Someone Like You

by Timothy James Beck

Genres: LGBT Gay

Synopsis

At the Mall of the Universe, you can get anything you want. Marc Jacobs shoes. Hugo Boss suits. Food. Drinks. Dry cleaning. A room at the five-star hotel or a lane at the bowling alley. Of course, some things are harder to come by. Just ask. . . Vienna. She's one beautiful sister who is not going to be dependent on any man ever again, thanks to her cheating, should-be-dead ex. When she's not selling overpriced mascara to rich snobs, Vienna's checking out the scenery. Not that she wants another man. Much. Good thing she can tell it all to. . . Davii. The top hairdresser at CosmicTology is fast with a wickedly funny quip and with his shears. Nobody puts one over on Davii. But what he really craves is a nice guy to come home to. A guy who makes him want to be a better person. A guy who looks an awful lot like. . . Derek. He never planned to become a kept man, but it's hard to give up Belgian waffles delivered by room service. But no more. It's time for New Derek--new life, new friends, new job. And who better to help him take those baby steps toward independence than. . . Christian. Cool and savvy, he's cornered the market on charm. His sales skills have won him a fawning clientele. There's nothing he can't do, no point he can't score, no woman he can't woo. But there's a first time for everything. . . Meeting for coffee, dishing over drinks, dealing with heinous bosses, scheming backstabbers, clueless customers, and the occasional object of desire, four new friends are about to discover the joys of shopping for love in a place where what you need most might just be where you least expect to find it.

Release date: April 1, 2006

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Belgian waffles from Congreve room service to: Tom Wocken, Dorothy Cochrane, Paul Enea, Bill Thomas, and Alison Picard.

Drink for Your Health smoothies to: Rebecca and Brian Baker, Shanon Best, Sean Brennan, Tim Brookover, famous author Rob Byrnes, Jason Cabot and Jeff Heilers, Susan Caretti, the Carter family, Carol E. Charny, Jean-Marc Chazy, Clea, Darryl Coble, the Cochrane family, Steve Code, Andre Coffa, Dalton DeHart, Caroline De La Rosa, Lynne Demarest, Jonathan DeMichael, Jone Devlin, the Ellner family, the Enea family, Laura Enea, Jim, Alex, and Alana Fitzgerald, Kitty Fontaine, the Forry family, the Garber family, Amy and Richard Ghiselin, Cullen Graff, Lowry Greeley, Kimberly Greene and River Heights Productions, Terri Griffin, Kate and Chris Guerrette, Victoria Harzer, Larry Henderson, Greg Herren, Alan Josoff, Judge Joe B., Christine and John Kovach, the Lambert family, Lee Linden, Amy Littlefield, Pierre Lombardini, Ellie Marshall, James McCain Jr., Marla McDaniel, Robin McElfresh, the Miller family, Debbie Milton, Helen Morris, Riley Morris, Eric Newland, Steve Nordwick and Doug French, David Outlaw, Pete and Sonja, Rachel Polintan, Pootz ’n Mootz, Ron Pratt, Todd Rainer, the Rambo family, Lori Redfearn and Bob Corrigan, Tandy Ringoringo, the Rose family, Carmella Roth, Rhonda Rubin and Lindsey Smolensky, Michael Ryan, Terry and Allen Shull, Leah Siegel, Laurie and Marty Smith, Sylvia and Angelo, Amy Terrell, Denece Thibodeaux, Matthew Thornton, Steve Vargas, Michael Vicencia, Ellen Ward and Pat Crosby, Don Whittaker, Sarena P. Williams, the Wocken family, Yojo, OUTeverywhere, AOL and Yahoo message boards and chat room friends and supporters, and everyone at Kensington who pulls it all together.

Treats to: Arthur, Brandi, Guinness, Hailey, Lazlo, Margot, and River.

Events and people in this novel are entirely fictitious. Especially the managers. The Mall of the Universe does not exist, but thank you to some Indiana resources, including Anne, Linda, Myra, Rob, Craig M. Bell, and Traci Lenzi, for helping provide a context within which it could be imagined. Thank you, Tracy Wilson, for providing a little bit of Dollywood.

