Preface

My name is Abigail Walker, Abby for short. I turned thirty-four about a month ago. I live in Boston and work at the Symphony, in Development.

I'm single.

I guess that's about it. Oh, I have some family. My mother and her husband live in Lincoln. My father has been dead for many years.

And, I have friends, three good ones. Erin, JoAnne, and Maggie. They make up for a lot. Like for having lost my father. And for not having a lot of self-confidence. And, sometimes, for still being single.

About my not being overly confident. Maybe it comes from the way I was raised. Maybe it's just who I am. The sort of shy girl with funny little songs always running through her head. Goofy songs, like 'All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth'.

I like things that aren't threatening. Things without too many hard edges.

My friends call me Pollyanna-ish or naive. But I'm neither, really, and they know that. It's just that we all make sport of each other's most obvious personality traits. It's a form of affection. JoAnne the heartless; Maggie the practical; Erin the kind.

Abby the dreamer. The fantasist. The girl with her head in the clouds.

And beyond that? Well, once Erin compared me to a steel magnolia, those southern belles with spines of - well, steel. Except that being a New Englander, born and bred, we guessed that made me a hard-shelled lobster. Or something equally ridiculous.

But the point Erin was trying to make is true. I'm not half as fragile as I appear. Everybody who really knows me knows that. I have convictions and I'm good in a crisis. My friends can lean on me when they're not strong.

The problem is that sometimes - well, sometimes I wonder if I'm strong enough for me. I mean, when life pushes me around, most times I just collapse into someone's arms. Or want to.

JoAnne thinks I have a Cinderella complex. Maybe at one point I was hoping to just bump into my soul mate and be transformed. But lately, I'm not even sure my soul mate, my Prince Charming, exists.

Lately, I don't feel very optimistic about romance.

It saddens me to feel so hopeless. Well, not entirely hopeless. Abigail Walker is never entirely hopeless. Still, I wish . . .

I was going to say I wished I felt all bubbly with romantic expectation. But do I? Disappointment always feels keener when it follows great anticipation. So maybe this semi-hopeless state is, in the end, healthier. The more intelligent way to approach life.

No. I have to be honest. In my heart of hearts all I really want for Christmas this year is hope. Renewed faith in there being someone, somewhere in this world, just for me.

Someone just for me.

Chapter One

I've changed my mind. All I want for Christmas is for everybody to keep her good news to herself.

It all started with a phone call from my mother one day in mid-November. "It" being the downward slide of my spirits into the worse holiday depression I'd ever experienced. Worse even than the year I was quarantined with chicken pox from December 20th through New Year's Day.

Well, not worse than the first Christmas without my father. But almost.

It's not that I don't love my mother. It's just that - well, sometimes I find it hard to actually like her.

Mother - Mrs. Martha(Rupert) Gilliam, formerly Mrs. Martha (Horatio)Walker, nee Martha Tinkey-Howard - is what the kind would call a character. Not quite an eccentric because, I think, that term implies someone of outstanding intelligence, along with a predisposition for odd behavior. And Mother, while not stupid, is not exactly - intellectual.

Her friends find her charming, innocent even, and amusing. Her husband finds her adorable. I find her exasperating. Truth be told, and without being ungrateful for all my mother has done for me, I have often wished she were - different. More of a traditional mother, someone I could truly rely upon. More of an adult.

When my father died, my mother ceased to be a parental figure. Maybe she never had been a true parent. Maybe I'd just assumed she was because my father's presence was so powerful, it spoke for her, too. But with him gone, Mother stood alone and her true nature was revealed.

Mother is what the unkind would call batty.

Anyway, back to the dreaded phone call.

I answered on the second ring.

"Dear, is that you?" a high, somewhat excited voice inquired.

I sighed. "Yes, Mother, it's me. Abigail."

"Oh," she said. "That's good."

"How are you, Mother?" I asked, bracing for a litany of inane complaints.

