Regrets Only by M. J. Pullen Page A

flash of her mother’s antique pearls around
her neck, verifying beyond doubt that this crazy person really was herself.
    “I’ll
say this,” Jake said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “We had a hell of a time
catching you. You could have a career as a running back if you wanted.”
    Marci
glared at him to be quiet. Oh, right, Suzanne thought . That would be
a sore subject because my actual career is obviously over.
    The
remaining pictures followed the spiral of her life going down the toilet:
running back toward the main plaza with several security guards joining the
chase; losing her bustier while trying to crawl under the registration tables
for some reason; Atlanta PD arriving on the scene; Suzanne grinning maniacally before
flipping backward over the black chain ropes and then landing in the inch or so
of water in the reflecting pool next to the museum’s front windows. She rubbed
her bruised tailbone as the picture brought back the memory.
    There
it was. Just before the final shot of Suzanne strapped to a gurney being lifted
into the ambulance, was the full version of the picture from the front page.
The former homecoming queen stood topless, wet and angry, apparently having a
loud disagreement with the police officers on the scene. It was as if an
episode of COPS had been filmed at a high-brow museum fundraiser. The
tuxedo holding her back belonged to a security guard, whom she had hired personally.
She remembered doing his background check. And just behind them, expression
unreadable, was Dylan Burke himself.
    “I
guess this means there’s no chance he didn’t see anything,” Suzanne said
despondently.
    “It’s
a good thing he was there, actually,” Jake said, ignoring his wife’s signals to
be quiet. “He talked them out of taking you to jail.”
    Suzanne
swallowed hard and took a deep breath. She had to face this sometime. “I need
to get a shower,” she said. “And I’m ready for my phone back.”
     
    #
    She
got to the office just after ten. If any part of her was hoping for a miracle,
praying that people wouldn’t notice the story or recognize her in the pictures,
the disappointment came as soon as she saw Chad’s face. Of the fifteen or so
events they had slated for the next year, twelve had already called to cancel. These
included longtime clients who had followed her from her previous agency. The
remaining three could not be far behind.
    Still,
Suzanne followed up dutifully with each and every one. She got her standard
cinnamon latte for courage, and spent the morning returning phone calls with
the most cheerful voice she could summon. But no one wanted to be associated, publicly
or privately, with someone who’d made the Sunday paper the way Suzanne had. Her
clients had all paid non-refundable retainers for her services—a practice she
adopted from her father—but for the ones more than a month out, she had offered
refunds anyway. No one accepted. They all sounded sympathetic and embarrassed.
    “Of
course, if it were up to me, we’d keep you on. It’s just the board of directors…”
    “Our
company has this morality and behavior clause, and while you’re not technically an employee…”
    “The
management is concerned about our image. If we didn’t already have so much
negative publicity from that EPA fine two years ago…Well, of course, you
understand.”
    Of
course.
    A
few had even offered advice:
    “Don’t
worry, sweetie, it will pass. You’ll be back in the game in a couple of years.”
    “My
brother went to this great rehab facility in Malibu. I’ll send you the name.”
    Possibly
the worst of these was Mrs. Banks, the co-owner of a small family-owned mailing
house, who had contracted Suzanne to do their holiday parties for a couple of
years running. She was also the wife of the company’s president. “I’m sorry,
dear, but our employees and customers have certain expectations of us,” she
said, singing the same refrain as many of the previous