Derek Anderson had been sixteen years old before he had room service for the first time. His parents’ idea of a family vacation was visiting historic battlefields, homes, and monuments. They could never stay at a hotel. Their chosen vacation locations were invariably in close proximity to a campsite, where the nearest thing to room service was Derek’s mother poking her head inside the tent to tell him something charred over a campfire was done cooking.

Deprived of entertainment, Derek was forced to devise his own. His growing up was measured by the nature of his fantasies. To the young Derek, a muscular man at an adjoining campsite was a superhero in disguise. Derek would envision Muscular Man saving the world—or at least one very bored eight-year-old. A few years later, Muscular Man was all human, more Indiana Jones than Superman. Derek would imagine going on adventures with him as they searched for magical artifacts buried in a Civil War battlefield or hidden within a dead hero’s tomb.

Then Derek hit adolescence and his mental scenarios didn’t require props, costumes, locations, or complicated plots. Nor could he focus on only one man when there were so many men everywhere. Shirts off and sweating as they set up tents. Stripped to cutoffs, trunks, or Speedos as they dove into lakes. Tanned muscles on display as they stood in tourist lines wearing shorts and tank tops. Wherever he looked, Derek saw a tantalizing feast that he wasn’t allowed to taste. He was trapped in a world of scorched eggs and incinerated hot dogs.

Reuben, his best friend, took him away from all that. Reuben’s parents won a trip for four to New York City, and since Reuben was an only child, they asked Derek to go along. After much begging and pleading, the Andersons relented, and Derek got to stay in a real hotel. Reuben and Derek shared their own room. On their first morning, Reuben dialed room service and ordered Belgian waffles topped with strawberries and whipped cream. After Derek took his first bite, while sitting in bed and watching television, he swore he’d never spend another summer roughing it in the wilderness like a male version of pioneer girl Caddie Woodlawn.

After that, Belgian waffles became Derek’s comfort food. On his first day of employee orientation for Drayden’s department store, he sat at a table in the back of a conference room and promised himself a heaping plate of waffles if he didn’t run out the door before it was all over. A tall woman dressed in an eggplant-colored suit and brown high heels stood at the front of the room, droning on about the history of Drayden’s.

“Bjorn Henry Lvandsson founded Drayden’s in 1951. When Mr. Lvandsson’s farm was wiped out by a tornado, his wife, Greta, pawned her loom so the young couple could try their hand at retail. The original Drayden’s, which was named after Mr. Lvandsson’s first-born son, was a tiny shop in St. Paul, Minnesota, and sold denim clothing and boots to area farmers. Offering sturdy, no-frills work clothes at low prices paid off. Mr. Lvandsson was able to get his wife’s treasured loom out of hock and expand the business to include a line of hunting wear in 1954.”

It was the hokiest story Derek had ever heard. His eyes glazed over as boredom became exhaustion. He stared at the Human Resources associate, studying her tight-lipped, hatchet face and wondering if she ever smiled. To keep himself from giving in to monotony, he made up a second job for her. In his daydream, she led a secret life as a stripper by night. Her routine as Lydia the Librarian was a favorite among the blue-collar patrons, earning her hundreds of dollars, which she earnestly socked away so she could get out of Indiana in style.

Derek smiled, but his glee vanished when he opened his eyes and the bright lights, dollar bills, and stripper poles faded from his imagination. He was back in the windowless conference room with a dozen other new hires. Derek sighed resolutely and tried to concentrate as the HR associate continued.

“People from all over Minnesota flocked to Drayden’s in the late fifties, when the Lvandssons introduced a line of livestock blankets. Woven by Greta Lvandsson on the loom that started it all, they christened the livestock line Fruit of the Loom. Unfortunately, the underwear empire caught wind of the copyright-infringing horse blankets and threatened to sue Drayden’s. ‘We never hear of underwear from a loom,’ Mr. Lvandsson insisted. ‘We only wear Hanes,’ his wife declared. The publicity from the case brought more customers into the ‘Little Store That Could,’ and people everywhere snatched up the newly christened Cattle Cozy line to keep their livestock warm on those harsh winter nights.”