They came. Her stylist hadn't cut her hair in quite the same way he had the previous month, causing Mother minor heart palpitations.

The wallpaper she'd chosen for the kitchen renovation was not at all satisfactory once on the walls.

Finally, Mother had spotted a new freckle on the back of her hand and though she'd pointed it out to the dermatologist, the doctor refused to admit he saw anything at all.

"Is it still there?" I asked, remembering the last imaginary freckle incident.

"Well, no, Dear," she said. "It's the oddest thing. It seems to have disappeared!"

Rupert, Mother's husband, however, was fine. He was always fine.

"Oh, Dear, Rupert is just fine," she told me. "He's such a good husband. Never a bother. And how are you, Dear?"

And before I could open my mouth to say, "Just fine, Mother," she was babbling on.

"Oh, Dear, you'll never guess who I ran into at the Gardners' cocktail party the other night! That darling Puffy Cochrane-Wilson and her darling husband, Scott. Puffy and Scott seem just so happy. Dear, you should see them. They just beam! And so tan! You know, Dear, I prefer to stay out of the sun, what with my delicate complexion, but those two! They just glow. Those quick little trips to Tortola just do them a world of wonder. You might benefit from some sun, Dear. All that vitamin D. Why don't you take a quick little trip to, say, Bermuda? Winters in New England can be so drear."

Deep breath, Abby. I stared out at the view from tiny kitchen window. Not more than a grim alley and rusty fire escapes.

"Mother," I said evenly, "I'd love to get away but just now I can't leave my job."

"Are you sure? Oh, I can't see why they shouldn't allow you to slip away for a few days."

Was it time to explain - yet again - the notions of responsibility and dedication? Was it time to remind Mother of the fact that I had no one with whom I could slip away to a tropical paradise? No, I decided, sure that in a moment Mother would drift on to another topic.

She did.

"Oh, Dear," she blurted, "did you hear that Muffy Livingston-Hampton is having her third child? How nice for the Hamptons. Dear, why don't you have a baby?"

I swear the question was asked in all innocence. She might as well have asked why I didn't pour myself a nice cup of tea.

"Mother," I replied, struggling for calm, "I'm not married."

There was a beat during which I know Mother was processing that bit of information as if it was entirely new to her. "Oh," she said finally. "Yes. There is that. But -"

"And I'm not having a baby on my own."

"Oh. Dear, I wasn't suggesting you do! Although . . ."

Mother's thoughts had trailed off again.

"Mother, I really have to go now," I said loudly, hoping to startle her back into focus. "I'll talk to you soon, all right?"

And without waiting for her bewildered farewell, I was gone.

*****

Whenever our schedules permitted, my three closest friends and I met for drinks or a meal.

Erin Weston, my closest friend. The friend whose father I used to date. Amazingly, our friendship survived that strange time and grew even more solid.

JoAnne Chiofalo, successful pediatrician and the most unsentimental person I've ever met. And the most fiercely protective of her loved ones.

And Maggie Branley, a professor of urban design and, along with her partner, Jan, a new parent. Maggie is one of those people you tend to overlook because they're not demanding your attention. But in the end, Maggie's the one you turn to for wisdom and good common sense.

The evening after my mother's informative phone call, the four of us met for dinner at Davio's.

"The call made me feel just a little down," I admitted. "Mother was all full of who celebrated their anniversary and who's having another baby and -"

"Down?" JoAnne said. "I'd be suicidal. I mean, I wouldn't, personally. But I could see how you might feel rotten. Wait - that didn't come out right."

"Oh, I know what you mean," I said, impatiently. "But it wasn't my mother's fault. All she was doing was passing along the most recent news about my former classmates."

JoAnne raised an eyebrow. "All she was doing was trying to make you feel bad by reminding you that you're not married. And that you don't have children."

"I've never heard you call your mother a bitch," Maggie said, looking up from her menu.

