Page 42 of The Frog Prince

I look up at him, see if he’s smiling but he’s not. His eyes are sober behind the wire-rimmed glasses, and he’s looking at me intently, as if trying to see whatever it is I won’t let him see. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” And I can still see my wedding dress so clearly, see the pale ivory silk, the crystal beading, the snug skirt with the bustle at the back. It was like a turn-of-the-century evening gown, all Wharton-James style, so elegant, so foreign, so dreamy me.

What a mistake.

I can never pass that wedding gown on to a daughter, can’t ever do anything with it, can’t try it on again, remember it, love it.

It’s a dress I wore to nowhere, and stupid me, my eyes are burning.

I wish I’d never been a bride if it meant there’d be no marriage.

I wish I’d just shacked up with Jean-Marc and not worried what my family would think.

I wish… I wish… and looking up, I meet Brian Fadden’s gaze, and his expression is strangely compassionate. But this isn’t a social visit; this is business, and I have to pull myself together.

“I used to be the features editor at theFresno Bee,” he says, as if this is a peace offering.

I’m not sure, but I could have sworn he said theFresno Bee, as in Fresno’s morning newspaper, as in Fresno’s only newspaper. “The Bee?”

“For nearly a year.”

“When?”

“A couple years ago.”

“How did that happen?”

We’re both kind of smiling, and he shrugs. “I’d been working at theChroniclefor a couple years as a staff writer, got a call from someone down in Fresno, did some interviews, was offered the job, took it.”

“And then realized you were trapped in a one-horse town?” But I mean this in the best sort of way because I was raised in one-horse towns, and I understand them, but then, I didn’t go to Yale, and I didn’t live in New Haven, and I’m not a senior editor at theChronicle, either.

“It wasn’tthatbad.”

“So why, then, did you only last a year?”

“Eleven months and one week. But that’s because theChroniclebrought me back. Lured me with a promotion.”

“I can’t imagine it took much luring.”

“Fresno was a little slow for my tastes.”

“I bet.”

His cell phone rings; he checks the number, apologizes to me, and takes the call. He’s only on the phone a moment, but when he hangs up, he looks ready to go.

“Problems?” I ask.

“Always.” He grimaces, and I think I really like his face. It’s a comfortable face, a good face, and I was right about him on the phone. He’s a nice guy.

“If you can bring me something new,” he says now, putting away his phone, “give me something to work with, I’ll see if I can’t get someone to do a little write-up, but there’s no way I can advocate editorial space if it’s not newsworthy.”

“Understood.” We both stand, and I extend my hand again. “Thanks so much for taking time to meet me.”

“My pleasure.”

I think he’s reaching for his keys, but instead it’s his business card. He hands it to me. It’s got his direct line on it, along with his e-mail address. “Stay in touch,” he says.

I quickly dig out a card of my own and give it to him. “I will. You, too.”