Derek didn’t know which was worse, the story or the bad Scandinavian accent the HR associate used while speaking as the idiotic Lvandssons. He thought about excusing himself to go to the bathroom and not returning, or faking a seizure. Instead, he reminded himself that he needed the job, the money it would provide, and the sense of independence it could give him.

A black woman with big, curly hair chose that moment to stride into the conference room and say, “Sorry I’m late. Is this orientation?”

“Yes, it is. We were going over the history of Drayden’s. If you’ll find a seat, we can continue.”

As the HR storyteller continued describing Bjorn Henry’s foray into hunting and camping gear, Derek watched as the hair that ate Terre Haute sat next to him at his table.

“My curling iron made me late. It wouldn’t heat up,” his seatmate whispered.

“Sounds like my boyfriend,” Derek said. When her eyes lit up, he added, “Sometimes it helps to plug it in.”

“Oh, I like you,” she said. “We’ll get along fine. I’m Vienna.”

“Derek,” he whispered, pointing at himself.

They stopped talking and listened to their Drayden’s history lesson, which became more palatable now that Derek had Vienna to alleviate his boredom. As Drayden’s expanded into new markets, Mr. Lvandsson tried to engage his children in the business. His eldest son, Drayden, ran off to Hollywood. Sven, the next in line, headed for New York City and went to work on Wall Street after he received his MBA. Lastly, Henrietta, the only daughter, not to mention the family’s bad seed, grabbed her automotive engineering certificate and raced off to join a pit crew at the Indianapolis 500. Other than Greta, who would greet Drayden’s visitors from her loom, which was positioned in front of the main doors of the original store, the only family member to actively join in the business was Gertrude, the family cow. When Greta accidentally mixed up her Christmas card list with the customer database, Drayden’s catalog business was born. The store was inundated with calls from people who had to have the festive sweater a perky Gertrude sported on the front of the Lvandsson family Christmas cards.

“Is this shit for real?” Vienna whispered.

Derek could empathize with the Lvandsson children. A career in the retail industry was not his ultimate goal in life, and he understood why they wanted to get as far away as possible from their parents’ dreams. Derek’s dream had been to be pampered and privileged. To eat Belgian waffles in bed. Maybe be famous for being famous. However, that sort of lifestyle was usually reserved for people with money. Or at the very least, for their children. Derek’s parents were not rich. They were comfortable and happy. But they assumed their son would want the life they lived and never bothered to show him that his life had possibilities. Instead of preparing him for a future, they immersed him in a past of on-this-spot battlefields and crumbling buildings.

Derek explained that to Vienna when they were allowed to leave for lunch.

“I hear you, Derek,” she said as they left Drayden’s and wandered into Mall of the Universe. “My parents were very old-fashioned. Even though I did well in school, they never dreamed that I’d want to go to college. They thought I’d turn out just like my mama, living and breathing for my man. I worked hard to go to college, and I got my education. On my own, thank you.”

“What’s your degree?”

Vienna mumbled something that Derek couldn’t understand. There were a lot of people in the mall, voices and footsteps echoing off the tile and glass interior of the corridors, so he asked her to repeat herself.

“Psychology. I got my B.S. at Indiana University,” she said.

“I get mine from my boyfriend,” Derek quipped. “I don’t get it. Why are you here with me, working at a mall, when you could rake in the dough from an office somewhere in the real world?”

“My license to practice was suspended,” she said. “Hey, let’s go visit my friend Davii.”

They pushed their way through throngs of people and crossed the main floor of the mall. When Derek was a boy, he’d seen a drawing of a space colony that might house thousands of people sometime in the future. It looked like a gigantic, high-tech wagon wheel floating through the galaxy. Mall of the Universe was similarly shaped, but firmly planted on the ground with a planetarium at its hub. The mall contained not only hundreds of stores, but also a nightclub, a roller rink, and a bowling alley, as well as a hotel and an apartment building on opposite sides of the mall, and a mid-rise condominium standing sentinel over all four mall levels, which were named Earth, Moon, Sun, and Stars.

