Been Searching for You

Chapter One CHAPTER ONE February To Whom It May Concern, I think I wronged the love goddess in a previous life. How else do you explain that I’ve written you so many letters yet we’ve still not met? Everyone I know is either married or in a committed relationship, and here I am, pen in hand, writing to someone I can’t even prove exists. There’s an old Chinese folktale that says soul mates are connected from birth by an invisible red thread and that they can feel one another’s emotions, no matter the distance. It is this connection that eventually enables them to find one another. I believe it too. As I write, I find myself trying to imagine your face, grasping at flashes of memory from dreams, wondering what name to voice in my prayers that you will soon be by my side. The irony is that by the time you read this, the color of your eyes will be second nature to me and your name will roll off my tongue as easily as my sister’s. So please, my unknown love, hold tight to your red cord and follow it like a lifeline into the safe harbor of my arms. “Are you ready yet, birthday girl?” Mia’s impatient voice broke through my romantic reverie, scattering my lovelorn thoughts. “Almost,” I yelled back as I scanned what I had written. I wanted to say so much more, but Mia wouldn’t wait. But there was one more thought I couldn’t let go unsaid. I just want you to know that I haven’t given up on you. I don’t trust easily, but I trust in you. I’m still waiting, though not so patiently anymore. All my love, Annabeth The note was short compared to other years’ letters, but it would be after midnight when we returned home, so this would have to be enough. My one rule in this long-standing tradition—I’d been writing these letters since I was sixteen—was that the letter to my soul mate had to be written on my actual birthday. I folded the paper, slipped it inside the matching envelope, and licked the flap, then I pressed down to seal it. Mia stuck her head in the door just as I drew the big numeral on the front. It matched my age—thirty-four. She shook her head, making her flaming tresses bounce. “You and your letters. If you two don’t meet soon, he’s going to have to buy an extra plane ticket on your honeymoon just for that box.” She nodded toward the big square hatbox that functioned as a hope chest for my letters to my future husband. I slipped the newest letter in front, envelope awaiting further decoration. “Yes, but it’s romantic, don’t you think?” “For a young girl, maybe, but you’re well past that, hon.” Her tone softened when I made a face. “You’ve got plenty of declarations of love. Maybe this should be the last one. You know, new year, new traditions?” She held up a shot glass filled with golden liquid. “Come on. We need to get this party started.” Still scowling, I took the glass and downed the tequila with a small shiver. “If you say so.” As I locked up, I cast one last glance at the box on my desk. She had a point about growing up, but I had no intention of giving up my beloved letters. It was only one each year, and it meant something to me. Those weren’t just letters; together, they were my gift to my future husband. Old-fashioned? Maybe, but it was me. Anyone who wanted to marry me would appreciate that. I smiled with a sudden thought. It was good I didn’t want to marry Mia. Bass throbbed through the plate-glass doors of the Drake Hotel as we got out of the taxi. Next to the doors, a large placard illuminated by revolving spotlights and a dizzying dance of rotating heart-shaped lights invited passersby to “Meet Chicago’s Top Singles at Fifty Shades of Great.” As we walked up the dark blue velvet stairs to the banquet room, the thrumming noise resolved itself into a song—“Marry Me” by Jason Derulo. I rolled my eyes at Mia. “No one told me they were going to be playing themed music.” “The hearts on the sign weren’t a clue?” She took a ticket from the attendant in exchange for her pashmina wrap. “You did name the event, remember?” Heat flooded my face. My suggestion of a theme had come at the end of a long brainstorming session at the PR agency where I worked. We were all slaphappy and much in need of a drink. I’d meant it as a joke, but the organizers loved it. I shrugged. “They wanted cheese. I gave them cheese.” “Speaking of food, I hope the hors d’oeuvres are edible. I’m starving,” Mia said as we approached the registration table. As one of the fifty top singles, she was greeted with a hug and a smile by our receptionist, who was doubling as hostess for the evening. I, on the other hand, was left to search for my own name tag. Mia found it before I did and handed it to me. I squinted at my name. “Does it say ‘spinster’? Because it totally should.” Mia peered over my shoulder. “No, but it does say ‘foolish romantic who needs to get laid.’” I threw her a dirty look and was about to retort, but I was distracted by a muscular ebony arm intertwining with mine. My best friend and agency-mate, Miles, appeared at my side. “You’re always complaining you don’t know where the single men hide. Maybe tonight you’ll finally meet a few.” Mia kissed Miles’s cheek. “But you can’t have this one. Even if I am playing single for the night.” So that meant the on-again-off-again couple was back on? Or were they off since Mia was going to be auctioned off later? I shook my head, resigned that I would never figure out their relationship. “You are going to have fun tonight if it kills you.” Mia poked me in the stomach with one hand while grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing waiter with the other. “Start with this.” “I’m heading to the bar,” Miles said. “Anyone want anything?” I pointed at the glass at my lips and mumbled into it that I wanted another. While Mia gave Miles her drink order, I scanned the room, gauging what kind of night we were in for. When I first heard the plans concocted by our event team, I had feared walking into a bad facsimile of a reality dating show set, but instead I’d entered a Grace Kelly film. The