LITMIR.BIZ

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sick since I watched them put you in the back of the squad car. What on earth happened?”

      I poured coffee for the two of us; then Sam followed me into my bedroom and sat on my bed while I turned on the shower and went to my closet to decide what to wear. I gave Sam a brief version of the events while I inventoried possibilities. Guilt hit me square in the chest. Here I was worried about my clothing options when Jane was undoubtedly wearing an ugly county-issue orange jumpsuit. “I’m a horrible person.”

      “We know that,” Sam called from the bedroom. “So, did you see any hot guys in jail?”

      “You’re a horrible person too.” Grabbing a gauzy white cotton skirt, I paired it with pink and lime-green tank tops I could layer. On my way between closet and bathroom, I shot Sam a nasty look. “Hot guys? You trolling for felons now? Just for the record, I wasn’t in jail, just interviewed.”

      “So why the handcuffs?”

      I walked into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar as I striped off my clothes and shoved them in the overflowing laundry basket. I considered tossing the boxers and the cami and I will, eventually. They’d forever be known as my jail jammies. Not very conducive to a good night’s sleep.

      I showered quickly, washing my hair and accepting that I didn’t have time to properly blow-dry or flatiron it. Subjugating my vanity to help Jane was a no-brainer. With one towel securely twisted around my hair and another tucked around my still damp body, I did the magical “Mac face in five minutes” thing. I had enough of a tan—I know, bronze now, pay later—to forgo foundation, so I simply swiped a pinky peach blush on my cheeks and lids. A little mascara and some translucent rose gloss on my lips and I was set. In record time, I completed the transformation from pj-clad prison bitch to blond-haired, blue-eyed, cultured, casual, drop-by-the-office weekender chick.

      After squeezing as much water as possible out of my shoulder-length hair, I ran a wide-tooth comb through it. A single spritz of Lulu Guinness perfume at my throat and I was done.

      Sam, a consummate neat freak and talented interior decorator, had been busy. In the short time I’d left him alone, he’d refilled my coffee mug, made the bed, rearranged the symmetry of the items on my dresser, and draped a scarf over the bedside lamp. Oh, and the three throw pillows I’d just bought were nowhere in sight.

      “I hate when you do that,” I said, completely comfortable wearing a towel in his presence. I knew full well that if Sam ever saw me naked, he’d critique my body and suggest various plastic surgeries. Well intentioned, of course. Just like his need to redecorate my room. He was into visual perfection and he’d probably find my body was on par with my decorating skills. Like I don’t already know that I’m entering the danger zone.

      Things are starting to droop and sag. Thanks in large part to my addiction to Lucky Charms. At least I’m a purist—I eat them straight from the box and delude myself into believing I’m saving calories by nixing the milk. But, as usual, I digress.

      “Those pillows were all wrong. Much too large. They overwhelmed the bed and the lime green was more yellow than the lime in your bedspread.” Sam laid on the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head, his eyes fixed—critically, I’m sure—on the ceiling fan.

      I grabbed panties from my dresser—my irritation renewed when I realized someone had rifled through my undie drawer—and stepped into my walk-in closet and began dressing. That accomplished, I twisted my damp hair up to prevent it from soaking a big wet spot on my tops. I didn’t have a hope in hell of it drying while I made phone calls.

      When I returned to the bedroom, Sam was still contemplating my fan. “You know, there’s a great lighting place in Boynton Beach.” He waved his hands around in small circles. “I’m seeing something bolder than that fan. Something with a little color that would anchor the room.” He looked over at me. “How is it you can have such impeccable taste in clothing and yet your home, your personal sanctuary, looks like a cross between yard sale and college dorm?”

      This too was an ongoing lament. There was nothing soothing about having the same conversation over and over again with Sam. Very Groundhog Day–ish. “It’s a work in progress. Where are my pillows?”

      “Under the bed next to that ugly Christmas wreath you insist on displaying for two weeks every December even though the ribbon desperately needs to be replaced.”

      “My friend is in serious trouble. Do you think you could save your Extreme Apartment Makeover for another time?”

      Sam had the good sense to look ashamed as he pushed off my bed. “What can I do?”

      “Have any cash?”

      “I’ve got an emergency hundred in my wallet.”

      Sam had only recently struck out on his own, and while his decorating business was growing, I knew he was pouring all his money into the new venture.

      He checked the diamond Bulova watch that was a gift from the cute brunette he’d dated last year. “I can swing by the ATM and see how much I have in my checking account. Will that help?”

      “Everything will help,” I said, placing a kiss on his cheek. “The more I can borrow from friends means the less I have to beg from my mother.”

      “You aren’t!” he exclaimed, clearly horrified.

      “No choice. A criminal attorney is going to cost a small fortune and I want to make absolutely sure we have enough money to bail her out in the morning.”

      “But you told me you’d gnaw off your tongue before you’d ask the Wicked Witch of the East for money. What about your sister?”

      “See, this should tell you precisely how desperate I am. I can’t ask Lisa. I still owe her for the loan she gave me in April.”

      Sam followed me through the living room to the kitchen. My ground-floor apartment was small, but the walk-out patio made it seem larger. Percentage-wise, I was much more likely to be robbed living on the ground floor, but I’d decided the patio was worth the risk. An eight-year-old could jimmy the lock on the sliding glass doors. An accomplished and/or determined thief would probably just do a smash and grab.

      The message light was flashing on my machine. My body tensed with impending dread as I gulped the rest of the coffee. Sam must have sensed my fear because he said, “You knew she’d call. Your arrest was on the morning news like every fifteen minutes. Plus, she was doing drive-bys.”

      My head whipped around. “What?”

      “Well, either it was your mother or there’s another woman driving a white Rolls-Royce with a nasty little Yorkie in one of those pet seats. She was very stealthy, though. She circled the parking lot a few times wearing big, dark sunglasses with a scarf tied on to obscure a lot of her face. Very Jackie O, dodging paparazzi.”

      “Great.”

      “Oh, and Patrick called.”

      “How do you know that?”

      “You assigned a unique ring tone for him on your cell. I heard it when I came down earlier to see if you were back. I’m off to hit the bank. I’ll call you from there.”

      “Thanks. Call my cell, okay? I’ve got to go to the office.”

      “Will do.”

      Yes, I’m a wuss. Instead of checking the messages on my home phone, I dug into the white, slightly irregular Dooney & Burke–logo purse I’d gotten on my last clandestine run to the Vero Beach Outlets. Unless you really looked, you didn’t notice that one tan handle was a little shorter than the other. Thanks to that small manufacturing defect, I’d scored the purse for under one-fifty, a major D&B discount.

      Scrolling through the missed calls on my cell, I discovered that Patrick had called five times in the past three hours. I smiled halfheartedly. If he really, really loved me, he would have shown up at the police station, right? Maybe not. Patrick was very considerate

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