Derek had assumed they would meet Davii in the food court, since there was one on the Earth level, but they walked past it, then Vienna pulled him into a hair salon. He was overcome by loud music and the acrid smell of perm solution, which almost made him yearn to return to Drayden’s and the insufferable Lvandsson legend. Vienna dragged him to the end of a row of chairs, where a handsome man dressed in black was cutting a client’s hair.

“Davii!” Vienna shrieked.

“Vienna!” Davii roared. He flung his arms around Vienna, and for a moment Derek was afraid Davii had plunged his scissors into her back. He couldn’t bear the thought of returning to Drayden’s without her.

“I missed you,” Vienna said. “This has been the longest day ever.”

“I know,” Davii commiserated. He resumed snipping his client’s hair as he said, “I’ve been slaving away here for hours. Ages!”

“It’s only noon,” Derek said, checking his watch to be sure. Davii looked at him with an unreadable expression. Derek immediately worried that Davii hated his hair.

“Davii, this is Derek,” Vienna said, putting her arm around Derek’s waist. “He’s been my saving grace today. We’re in training together, and he’s been so witty and clever, providing a much-needed stimulus in a dull setting. Very entertaining. He reminds me of you.”

“Really?” Davii said, looking skeptical. Derek felt dubious about her remark as well. Visually, he and Davii were polar opposites. Davii was tall and lithe; his face angular and striking, with deep blue eyes framed by long eyelashes. His black hair was cut in a trendy, spiky style. If Derek’s look was as American as apple pie, then Davii was a crème brulée or an Italian pastry. Something European and decadent; Derek couldn’t be sure exactly. Davii arched an eyebrow and said, “Oh, well, any friend of Vienna’s—”

“Should be isolated and studied in a controlled environment!” Vienna interjected, and the two of them burst out laughing. The client in Davii’s chair looked mildly annoyed, until he stopped laughing and turned her head sharply to the left so he could cut the back of her hair.

“I’ve got stories,” Davii stated.

“Who?” Vienna asked.

Though her chin was pushed down into her chest, Derek saw the client’s eyebrows perk up at the mention of gossip.

“Glenda, our manager, was fired,” Davii stage-whispered, though it was unnecessary because of the loud music.

“No. Really?” Vienna said. “What happened?”

“She was taking long lunch breaks,” he answered.

“That doesn’t seem like a reason to fire someone,” Derek said.

“It does when you spend your lunch breaks in the broom closet,” Davii said.

“Why would she eat her lunch in a broom closet?” Vienna asked. “Did she have an eating disorder? Sometimes bulimics binge in private.”

“Glenda was bingeing, but not on food,” Davii said. “And she wasn’t eating alone, either. Did I mention that Betty, the shampoo girl, was fired, too?”

Vienna’s perfectly lined eyes grew wide, and she covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh, that’s—”

“Stupid, right? I mean, when I want a nooner, I’ll go to the top floor of the parking garage like a normal person!” Davii exclaimed.

“Are you going to try to get her position?” Vienna asked.

“I could,” Davii mused, “but I’m not that nimble. It’s an awfully small closet.”

Derek laughed, and Vienna admonished, “Don’t encourage him, Derek.”

“No. I don’t think so,” Davii answered. “I’m not nearly responsible enough to be a manager. Nor would I want to be. Too much time would be taken up organizing and running this place. I’d rather do hair and collect tips.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Vienna said.

“I’m always right,” Davii said emphatically. He surveyed his client’s hair and said, “Listen, you two had better run along. I don’t want you to be late getting back to work, and I’m fucking up Brenda’s hair.”

Davii’s client lifted her head in alarm and stared at herself in the mirror, looking for carnage.

