To: Bharper@blissharperdesigns.com
From: SikorskiK@WIndiU.edu
Hello to all of Gracie’s Girls, class of 1999. Once again, thanks to all of you for the flowers and phone calls after my aunt Gracie’s passing last winter. You all meant so much to her, and to me.
As I’m sure you all know, our tenth college reunion is coming up this summer. Since I now have Gracie’s big rambling house all to myself, I’d like to extend an invitation. If any of you are coming back for the reunion, you’re more than welcome to stay here, in your old rooms. Gracie quit taking in college students several years back, so there’s no one here but me, and I’d love to have some company while I’m getting the house ready to put on the market. So what do you say? One last time as roommates? It would be great to see all of you again.
Hugs,
Karen
* * * *
Karen’s House
Bliss Harper bit her lip and gazed down at the back of a ten year-old pizza receipt where Nick Santucci’s precise signature was scrawled at the bottom of an IOU for one night of sweaty, dirty, bad-boy sex. She carefully opened the musical card that he’d sent in reply to the photocopied IOU. The tinny strains of a lively nineties dance number, by a local band that had lasted on the charts for about four minutes her senior year, blared. Nick’s familiar scrawl informing her that he’d see her at the Ambassador, ready to pay up, was at the bottom of the card.
Thanks to Classmates R Us, she’d finally reconnected with the one man who’d been starring in her personal fantasies for the past ten years.
She usually had better sense, but she’d realized the day her college reunion invitation had arrived that she’d slipped back into her all-work-and-no-play mode. Of course, there wasn’t any guarantee that this weekend was going to change that.
Nick could be fat, bald, married or all of the above. Well, if he was, at least she could finally start fantasizing about someone else when she had her next close encounter with her battery-operated, Saturday night date.
And if her luck held, she’d find out what she’d done to make Nick Santucci owe her a night of bad-boy sex. Maybe then she’d start living the life she’d put on hold ten years ago to pursue the success and security she had finally achieved.
The door shuddered and Franny’s familiar knock made her smile, something she’d been doing a lot of since showing up at Karen’s door a few hours ago.
“Come on in, Fran.”
Fran, wearing one of her signature no-nonsense pant-suits strode into the room like an Amazon queen. “When are you going to design me something that makes my butt look good?” she asked, waving her hand at the emerald, toga-styled silk sheath wrapped around Bliss, and caught at one shoulder with a matching tie.
“I’ll make a deal with you. You take enough time off from the think tank to come to New York and get measured, and I’ll make you a dress that will win your butt an award.”
Fran rolled her eyes and then glanced at the open card Bliss held. “What the hell is the name of that song you keep playing?”
“I don’t remember,” she lied, and knew she was caught when Fran pinned her with her famous frown.
“Have you remembered a damn thing about that night?”
“Not much after Elliot broke up with me. I think there was dancing and green jell-o involved,” she shrugged, “after that, nothing.”
“So are you here looking for Nick Santucci as a possible Mr. Right? ‘Cause, honey, Mr. Right could be fat, bald or married—and very possibly, all three.”
Bliss blinked. “It’s scary how much we think alike. And the answer is not just no, but hell no. I think. So, are you not looking for Mr. Right, either?”
“There’s no such animal,” Fran scoffed. “But I wouldn’t mind a few rounds with Mr. Wrong,” she said, and surprisingly enough, she almost sounded wistful.
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