Trust Me

floor samples or something?”
    “Kirsten wants you to have them.” Henry fixed her with a determined expression. “And she’s got the right idea. It’s time you put some fun into your life, Desdemona. You live like a nun. You’re practically married to Right Touch.”
    “I’m perfectly content the way I am,” Desdemona said quickly. “Honestly I am.”
    “Impossible,” Henry said. “You’re a Wainwright. You were born for passion.”
    “Passion is dangerous these days.”
    He held up the box of condoms. “So you’re going to be careful.”
    “It takes two to tango,” Desdemona said weakly.
    “Juliet and Aunt Bess have someone new for you to meet,” Kirsten said. “An actor who’s working on the Eastside in a dinner theater Production of Camelot.”
    Desdemona dropped her head into her hands. “Not another blind date.”
    “Okay, so it’s an ancient musical, and he’s not exactly the lead,” Henry said, not without sympathy. “You can’t have everything.”
    “I know.”
    “Juliet says the guy’s straight, single, and employed,” Kirsten put in. “Bess knows his family. They’re theater people, too. What more do you want?”
    “This is getting embarrassing,” Desdemona said. “Juliet’s and Bess’s blind dates never work out. Furthermore, I don’t need any assistance with my love life.”
    Juliet came through the office door in typical Wainwright fashion, as though she were making an entrance onstage. “Once you get yourself a love life, we’ll all bow out.”
    “For heaven’s sake,” Desdemona muttered.
    Before anyone could pursue the argument, Desdemona’s Aunt Bess swooped into the already crowded office. A tall, statuesque woman in her early sixties, she had flashing dark eyes and a wealth of silver hair.
    Bess Wainwright had played everyone from Lady Macbeth to Guinevere in the course of her long career. She and her husband, Augustus, were officially retired, but they still found time for the occasional summer stock or dinner theater production, just as Desdemona’s parents did.
    There was an old Wainwright family saying: You can take the Wainwright out of the theater, but you can’t take the theater out of the Wainwright.
    “Desdemona, my dear,” Bess said firmly, “you’ve simply got to get over this stage fright.”
    “Stage fright?” Desdemona stared at her aunt. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t have stage fright. I’ve never even been on stage except when I took acting lessons.”
    “I know stage fright when I see it,” Bess said. “My dear, Augustus and I had a long talk. We concluded that your problem is that you put all your energy and Wainwright passion into Right Touch and none of it into your private life. There must be a reason for that.”
    Desdemona was exasperated. “The reason is that it takes a lot of energy and passion to run a business. At least I’ve got something to show for it.”
    “It’s not normal,” Bess insisted. “Not for a Wainwright.”
    “I haven’t noticed anyone in the family complaining,” Desdemona retorted.
    Bess sighed. “We all admit that it’s useful for someone in the family to have a steady day job, especially a business that can employ other members of the family. But that doesn’t make it normal.”
    “For heaven’s sake, Aunt Bess…”
    “You’re wasting the best years of your life on a business, for God’s sake,” Bess declared in ringing tones.
    Juliet lounged on a corner of the desk. “Either you’re just being too picky, or Aunt Bess is right when she says you have stage fright. You’ve got to come out of the wings and go out in front of the lights, Desdemona. You’re a Wainwright.”
    Desdemona had had enough. She shot to her feet and confronted her well-intentioned relatives. “It may interest all of you to know that I have a date tonight.”
    Everyone stared at her in astonishment.
    Juliet recovered first. “With who?”
    Desdemona blushed. “Sam Stark.”
    Henry’s mouth fell open. “Stark of Stark Security Systems?”
    “Yes.”
    “The nerd?” Juliet’s eyes widened in horror.
    Desdemona rounded on her instantly. “I said there was to be no nerd-bashing around here.”
    “I beg your pardon,” Juliet muttered. “Let me rephrase that. Are we talking about the Super Client?”
    “We’re talking about Stark,” Desdemona snapped. “Just plain Sam Stark.”
    Henry groaned. “Stark, the human computer.”
    Desdemona turned on him. “He is not a computer.”
    Henry