“Okay. I’ll see you later,” Vienna said and kissed Davii’s cheek.

“It was nice to meet you, Davii,” Derek said.

“You, too. I’m sure I’ll see you soon. We’ll all go for drinks sometime. Ciao, bello! Ciao, bella!”

“He’s a trip,” Derek remarked once they’d left the salon.

“Davii? Yeah. You could say that,” Vienna said. “But outside the salon he’s not so—”

“Theatrical?” Derek suggested.

“I was going to say flaming, but that will do,” Vienna said. “It’s all a performance. He’s giving his clients what they expect of him. Playing up the stereotype. Oddly enough, they tip him more if he does.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s true. At home, Davii is really quiet and reserved. We share an apartment in the Galaxy Building.” She pointed toward the apartment tower at the end of the mall. “It’s a two-bedroom. Davii’s not my boyfriend or anything.”

“I figured as much,” Derek said. “But that’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant,” Vienna said. “Listen to me, Derek. I’m giving you some free advice. You’re a gay man who’s about to begin a career in sales. You don’t think people will look at you and draw their own conclusions without knowing you? Get real. If you play it straight, they won’t listen to a word you say and you won’t sell anything. If you gay it up a notch, they’ll think you’re a genius. Think about the gay stereotype. Supposedly all gay men have amazing style and can make anything or anyone fabulous. Davii could give a woman a Mohawk and make her think she’s transformed for the better. Like my daddy always said, it takes a lot of manure to make a garden.”

“That sounds like Drayden’s propaganda to me,” Derek said.

Vienna grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the food court, saying, “Speaking of which, if we don’t get moving, we’ll be late.”

After a hurried lunch, they returned to the store for more History of Drayden’s 101. The Lvandsson family saga continued into the eighties, when Drayden Lvandsson finally returned from Hollywood to help his father run the company. Drayden had connections in the fashion industry and convinced many of them to sell their clothes and accessories in his stores. Business boomed, and Drayden’s opened stores all over the Midwest.

After the market crash of 1987, Sven Lvandsson returned to handle Drayden’s economic concerns. Henrietta retired from the racing circuit a few years later and secured a job as Director of Operations. Though she ran routine inspections of every store and made sure they functioned like a well-oiled race car, she spent the majority of her time managing the shipping and receiving warehouse.

Surprisingly, Derek enjoyed the rest of their orientation. Drayden’s was a respected department store chain, often recognized for enriching and giving back to the communities where its stores were located. The stores carried the finest quality merchandise and had beautifully inventive window displays. The atmosphere inside buzzed with creativity and excitement. The salespeople were all polite and well dressed. He wanted to be part of it.

But he still had training to get through. Not to mention scads of paperwork to fill out. While a different HR associate stood at the front of the conference room and discussed the employee handbook page by page, Vienna and Derek sat together and made up games to pass the time.

“If you had to have sex with one person in this room, who would it be?” she asked.

Derek scanned the room for someone attractive but couldn’t spot anyone who was his type. “Nobody,” he answered.

“Not even me?” Vienna asked, feigning hurt.

He bit his lip, pretending to mull it over as he looked her up and down. She had on black high heel pumps, a short skirt, a white shirt, and a fitted jacket. Her body was all curves, but very toned, and her makeup was minimal. She was attractive, and if Derek hadn’t had a boyfriend, he thought he might be persuaded to give heterosexuality another try. “Sorry. No,” he said.

“It’s okay. You’re not my type either.”

“Why? Because I’m white?”

“No, fool. Number one, you’re too young. I like my men a little older.”

“Really? How—”

“Don’t you even ask that,” Vienna whispered threateningly. “Number two, I like to make more money than the men I date.”

“That’s absurd. I’m going to be selling shoes. You’ll be selling cosmetics. We’ll be on equal financial footing.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Vienna explained. “I’m talking about independence. I don’t like to rely on other people for anything. You, on the other hand, have no problem in that respect, do you?”

“How can you say that? You don’t even know me.”

Vienna looked smug as she said, “I know all about you.”

