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  “You need to speak in sentences, in English, not C++. And normal people don’t call their computers ‘My Precious.’”

  “It’s a joke,” Hal explained with heavy patience.

  “It’s weird.”

  Hal sighed. “Fine. Whatever. But I don’t see why you’re so concerned about the media.”

  Ryan, his attorney and the neighboring office tenant, stuck his head through the door. “There is a definite need to be concerned, Hal. Sorry to eavesdrop, but it’s about time we had this talk. Peg and I are performing an image intervention here.” He took a bite of the ham sandwich in his right hand and pushed up his glasses with the left.

  Hal folded his arms and glared at Ryan. “Begging your pardon, sir, I hadn’t realized you were chief counsel for GQ.”

  “What I look like doesn’t matter,” Ryan said. “What you look like does. You are the CEO of Underwood Technologies. If you resemble a caveman, people will assume U.T. is run by an unstable loon. We want them to buy stock, not wonder about your mental health.”

  Hal threw up his hands. “They’re buying part of the company, not part of me! And my mental health is just fine.”

  “You are the face of the company, Hal. The face and the voice—and the future. It’s time for a new image, my man.”

  IT’S TIME for a new image, my man. The words reverberated in Hal’s head as he glared at the business card in his hand. He’d finally chased off Peg and Ryan after promising to call the number on the card. What crap. Hadn’t he started his own company so that he could avoid such things as dress codes, brownnosing and Corporate Career Ken dolls?

  Finesse, said the card. Shannon Shane, Image Consultant and Media Trainer. No doubt she’d try to dress him in khaki pants and a navy blazer, the Connecticut State Uniform. She’d try to dye his hair blond and cap his teeth. She’d chase him with a pair of penny loafers—but she’d never get him into them.

  Hal wiggled his toes in his ancient running shoes with the frayed, grungy laces. No freakin’ penny loafers, by God. He glared at the card again before picking up the phone and dialing.

  “Finesse, Shannon Shane speaking.”

  Shannon. The only females he’d ever known named Shannon had been gorgeous and stuck-up. Like Heathers and Tiffanys.

  “Hello?”

  Hal cleared his throat. “Uh, hi. I’m, uh. Well, I wanted to make an appointment.”

  “Okay, I’d be happy to do that. Will you tell me your name?”

  God, the unknown Shannon’s voice was sexy. Throaty and a bit raw. “Uh, name. Right. I’m Hal. Underwood.”

  “Great, Hal. I think I heard that you might get in touch. You were referred by…?”

  “My—uh, sister.” Could I sound more lame? Yup. “And my mother.” Worse and worse. “Oh, and my attorney.” Perfect.

  A faint tremor of laughter sifted through her voice. “Sounds like they ganged up on you.”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “And you don’t appreciate it.”

  “No. Not really.”

  “What do they— What do you think the issue is?”

  He remembered Peg’s comments, and they stung. “I’m taking my software company public in a month,” he said. “And apparently…” He paused. “Apparently I look worse than Saddam when they found him in the hole.”

  There was no mistaking her amusement this time, though she tried to pass off the gurgle as a cough. “I—I see. Sounds urgent. Why don’t we make an appointment for tomorrow afternoon?”

  “You work Saturdays?”

  “We often do, to accommodate our clients’ schedules. Is one o’clock convenient for you?”

  “Fabulous. Wonderful. Couldn’t be better. I will live,” Hal said through gritted teeth, “for one o’clock.”

  “If it’s any comfort to you at all,” Shannon Shane told him, “Saddam cleans up very well. Of course, he could do with an eye lift.”

  Hal stared disbelievingly at the receiver of his telephone before punching the off button. What had he just gotten himself into?

  3

  TODAY WAS A TYPICAL Saturday, but Shannon didn’t recognize her own body. Who is that, reflected in my glass office door? It’s an Unidentified Flying Blonde, aka me, moi, myself. The same self I was yesterday, but…not.

  Adopted. She was adopted.

  She hovered like an alien outside her reflection in the door of Finesse.

