“Name-dropper.”

“I’ll see if I can squeeze you in after Ms. Black.”

“Watch it. I’m going to be famous now, too. You’ll have to start calling me Ms. Purple Snow Globe.”

“You do know that sounds like the name of a vibrator, right?”

“Which makes it an even better name for a drink. Because when you drink one, it makes you feel like a vibrator does,” Julia said, and cracked herself up, along with her stylist.

“That should be the marketing slogan. But you don’t need a vibrator with your champion racehorse.”

“If I take him back,” Julia added, emphasizing that one word. If. Because she had promised herself a week to make this decision.

Gayle rolled her eyes. “A woman’s stylist always knows.”

* * *

All night Julia was tempted to text Clay. To let him know what happened with Farrell Spirits. To tell him which way she was leaning. But she also knew she needed to give this a week. The time apart was less about him, and more about her. It was about what she wanted in life, but more so, what she needed. As the days had passed with necessary silence, her heart had become clearer. She trusted him. She’d become sure of that. The question remained, though–did she trust herself? Did she have enough faith in her own gut to make the right choice when it came to men? When it came to love?

As she settled into bed, she glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It blared one-thirty in garish red. Tomorrow would be Saturday, and her self-imposed Clay exile was nearing an end. Only twenty-four more hours until she gave him her answer.

She reached for her phone so she could reply to McKenna. She and her sister had been texting earlier in the day about getting together for a Saturday girls’ lunch. She hadn’t seen her sister since the wedding, and she missed her something fierce.

“See you at noon, and get ready for a tackle-hug, because that’s what I’ll be giving you,” she typed.

Her sister replied seconds later. “You better get ready to receive one too.”

That left Julia with a big, fat smile. Then she clicked over to her email for one final check before bed, and her heart stopped when she saw his name. The email had been sent a few hours earlier in the evening, and she was only seeing it now. Part of her wanted to berate him, to tell him to give her the space she’d asked for. But mostly, she felt giddy. She missed that man, and the happiness over simply seeing his name in her email was a potent reminder, like someone had underlined it with yellow highlighter, of what she should do.

from: cnichols@gmail.com

to: purplesnowglobe@gmail.com

date: June 7, 10:48 PM

subject: For You

Julia,

I’ve seen enough movies to know that when it comes to romance, the man usually screws up and then makes some sort of big gesture for the woman. The boom box in the rain, the trip to the top of the Empire State Building, or sometimes just flowers, candy, or a note. But you’re not that kind of a woman—the kind who needs or wants flowers, candy, or a note. Though I’ll gladly give you all of that if you let me. But I want to make good on a promise I made to you at your sister’s wedding. I spend my days helping my clients to make more money and to protect their interests. But I can protect you too. And I can give you something I know matters more to you than flowers, candy, or a note. Because I know you, Julia. I know you so well. And what I can do is this—I can right a wrong for you. Please click on the link and you’ll see.

She hovered over the blue link, without a clue what she would find. She tapped it, bringing up a small blog called Death and Taxes. Julia eyed it curiously at first, then the possibility slammed into her of what he’d done. Some kind of wild hope bloomed in her chest as she scrolled through the short, succinct blog posts, each one detailing a tax-evading citizen who’d been caught. Then she found the one that had her name written all over it.

California resident Dillon Whittaker has been served with an extradition order from Jamaica back to the United States where he is currently under investigation for failing to pay taxes on $100,000 in income from the previous year. The IRS said it learned of Mr. Whittaker’s non-compliance with the tax code under its Whistleblower Law that encourages tipsters to turn in tax cheats by bringing forth evidence on potential tax evasion to the IRS. If the information is substantive enough, the individual may receive a portion of the back taxes paid by the tax evader. We will continue to report on the outcome of the investigation into Dillon Whittaker. Sources tell us jail time is coming soon.

Julia leapt out of bed and shouted victoriously, pumping a fist in the air. She brought her phone to her lips, kissing the screen over and over. She was sure she’d soon take flight, and rocket around the city on this crazy glee she felt. “Take that, fucker.”