“But we just met.”

“Trust me. I know everything that goes on in this mall.”

Derek eyed Vienna suspiciously while she secured her wild hair behind her head and began filling out an insurance form. Her self-confidence and insight made him nervous. He hardly knew her, so how could she know anything about him?

Vienna glanced over and saw him staring at her. “We’re supposed to be filling out these forms. You’d better get to work.”

“Are you playing mind games with me? What do you think you know about me?” he asked.

Vienna smiled and said, “I know you live in the hotel.” Then she added, “And I know you’re a kept boy.”

Suddenly Derek wanted Belgian waffles more than ever.

Vienna Talbot never hesitated to pamper herself. In her thirty-five years on earth, she’d learned that everyone was looking out for himself, so she’d better follow suit. If she had a long day, nothing soothed her nerves like a pedicure. If she saw an outfit in a window, she told herself that it wouldn’t look better on anyone else; she’d then prove her assumption correct by trying it on and buying it. She liked to be surrounded by beautiful objects. For breakfast, she preferred freshly sliced fruit with yogurt in a Baccarat bowl.

Davii often called her a diva. Vienna hated the word. It had connotations she didn’t relate to: a pushy, demanding bitch who always had to be the center of attention and get her way. Vienna knew she was the complete opposite of that description. Sure, she enjoyed getting her way every now and then, but she was more than willing to learn from her mistakes. She felt more comfortable on the edge of a crowd, observing, taking in a scene, rather than making one.

From the time she was a little girl, she’d known she was pretty. A fact confirmed by the members of her father’s parish, who were quick to point out her beauty when they saw her at church or when they came to the Talbot home for dinner. She appreciated a compliment and was quick to offer thanks for an accolade, but it wasn’t the be-all and end-all of her existence. Her self-confidence was strong and she didn’t demand compliments, or anything else, from anyone.

Vienna stood in front of a full-length mirror in a dressing room at Drayden’s, comparing the little girl from her memory to the woman she’d become. She ran her hands over her stomach and scrutinized her reflection. She was tall, but not exactly slender. Her body could be described as womanly, curvy, but nothing kept moving after she stood still. She ate right, and her only vice was alcohol, but not in excess. Vienna turned and looked over her shoulder to examine her butt in her black lace panties.

“Ain’t no junk in my trunk,” she said to herself.

“Did you call me?” a perky voice called to her through the dressing room’s curtain.

“No,” Vienna said quickly and firmly. She’d finished her last day of training, four hours of register procedures and three hours of diversity class, and decided to reward herself with lingerie. She hated it when salespeople didn’t respect a closed curtain. “I’m fine. But could you find me this set in red, too? And can I try the merry widow that’s on the mannequin?”

“Of course.”

Vienna readjusted a bra strap and tried to look at herself as if she were a stranger. Or how a man might view her. She smiled, liking the way her light brown skin looked in spite of the fluorescent lighting. Her high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes were free of makeup, save a light foundation and eyeliner. Her lips, however, were painted a dark red, drawing attention to her mouth, which she thought was her best feature. Although with the way the new bra lifted her breasts, she began to reconsider.

“I’d do me,” she decided aloud.

“Here you are,” her sales associate said, passing the requested items through the curtain.

“Thank you,” Vienna said.

“My name is Jeanine. Call me if you need me.”

“I will,” Vienna said, even though she knew she wouldn’t. There was no way Vienna would ever wear red lingerie. She’d only asked for it to give Jeanine something to do, to keep her out of the dressing room. However, Vienna had always wanted to try on a merry widow. It was something she never would’ve considered buying before she moved to Terre Haute. It wasn’t becoming for a preacher’s daughter or a respected psychologist.

But the Vienna in the mirror, in her lacy black bra and panties, looked like a completely different person from the girl from Gary, Indiana. Just thinking about Gary made Vienna cringe. She couldn’t wait to leave her hometown when she was young. She wanted to get away from the industrial fumes, the suburban boredom, and her overbearing, hypercritical mother. Vienna knew the key to escape was her mind. She studied hard and accepted the first scholarship that came her way, taking her to Bloomington. Even at Indiana University, Vienna kept her nose to the grindstone, never deviating from her plans for success. However, a defensive lineman named Kevin did sidetrack her.