"Because she's not," I insisted. "My mother is just - well, she's not always the most considerate person. But not because she's evil. It's just because she's - "

"Not the sharpest knife in the drawer?" Erin suggested, with a tentative smile.

I sighed. "Yes. I mean, no, she's not. Not by far."

"So, who are these paragons of womanhood you went to school with?" JoAnne questioned. "And why haven't we met them? We haven't, have we? Am I forgetting something?"

Erin shrugged. "I've never met anyone from Abby's past. Maybe she's hiding them from us. Or us from them."

"I'm not hiding anybody!" I swore. "It's just that I didn't really keep up with the old crowd much after high school. I saw the girls a few times during college but since then, it's more like I just run into them every couple of years. You know, at social functions. I was always kind of - different. I mean, Puffy was - "

"Puffy?" I nodded.

"Puffy. It's her nickname."

Maggie frowned. "What's it short for? Puffaret? Pufforia?"

Erin grinned. "Maybe Puffy got her nickname because she has a drinking problem. Maybe she bloats up like a bull frog with PMS. Maybe she's subject to hives!"

I sighed. Sometimes my friends had no imagination. "All right, I admit it's an unusual nickname. But just because it's different doesn't -"

"Yeah, yeah," JoAnne finished, "doesn't make it wrong or stupid. But tell us, honey, what is Puffy's real name?"

"Pamela," I answered.

"Pamela!" Erin cried. "And she prefers Puffy?"

I took a sip of my Manhattan before answering. "I guess. Back in middle school she just started calling herself Puffy and -"

"She asked to be called Puffy!" Maggie cried. "It didn't just get plastered on her by some big bully?"

"No. I remember it quite clearly."

"And no one made fun of her?" JoAnne pressed. "Man, the kids in my school would have eaten her alive."

Erin grinned. "The kids in your school didn't have mothers named Honoria and fathers named Brentwood."

"I suppose you'll be amused to learn that my other friends are named Muffy, Bitsy, and Bunny," I said stiffly, bracing for the hoots and hollers.

Maggie laid her palms flat on the table, as if preparing for disturbing news. "I know I shouldn't ask this," she said, "but I'm going for it. What's Muffy's real name?"

"Marianne. But her parents called her Muffy from the time she was a little girl."

"Better Muffy than Puffy." JoAnne finished her drink and gestured to our waiter.

"And Bitsy?" Erin asked. "She's tiny, right? Itsy Bitsy?"

"No, actually. Bitsy is a bit - well, she shops at Woman's Wisdom, that nice store for big-boned women. Her real name is Elizabeth."

The waiter took our dinner orders then. When he had gone off, JoAnne resumed the conversation.

"Okay," she said, "what about Bunny?"

"Oh, she's just Bunny."

"You mean . . ."

"Just Bunny. "

"Well, she can't be Catholic," Erin said, dryly. "'Cause I'm pretty sure I've never heard of a Saint Bunny."

JoAnne looked around the table. "You know there's a theory that kids live up - or down - to their names? You name a kid Victoria or Alexandra and she grows up to be queen or CEO or something equally successful. You name a kid Brandy or Amber and there's a good shot she'll be a Playmate of the Year. So, I'm curious: Does Bunny look like a rabbit? "

"Well, she did until she got her teeth fixed!" I answered honestly.

For the first time since I've known her, JoAnne was speechless.

"I feel the need at this juncture," Erin said, "to remind us of the words of F. Scott Fitzgerald. He said, "Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me."

"Those girls aren't all that rich," I corrected.

"Do they have trust funds?" I nodded in answer to Maggie's question.

"Have they ever worked for a living?" she went on. I shook my head.

"Then they're very rich," she said. "At least compared to me. All I inherited from my ancestors was a scratchy Chieftains album."

"No wonder you didn't keep up with that crowd." JoAnne said now, poking my forearm with a perfectly manicured finger. "If I were you, Abby, I wouldn't give them another thought. The hell with their husbands and kids and vacations."

