Bleeding Heart Read Online Free PDF Page B

part-time for an insurance adjuster then—but that she showed so little interest in my exceptionally adorable offspring. Or my handsome, loving, and increasingly successful husband. Though, as always, she did seem to care about me.
    “You still working on that horticultural degree?” she asked me when the conversation started to lag. I was having a hard time concentrating because I had to keep restraining Olivia—who was teething—from gnawing on the many inappropriate objects within her reach.
    “With all of this?” I asked, exasperated as Franny began to whimper. When I was pregnant with Olivia, I’d started taking classes at the New York Botanical Garden with the hope of getting a certificate in landscape design. I remember telling Gwen at the time how excited I was by the courses—how I felt I’d finally found my calling. “No, it’s just not feasible now. But I can always go back.”
    “Always doesn’t actually last forever,” she said. “Don’t forget it’s your life, too, Alice.” I remember thinking how presumptuous it was for Gwen—who was rotating through men on a semiannual basis and changing jobs almost as often—to offer me advice. Still, despite our different lives and personalities, something kept us close. Some instinct made us reach out to each other whenever we needed to really talk and, more important, when we needed someone who would really listen.
    That was the thing about Gwen. She never stopped believing in me. When everybody else was viewing me with suspicion or turning their backs, she stood firm. The moment the news hit and it became clear just how bad things were, she dropped everything in Woodhaven and came down to help me ride out the storm. It wasa time when I learned all too quickly who my real friends were, and the sad truth is that most of them disappeared into the woodwork.
    “Like cockroaches,” Gwen had observed acidly at the height of the publicity. “Running from the glare.”
    Shortly after that, it was Gwen who reminded me of what I had put aside twenty years before. It was Gwen who suggested I start again. And it was she who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

    So, naturally, it was Gwen I called first after my meeting with Graham Mackenzie.
    “Wow! Good for you!” she said. “This is cause for celebration. Let me treat you to dinner at Donatello.”
    “Right now?” I asked. It was nearly seven thirty, and I was defrosting a turkey burger for dinner.
    “I’ll pick you up in ten minutes,” she told me. The impulsive side of Gwen has never changed. Nor has her generous nature. What time has tempered, though, is her girlishness and unbridled sense of fun. There’s a certain calculation in how she presents herself now that never used to be there. Just recently I realized she’s been adding highlights to her shoulder-length auburn hair. And after the hostess at the restaurant took our coats I saw that Gwen was wearing a leather skirt that barely covered her backside. But if what she wanted was for every man in the restaurant to take notice of her progress across the room, she got it.
    “Thank God, you’re finally learning how to play the game a little,” Gwen said after we’d ordered and I began to give her the blow-by-blow of my meeting.
    “What do you mean?” I asked, pushing the bread basket across the table. My friend, who has the metabolism of a triathlete, can eat anything and still slip into a size six without wiggling. “I was totally straight with the man.”
    “Oh, come on!” Gwen said, buttering a slice of focaccia. “Youwere playing hard to get. It’s the oldest trick in the book. And for good reason. It obviously works.”
    “A part of me is still seriously conflicted,” I told her. “I hate what fracking is doing to the environment.”
    “Fine. Feel a little guilty as you walk away with the biggest contract of your life. I think it’s great. And, no matter what you claim, I say you handled the situation beautifully.”
    “It’s