The Color of Love by Radclyffe Page B

asked
conversationally.
    “No. She isn’t.”
    “That’s hard, when you’re close.” As if
picking up on the tension in Emily’s voice, Derian regarded her steadily.
“Sounds like you are.”
    “Yes,” Emily said around the lump in her
throat. “I miss her.”
    “Where is she?”
    “At home—in Singapore.”
    “Ah, I didn’t realize.” Derian smiled. “You
sound very American.”
    Emily laughed. “English-speaking schools, and
I’ve been here almost a decade.”
    “Do you get back often, then, to Singapore?”
    “A couple times a year.” Emily shook her head
when Derian offered another helping of one of the entrées.
    Derian covered the dish. “Are the rest of
your family still there?”
    “Pam and I are the only ones left.”
    “Ah. I’m sorry too, then. It must have been a
challenge, coming over here alone.”
    “I was determined, so I didn’t think of it
much at the time.” Emily let out a breath, forced a smile. “And I’ve been
lucky. The agency is a great place to work, and I’ve made some good friends.”
    “So tell me about you and Henrietta,” Derian
said. “How did you end up here? Winfield’s isn’t the biggest literary agency in
New York, and you strike me as going for the top.”
    “Winfield’s is smaller than some, true,”
Emily said, knowing she sounded protective, “but it is also one of the most
respected.”
    “Ah,” Derian said softly, “so you value
substance over show.”
    “I like to think so.”
    Derian leaned back, cradled her wineglass.
“How did you and Henrietta meet?”
    “Well,” Emily said, “I guess you could say I
chased her.”
    Derian laughed. “Now there’s a story I really
want to hear.”
    “All right.” Emily recounted for Derian how
she had first contacted Henrietta, and the gradual development of their
long-distance working relationship that culminated in her move to the agency,
and finally their very deep friendship.
    When she’d finished, Derian nodded. “I can
see where Henrietta would’ve been intrigued by someone who cut through all the
bullshit. You’re good at that, aren’t you?”
    “I suppose that’s true.” Emily shrugged. “I’ve
always been the pragmatic type. For me, most things are black and white. I say
what I think, and I prefer others do the same. I like life to be
straightforward.”
    “That would put you in the minority.” Derian
finished her wine and slid her glass away. “In my experience, people rarely say
what they think, and oftentimes don’t mean what they say. Everything is a
little bit of a game.”
    “For you too?” Emily asked.
    “Oh,” Derian said, laughing. “Most
definitely.”
    “And how do you know when something is real?”
    “Well everything is real in the moment, isn’t
it, even when it’s a game? You just have to know you’re playing.”
    “You’re not just talking about cards and
cars, are you.”
    Derian’s expression flattened. “No.”
    Emily frowned. “I’m quite certain I would be
terrible at pretending other than what I felt.”
    “I think you would be too. Don’t gamble.”
    “Actually, I’m very good at cards. I’ve been
told I have an excellent poker face.”
    “Do you bluff?” Derian asked.
    “Yes, insomuch as I am quite capable of
keeping my thoughts and feelings to myself.”
    “I suppose that could be considered a bluff.”
Derian tapped a finger to Emily’s hand. “We’ll have to play sometime.”
    Emily flushed. “I don’t think so. I’m afraid
you’re far too experienced for me.”
    “I don’t know,” Derian said musingly. “I
might’ve met my match. But I was thinking more of playing together, not against
each other.”
    Emily sensed the conversation veering once
again away from the topic and into some realm she couldn’t quite comprehend.
She was never entirely sure they were talking about what they were actually
saying. Subtext was everything in fiction, but she preferred plainer language
in real life. “You would not find me