Déjà vu: Confessions of a Soul, #1

By P.E. Chretien

 

Constance Hebert's sheltered life turns upside down when her near death experience leaves her with vague memories of how she has lived, loved, and died in the past.

Logic, laws, and reasoning have always guided Gabriel Collins' life until his past comes back to haunt him. Another life, in another time, that he can't yet fully remember. But his soul is somehow forever entwined with the soul of one particular woman.

Sebastian Vega's ability to bend the truth has earned him everything a man could want. But a black hole of need lies in his soul, driving him to want more. But what "more" looks like, he has no idea. Until Constance greets him one morning, turning his need into an all consuming obsession. He's lost her before in ages past, and he'll be damned if he'll let Collins steal her from him again.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: P.E. Chretien
• Release date: May 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393509646

P.E. Chretien

Lives in Burton Texas. With her family and her dogs.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Gabriel leans back into his office chair and pushes the sleeves of his Henley up his toned forearms. He props the heel of his hiking boot on the lip of an African Blackwood trash can, ignoring the untied lace as he prepares to focus his attention on work and not his only shortcoming: women.

He thumbs through the legal brief, resuming where he left off yesterday, studying the chemical structure of Béxar Oil’s new drilling mud additive. He’s so deep in thought that he jerks a bit when his phone buzzes. The agitating noise jars him from his extreme focus, and he groans at the interruption. Leaning in, he checks the caller ID. It reads Torres, C. making him crinkle his brow. Cynthia wouldn’t bother me unless it was important. He places the call on speaker and continues to read. Gabe! The sharp agitation in Cynthia’s tone screams of hostility. There’s only one person in this building that can cause her to seethe. Mr. Vega is here to see you.

Gabriel tosses the patent application on his desk and rolls his chair forward, matching her level of agitation as he wonders what Vega wants. Fine, thank you, Cynthia. Please send him in. What’s wrong now? Damn, the man is such an arrogant asshole. His ‘litigators rule the world’ attitude chaps my hide.

Before Gabriel can pull his foot from its resting place, the twelve-foot-high, monolithic door to his office flies open, almost smacking the bookcase behind it. A compact man around five eight with the physique of a Greek god saunters through, holding a letter-sized FedEx package.   

Sebastian Vega, one of Texas Monthly’s top ten trial attorneys, strides toward Gabriel’s desk. A simper spans his flawless olive skin, and his dark brown eyes dance as they roam over Gabriel, projecting an arrogance that defies explanation. He thinks his shit doesn’t stink.

Sebastian tosses the envelope on Gabriel’s desk and barks his words. Your last girlfriend just sent you a love letter. He points at the already-opened document, exposing the Patek Philippe hidden under the sleeve of his Armani suit. He palms his jet-black hair even though not one strand stands errant, and his vain gesture only makes his widow’s peak more pronounced.

Gabriel’s boot slips from the trash can as he lurches forward to snatch up the packet. What? He flips it over, reading the return address. Steinem, Katz, and Fritz. From California? Mercedes! Why would she try and communicate with me at all?

His cheeks flush with heat when the recollection of their less than amicable breakup creeps into his mind. She made damn sure it was an exaggerated public display.

Sebastian twists his UT law school ring and whirls around, turning his back on Gabriel. The heels of his crocodile slip-ons clack against the hardwood floor, echoing in the silence as he makes his way to the floor-to-ceiling window. He glances out at the Houston skyline and fidgets with his black patterned tie. She is suing you. He doesn’t turn to address Gabriel but continues looking out the glass, his eyes transfixed on the sprawling Uptown district. Palimony!

That’s bullshit! Gabriel jumps to his feet as his logical brain rummages through all of his family law lectures, searching for the basis behind Mercedes’s claim. The statute appears in front of his mind’s eye as if he held the book in his hands, and he reads it word for word before blurting, She never lived with me. Raking back his unruly strawberry curls with his fingers, he shouts at Sebastian’s back. Hell! The state of Texas doesn’t even recognize palimony. Morbid curiosity takes over. I have to see this crap. He tears the back of the envelope open, jerking out the legal documents. His eyes race over the heading at the top of the page in bold black letters. In the matter of joint assets. Mercedes Seville versus Gabriel Collins.

Correct! Sebastian turns back to leer at Gabriel, gripping his own biceps. An emotionless expression ripples over his striking jawline, and his dark eyes burn but hold firm, pinning Gabriel frozen where he stands.

