Palomino Read Free Page B

any coffee?
    Sure. Sam looked at him strangely, wondering if anything was wrong. He had come to visit her once or twice before at the apartment, but usually only when something major was on his mind. Something happen with the new account that I should know? She glanced out at him from the kitchen with a worried look, and he grinned and shook his head as he followed her to where she stood.
    Nope. And nothing's going to go wrong. You've been on the right track with that all week. It's going to be fabulous, Sam.
    She smiled softly as she started the coffee. I think so too. The two exchanged a long, warm smile. They had been friends for almost five years, through countless campaigns, winning awards and teasing and joking and working till four A.M. to coordinate a presentation before showing it to the client and the account men the next day. They were both the wunderkinder of Harvey Maxwell, titular creative director of the firm. But Harvey had sat back for years now. He had found Charlie at one agency and hired Samantha from another. He knew good people when he found them. He had given them their heads and sat back with glee as he watched what they created. In another year he would retire, and it was everyone's bet, including Samantha's, that she would inherit his job. Creative director at thirty-one was not bad at all. So what's new, kiddo? I haven't seen you since this morning. How's the Wurtzheimer stuff going?
    Well' Charlie threw up his hands with an expression of acceptance. How much can you do for one of the largest department stores in St. Louis that has big bucks and no taste?
    What about the swan theme we talked about last week?
    They hated it. They want flash. Swans ain't flash.
    Sam rolled her eyes and sat down at the large butcher-block table as Charlie sprawled his lanky form into one of the chairs across from her. It was strange, she had never been drawn to Charlie Peterson, not in all the years they had worked together, traveled together, slept on planes together, talked into the wee hours together. He was her brother, her soul mate, her friend. And he had a wife she loved almost as much as he did. Melinda was perfect for him. She had decorated their big friendly apartment on East Eighty-first with brightly colored tapestries and beautifully woven baskets. The furniture was all covered in a deep mahogany-colored leather and everywhere one looked were wonderful little art objects, tiny treasures Melinda had discovered and brought home, everything from exotic seashells they had collected together in Tahiti, to one perfect marble she had borrowed from their sons. They had three boys, all of whom looked like Charlie, a large unmannerly dog named Rags, and an enormous yellow Jeep Charlie had driven for the past ten years. Melinda was also an artist, but she had never been corrupted by the workaday world. She worked in a studio and had had two successful shows of her work in the past few years. In many ways she was very different from Samantha, yet the two women had a gentleness in common, a softness beneath the bravado that Charlie treasured in both. And in his own way he loved Samantha, and he had been rocked to the core by what John had done. He had never liked him anyway and had always pegged him for an egocentric ass. John's rapid desertion of Samantha and subsequent marriage to Liz Jones had proved to Charlie that he was right, as far as he was concerned at least. Melinda had tried to understand both sides, but Charlie hadn't wanted to hear it. He was too worried about Sam. She'd been in lousy shape for the past four months, and it showed. Her work had suffered. Her eyes were dead. Her face was gaunt.
    So what's doing, madame? I hope you don't mind my coming over so late.
    No. Samantha smiled as she poured him a cup of coffee. I just wonder how come you're here. Checking up on me?
    Maybe. His eyes were gentle above the dark beard. Do you mind that, Sam?
    She looked up at him sadly and he wanted to take her in his