She’d never realized how sweet revenge would taste, but it tasted fucking spectacular, especially when she clicked back to her email and read the last line from Clay. I had my friend track him down in Jamaica, and I called the IRS to turn him in.

The only thing that tasted better was the next note from Clay. A separate email, also sent a few hours ago. She only noticed it after she stopped dancing on her bed. She dropped back down to the mattress and read more of his words.

from: cnichols@gmail.com

to: purplesnowglobe@gmail.com

date: June 7, 10:52 PM

subject: You

Just remember this, for what it’s worth. I adore you. Absolutely, completely, with everything I have. I will give you everything, all my heart, all my love, anything you want. You mean more to me than I ever imagined. Being without you is hell.

Without thinking, she clicked over to her texts to call up his number and ring him, but the reflection of the red numbers in the mirror stopped her. It was after one in the morning here, so it was the middle of the night in New York. He’d be sound asleep. But someone else she knew and loved was wide awake. Someone who knew a little something about big gestures herself.

She called McKenna, who answered immediately. “It’s late. Are you okay?”

“Everything is perfect. Or it’s going to be after I see you. I’m on my way over.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Her back was smashed against the Qbert machine, and her hands were raised in front of her face. McKenna had landed another punch to the ribs, then one to her shoulder. And now, it was coming: the noogie. Her sister grabbed her hair, and dug her knuckles into Julia’s head.

“Don’t ever, ever, ever do that again!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Julia said, relenting for the twentieth time.

McKenna backed off, huffing. “I would have helped you,” she said, her eyes on fire with frustration. “I would have given you the freaking money like that.” She snapped her fingers in emphasis. “That’s why you deserve to be beaten up. You’re supposed to let your big sister help you.”

“I know, McKenna. Trust me, I know,” she said, placing her hand on her heart. “But I had to keep you safe. Don’t you get it? I love you and I love Chris, and I’d do anything to protect your happiness.”

“Including not telling me a frigging mobster had a price tag on your head and was waving guns in your face?”

Julia lifted her shoulders casually. “Technically, the gun was never waved at me.”

McKenna pushed her hands roughly through her blond hair. “I’m soooo mad at you. I love you so much, and if anything had happened to you and I could have solved the problem, I would have died. Do you know that? Died! Like this,” McKenna said, then flopped down on the floor, and played dead for effect. Ms. Pac-Man trotted over and licked McKenna’s face.

She craned her neck up at Julia. “See? Do you feel bad now? I would have been dead without you, and my dog would be sad.”

Julia kneeled down and offered a hand, pulling McKenna to a sitting position. McKenna flung her arms around Julia’s neck. She’d always been prone to theatrics. “Promise me,” her sister said, “that if you ever get in a pickle with the mob again you will come to me right away, and I will pay whatever you need.”

Julia laughed, but nodded into her sister’s hair. “Promise.”

“Pinky swear?”

“Pinky swear,” she said as they twisted their little fingers together. “But, um, that’s not actually why I came here.”

McKenna rolled her eyes. “I know. You need my special touch, and I know just how to pull this off. But I’m paying for it, and there are no ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

“Fine. But only because you want to.”

“And we’re going to need Chris’s help.”

“Somebody call my name?” Chris said, walking bleary-eyed down the hall, wearing only his lounge pants.

“Did you actually wake up when I said your name?” McKenna asked.

“No,” he said, rubbing his hand against his eyes. “I’m pretty sure it was the ‘Don’t ever do that again’ screeching that rousted me at three in the morning.”

“We need your help.”

“Is this another crazy scheme of yours, McKenna?” he asked arching an eyebrow.

“Yes, but it’s in the name of love, and isn’t love worth everything?”

He looped his arms around his wife and planted a kiss on her cheek. She leaned into it, and smiled. Julia didn’t feel jealous. Not one bit. She had that in her life. Waiting for her on the other side of the country. “Of course,” he said.

* * *

“I’m going to miss you so much,” Julia said.

“I’m going to miss you too. But we’ll see each other.”