Month of Sundays by Yolanda Wallace Page A

Eve. Griffin would most likely be the only person with whom she was personally acquainted and they’d known each other for a grand total of sixteen days. The prospect made her understandably anxious but also, in a perverse way, excited. How long had it been since she had stood on her own? Since she had been judged on her own merits, not those of the woman at her side.
    She climbed the stairs leading from the subway to the street and walked toward Griffin’s building. She headed to the elevator after the doorman let her inside. Then she punched the button for the penthouse level and took a deep breath as the doors closed.
    It was considered bad form to arrive at a dinner party empty-handed so she had picked up some Bollinger Blanc de Noir on the way. Looking at the bottle in her hands, she began to second-guess her decision. The party wasn’t BYOB, so there should be more than enough alcohol. And buying such an expensive vintage could be seen as presumptuous. Or arrogant. She decided to go with presumptuous.
    The elevator doors slid open. I’ve come too far to back out now. She stepped out of the elevator and located Griffin’s apartment. Channeling Stuart Smalley, the character Al Franken played so memorably on Saturday Night Live , she silently ran through a daily affirmation. I’m good enough. I’m smart enough. And, doggone it, people like me.
    “Here goes nothing.”
    She rang the bell. A man she didn’t recognize opened the door. He had a closely trimmed beard, carefully styled hair, and a wardrobe inspired by The Great Gatsby (linen pants, a light blue poplin shirt, and spectator loafers). With a courtly bow, he ushered her inside. “Join the party. The more, the merrier.” She stepped across the threshold and he closed the door behind her. “I’m Tucker, Griffin’s personal assistant. And you are?”
    “Rachel Bauer.”
    Tucker added her name and e-mail address to the growing list on the tablet computer in his hands.
    “Will I get a bill for this in a few days?” she asked only half-seriously.
    “No,” he said with a charming smile as he tucked the computer’s stylus behind his ear. “An electronic thank-you card. Griffin sends one to each attendee each time she has an event.”
    “And how often is that?”
    “Two or three times a year. There’s always one on the Fourth of July—hamburgers, hot dogs, and the occasional block of tofu. The other events move around according to Griffin’s schedule and the availability of quality products.” He indicated the bottle of Bollinger. “Shall I take that for you?”
    “I’d like to hang on to it, if you don’t mind.” She wanted to present it to Griffin herself. She didn’t want the credit. Well, maybe she did, but what she really wanted was to see the look on Griffin’s face when she read the label. And to be there when she poured the first glass.
    Tucker flashed a knowing smirk. “She’s around here somewhere. When you see her, do me a favor and shove something in her mouth. She usually forgets to eat when she’s running around like a crazy person.”
    That explained her lean and hungry look. Apparently, it wasn’t just figurative.
    “How long has she been throwing these parties?”
    “Since culinary school. I’ve only been her P.A. since last March, but from what I hear, the parties get bigger every year.” More guests walked in and Tucker excused himself to greet the new arrivals.
    “Low-key, my ass,” Rachel said under her breath.
    A DJ spinning a mix of classic songs and the latest club hits was set up by the bar. The music drew Rachel further inside. She followed it like an enchanted child chasing after the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
    The crowd was mostly female, though there were a few straight and gay couples in the mix. She didn’t recognize anyone. No, that wasn’t entirely true. She saw a few familiar faces—people she recognized from screens both large and small—but they weren’t exactly her close personal friends so she