Sweet Love by Sarah Strohmeyer

teeth.
    “Here we go.” Tony plunks the box on the case. “And I threw an extra one in for the dumpling.”
    I quit smiling. Granted, it’s been a while since I stepped on the scale, but . . . could I be that big?
    “Don’t look so sad, prima donna,” Tony says. “I meant I put in another cupcake for your daughter.”
    Twenty minutes and two cupcakes later, Michael and I are sitting side by side on a bench outside Storybook enjoying our sugar high and savoring what’s left of our coffee.
    We’ve discussed Em and my brother, Paul, and whether he’ll ever marry Scooter, his fiancée for the past eight years. We’ve gone over why Michael moved back to Boston. (Washington’s too cynical, he claims, thereby raising the obvious question, “And Boston isn’t?”) We touched briefly on his ex-wife, Cassie the Virginia debutante, though Michael wasn’t too eager to trash her and for that I admire him. In turn, I was equally reserved in updating him about my ex, Donald, the self-centered psychiatrist. We even debated the Red Sox’s chances of winning the pennant again.
    We’ve talked about everything but the reason we’re here.
    “So,” Michael begins, balling up his paper napkin. “What’s all this about you heading to the big time?”
    I’m as clueless as you are, I’m tempted to quip. “It depends on what you told Kirk Bledsoe.”
    “Was that his name? I didn’t quite catch it.”
    “He’s only the most famous reporter the network has. I’m sure you watch Noon Newshour with Kirk Bledsoe .”
    “Yeah, that’s what I do. I sit around my office watching TV in the middle of the day.”
    It must be a sugar low, because he’s turning difficult. Or maybe it’s that we’re talking about the news business—not exactly his cup of tea.
    “I guess what I’m asking is, is this what you really want?” He turns to me, his dark brown eyes concerned. “Washington is a town of cutthroats, Julie. Trust me. Everyone’s out for themselves and how much power they can soak up from the people around them. You can’t be invited to a party without wondering why you were asked and what your hosts want from you.”
    “I’m all grown up, Michael. I’m not Paul’s little sister anymore. I can take it.”
    “I know you can take it. The question is, why should you have to?”
    “Because it’s exciting.” Isn’t that obvious? “I’ve been cooped up in this same sixty square miles all my life. I would have gone to Washington or New York when I was younger, except I got knocked up when I was twenty-three and all of a sudden my dreams weren’t a priority anymore.”
    “ Ohhhh . Are we having a pity party?”
    I could slap him for that. He’d never had children, he was never that courageous. “Until you’ve raised a child, I don’t think you’re in any position to criticize me.”
    “Sorry. You’re right. I was out of line.” He leans on his knees and looks off.
    Sitting back, I study a flock of gray pigeons eating up our crumbs and try to gather my thoughts. “Why do you care, anyway? It’s not like you and I are friends anymore.”
    “And whose fault is that?” He holds up his hands. “Sorry again. Didn’t mean to go there.”
    “Yes, let’s not.” My shoulder aches, a sure sign of stress and a reminder of what’s waiting for me back at the office. Valerie’s persecution of Rhonda Michak. “I’m sorry, too. You’re not entirely to blame for my snapping. I had a supremely lousy morning.”
    Without going into too many details, I give him the lowdown and Michael does a commendable job of listening without offering his unsolicited opinion. This might come from being a consultant where no opinion is offered without establishing a hefty retainer first.
    The more I think about Valerie’s course of attack—and attack is definitely the right word—the more I’m bothered. I can’t help but put myself in Rhonda’s position. What if Em went missing for a year and then turned up dead, likely