Gabriel sucks in a shallow breath, wanting to yell. I’m all too familiar with your litigator poker face. But he pauses, analyzing the subtleties of his business partner’s eye movement. Holy fucking hell. You want me to pay up because you think the fight will cost me far more.

That’s why she’s suing you in California. Sebastian lifts one eyebrow, maintaining the vacant leer. Lover boy! A smirk forms on his lips, showing a hint of his impeccable white teeth.

Gabriel’s anger at Mercedes’s audacity morphs into unabated curiosity. How the hell? She can’t do that!

Sebastian unfurls his arms, straightens his tie, tucks it neatly inside the charcoal power suit, and marches to the front of Gabriel’s desk. You spent six weeks in that apartment just off the Berkley campus working on that solar panel deal. She stayed with you. Correct?

Gabriel nods a silent reply and crosses his arms, attempting to contain his temper. Sebastian grins, and his eyes twinkle.

Shit. Shoot me please. You’re in law-love with opposing counsel for coming up with this absurd angle.

Cohabitation. That’s what her attorneys are basing the suit on.

Gabriel tosses both hands in the air. That will never hold up! You know that! His indignant shout bounces off the ceilings of his cavernous office, hurting his own ears.

Fuck it! Just settle, and be done with it. Sebastian motions a strike with his hands. Then no more models. Please. He growls and tugs at the cuffs of his dress shirt, exposing the platinum-and-diamond cuff links he wears. His eyes flicker over Gabriel’s Henley and blue jeans. Christ man! You look like a fucking summer intern, not the founder of this firm. When will you start wearing a suit to work?

Look! Gabriel barks. We have this discussion far too frequently. I’m not a litigator, and last time I checked, I’m still the majority partner. A whoosh of air hisses from the leather cushion when he drops into his office chair. He glares at Sebastian’s smirk. Why did I hire him? What the hell was I thinking?

At the time, Gabriel needed a pit bull to complete his idea of a one-stop firm. A litigator on a leash, so to speak. That way, his clients wouldn’t need to hire outside counsel, potentially opening themselves up to industrial espionage. So he threw the dice and gambled on Sebastian right out of law school instead of opting for a more seasoned litigator, betting that Vega’s clearly impertinent personality was the right direction to go.

His assumption had been on the money. But he had been leery of Sebastian’s proficiency for bending the truth from the beginning, so he never released more than a 45 percent stake in his firm overall. And while Sebastian held the majority of those forty-five shares, he would never be able to trump him. Gabriel would retain sole control of his firm.

Gabriel inhales deeply and readies himself for the loquacious discourse that occurs every time Sebastian slides into trial attorney mode. Vega’s ability to transform his demeanor and leave behind every speck of his humanity has always unsettled Gabriel. He is single-minded, shameless in his approach to win at all costs, and without any doubt, remorseless.

Preemptively, Gabriel snaps a warning. I’m still the boss.

Oh, fuck! Sebastian wrinkles his nose and lifts his square jaw as if he is shaking off the thought. Thank you for the reminder.

All hints of the annoyance on Sebastian’s face vanish. He dawns a chummy smile, his glass-like eyes exude a cordial demeanor, and his posture realigns. I’m well aware that you hold all the cards, Collins! The name drips with distain. How could I miss your signature on my checks? The only signature. Sebastian takes a step backward, not breaking the visual hold. Whipping around, he moves back toward the window. Staring out the glass after an uncomfortable pause, he says, But don’t you forget that I’ve made you a shitload of money over the years. An underlying ferocity creeps out, not quite veiled by his monotone intonation.

Yes, you have. Gabriel eases from his chair, stepping out from behind the desk. "But I built the platform that made that possible. From scratch! And if I recall, my firm carried you for the first two years, before you started turning a profit. And when you did, it was on my intellectual property clients. I spoon-fed you the infringement case that landed your first hundred-million-dollar settlement."

Yes. Of course. How could I forget that? Sebastian seems barely able to contain the fury that appears to be bubbling up in his gut, but he turns away from the window in a leisurely way to face Gabriel, presenting a phony, bestie smile, his ire camouflaged behind those perfect white teeth.

Look, Gabriel, you are fucking lousy at picking women. Frankly, I don’t think you even pick. I think you just take the ones that throw themselves at you. And it’s always the high-profile, high-maintenance diva types that latch onto you. Solely for your money. Then they get pissed because you don’t spend a whole lot of it.

I buy only what I need. Gabriel stabs his index finger at Sebastian’s designer-clad piggies. And I don’t fucking need two hundred pairs of shoes.

