No legs. She was alone.
She set her purse and the file on the dark green marble counter.Verde uba tuba. It was the same marble her mother had picked for the kitchen in Davis’s house, and she’d never forgotten the name. She used to think of that house as her home. Now, she couldn’t think of it as anything other than the place Davis had once kicked Sage and her out of.
The thought slipped from her mind, shoved out by the raging impulse to scratch. Her head was a sea of prickly, itchy heat. Her fingers closed around the cool zipper of the flower-patterned, Vera Bradley bag Sage had given her last Christmas. She yanked it open and snatched an extra-long, thin, wooden toothpick from her stash. She slipped the toothpick under the edge of her wig and rubbed it vigorously against her scalp.
Sweet, sweet, sweet relief.
She continued to scratch for several seconds, relishing the sensation. Once the offending itches were alleviated, she slid the toothpick along the length of the wig, hitting any areas that were even slightly uncomfortable. It was best to scratch as much as she could now, or she’d be back in the bathroom in half an hour doing the same thing.
It wasn’t the wig’s fault. It was high quality and well-made. Sage and her fiancé, Ryker, had insisted on buying her the best, but even the best wigs were no match for her sweaty, itchy, finicky scalp. The wig consultant had given her every tip in the book. She’d tried wearing different types of wigs and wig liners, spraying her head with witch hazel, applying anti-itch powder, and even rubbing zinc on her head at night. Nothing worked. She still experienced a maddening, all-consuming need to scratch, usually at the most inopportune times.
The wig consultant had suggested the itching could be psychosomatic. Sage told the woman to go to hell and told Rosemary to put the goddamn things in the trash, but Rosemary couldn’t bring herself to do it. There was no way she was going out without a wig. The few times she’d left the house in a scarf had been bad enough.
People knew she was bald under the scarf, and bald meant cancer. Bald meant she was knocking at death’s door. Bald meant people looking at her and seeing a walking, soon-to-be corpse. They didn’t see a person. They saw death.
And no one wants to be reminded of their own mortality.
Even when she wore the wig, some people regarded her with a mix of pity and curiosity. The ones who knew she’d been sick. The ones who knew the treatment that had saved her life had taken every bit of hair from her body. The ones who knew the long, nearly platinum locks, so very much like her precancer hair, were fake. The wig was a costume designed to make her appear “normal,” but she didn’t feel normal. She felt like an alien trying to pass as human...and failing.
She’d been so naïve. So goddamn naïve to think she could share the truth of her hair loss with a few friends—or people she’d thought were friends. She’d caught them inspecting her hair with furtive glances, looking for chinks in her golden armor, almost angry that her hair seemed natural. That she didn’t look sick anymore. That she was no longer someone to pity.
She hadn’t wanted to think it. Hadn’t wanted to believe that someone would prefer her to be ill so they could play the role of benevolent helpmate. So they could have someone to gossip about in hushed, concerned tones. It went against the core of Rosemary’s “think positive” approach to life, but she couldn’t and wouldn’t deny what she saw.
Her mother had taught her to always look for the best but to never hide from the truth. So, she kept her rose-colored glasses in her pocket, accepted, and forgave. If someone needed another person’s suffering to make them feel good about themselves, they deserved her sympathy.
But not her friendship.
She was just grateful she’d never been foolish enough to let anyone actually see her bare head. Not even her sister had seen it. Only the wig-fitter. She’d left the days of being an object of pity firmly behind her. She had a new life now. There was no way she’d ever be laid bare like that again.
She did one more sweep of her scalp with the toothpick, then wrapped it in a paper towel and tossed it in the trash. There were only two other women in the office: Lily, the receptionist/file clerk, and Marge, who wore the triple hat of bookkeeper, billing coordinator, and office manager. She didn’t want them wondering why there were fruit-in-your-drink style toothpicks in the ladies’ room wastebasket every day.
She studied herself in the mirror. Straight nose, wide mouth, big blue eyes, and long-blonde hair that no one would ever suspect wasn’t her own. If she braided it in pig tails, she’d look like the girl on the chocolate milk container her mother would sometimes buy her for a treat. If she had on overalls, with her strong shoulders and full hips, she’d fit right in on a dairy farm. Instead, her vintage, flared, navy skirt and white jacket made her look like an office admin from the 1950’s.
She brushed her hand down the wig’s silky-soft, donated, human hair. It might feel scratchy and annoying against her scalp, but she cherished it. Her hair was never going to grow back. Second, third, and fourth opinions had confirmed it. The medicine that had saved her life had left her permanently bald. The wig allowed her to be normal. Quiet, low-profile, under-the-radar normal. That’s all she wanted. That’s why she couldn’t say “screw you” to the world and get rid of the goddamn wig.
Sage would do it. In a heartbeat. Nothing held Sage back. Ever. And Sage was so ridiculously beautiful, being bald would probably only accentuate her exquisite features. But Rosemary wasn’t bold and model-level gorgeous like her sister. She was plain, easygoing. She didn’t ruffle feathers and didn’t make a fuss—and she liked it that way. Which meant she needed to get out of the bathroom and back to her desk before Armando got worried and sent Lily or Marge to check on her. That cringeworthy thought made her grab the file folder and her purse and head for the exit.
Hopefully, she’d make it to lunchtime without needing another scratch break.
The click of her navy heels echoed then muted as she journeyed to Lily’s large walnut-hued desk in the small but elegant reception area. Nick Guerrero, the only other “associate” in Pannetone & Associates, had informed her that the travertine tile in the lobby had been imported from Tivoli and the hand-woven Turkish rug under the couch and chairs were Pannetone family heirlooms.
The room had the old-world elegance her stepfather had always strived for in his home but never quite achieved. Every time she passed through, she slowed to admire the Impressionist-style watercolors that adorned the walls, the intricate cut glass light fixtures, and the delicate hand-painted porcelain vases full of fresh-cut flowers that sat on large half-pillars on either side of the lobby. The overall effect was simply stunning.
Not that Lily ever seemed to notice. Right now, she had her nose buried in her cell phone, oblivious to the beauty of her surroundings. Maybe if the woman took a minute to appreciate what was around her, she’d be less grumpy.
Negativity breeds negativity.Her mom’s voice shimmered in her mind, and Rosemary felt a wash of shame. Lily had worked at the firm for several years and spent every day in the reception area, while she had just hit the six-month mark and spent most of her time diligently working in her office. Of course, the beautiful room would have become commonplace for Lily. Rosemary just couldn’t imagine not taking time each day to appreciate the graceful charm of the space. Life was too short. You had to take all the pleasure you could in every small moment, since you never knew when those moments would run out.
Three bouts of bone cancer had taught her that.
She set the folder atop the raised portion of Lily’s desk and pasted a friendly smile on her face. “Good morning, Lily! Armando asked me to give you this.”
Lily didn’t look up.
“Would you also pull the files with the invoices for the Girard warehouse when you get a chance?” she asked.
Lily lifted her head and huffed. “Why do you need the invoices? Marge enters all the important information from the invoices into the system, and I do a double check. You shouldn’t need the paper copies for anything.”
“I understand that, but there are a few things I can’t quite figure out, and I think seeing the paper might help. Even with two big computer screens, sometimes it’s easier to shuffle through paper.”