  Her image looked back at her: a tall, rangy blonde in black leather pants, black spike-heeled boots and a cropped, orange leather jacket. But she could have been watching another person approach. Her mind, usually sharp and aware, floated above her shoulders: detached in a helium balloon and connected by only a ribbon.

  And I’m not even on drugs. She felt insubstantial, as if she could simply fade through the door like a wraith. Who is that woman entering my place of business? Who is she?

  Shannon pulled up short between the two plaster urns full of ivy that flanked the door and put out a hand to connect with the heavy steel handle. Pull to open. Step over threshold. Smile at Jane and Lilia, your friends and business partners.

  Jane looked up from her desk and peered into the reception area. “Shannon? Are you okay?”

  “Huh? Oh. Yeah.”

  Lilia came out of her office with her appointment book and cell phone. “You look tired. Did you sleep last night?”

  “Not much,” Shannon admitted.

  “Out partying late?”

  Shannon shook her head. She thought about lying to Jane and Lil, telling them that she’d stayed up late watching a movie or reading a book. Instead she just bypassed them and went to the kitchen for coffee. Pull yourself together.

  She had three different appointments today, and she couldn’t be in space like this. But she had a feeling that she’d never walk steadily on earth again.

  Melodramatic tendencies, Shannon. You’re not auditioning for daytime soaps anymore. The voice in her head sounded just like Mrs. Koogle’s, their ninth-grade English teacher.

  It was a shame she wasn’t reading for the soaps today. Because at least in the auditions, she’d had a script to follow, lines to memorize, the anchors of the character and a plot. Plus the adrenaline of the circumstances: will this be my lucky break? Will I get a callback?

  Today she had no adrenaline. No script. No happy—or even cliff-hanger—ending. Nope, this was her life. And while there had been days when she felt it was stuck in an endless, quaint New England traffic roundabout, at least she’d been moving. Her mother’s revelation yesterday had brought her to a complete standstill.

  Lil followed her into the kitchen and Shannon could feel her friend’s concerned gaze on her back. If she touches me, I’m done for.

  Lil’s small hand slipped between her shoulder blades and rubbed gently in a circular motion.

  So much for my mascara. Shannon’s eyes overflowed. Tears of shock, hurt and confusion rolled down her nose and cheeks—and would probably have ended up in her coffee mug if Lil hadn’t handed her a paper towel.

  “What’s the matter, honey?”

  Shannon blinked at her and wiped at her nose. Useless to try to keep this inside. “I went to dinner at Mother’s yesterday.”

  Lil nodded.

  “The typical setup. Polished silver and crisp white linen. The Duncan Phyfe table set for two. Lobster bisque and arugula salad and some fancy French wine of hers…” Woeful sniff. “And of course she tells me my skirt is too short and that it’s trashy to expose my midriff and she practically calls the cops to remove my toe ring.”

  “She doesn’t mean to make you feel bad,” said Lil. “She’s trying to protect you from other people’s judgment—and there’s a lot of it in Greenwich. It’s not a town full of tolerance.”

  “I know, I know.” Shannon blew her nose. “That’s why I got the hell out and took off for L.A. after college. I couldn’t handle Greenwich anymore. God, they sell bottled repression in the grocery, there! In your choice of flavors—wild cherry, lemon ze
st, or peach blossom.” She shuddered.

  “So you had dinner,” Lil prompted.

  “Yeah. And I knew there was something weird going on, because I had to ask her for some family medical history on the phone the other day. She wouldn’t tell me anything, just said I should come for dinner Friday. So we’re sitting there staring at each other over these piles of arugula—I hate arugula! It tastes like grass—and she drops the bomb on me. I’m adopted.”

  “What?”

  Shannon nodded her head, then shook it, and then nodded again. “Yeah. After all these years, she tells me. Says it’s time that I know. I can’t believe this. All these years, I’ve thought I was someone that I’m…not.”

  Lil stared at her for a long moment and then sat gracefully on one of the kitchen stools, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “This one’s not in Amy Vanderbilt, is it?” Shannon sniffed again and smiled blearily through her tears.