Sebastian returns the incriminating gesture but levels it at Gabriel’s head. It’s as if you want to run them off, pissed and screaming into the hills. You make it very clear that if they want more out of you, they will be signing their life away. You discuss prenups and other contractual agreements with your girlfriends as soon as you fuck them.

They should be aware of where I stand. I have no intention of writing a big fat check to someone I end up divorcing eighteen months into a marriage. Have you looked at the statistics lately? Roulette has better odds.

Sometimes I think you’re not truly interested in any of them at all. Next time you go on a date, don’t tell them who you are.

* * *

Constance pounds her fist on the steering wheel and stares through her cracked windshield, wondering when the sea of cars in front of her will clear. She tips her chin up, glancing at the drooping headliner of her POS and shouts, I’m going to be late!

The traffic blocking her way begins to move, and she exhales a sigh. Pressing the gas pedal, Gertrude sputters and emits an unfamiliar banging noise under her hood. The fifteen-year-old Chevy shudders as though she is taking her last breath and then dies. Right there in the center lane of one of Houston’s most notoriously dangerous freeways.

Vehicles of all shapes and sizes honk. Angry drivers give Constance the one-finger salute as they whiz around her, the force rattling her compact car. She turns the ignition again, but nothing happens. Not even a click. She crosses herself, raises her small crucifix to her lips, kisses it, and tries to restart Gertrude. But as before, the engine stays silent.

She rests her forehead on the steering wheel, trying to recall which Catholic saint would champion ratty cars, when her phone starts to ring. Glancing at the screen, she sees ‘A. Hebert.’ Mama! Her heartbeat accelerates, pounding inside her chest like a drum. Her palms begin to sweat, and her stomach flips when she thinks of the ass-chewing her mother will dole out for missing mass.

The knell of Constance’s cell becomes more insistent and louder, demanding to be answered, mirroring her mother’s upcoming chastisement. She tells herself it’s not her fault, but guilt smothers her, and a tear starts to slide down her cheek. I should have taken another route. Then I wouldn’t be late.

A vile shrill pierces Constance’s eardrums, and she rolls to her side, clutching her pillow around her head to mute the sound. Opening one eye, she glances at her clock and reads the fuzzy numbers in her semiconscious state. 5:30 a.m. I’m not late for church. Just a bad dream. She reaches out, slapping at the snooze bar with her palm, but knocks the blaring clock between the bed and nightstand.

Constance rolls to the edge of the mattress and fumbles for the off switch, stopping the high-pitched noise. She flips back onto her pillow and stares at the faint shadows cast by the ceiling fan. Sucking in a deep breath, she ponders at what age she should have stopped having nightmares about making her mother angry. When I moved out? When I received my undergraduate? Or when I was accepted into a master’s program?

The slightest jolt at the side of the bed alerts Constance to the dog’s presence. A scarily skinny Italian greyhound steps on Constance’s legs, thankfully ending her contemplation about the extent of Allison Hebert’s control over her life.

The pooch creeps up her side and nuzzles her ear, sounding a subtle whine. Twinkle. Constance pets the dog’s angular head. Good morning to you, too, girl. The cheerful words get a rapid wag of the dog’s tail, causing the pooch’s entire frame to shake as if she’s cold. But the fuchsia sweater with silver filigree covering the tiny body reminds Constance of Jerry’s conviction: They’re my children. Not pets.

Three additional Italian greyhounds pile on, all trying to lick and nip at her face. The mattress sinks at her waist, and her bedside lamp clicks on. She glances up at a small Asian-American man, his jet-black hair gelled into spikes. Her roommate holds a mug in his delicate hand with steam wafting from the contents. Coffee?

Wakey, wakey, CC, my dear! Jerry lifts the mug to his feminine lips and sips. He lets out an exaggerated groan of pleasure and winks one eye. Your big job interview is today. I want to see what you’ve picked out to adorn that gorgeous bod of yours.

Constance pushes up and leans against her wrought-iron headboard, asking herself the same question. What should I wear? Her lack of forethought is unintentionally intentional. All three of her Sunday church dresses flash in her mind, emphasizing the true limits of her wardrobe. Bows and lace. Mama likes to see me in them, but they make me look like I’m in grade school. Not old enough to be interviewing for a job. I need to come off as serious. Somber.

The dress she wore to her great aunt’s funeral pushes to the forefront, and she blurts in a confident manner, I was going to wear my black dress. The one with the tiny white polka dots.

Jerry chokes on his coffee and slaps his palm to his mouth before barking, Is that that awful rag your mother got you? The tea-length job with the high collar?

