Adulation Read Free Page B

sexy.
    This , he thought. It was as good as any drug, any pill, any drink. And he knew this was why theykept getting back together, why he could never bring himself to break up with her completely. She wasintoxicating. She was addictive. And the mere thought of having to get over another addiction, one morebad habit, exhausted and saddened him.
    He could barely wait for her to finish singing before he ravished her, and she kindly responded.

    CHAPTER TWO
    Sunny Smith
    October 11, 2010

    T ODAY WAS GOING   to be just another day, when it should’ve been something special. Of course, at somepoint I could count on a chocolate cake bought by my coworkers from the bakery two doors down from Whitford’s, the one with the overly sweet buttercream frosting and roses, and a Shoebox card signed bywhoever had been scheduled to work in the store the last two days. And I was scheduled to leave earlybecause my parents and Tim were treating me to dinner at Bobby Flay’s restaurant in Manhattan. But bythe time I was out of Starbucks and on the way to work, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. My throat wason fire, my head was stuffed like a pillow, and I wanted to go back to bed.
    Forty.
    When the hell did it happen? I remembered my mom being forty. Sort of. And it seemed like onlyyesterday that my brother, Tim, had turned forty, despite its being two years ago.
    It wasn’t so bad, really. I mean, aside from the gray hair and the frown lines and the kangaroopouch that seemed  to appear overnight (and even those things weren’t so bad), I didn’t feel   much differentfrom when I had turned thirty.
    But wasn’t I supposed to be married—or rather, have   stayed   married—by now? Wasn’t Isupposed to be living in a colonial-style house and driving a minivan and taking my kids to oboe lessonsand cheerleading practice and hitting up my friends to buy boxes of Girl Scout cookies? Wasn’t Isupposed to be a published author by now?
    Wasn’t I supposed to be more than a stockroom manager?
    Yes, I was. Yes to all of it.
    I ignored the voice of Judi Dench as Armande in   Chocolat   as she advised me, “Don’t worry somuch about ‘supposed to...’” She wasn’t missing out on the chance to see Bobby Flay, much less taste hisfood.
    Just as I was pulling into my usual spot behind Whitford’s Books and Café, the Check Engine lightappeared on my dashboard, and I groaned. My best friend, Theodora, had dubbed my 2002 yellow V olkswagen Beetle “the Old Banana,” although “the Lemon” was a more appropriate moniker. I’d beenso adamant about owning a Beetle that I’d failed to research   Consumer Reports   . Had I done so Iwould’ve found out that 2001 through 2004 models were nothing more than cute little shitboxes—or, as Tim called them, balloons on wheels. You’d think   it   was turning forty today.
    I grabbed the Starbucks tray and my messenger bag and headed for the back door in the alley. Jingling my ring of fat industrial keys until I found the right one, I opened the heavy back door (unable tosmell the musty odors of metal and cardboard—one more sign that I was getting  sick) and cut through thestockroom to the front of the store. Brightly lit and full of warmth (sunlight permeated the floor-to-ceilingpicture windows during the day), the earthy, autumn tones of orange and yellow and terra cotta seemed tomake the books feel just as welcome as the customers. Honey-colored bookcases were an aesthetic

    improvement on the mock cherrywood cases of big-box bookstores, each section labeled in umber, lowercase Helvetica font on burnt orange signage. The industrial carpets (the color of brownies, yet emitting a chemical smell) had been vacuumed and recently shampooed. The café followed the color scheme of the store, albeit amped up in brightness and intensity. Square tables and chairs, boxy couches and ottomans, Plexiglas counters—the place looked like a Mondrian painting if you squinted at it.
    Half of