"That's right," Maggie agreed. "We're all you need. And with friends like us - who needs more grief?"

Chapter 2

All I really want for Christmas is a new job. Soon.

In the entire history of my career I have never, ever lost my temper with a client or spoken back to an employer.

And then, one day in November, not long after the depressing, largely one-way conversation with my mother, everything changed.

Maybe, I thought later, I should just avoid answering the phone for a while. Like, a year.

I share an office with Judy, the super administrative assistant; Jillian, a junior and very enthusiastic staff member; and whatever interns are foisted upon us. The room is just large enough to fit three desks and chairs, and one large filing cabinet. What it actually contains are three desks and six chairs; two large filing cabinets; approximately seven bulging cardboard boxes full of dusty files; two struggling potted plants of some indeterminate species; an ancient typewriting table on which sits an ancient typewriter; a wobbly coat rack which tips over on average of twice a day; a microwave, mini-fridge, and crud-encrusted drip coffee maker.

And, of course, several telephones. On which the Symphony's vendors, benefactors, and hangers-on can reach us. The Development staff.

Mrs. Agatha Potsdam is a minor supporter and a major troublemaker. Complaining is her forte; she's taken fault-finding to a new level of skill. Most annoyingly, while her actual monetary donations are ridiculously low, Mrs. Potsdam considers herself one of our most important supporters.

Mrs. Potsdam is wrong but protocol forbids my pointing out the truth. And it should have prevented me from commenting on her lack of intellectual powers and artistic sensibility.

The phone rang; Judy answered and put the caller on hold.

"It's Potsdam," she said, rolling her eyes. "Sounds irate."

I rolled my eyes in sympathy. "Put her through."

In place of a greeting, Mrs. Potsdam launched into a tirade about one of the upcoming programs.

"So," I said, after a solid three minutes of rant, "what you're saying is -"

"My dear, what I am saying is that I object to the Debussy piece on the basis of it's not being at all to my taste."

Too many notes? I was tempted to ask, blood boiling.

Instead, I said something much worse. "Perhaps, Mrs. Potsdam, if you opened your mind to the beauty of the piece, you might learn something. A closed mind prevents the experience of revelation."

There was an awful beat of silence and then:

"Well, I never!" Mrs. Potsdam sputtered. I don't know what possessed me. I swear I don't.

"Well, maybe you should!" I retorted.

Another dreadful beat of silence. Finally, Mrs. Potsdam recovered her senses.

"Young lady, your superior will hear about your insolence!" she threatened, in her most shrill voice.

Yes, she will, I thought. Because I'm going to confess all the moment you hang up, you old bag!

Mrs. Potsdam didn't wait for a reply but slammed down the receiver of what I imagined to be a pink princess phone. I'd never laid eyes on Mrs. Potsdam but I'd always imagined her as large and swathed in cotton candy pink - a color that should be illegal to wear after the age of four.

Shoving an unsettling vision of a Portly McPotsdam from my mind, I hurried out of my office, pretending not to notice the shocked stares of Judy and Jillian. Though they'd heard only one side of the conversation, they'd heard enough to know I was in trouble.

Caroline Olds was my immediate superior. She was a tough but fair boss. At least, I'd always found her to be so. Among the younger girls fresh out of college, she was known as Dragon Lady. Behind her back, of course.

I took a few deep breaths - which did absolutely nothing to ease my nervousness - knocked on Caroline's door, and once invited in, confessed.

"I'm so, so sorry," I said, wringing my hands like a silent film heroine. "It will never happen again, I promise."

Caroline gave me a look over the top of her half-glasses. It was a look that shamed me.

"It's highly unlike you, Abigail," she said, voice perfectly modulated to imply great disappointment, "to lose your temper so, especially with a patron. If you're having some problems in your personal life, perhaps -"

"No!" I protested, perhaps too forcefully.