Kevin Martazak was a star on the field and off. A physiology major, he was on the dean’s list, and he danced with IU’s African American Dance Company, though he swore he did it only to help his agility on the field. Kevin and Vienna met in statistics class when they both knocked their textbooks off their desks at the same time. They introduced themselves after class, and Vienna stated that the odds of them having the same accident at the same time were one in fifty. Kevin asked what the odds were for going out on a date, to which Vienna replied, “From where I’m standing, they’re looking good. Better by the second.”

They lived together for three years before they got married. After graduation, they got an apartment off campus and pursued their master’s degrees while holding down part-time jobs. Then Kevin, working as a therapist in a downtown hospital, supported her while she got her doctorate. Eventually they bought a house in the suburbs, with matching Volvos and hectic lives. Vienna found an office with a group of psychologists in a professional building near their new home.

Their life seemed perfect. Vienna enjoyed being married. She liked coming home from work and cooking dinner for her husband. She liked taking care of him. She liked picking up their dry cleaning. She liked grocery shopping. She liked massaging Kevin’s shoulders until he fell asleep on the couch while watching a movie in their home.

She enjoyed her career. Vienna liked helping people; guiding them to make better decisions about their lives and to see things about themselves that they’d never realized. Maintaining her home and career was difficult, but she managed quite well. Vienna used her maiden name at work, and sometimes she felt like two different people. By day she was Dr. Talbot, saving people from their inner demons. At five o’clock each evening, she’d resume her true identity as Mrs. Martazak, devoted wife of Kevin.

All her years of dreaming and planning had paid off. Vienna felt like she’d broken free from the shackles of Gary to become her own person. She loved that her patients felt safe enough to confide in her. And if she ever doubted that her life was perfect, she need only listen to the awful truths her patients revealed to make her count her blessings.

Until one afternoon a patient unwittingly offered Vienna a dose of reality she couldn’t bear to swallow. Her patient, Laura, was having an affair with a married man. Vienna listened to Laura for weeks with an open mind, despite the fact that deep inside, she hated her. In Vienna’s opinion, what was worse than the affair was that Laura got sloppy as the weeks went by, as if she wanted her husband to find out what she was doing. Laura didn’t work, but she’d come home late, telling her husband that she’d been grocery shopping. Yet she arrived home empty-handed. Another time, Laura came home from a liaison with her lover, fixed dinner for her family, did the dishes, watched television with her husband, and went to bed as if nothing had ever happened. Which was what she normally did, but this time, her lover’s dried semen was still on her legs, since she hadn’t taken a shower after they met that afternoon.

Vienna was appalled. But all she could do was ask Laura what she would have done if her husband wanted to make love and wondered what was on her leg. After a long pause, Laura said, “I think I wanted him to find out. And I think I would’ve told him. Kevin’s an amazing lover and a good man. I’d rather be married to him than to my husband. Maybe I should ask for a divorce. What do you think, Dr. Talbot?”

“This is a breakthrough, Laura. But it changes your original goal. You came here hoping to end your affair and keep your husband. Now it sounds as if you’re changing your mind. To answer your question, it doesn’t matter what I think. What do you think?” Vienna asked. Then, before Laura could answer, Vienna heard herself add, “I’m sorry. Did you say Kevin?”

“Yeah,” Laura answered. “I mean, you have to admit that Mrs. Martazak sounds better than Mrs. Bartlebaum.”

“You’re right. That does sound better. But then, I’m rather partial to the name,” Vienna said. “Talbot is my maiden name. My husband’s name is Martazak. Which makes me Mrs. Martazak. Mrs. Kevin Martazak.”

The last thing Vienna remembered was Laura’s startled face as she put two and two together. Vienna had never been a firm believer in temporary insanity, but she changed her point of view when she stabbed Laura in the leg with a letter opener.