event crew had used the room’s ornate columns, glittering chandeliers, and checkerboard marble floors to transport guests back to the early twentieth century. Tall tables covered in shimmery white linens and sprays of long-stemmed roses fanned out across the room. A catwalk hidden in shadows split the ballroom in two. Artful lighting directed the guests’ attention away from that area to the bars and posters displaying information on the Top Singles. The honorees, designated by tasteful red roses pinned to the lapels of finely tailored suits or beaded gowns, weaved in and out of the crowd. Even the waitstaff was in black tie and serving from silver trays. Curious, I tapped the edge of my flute with a fingernail, waiting for the telltale chime of crystal, but I heard only the clink of glass. Still, I had to give the sponsors credit for maintaining the hotel’s impeccable class while hosting an event with a silly name. I was about to remark to Mia on the beauty of the room when we were approached by a middle-aged woman in a simple black dress and an upswept bun that pulled her face into a scowl. She put out a hand to Mia. “Miss LaRue? I’m Eva Stegman. I’m in charge of tonight’s event. We need to talk about your dress. It’s far too short. Did you not read the dress code that accompanied your invitation?” Oh, she’d read it; she just didn’t think it applied to her. Rules were for other people, not Mia. I took that as my cue to slink off before Mia could throw an America’s Next Top Model diva fit. I found Miles at the bar, deep in conversation with a handsome man with broad shoulders and just a hint of hard muscle beneath his tailored navy suit with white pinstripes. Long-legged and trim, he looked as if he’d be right at home on a runway. When the stranger ran his fingers through his wavy dark-blond hair, I glanced at his left hand. No wedding ring. Maybe tonight was looking up after all. “So how’s Regina?” Miles asked him. The stranger looked down, contemplating his drink. “I wouldn’t know. She left.” “Aw, man, that’s rough.” “Yeah. Sometimes I still hope she changes her mind.” “Seriously, I hear you,” Miles said. “I love Mia, but there’s one woman from my past I’d welcome back in a heartbeat if I could.” “Violetta?” Miles tipped his glass toward the other man. “The very same.” I froze, not liking the sound of that conversation. They were trading war stories. Apropos at a singles’ event, but not exactly the time for a woman to interrupt. I changed course, aiming for an empty seat a few chairs down, but Miles saw me and waved me over. “How is Mia doing?” he asked. “I think they’re making her change her dress. I left before she could get into full-on ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ mode.” Miles shook his head. “I told her it wouldn’t fly. But she didn’t listen. Never does.” His gaze flicked to his companion, who was watching us with obvious curiosity. “I’m sorry. Annabeth, this is Alex Grantham. Alex, Annabeth Coe. Alex and I were friends when I first moved here, but we had lost touch.” I reached out to shake his hand, but he surprised me by turning my palm downward and brushing the top of my hand with his lips, the slight stubble of his beard grazing my skin. “Delighted to meet you, Annabeth.” My knees went weak. Here was a taste of the chivalry I’d always dreamed of but rarely encountered. And he was so handsome too. Did I dare hope he was available? Based on the conversation I’d overheard, he might have been, but then again, he seemed to be hung up on this Regina. Maybe I should have hovered a little longer. Alex gazed at me with sparkling hazel-green eyes, awaiting a response, but my mind was so muddled that, “Uh-huh,” was the best I could manage. “Annabeth and I work together at Smith and Grenwick PR,” Miles supplied, surrendering his seat to me. “We’re a creative team. I design. She writes.” “You’re a writer? How interesting.” My brain was beginning to recover, albeit slowly. “Yes. I’m much better with the words that come out of my fingertips than the ones that come from my lips, I’m afraid.” I gratefully accepted the drink Miles held out to me, and I took a long swallow, praying I didn’t appear too desperate. Alex smiled. “I know that feeling all too well. What do you write?” For some reason, the question caught me off guard, and I struggled to set my glass down steadily. “Oh, all kinds of things—articles, press releases, brochures, ads. You name it, I do it.” I giggled, wiping my sweating palms on my pale mint-green dress. “She writes fiction too,” Miles said. I would have to thank him later for thinking for me. He was my guardian angel tonight. His job completed, Miles excused himself with a wink in my direction, leaving the two of us alone. Alex raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “What genre? What do you write?” “Historical mystery mostly. Nineteen-twenties Chicago.” I took a deep breath, grateful to be in comfortable territory. I was never very good at talking about my day job, but I could talk fiction for hours. “I’ve just finished my first book. It’s about a flapper in love with a gangster. She’s really smart, but instead of using her brains to help the police solve crimes, she uses them to help the mob cover theirs. Kind of a detective for the bad guys.” “That’s a great premise. North side or south side gang?” I beamed, excited that he knew something about the period. “Both, at least for now—a hired gun, if you will. She’ll have to choose eventually, but I want the readers to form that alliance with her.” “I’d love to read a sample sometime if you’re willing. I’m an English professor, so I may be able to offer some tips. You know, for what they’re worth.” I looked at him through my eyelashes, pitching my voice to a sultry register. “Professor Grantham, is that your way of saying you’d like to see me again?” He adopted a mysterious expression. “Perhaps.” He shifted in his seat, changing the topic along with this posture. “So if you’re a writer, you must also be a big reader. What’s your favorite book?”