn’t know.”
    “Where did it happen?”
    “At the stadium. They found him at the bottom of the stairs leading up to his office.”
    “Whose office?” I inquired. Football players didn’t have offices, at least not at the stadium they didn’t.
    “His office,” she replied.
    “Who are we talking about?” I was starting to feel confused.
    “Beau.”
    “Beau’s dead?” I demanded incredulously.
    “Yes. Who did you think we were talking about?”
    “What can I do?” I asked automatically, not yet able to let the implications of the news sink in.
    “Just come,” whispered my best friend from the time we were both thirteen. “Please, just come.”
     

CHAPTER 5
     
     
    In an instant everything changes. An event, a piece of information, and suddenly your world shudders, convulses, and