hair is dark, and he has so much of it.” Jennifer’s eyes lit up when she talked about the baby. She came alive in a way Serena had never seen before. “And you should see the way he watches and listens to everything—” She broke off suddenly, flushing. “Okay, I’m gushing. You just wait. You’ll see what it’s like,” Jennifer told her.
“Jen, you can gush to me anytime you like, you know that. I adore the little angel. I just wish he were mine.”
“You’ll have your own.”
“Not if I get much older,” Serena commented, looking around and assessing the display of the funeral once again. Um, but people were dressed. They milled about and chatted in the sunshine. The young and beautiful sidled up to the old and powerful. Lunch dates were made. Photographers snapped pictures with a fury. Lights flared, even in the sunlight of the beautiful, powdery blue day.
Jennifer grabbed Serena’s arm, swinging her around to oblige a photographer. “LA. Times,” she whispered.
“This is a funeral,” Serena reminded her, smiling for the camera, then remembering it was a somber occasion.
“Thanks!” the photographer said.
“Certainly,” Jennifer told him.
He nodded and moved on. There was a B-movie queen ahead of them on the sidewalk. Other photographers were beginning to gather.
“You know, this is a funeral,” Serena repeated.
“Um. But we aren’t rich and famous enough to be nasty when that decent fellow from the LA. Times is giving us a photo op.”
Serena groaned. “Jennifer! That does not sound like you. And I’m willing to bet that the diva up ahead never met Jane Dunne.”
“Well, you know, it’s sad but true: a funeral does remain a photo op,” Jennifer said with a shrug of her shoulders.
Doug Henson stepped up between them. He really was incredibly good looking. Everyone assumed he should want to be an actor, but he loathed acting, loved writing. And though he mocked his soap writing himself, he was excellent at it. Still he longed to do his own great American novel. He kissed Serena’s cheek. “A funeral for a bitch. The goddamned Wicked Witch of the West, and that’s not gossip but a major consensus. And you’re not old.”
“What?” Serena said.
He grinned. “Couldn’t help but eavesdrop.”
“You’ve been eavesdropping for a long time!”
“Trying to reach you. I even got stopped by the paparazzi on this one. I’m your designated driver, you know. And besides,” he said to Serena, suddenly indignant, “I’ve been around you charming ladies often enough. I know you wouldn’t dream of shopping for any important occasion without my advice. Now that should include a husband, and you’re quite right, I haven’t seen Mister Perfect around yet myself. Not for you, anyway.”
“Well, thanks. I wouldn’t want to snag Mr. Wrong again.”
“You almost had Mr. Right,” Doug told her.
She felt a strange warmth seize her; her tongue felt suddenly dry. She knew to whom he was referring.
“No, he wasn’t Mr. Right at all.”
“He sure as hell looked damned good.”
“Looks are deceiving, and I don’t want to discuss this.”
Doug decided to back off. He grinned and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “If you want, and you’re free this weekend, we can have lunch on Sunset and watch the men go by.”
She didn’t answer him right away. His comments had made her feel unnerved, opened a wound that was just beginning to heal. Yes, I’d thought that he was Mr. Right, too! she might have said. And she still felt that same hurt and loss when she thought about … him.
Her almost Mr. Right.
She wasn’t going to allow him to torture her mind and soul. Especially now.
“Please?” Doug said hopefully. “It would be fun. We haven’t done it in a long time.”
His endearing look was sincere. She couldn’t help but smile and laugh. “I don’t know. You’re too good looking. You always get a guy, and I don’t.”
He winked at her. “We’re looking for
“Jen, you can gush to me anytime you like, you know that. I adore the little angel. I just wish he were mine.”
“You’ll have your own.”
“Not if I get much older,” Serena commented, looking around and assessing the display of the funeral once again. Um, but people were dressed. They milled about and chatted in the sunshine. The young and beautiful sidled up to the old and powerful. Lunch dates were made. Photographers snapped pictures with a fury. Lights flared, even in the sunlight of the beautiful, powdery blue day.
Jennifer grabbed Serena’s arm, swinging her around to oblige a photographer. “LA. Times,” she whispered.
“This is a funeral,” Serena reminded her, smiling for the camera, then remembering it was a somber occasion.
“Thanks!” the photographer said.
“Certainly,” Jennifer told him.
He nodded and moved on. There was a B-movie queen ahead of them on the sidewalk. Other photographers were beginning to gather.
“You know, this is a funeral,” Serena repeated.
“Um. But we aren’t rich and famous enough to be nasty when that decent fellow from the LA. Times is giving us a photo op.”
Serena groaned. “Jennifer! That does not sound like you. And I’m willing to bet that the diva up ahead never met Jane Dunne.”
“Well, you know, it’s sad but true: a funeral does remain a photo op,” Jennifer said with a shrug of her shoulders.
Doug Henson stepped up between them. He really was incredibly good looking. Everyone assumed he should want to be an actor, but he loathed acting, loved writing. And though he mocked his soap writing himself, he was excellent at it. Still he longed to do his own great American novel. He kissed Serena’s cheek. “A funeral for a bitch. The goddamned Wicked Witch of the West, and that’s not gossip but a major consensus. And you’re not old.”
“What?” Serena said.
He grinned. “Couldn’t help but eavesdrop.”
“You’ve been eavesdropping for a long time!”
“Trying to reach you. I even got stopped by the paparazzi on this one. I’m your designated driver, you know. And besides,” he said to Serena, suddenly indignant, “I’ve been around you charming ladies often enough. I know you wouldn’t dream of shopping for any important occasion without my advice. Now that should include a husband, and you’re quite right, I haven’t seen Mister Perfect around yet myself. Not for you, anyway.”
“Well, thanks. I wouldn’t want to snag Mr. Wrong again.”
“You almost had Mr. Right,” Doug told her.
She felt a strange warmth seize her; her tongue felt suddenly dry. She knew to whom he was referring.
“No, he wasn’t Mr. Right at all.”
“He sure as hell looked damned good.”
“Looks are deceiving, and I don’t want to discuss this.”
Doug decided to back off. He grinned and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “If you want, and you’re free this weekend, we can have lunch on Sunset and watch the men go by.”
She didn’t answer him right away. His comments had made her feel unnerved, opened a wound that was just beginning to heal. Yes, I’d thought that he was Mr. Right, too! she might have said. And she still felt that same hurt and loss when she thought about … him.
Her almost Mr. Right.
She wasn’t going to allow him to torture her mind and soul. Especially now.
“Please?” Doug said hopefully. “It would be fun. We haven’t done it in a long time.”
His endearing look was sincere. She couldn’t help but smile and laugh. “I don’t know. You’re too good looking. You always get a guy, and I don’t.”
He winked at her. “We’re looking for
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