  “Not exactly.” Lil hopped off the stool again and moved forward with open arms to give her a hug. “I don’t think I’ve seen you cry in years.”

  “Oh, trust me, I did my share in L.A.,” Shannon assured her, “while I was failing miserably as an actress.” Never completely comfortable with affection, she stepped quickly out of Lil’s arms after a perfunctory pat. But she was grateful for the hug—even if she couldn’t quite accept it.

  This time, they both sat on the tall stools at the little tiled counter, Shannon gripping her mug with both hands. She gazed into it as if it were a crystal ball—one that could tell her about the past as well as the future.

  “Does your mother know anything about your biological parents? Why did she wait this long to tell you? You’re twenty-nine!”

  Shannon shrugged. “Rebecca Shane is always an enigma. I love her, of course, but we’ve always been so different. I don’t quite fit her specifications.” She took a sip of coffee. “Apparently my father never wanted to tell me I was adopted. It didn’t make any difference to him, and he thought it would just hurt me.” She blew her nose again.

  “Which it does…I feel like they’ve lied to me all these years, and it’s so weird to think that the woman who gave birth to me gave me away. Like a puppy or something.”

  “Shannon, it’s not the same thing at all. She was probably in difficult circumstances, and she did it out of love. Out of concern that she couldn’t give you the kind of life she wanted for you.”

  “How do you know, Lil? It’s possible that she just didn’t want to be burdened by a baby.”

  “Nobody can know for sure except for her. But why are you automatically looking for the negative side? It’s possible that she made the most unselfish, amazing choice, one that must have been incredibly difficult.”

  The coffee wasn’t answering any of these questions. It stared back at Shannon, brown and bland and flat. She pushed it aside.

  Lilia asked again, “So what does your mother know? What details did she give you?”

  Shannon twisted her long curly hair into a knot and secured it with a pencil from a can on the countertop.

  “She knows very little about my biological mother and father—only some basics. Apparently this woman who gave birth to me was very young, just out of high school. My bio father was a student at one of the local colleges. He played basketball for B.U. They were from completely opposite religious back-grounds—he was Catholic, she was Jewish.”

  “Do you want to find out more?”

  Shannon fidgeted and crumpled what was left of the paper towel into a ball. “I don’t know. I’m torn. For better or for worse, my parents are the people who raised me. The ones who spoon-fed me and changed my diapers and kept me from sticking my fingers into electrical outlets. The ones who taught me how to read and ride a bike. The ones who sent me to college. You know?”

  Lilia nodded.

  “I may never be proper enough for Rebecca, but she’s my mom. It’s her voice in my head that governs my basic human values—her voice and Dad’s. Not the voices of two strangers who happened to conceive me at a frat party or something.”

  “But you can’t help wondering.”

  “No. I am so utterly confused and blindsided by this—” Shannon checked her watch “—and I need to get it together and convince three different appointments today that I am the self-assured answer to their prayers. Hah.”

  “Well, if it’s any comfort to you, you look great. You are the only person on the planet who can get away with those clothes and still look professional.” Lil’s brows rose as she scanned the black-and-orange outfit.

  “I know.” Shannon grinned. “It’s all in the attitude.”

  “Add your leopard-print reading glasses and some concealer, and nobody will have a clue you were just bawling.”

  “Hey, hey, hey. We all know that I am waaay too cool to bawl. I just emoted a little bit.”

  It wasn’t in Lilia’s nature to snort. But her look said it all.

  SOMEHOW, SHANNON MADE IT through the morning and her first two appointments. The first one, Mrs. Drake, was a divorcée who’d recently graduated with honors from law school at age forty-two. She just needed some basic posture lessons—“Shoulders back! Stomach in! Chin up! Project confidence!”—and help putting together an acceptable corporate wardrobe. She also needed to hear, after twenty years of being put down by her ex, that she was bright, talented and had a great future ahead of her.

  Shan loved helping women like Mrs. Drake. She felt such a sense of achievement when, after a few sessions, she sent them out into the world again, re-born in a new skin.

