Silver Linings

Talk to you later, Mattie.”
    “Fine.” Mattie took a sip of her champagne and watched Flynn saunter away through the crowd.
    “All right, spit it out.” Hugh grabbed a plastic glass from a passing tray.
    “Spit what out?” Mattie asked politely.
    “You want to know why I'm late and why I arrived with Ariel.” Hugh swallowed most of the contents of the glass in one gulp.
    “I do?”
    “The answers are that, A, the meeting with Charlotte ran late and, B, Ariel was just getting out of a cab in front of this joint when I arrived. I couldn't avoid walking in with her.”
    “I see.”
    “Good.” Apparently considering the subject closed, Hugh glowered down at her. “Now, what's with you and Grafton?”
    Mattie glanced up in astonishment. “What on earth are you talking about?”
    “He was looking at you the way a dog looks at a bone. Real intense.”
    Mattie shrugged. “He's an artist. Artists are always intense in one way or another. He wants me to look at some of his work. I said I would. That's all there was to it. What did you and Charlotte decide?”
    Hugh frowned, looking as if he wanted to pursue the topic of Flynn Grafton. But he reluctantly altered course. “Everything's swell, just like I told you. She's happy to keep me on the payroll and says I can work here at the home office for as long as I want. Won't have to travel.”
    “What are you going to do here at headquarters?”
    “She wants a new security plan worked up that can be implemented at all the Vailcourt offices around the world. I told her no problem.”
    “And how long will you be happy doing that, Hugh? I see you as a field man, not an office type.”
    “The experience will be good for me,” he told her. “The more I learn about the business end of running a corporation, the better.”
    “Because you plan to go back to St. Gabriel to run Abbott Charters eventually, don't you? Admit it. You see this Seattle jaunt as just a short hiatus you have to tolerate until I come to my senses and see the light, right?”
    “Forget Abbott Charters and forget St. Gabe. I don't feel like arguing right now. Who's this heading our way?”
    Mattie looked across the room and heaved a small sigh. “It never rains but it pours.”
    “What's that mean?”
    “Just that there's quite a crowd of Ariel's exes here tonight. That's Ariel's first husband, Emery Blackwell. From her Early Dark and Exploratory periods. They were married five years.”
    “He looks drunk as a skunk.”
    “He probably is.” Mattie bit her lip in concern.
    Emery hid his problem fairly well. He was in his late fifties, but he had the craggy, slightly dissipated good looks that suited authors whose status had once been near-mythical in high-level literary circles. He was aging well, in spite of his increasing fondness for the bottle. It was true his jaw was getting a bit thick and there was evidence of a certain softness around his midsection, but he paid attention to his clothes, and they, in turn, hid a multitude of sins. His shock of silver-gray hair was as stunning as ever, and his pale eyes brimmed with intelligence, even when they were slightly bloodshot.
    Mattie had always liked Emery, and he had always treated her with an avuncular affection.
    “He's been under a lot of stress in the past few years,” Mattie confided softly to Hugh as Emery approached. “His career has been in the doldrums for ages, although he still gets tapped for lectures and readings occasionally.”
    “More stress, huh? Is that the cause of everybody's problems back here in the States these days?”
    “A large portion of them, yes.” Mattie smiled at Emery as he came to a halt in front of her and inclined his head with regal grace.
    “Mattie, my love, you look positively splendid, as always. How would you like to join me on Whidbey for a few days? I could use a muse. Bring something comfortable to change into, dear. We'll drink cognac and talk about poetry.”
    “You know I never really got the hang of poetry, Emery. And you look pretty splendid yourself, tonight.” Mattie went on tiptoe to give him a small peck on the cheek. “But, then, you always do.”
    “It's called style, my dear. Some of us have it—” Emery broke off to give Hugh an amused head-to-toe glance. “And some of us don't. Pray introduce me to your rustic friend, Mattie. He is a friend, I assume, and not a hired thug?”
    “Hugh Abbott,” Hugh announced coldly. “I'm going to marry Mattie.”
    “Good lord,