Vienna stared at herself in the mirror at Drayden’s. Even though she was no longer Vienna the preacher’s daughter from Gary, or Mrs. Martazak from Bloomington, the merry widow still wasn’t for her. She was neither merry nor a widow. She was a bitter divorcée.

After she dressed, Vienna tossed the merry widow aside, handed the lingerie to Jeanine, and said, “I’ll just take these, please.”

The magic of purchasing with a discount faded faster than the image on a falling Etch A Sketch when the sales associate said, “The name on your license is Vienna Martazak, but the Visa card says Vienna Talbot.”

“I’m divorced. It’s easier to get a new Visa than it is to spend a whole day at the DMV. Talbot’s my maiden name.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

“Do you have unpleasant associations with the name Talbot?” Vienna asked.

“What? No,” Jeanine said. “I meant that I’m sorry your marriage didn’t work out.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Vienna said. She felt pitied and didn’t like it at all. “Can I sign so I can get home?”

“Sure. Sign here, then add your employee number and extension.” While Vienna signed, Jeanine asked, “Was it a bad divorce?”

“No, it was fabulous! We sang Gershwin tunes throughout the whole hearing. My divorce was sold out for weeks.” Seeing the sales associate’s discomfort, she quickly apologized and added, “I don’t think divorces are ever good.”

“I shouldn’t have pried,” Jeanine said.

“It wasn’t all bad,” Vienna said offhandedly. “I got to keep my car and the money from selling the house.”

“What did he get?” Jeanine asked.

“He got to live,” Vienna said. When Jeanine laughed, she added, “I didn’t think that was fair, but who am I to question a judge?”

Walking through the mall on her way home, Vienna watched the people around her and wondered if their lives had turned out as planned. She tried to ignore all the couples walking hand in hand, but there were too many of them. People came from all over the world to visit Mall of the Universe, and they seemed to do it in pairs. She tried to avert her eyes, but everywhere she looked she saw them. Then she ran into a woman and said, “Excuse me. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” the woman said. “Do you regularly get manicures? Would you like to try our new hand cream? It’s great for problem cuticles.”

Vienna looked around in horror, finally realizing what had happened. She wasn’t paying attention and had run into one of the Cart People.

“No. I just got a manicure. I don’t need anything,” Vienna said quickly and tried to get away. Before she could, the other Cart People saw her, grabbed samples from their carts, and began moving toward her.

“Isn’t this hat great?”

“Do you need sunglasses? We have the latest styles!”

“These earrings would look fabulous against your neck! They’re stainless steel.”

Vienna felt like the town tramp with a broken heel in a slasher flick as hordes of zombies moved in for the kill. She swung her Drayden’s shopping bag to ward off the Cart People, screamed, and ran for her life.

By the time she got home, Vienna was extremely annoyed. The scads of people in love ticked her off, but her own feelings of inferiority bothered her even more. Not to mention the Cart People. She slammed the door to her apartment, threw her shopping bag into her room, and headed for the refrigerator.

“You’re in a mood,” Davii observed as he turned to look at her from their sofa. Though their apartment was fairly large, the kitchen, dining area, and living room had no walls, so Davii and Vienna could carry on a conversation even though they were in separate rooms. “Rough day in the kohl mines, dear?”

Vienna shut the refrigerator door and said, “Why don’t we have any decent food? Do we have any cupcakes? I want cupcakes.”

Davii turned off the television and said, “You threw out all the junk food last week when you went on fad diet number five this year.”

“That was stupid. Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Ever try to stop a moving train?” Davii asked. “This can’t be about cupcakes. What’s wrong?”

“Why can’t it be about cupcakes?”

“Because that would be insane,” Davii said.

“Technically, it would be obsessive. Actually, it’s more compulsive behavior,” Vienna said.

Davii patted the cushion next to him and said, “Come on, Vienna. Tell me all about it.”

Vienna made a big show of exasperation as she crossed the room to sit down, but inside s. . .