Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

Ah, so it’s not just darts. It’s never just darts. It’s the start of another Heath project.

“I’m afraid I’m busy then,” I say.

Her brow furrows, and she ums uncertainly. “But . . . I didn’t give you the date.”

Bollocks.

Normally, I stay a step ahead when evading social requests. That captain’s wife spoiler must have knocked my avoidance radar far off-kilter.

Best to recalibrate a smidge. “Oh, didn’t you? My mistake. Maybe send it via email, then.” I flash her a grin and make a mental note: do not open emails from Riya.

Once she’s gone, I spin back to my computer and click open my agenda for an upcoming private sale of some post-modern works. I’m ahead of schedule on it and should be able to turn it in early to Emily, keeping up my streak of handing in projects ahead of time.

No one even comes close to my record.

This hare’s pace gives me just enough time to peruse job openings here at HighSmith. Maybe there’s a work-from-home post somewhere within the company. I would have fewer distractions, could run more auctions, launch more sales . . .

See less people.

That would be bliss.

Work remotely are the two sexiest words in the English language.

I’m about to click on a job link when my phone trills. I answer and hear, “Heath, it’s Emily. Can you come to my office straight away?”

Her tone brooks no argument. I say yes to the boss then head to her corner suite, curious why she’s calling out of the blue.

When I walk into the office, I stop in my tracks. Sandy, the spoil-anything blonde, is perched on the edge of Emily’s couch. She clutches a book—looks like the title is There’s No I in Teamwork.

I never judge anyone’s reading choices—photo books do not count; they are not free from the arrows of my side-eye—so I’m not casting aspersions on this self-help workplace improvement book.

But the title does make my spine tingle—with concern.

“Heath, I understand you’ve met my niece. Sandy’s in London from Leeds, where she’s been studying psychology of the workplace at university,” Emily begins, then takes a beat to remove her gold-rimmed glasses, folding them and setting them neatly on her desk. “And we thought perhaps you might need”—she lifts her thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space—“more teamwork. More collab. It’s the new way of working. So, while Sandy’s here as an intern at HighSmith for the next month or so, she’s going to help me out. She and I will brainstorm on projects where you can team up with others. There’ll be some group projects and then a bit of one-on-one work—perhaps with Freddy or maybe Riya. I’ll let you know when we’ve decided.”

Kill. Me. Now.

“That sounds utterly fantastic.” I manage to force the words past the vinegar in my throat. I am now in utter sympathy with the pair of socks from Nigel’s shop.

When I return to my office, my goal is singular—find a new job.

I bring up the opening Emily posted earlier in the week and study it. Yes, this one would be a great feather in my cap. A fabulous string to my bow.

And—best of all—it would mean I could work remotely. Alone.

Just like I’ve been since my wife died, four years ago today.

2

JO

I have a talent for knowing when something fabulous is going to happen. And there’s an energy when I wake on Friday morning, a certain crackle in the air.

I throw off the covers, stretch my arms, and open the window. Cue the sunshine streaming in, the birds chirping. I blast an upbeat Broadway number as I go through my morning, dancing in my obscenely spacious New York apartment, one wall painted robin’s egg blue, another the color of mint. I brew the world’s best cup of coffee as I sing along to the chorus.

Okay, fine.

I live in a one-bedroom, not an obscenely large rom-com New York apartment, and if I open the living room window, the only bird flying in would be a pigeon.

But I have a window, and that never grows old.

Still, I like to imagine I live in one of those impossible New York pads that magazine editors can magically afford on the silver screen. I’m the plucky young New Yorker, ready to tackle the big, brave world.

Fine, I’m thirty-two, and hardly young or plucky.

But I have a young soul and an active imagination.

After a quick shower, I get dressed for a huge day at work. Twenty minutes later, I’ve applied my best professional eyeliner and mascara, buttoned up a cute blue blouse, and slid on a pair of Mary Janes covered with daisies in yellow and teal.

They’re good-luck shoes. I’m armed and ready for the big day.

I head out, making my way down Columbus Avenue with the soundtrack to Anything Goes chirping in my AirPods. All days are better when they begin with a Cole Porter number.