"Generally speaking," she went on, "we don't make it a practice to offend those who finance the Symphony and its many culturally valuable programs."

"Yes, of course," I said, nodding stupidly. "I understand completely."

Caroline sighed magnificently and stood. "Well, Abigail, I trust such an incident won't happen again. I will immediately send Mrs. Potsdam a note of apology and suggest that in future, if she have any complaints, she direct them to me."

I hung my head and with murmured assurances of good behavior and thanks for her generosity, left the office.

When I got back to my desk, still painfully aware of the furtive looks coming my way, I yanked the To Do Whenever file toward me and pretended to study its contents closely.

The truth was that I'd begun to dislike my work. And that I was bored. The outburst with Mrs. Potsdam had demonstrated that. I was ready for a change.

But a change to what? A different organization, doing similar work? Or an entirely new direction? In which case, that meant retraining. The acquisition of knowledge.

In other words, graduate school.

Why not?

Because it would cost a lot of money. Because it would require an awful lot of hard work. Because I didn't have the dedication and perseverance it would take to go to school at night, maintain my job during the day, and spend a good part of every weekend in the library - instead of out looking for Mr. Right.

Or did I?

*****

That evening I met Erin, Maggie and JoAnne at Flash's Cocktails. Though I felt exhausted, I was glad to be with people who liked me. Even if they did boss me around from time to time.

"So, how was everyone's day?" Erin asked when we 'd settled at a table by the windows.

"Good," JoAnne said, shrugging out of her gorgeous, full-length black leather coat. No one expected details.

"Okay." Maggie paused, then smiled. "Actually, more than okay. A student I'd pretty much given up on engaged in a class discussion. His comments were insightful. Not brilliant, but I think he might actually have a brain cell or two."

"I had a good day, too," Erin told us. "I had a fantastic ham and cheese melt from that new place, Nibbles."

"Where do you put it all?" Maggie frowned and poked at her own thickening middle. The shaggy green sweater she wore didn't help to minimize the problem.

JoAnne shrugged. "It won't last. By forty her metabolism will be as slow as yours, Maggie. No offense."

Maggie rolled her eyes. Erin ignored the remark entirely.

"Abby?" she said. "You're oddly silent. Bad day?"

I told them about the Mrs. Potsdam incident.

"I think it might be time for a career change," I said, almost apologetically.

"I don't know about that, but I'm proud of you!" JoAnne laughed gleefully. "Standing up to that old bat. Frankly, I didn't know you had it in you."

"But I could have lost my job!" I squealed.

"Probably not," Erin said reasonably. "One slip in how many years? But I want to hear more about this idea of a new career."

"Yeah, Abby, this is exciting," Maggie said. "Any ideas?"

"Well," I demurred, "I do have a few notions - but I'd like to keep them to myself. For now. At least until I've given them some further thought. You know."

"Whatever." JoAnne picked up the tapas menu and studied it with a frown.

Sometimes it seems as if JoAnne doesn't care. But I know she does. Mostly.

Erin gave JoAnne a look.

"Well," she said to me, "when you're ready to talk about those ideas, we're ready to listen. Right everyone?"

"Right," Maggie said promptly.

JoAnne grunted but kept her eyes on the laminated card.

"I'm going to order some calamari," she announced. "And I'm hungry, so don't expect me to share."

I laughed. "Boy," I said, "I wish it had been you and not me on the phone with Mrs. Potsdam this afternoon!"

JoAnne smiled blandly. "Then you'd definitely be looking for a new job, honey."

Chapter 3

Okay. This is it. All I want for Christmas is a roach free apartment. With a ceiling.

The moment I opened my front door later that night, I knew something was wrong. Not something criminal. Something - icky.

Gingerly, I stepped into the living room and scanned for evidence of trouble, but as far as I could tell, there were no dead mice or smoking electrical cords. Cautiously, I walked to the kitchen and flipped on the light. Again, nothing. The ancient fridge was humming erratically, as usual, and the backsplash displayed its usual chips and cracks.