Not partially fond of the outfit, Constance nods. Yes.

Jerry’s eyes widen, and he snaps, I will not have you leaving this house dressed like a Catholic nun in training.

And it begins. Constance’s shoulder sinks as she broods over the rift—or rather, war—between Allison and Jerry. But he didn’t start it. Mama did. Either way, the negative words cause a sharp pain in the middle of her chest, and she snaps her response. It’s too early in the morning for Catholic phobia.

CC, no way! He wags an effeminate finger at her. "I brought you back something from New York. That’s what you will wear." He pats her leg through the sheets with a satisfied expression on his face.

Okay, fine. Constance draws her knees to her chest. But don’t buy me anymore clothes. I don’t pay rent. It makes me feel like a leech. She snatches his mug and sips from it, handing it back half-empty and with a giggle.

Jerry rolls his wide eyes, returning a smirk. Taking care of my children while I’m away on business makes up for last year’s trends a thousand times over. He waves his hand in the direction of the four canines lying all over her bed.

I didn’t buy the outfit anyway. It was given to me. Samples. You know. He displays a faux look of shock. They just happen to be in your size. He grins like the cat that’s just eaten the family goldfish, all innocent, yet devilish at the same time.

Of course they were. Constance huffs and slides out of the bed, wearing only a T-shirt and underwear. Walking toward her chest of drawers, she pulls out a baby-blue push up bra. The one she purchased to wear under her prom dress. What was I thinking? And the pink Hello Kitty panties that came with the box of chocolates Jerry gave her for Valentine’s Day. She stares at the mismatched set. Maybe one day I will have the cash to be all matchy matchy. But for now, clean will have to do. Glancing over her shoulder, she mutters, You could get fired for giving me outfits.

I’m golden. Jerry slides to the edge of the bed as he explains. So long as I report it to my boss.

Constance turns and walks toward the bathroom. He trails behind, stating, I can’t accept men’s clothing. That’s all.

She enters the pink-tile-covered room and begins to close the door. But Jerry barges in as if continuing the conversation trumps her privacy. I know he’s not interested in me, but jeez, can’t I be alone?

All of the times Jerry’s flopped on her bed in the middle of the night to discuss his love life flood her mind, triggering memories of her younger sister, Phoebe. He’s just like my little sister. Boy crazy. Except he’s a guy.

Giving in, she twirls her index finger, signaling for him to turn around. He clasps his mouth to stop a chuckle but closes his eyes while she drags her shirt and panties off, tossing them into a hamper.

Why should I give the good stuff to my heathen secretary? Anyway, she’s a plus size! I don’t forecast ready-to-wear for hippos. Jerry plops down on the closed commode lid and resumes his rant between dainty sips of coffee.

Constance turns on the water, protesting as she jumps into the tub and draws the curtain. Jerry! That’s soooo mean.

His eyes snap open, and his lips purse together. Placing his mug on the counter, he stands and approaches her. With one hand on his hip, he cocks his head. In an apologetic whine, he states, She’s the one that keeps leaving anti-gay Bible quotes on my desk. I just can’t prove it.

Twinkle hops onto the vacated seat and begins to lap up Jerry’s lukewarm coffee. He nudges the dog’s nose from the mug, returns to his throne, and continues drinking his java.

Oh! She shoots him a contrite smile. I’m sorry! And returns to her shower. Why can’t people just leave each other alone? Ignore the differences.

Jerry smiles and changes the subject. Are you nervous about the interview?

Gripping the curtain so that nothing of importance shows, she pokes her head out and states, You know how bad I need this job. I’ve got a pot load of student loans, my car is on its last leg, and I start the master’s program in a month.

Mr. Jones and my father have been golfing buddies for years. He raises his hand over his head, snapping his fingers. So I believe a heterosexual man would say that it’s a slam dunk.

Why did I let you talk me into this? Constance reaches out from behind the curtain, then jerks the towel from the bar. I’m not interested in the law, and I’m not fond of attorneys. I’m a business major. After I get my MBA, I need to go to work for a company that’s in my field. She closes the curtain and begins drying herself off.

CC, your classes are all scheduled at night and early afternoon. It just makes sense. So you can work in the morning—five to eleven o’clock. Absolutely perfect. He whistles through his teeth. Easy peasy, my dear.

Her towel-wrapped head pops from behind the curtain, and she crinkles her nose and squints her eyes. Funny! She snaps out. The timing is soooooo convenient. Tell me again how you heard about this position? Because I couldn’t find it listed anywhere. Her words drip with sarcasm.