  Her second appointment was a teenage girl who looked highly intimidated by her new coach and surroundings. Shannon’s heart went out to awkward, homely Janna, and she forgot her own problems. Eyes desperate behind her ugly glasses, Janna confessed that she was in love with a “cool” boy who would never look at her unless Shannon helped her. She was going to pay for her Finesse sessions with her babysitting money, and it seemed all too likely that her mother didn’t know she was there.

  Shannon hesitated for a moment, debating the ethics. Then she caved in. After all, it wasn’t as if she were going to outfit the girl with a thong and spike heels. But take her babysitting money? Shannon couldn’t.

  “Hold on just a sec, sweetie,” she told her. “I’ve just got to run get some paperwork.” She smiled reassuringly and slipped out of her office, closing the door behind her. Moments later, she stood in Jane’s office.

  “I can’t charge this one,” she said. “It would be criminal. She’s all of fifteen. Isn’t there something she can do around the office?”

  Jane tapped her pen on her nose.

  “Stop that! I thought we broke you of that habit when you drew all over your face.”

  “Dominic thinks I’m sexy with a Bic mustache. Can the girl type?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hmm.” Jane sat for a moment, thinking, and then brightened. “Mailings! She can help do the direct mail stuff. How about that?”

  “Perfect.” Shannon spun on her heel, grabbed a generic information form off Jane’s credenza and returned to her own office.

  “Here we go,” she said, handing the sheet of paper to Janna, who peered at it from under her stringy bangs. “If you’ll just fill this out, we can get started. The good news is that we’ve just begun a student discount program. Oh, and by the way, we’re looking for someone to help out here a few hours a week. Would you be interested? I know you’re not technically employment age, but we could just reduce your bill by the hours you work.”

  Janna looked as if she might kiss Shannon. Mentally Shan pieced through her closet for a few things that would fit the girl. Babysitting money wouldn’t go too far in terms of haircuts, clothes and makeup.

  When Janna left, it was noon, which vaguely surprised Shannon. She wasn’t hungry. She felt restless, her identity crisis rushing back into her consciousness. Who had actually given birth to her? Where was she no
w? What did she look like? What nationality was she? What were the circumstances under which she’d had a child—and given her away?

  The questions flooded her mind and made her feel unbalanced. She had to get out of here for a while—especially before she faced Hal Underwood, a brain who had single-handedly built his own software company, so successfully that he was now taking it public.

  That was impressive. A lot more impressive than failing as an actress; trying to make a living as just one more pretty face in an ocean of them. It also beat out a career grooming people like a monkey.

  The unknown Hal Underwood was already giving her an inferiority complex; taking her back to high school where she’d been treated as the stereotypical dumb blonde.

  Shannon swept her keys off the corner of her desk and grabbed her lime-green suede hobo bag. “Gotta run some errands!” she called to Lilia and Jane. “Back by one.”

  She made her way outside, into the gray, chilly Connecticut spring. Hey, God. Don’t you know it’s April? Could you improve the weather just a bit?

  Shannon got into her white BMW roadster and put the top down in defiance of the weather. The car, a gift from her parents, now seemed all wrong for her. Suddenly she hated it, hated the tan leather seats, hated the logo in the center of the steering wheel, hated the way she must look in the thing: like an expensive, privileged blonde with not a care in the world. What if her real mother was a waitress? A teacher? A postal worker? What if a car like this represented a year’s salary to her? The beemer seemed shameful in light of these questions.

  She squealed out of the parking lot, the cold April wind in her hair, and headed for Highway 84.

  Within moments the sky decided to dump on her, and it seemed fitting. Instead of putting the top up, Shannon let the rain soak her in a cold shower of reality. She pushed the leopard-print reading glasses to the top of her head and drove under the raindrops like a madwoman, not caring what she looked like to others.

  Though the rain pelted her face and hair, trickled down the neck of her jacket and damn near froze her in combination with the wind, at least she felt alive. Not numb, as she’d been all afternoon yesterday and all night.