Page 207 of Love in Riverbend
“Well,” Jill says, “when Todd and I have any wealth to manage, we’ll come to you.”
We both grow silent as our lunches are delivered. Once the waitress is gone, Jill lowers her voice. “How was your date with the guy from the gym?”
“T.J.,” I say, shaking my head. “It was blah. I can’t even say it was bad. He was boring—oh, unless I wanted to talk about him.”
“I don’t know if I could date. Todd and I have been together forever. It would be awkward.”
“It is. I mean, T.J. is nice to watch on the treadmill, but it only took a drink and an appetizer for me to start making excuses for an early retreat.”
“Maybe you need to get to know him better.”
“In a twenty-minute span of time, I learned about his degree from Hanover College. He then spent a gap year abroad and speaks four languages. Oh, and his parents own a trucking company, so he’s a trust-fund baby and only works because it’s expected of him, not because he needs to.”
Jill stifles a laugh. “He had me at four languages. What about Bryce?”
I shake my head. “Ship has sailed. I mean, it’s awkward when we are put together on projects at work, but we’re both good with moving on. Sometimes you just know it’s not meant to be.”
It seems that I’m better at knowing when it’s not meant to be than when it is.
Forcing a grin, I go on, “I give up on the dating scene. I think I’ll get three or four cats and spend my nights with Ben and Jerry.”
“Ben and Jerry are good company, but I prefer Häagen-Dazs.”
“Because they speak other languages?”
We both laugh.
By the time our lunch is finished, we both need to head back to our offices. With my long wool coat buttoned, my gloved hands buried deep in my pockets, and my boots treading carefully on the frozen sidewalk, I make my way through the frosted air to Parker and Stevens. Each breath forms a small cloud of condensation. By the time I step into the reception air, I relish the warmth.
“Ms. James,” Klara, one of the receptionists, says, lifting a piece of paper. “You received a call while you were away.”
Removing a glove, I reach for the paper. “Thank you.” I stare down at the name and number. “Rich Dunn?”
“Yes, ma’am. That was what he said. He’d like you to call him back when you have a moment.”
Rich can’t be Ricky, can it?
“Is he a client?” I ask.
“His name doesn’t match with anyone in our system.”
“Did he say what he wanted?” I ask, still contemplating that Rich Dunn is actually Ricky Dunn.
“No. He only asked that I relay his message for you to return his call.”
“Thank you,” I say again, staring down at the name.
Rich.
Ricky.
No. It couldn’t be.
Curiosity gets the better of me by the time I make it back to my office. It’s a small room with a small window, but it is an office, complete with a door. That’s a step up from the cubicle I inhabited while working as an intern. The nameplate outside the door reads Marilyn James, Wealth Adviser. Whenever I see the plate, I smile. My love life may be nonexistent, but I have accomplished a few rungs on the ladder, climbing to success.
After hanging my coat on a coat tree, I settle behind my desk. If I knew for sure that the message was from Ricky, I could call him back on my cell phone. If this isn’t him, I don’t necessarily want a stranger to know my private number.
Dunn.