Jerry chuckles, winking at her.

Really! Did he strong-arm his father into calling the head of HR for C & V and solicit a job that fit my schedule? I know they’re golf buddies, but hell, that’s asking a lot. I bet Jerry threatened to leave the grand-dogs with his mom and dad the next time he goes out of town.

A grin spreads across Constance’s face at the thought of Jerry’s strait-laced, intellectual, and very traditional Vietnamese mother allowing a pack of unruly, pampered greyhounds to crawl all over her spotless house.

The silent chuckle she enjoys at her roommate’s expense halts, and her lips draw into a taught line as her mother comes to mind. That reminds me. I need to let Mama know that I have a class on Wednesday nights.

Oh, mass! Jerry states an overly dramatic manner. How do you think she’ll take it?

Mama thinks I’m going to hell already because we’re roommates. And you’re my best friend! I don’t see how it could possibly get any worse. Constance’s words echoed off the wall tile, making her sound defeated. I can’t believe my mother truly thinks like that. It’s so silly. Why would God do that to his children? I thought he loved all of us.

Why can’t she just concentrate on the seven other kids she has at home and let you live your own life? Jerry grumbles.

I told you already. She’s down to five at home. I think it makes her nervous not having all eight of us there. Constance points at a hairbrush on the counter, and Jerry passes it to her. She’s at her happiest when we’re all together on Wednesdays and Sundays. You know how badly my parents want us to go to church.

CC, I wish you would reconsider going to the spiritual sanctuary I attend. We don’t believe in hell. It’s so much more civilized. He sighs the statement. They don’t care that I’m gay.

A tangle stops the brush, and she answers in a reassuring tone, I don’t care that you’re gay, either. I’m not sure why. But I don’t.

Yes, I know. Even after your lifelong Catholic brainwashing, you have never turned away from me, dear. Twinkle leaps into Jerry’s arms as if the dog understands her owner’s sadness.

Constance pokes her head from behind the curtain and points at the door. Okay, there are five too many heartbeats in this bathroom. Please get out so I can dry my hair in peace.

Come, my children. Daddy has biscuits for all.

* * *

The intense Texas sun reflects off the chrome and black glass of the seven-story building Constance stands in front of. She raises her hand to shield her eyes from the glare and tilts her chin up to scrutinize the home of the Collins and Vega Law firm. Jeez! It’s so...so... But a dull ache develops in her knuckles, ending her search for the right word to describe the ultra-modern structure. She glances down at her hand, wondering what might have caused the sudden ailment and noting the death grip she has on the strap of her purse.

Nerves. Muttering, she lets go and flexes her fingers a few times to alleviate the pain. Is this a good idea? she asks herself before returning her gaze to the austere box.  I should intern at an oil company. Not a law firm. But those jobs always seem to get snatched up before she even knows about them. God gives you everything you need. She repeats a line from one of Father Mac’s pep talks.

Squaring her shoulders, she inhales, trying to set aside her apprehension. She takes one unsteady stride toward the shallow steps that lead to the building’s main door and realizes that her newly acquired stilettos don’t help with her lack of coordination. I can’t walk in these.

The thought of kicking the shoes off, running back to her car, and forgetting she has an interview crosses her mind. But an image of Jerry wailing uncontrollably because she chickened out causes her guilt meter to spike. He did go to a lot of trouble to help me.

She takes another wobbly stride, but the way-too-tight bottom half of her new dress hampers her movement. I’m going to have to hike it up so I can actually move my knees. But I’ll flash my underwear.

She tugs the hemline just above her knees and holds her breath, waiting to feel a breeze across her rear-end. But her backside stays untouched by the warm summer wind, and she begins to move. I’m going to duct tape Jerry’s legs together when I get home. See how he likes it.

A group of men wearing power suits and spiffy slip-on loafers exit the building in a mad rush, coming at her like a hoard of marauders, and she sidesteps them to avoid a collision, nearly toppling over. Clinging to the handrail for dear life, she climbs the first tread with caution. With all of her focus on her feet, the spontaneous shudder that works its way up her spine catches her completely off guard. Job interview jitters? Jeez, for a position I don’t even think I want.

The unsettled feeling works its way along her extremities, causing her to tremble in her hazardous heels. And the visceral sensation is akin to the reaction one might get after a near miss with an eighteen-wheeler. Not the mundane form of heebie-jeebies you expect when interviewing for a part-time receptionist position. What is it about this particular company that nags at me? Is it because attorneys twist the truth for money? Or that they’re godless heathens, as Mama would say? She gulps in a breath, holds it, and counts backward from three to regain control of the anxiety threatening to take over.