After a quick check of the bedroom, there was only one room left to explore.

The bathroom.

My gut told me that whatever I'd find was not going to be pretty. Eyes squinted against the horror, I flipped the light switch.

And there it was.

Forty, possibly fifty roaches - big ones - were scurrying along the tiled floor and across the bathtub's rust stained surface. Immediately, I looked at the ceiling over the shower. Yes, there it was.

A patch at least a foot in diameter was soaked through. Plaster had already wetly fallen into the tub and more was soon to follow.

No doubt the bugs were leaving a sinking ship. That was fine for the bugs, but what about me? Where was I to go for the night?

To the otherwise empty apartment I cried, "Ew, ew, ew, ew!" Still in my coat and hat I dashed into the kitchen and dialed the landlord's number. When I'd moved into the apartment five years earlier, I'd thumbtacked a piece of paper with the number onto a small corkboard next to the wall phone. Within months, I knew the number by heart.

Mr. Jarrens answered after twelve rings. He was not pleased. He didn't like disasters reported after his bed time.

With grunts of impatience he listened to my tale of woe.

"Listen, sweetheart -" he began when I'd finished.

"It's Ms. Walker," I said, hand tight around the receiver. "Abigail Walker."

"Whatever. Miss Walker. I can't do anything about it until morning. Maybe afternoon, I don't know. I gotta call my guys."

"But you don't understand," I protested. My voice was threatening to break and I struggled for composure.

"In the meantime," he went on, loudly drowning me out, "stop taking such hot showers."

"Are you saying it's my fault the ceiling is falling down!"

Silently, I plotted. I'll - I'll get a lawyer and prove I'm not responsible! But then what if Mr. Jarrens gets a lawyer and counter sues me . . .

Now my hands were trembling.

With an exaggerated sigh, Mr. Lousy McLandord said, "All I'm saying is it's late. I gotta go. I'll let you know tomorrow when to expect my guys. Or the next day."

Before I could again protest the delay, the connection was severed and I was all alone with an army of fleeing roaches.

With a sigh, I surveyed the apartment. The windows that didn't quite shut and the doors that didn't quite fit in their frames. The too small cabinets in the kitchen and the living room's sloping floor.

There was no doubt about it. No matter how thoroughly I cleaned, no matter how nicely I decorated and maintained, this apartment would never be more than a way station. It was beyond my power to make it a real home, a place that accepted my investment and helped it grow.

After undressing, I leapt into bed, fighting a disgusting image of marauding roaches. I wondered. Was I finally ready to buy a home of my own? I'd always sworn I'd never buy a place until I could buy it with a husband. But . . .

Maybe it was time to reconsider. It was possible I would never have a husband. Did that also mean I would never have a home of my own?

Chapter 4

A brand new wish. Whoever's listening? All I want for Christmas is a boyfriend without a criminal record.

The human spirit is irrepressible. We just don't know when to quit. Sometimes this is a terrible thing.

At least, when it comes to accepting dates with creepies.

Maybe it is all about self-esteem, like JoAnne says. If you hold yourself in high regard, within reason, of course, you will demand a certain quality of person. More importantly, you will be able to recognize quality - or the lack of it - when you see it.

I'd met Patrick York at Barnes and Noble in the Prudential Mall. I was browsing the Home Decorating section and alternately feeling deeply depressed by the glossy photos of gorgeous mansions well beyond my financial range, and heartened by those manuals that assured me that any apartment, no matter how small or lightless, could be a paradise of domestic bliss.

Which was a good thing because the kind of condo I could afford - barely and with loans - was pretty tiny. If I stayed in Boston. And I did want to stay.

"Hi."