All around her, boisterous laughter erupts among women pushing their way out of the building through the revolving door, their quick movements both steady and fluid in spite of their high heels, reminding Constance of ballerinas and her mother’s screeches into her ears. Dance lessons? You’re not some high and mighty debutante. Blue-collar. That’s what you are. And don’t forget it.

I would be the punch line for the day. Gawky blonde face-plants in the Tilt-A-Whirl, flashing her Hello Kitty underwear. No, thank you. Hesitating for a moment, she weighs her options before heading for the handicapped entrance, avoiding the possibility of utter humiliation.

The dull sting of embarrassment at her awkwardness lingers, but she pushes the physical effects from her mind by pretending that her feet are settled in her ratty tennies and not hamstrung in this pair of monstrosities Jerry calls hip yet professional.

The automatic doors open, and a blast of cool, dry air rushes at her, the force enough to blow her waist-length, sandy blond hair over her shoulder. She steps inside the towering, three-story lobby, and her eyes are drawn to the only splash of color in a sea of black and white: an oversized digital clock mounted high on the far wall, its display a vibrant fire-engine red. 11:02. Good. I’m early.

But the utter starkness and lack of color perplexes her, and the words hostile and contemptuous waft through her mind. Subliminal alarm bells go off, warning her that it’s wrong somehow. Like the last piece of a 2000-part puzzle that refuses to fit. Her gaze starts to drift away from the display, but the numbers blink, stopping her cold. The time changes to 11:03, and the red of the display deepens to the color of ox blood. What just happened?

She bats her lids, wondering if she imagined the abrupt shift in the hue of the readout. Swallowing hard, she ponders that it might be some oddball feature of the enormous timepiece—like it signifies something she’s not privy to.

A sinister thought flashes through her mind. I wonder if the color changes every time a lawyer gets condemned to hell? Constance almost giggles aloud at her conclusion. But she bites her own lip to stop the laughter from echoing through the cavernous lobby.

Somewhere close by, a car backfires, and as though they are connected, a searing burn punctures her abdomen, the force so abrupt she scrapes one stiletto to the side trying to brace herself. She grips her waist with her hands. Her fingers dig into the heavy, black crepe fabric of her skirt, and she presses down as if it might stop the twinge of pain. But it doesn’t help.

She stares at the hard granite tiles beneath her feet when she begins to angle forward. Augh! Will it hurt when I hit the floor? She prepares herself for the impact and clasps her palm to the spot where the spasm radiates. My appendix?

A female voice calls to her, soft and comforting on her ears, with the tone of a caring soul. In that split second, her spell of agony breaks.

Constance jerks her head to the left, finding a lady in a heather-gray wrap dress. What was that? Is it gone? Maybe? Hopefully? Yes. Now smile at the nice lady. Before she calls security. The woman stands a few feet from the bank of elevators, behind an oval reception desk constructed of exotic woods.

Constance rights herself, pulling her feet more securely under her body. Taking a dubious stride in her absurd shoes, she trudges across the thick wool pile of the massive Berber rug that accents the chrome and black leather of the waiting area.

Yes, ma’am, Constance huffs, still a bit short of breath from the sudden onset of whatever had stricken her. If Stefan’s Thai fusion goulash gave me the runs, I’m going to give all of Jerry’s silk scarves to the homeless. I have a job interview today at eleven thirty.

Good morning Miss... The lady tucks a loose strand of her chestnut bob behind her ear.

Constance Hebert.

Nice to meet you, Constance. I’m Janet Wells. She points at the visitor’s book. Please sign in, and I’ll call human resources to let them know you’re here. But Janet’s eyes roam over Constance’s face. Concern mingles with the slight wrinkles around her sparkling eyes, and she says in a rush, Honey, you’re pale as a ghost. Don’t be so nervous.

The corners of Constance’s mouth curve upward, and she clasps her simple gold crucifix, reminding herself that he will be with her always. She nods a fraction, hoping it will convey her appreciation for the receptionist’s concern. You’d think I was being forced to stand in front of a firing squad by the way I’m acting. Jeez! She shrugs her shoulders and rolls her eyes, dismayed by her apprehension.

Janet snickers and leans across the counter. Cupping her palm next to her mouth, she whispers, "Well, honey. If you ask me, there are a few of the lawyers who need to be blindfolded, dragged out front, and lined up.