I looked up from a heavy tome on roof gardens to see a man in his late thirties standing just to my left. He was smiling right at me and I didn't see anyone else close by so I returned his greeting. He was nice enough looking, in an unremarkable way.

"What are you doing in the Home Decorating section?" I asked, for lack of anything better to say.

He smiled and clasped his hands behind his back. "Honestly? I was passing by on my way to the music section and I saw this lovely brunette browsing the shelves and I just had to say hello."

I smiled back and we chatted for a moment, though later I couldn't recall much of what we'd said.

Patrick York checked his watch and with an apologetic frown explained he had to run.

"Won't you have time to visit the music section?" I asked.

A look of slight confusion clouded his eyes and then he laughed, as if just getting a joke. "Oh, well, next time. I wasn't looking for anything important."

He asked if he could call me and though some vague instinct told me to say no, I gave him my work number. I watched as he walked off - noted the unflattering cut of his leather jacket - and wondered if I'd done the right thing.

On the surface, Patrick York seemed fine. Normal. The feeling I'd gotten wasn't even all that strong. And it didn't seem to relate to any particular trait. Patrick York's eyes weren't beady and his nails weren't dirty and he hadn't used any bad language. The jacket could be a gift from his mother, something he felt compelled to wear.

With a shrug I went back to the book on roof gardens.

*****

Patrick York called me the very next morning and asked if I'd like to meet for drinks after work. I said, sure. He asked if I'd like to pick the place, which I thought was a nice thing to do. I picked the bar at The Cheesecake Factory. It was a place I knew and liked, a place at which I felt safe.

We met at six thirty. I wore a pair of navy wool pants and a trim white turtleneck. Patrick York again was wearing the unflattering leather jacket - it cut his middle oddly, making him look ill-proportioned. Though he wore no overcoat, he kept the jacket on as we settled onto stools at the bar. The temperature that evening was about thirty degrees and there was an icy wind off the water. Still, I noticed that my date had come with no gloves, hat, or scarf.

After greetings, Patrick York asked me what I'd like to drink. He ordered for both of us, calling me "the lady", as in "the lady will have a Cosmopolitan."

Though I do like to be treated like a lady, something about being referred to as "the" lady makes me uncomfortable.

However, I said nothing and accepted my drink. The bartender asked if we'd like to start a tab and Patrick York told him that we did. Okay, I thought. So he's not ready to run. Nothing he's seen so far has frightened him into cutting this date embarrassingly short.

The conversation was easy, if not particularly exciting. The weather. The traffic. How quickly the holidays were approaching. After a short while, I asked the perfectly acceptable question: "So, what do you do?"

"Well, truth be told," he said, leaning in toward me confidentially, "I've had a hard time getting back on my feet since getting out last June."

"Getting out?" I asked, startled. "Of rehab?" Was Patrick York a recovering alcoholic or drug addict? He was drinking non-alcoholic beer . . . Well, addiction was an illness, not a sign of moral decrepitude. There was no reason to judge.

Patrick York smiled winningly. "No," he said, "out of the slammer, actually. You know, the big house. Jail. Prison."

Oh. My. Lord, I thought. I'm having drinks with Rocky Sullivan! With Luca Brazzi. With Paulie Walnuts!

Politely, I nodded."Oh. I see. Er . . . . What . . . ." Mail fraud? Embezzlement of company funds? Certainly something white collar!

"What was I in for?" Patrick York raised his hand to halt my weak apologies. "No, that's okay. I don't have a problem being honest. I'm not proud of my actions, but I'm not ashamed. Shame is a waste of time. Believe me."

And that's when Patrick York told me he had been accused of a complicated scam that resulted in several elderly people losing their life savings. Everything. All their money. Their homes. And, of course, their dignity.

Not ashamed of his actions? This man should be horsewhipped, I cried silently. Whatever that means. And he should be very, very ashamed.

If he was guilty.

"So, that's that," he said, relaxing against the back of his chair.

"Were you, um, guilty?" I croaked.

Patrick York laughed quite robustly. "Oh, yeah, I was guilty."

Mr. Killer McCriminal seemed to find my shock endearing. He reached out and gently squeezed my hand. I tried not to flinch.

"Well, the way I see it," he said, his voice syrupy with sleaze, "there's no point in lying about my past. Honesty is everything in a good relationship, right?"

Right. But if honesty was so important, why hadn't Mr. Creepy McConvict told me about his criminal past when we'd met at B & N? Or when he'd called and asked me for a date?

All around me people laughed with their friends and drank colorful drinks and enjoyed mammoth portions of food. Suddenly, it seemed surreal. I felt completely separate from the crowd, suspended in a bubble of eerie stillness, just me and the sick realization that I was on a date with a crook.

Patrick York had charmed me, allowed me to relax my guard, then dropped his bombshell. Maybe he thought he was softening the blow by delaying his bombshell. I thought he was a manipulative, amoral jerk.

Suddenly, I heard JoAnne's voice in my head. This man, she said, needs to be taken down a peg or two. Now.

Patrick York smiled at me in a way he no doubt thought charming.

"So? What do you think?" he oozed. "Is everything good?"

Smoothly, I slid off the bar stool and gathered my coat and purse.

"No," I said, my voice bright, my eyes boring into his as if to pin him against a wall. "Nothing is good. See, I think it stinks. On ice. I think it stinks on ice that you didn't tell me this on the phone. You should have had the decency to do that."

Patrick York looked thoroughly surprised by my words. He put out his hand to touch my arm but I stepped out of his reach. "Hey, I -"

"I'm not finished," I said, a bit more loudly now. A few heads turned to watch the little drama. "You don't feel ashamed of your actions? Well, you should. You should feel very ashamed." And suddenly, JoAnne was at my shoulder again, whispering . . .

And the words were coming out of my mouth . . .

"You," I said, head held high, "must have a very small penis to feel the need to be such a - such an ass."

It made no real sense but my parting blow so stunned Patrick York that while he gaped and spluttered, I made a quick and secure exit.

*****

I got home just fine - like I was going to let Mr. Sleezy McCell Block know where I lived! It was bad enough he knew where I worked. With cell phone in hand, keyed to 911, and a stern look over my shoulder at any lurking deviants, I slipped inside the front door of my building and locked it behind me.

Home. A haven from yet another disastrous date. With a wary eye out for a sudden infestation of flies or choking clouds of plaster dust, I undressed and slipped into bed. But sleep wouldn't come. After a frustrating half hour I got up and went for the heavy stuff.

Uncanny Cashew ice cream by Ben and Jerry. Leaning against the counter with container and spoon, I wondered why I felt so awfully alone - why I hadn't picked up the phone the minute I'd gotten home and called Erin or Maggie or JoAnne.

The sad fact was that things were changing. I was changing. I was reluctant to admit such continued failure to my three dearest friends - three women who were currently enjoying normal, committed relationships.

It wasn't that I expected them to laugh or judge. Not exactly. Maybe I expected them to be bored by me. To wish I'd just get my act together.

Truth was that in the previous weeks I'd been feeling all mean-spirited, wishing my friends would just keep quiet about their happiness. I wished Erin would keep Nick's small kindnesses to herself. I wished I didn't know how great a cook Jan was or how Merv's lack of waistline didn't seem to affect his prowess in bed.

I sighed.

How and why is this happening, I wondered, tossing the empty ice cream container in the kitchen trash, this slow disintegration of my friendships? Is it all my fault? I knew that I should trust my friends to care for me, even in bad times. I knew that I was being unfair to Erin, Maggie and JoAnne by doubting their support.

And yet . . . I felt isolated by embarrassment, by a sense of failure. By a sense of false pride?

I wondered as I crawled back under the covers and turned out the bedside light. Did I even like myself anymore? And if I didn't like myself, who else could?