3. One Giant Leap

THREE

ONE GIANT LEAP

BAILEY

T his is it. Time to take a giant step forward into my new future. The Heart Association’s Annual Heartthrob Auction is in full swing at the Nines Luxury Hotel in downtown Portland. My knee jiggles under the table while I take a casual sip of my pink champagne and glance around the room full of women dressed in shades of pink and red and white.

They all match the decorations of balloons and floral centerpieces and linen napkins, making the entire event seem like Valentine’s took over the crayon box for the day, squeezing out any other pigments from existence.

Except I’m the only one wearing a purple sweater dress and gray suede boots, unaware of the color scheme. Oh well.

I’m used to being the odd one out.

From the sister who didn’t follow the rest of my siblings into the family legal practice, to the coworker who covers fluffy entertainment pieces of no real value to the region, to being the woman William deemed unworthy to marry him. Down goes the rest of my pink champagne. Screw it all. This is the new me. Uncaring about anyone but me.

I catch the eye of Bart’s wife, Clarice, a sweet woman who waves at me from her table of elite social friends. At my table, I’m sitting witha banker’s wife, the spouse of the chairman for the Arts Council, the widow of a beloved Portland philanthropist, and a few others. If not for the wedding at Mt. Hood, my mother would probably be here, too.

I finish my pink champagne right as a server brings another tray. Convenient. I grab another flute. None of the other women sitting around me do, and pairs of judging eyes stare at me. My cheeks burn at first, like I probably I owe them some sort of explanation why I’m having a second drink, so I blab.

“I recently broke up with someone—” A year ago. “Being here reminds me of him—” Hardly. His rich family holds their money in a tight vice grip. They probably haven’t attended a fundraising function like this in the past century. “And I plan to make a healthy bid during the auction tonight as a way to heal my heart with a good deed.” I sniffle into my napkin for added measure, earning a round of nods, sympathetic eyes, and a whisper from one of them, Oh you poor dear.

The lady sitting on my right, Mrs. Frasier, gives me a tsk, tsk. S he’s the wife of the Portland Glaciers’ team owner. Not that I keep up with hockey at all . I have run into her often at the garden club meetings and probably five other ladies’ organizations in the region.

The striking silver-haired woman with sparkling blue eyes starts in about her daughter’s recent turmoil in her love life with a loser from college and how her husband is less than pleased about it, and it lets me off the hook with everyone’s attention glued to her story.

I half-heartedly listen, only because I decided when I left L.A. to keep my nose out of the love lives of professional sports players if I can help it. In entertainment news, this isn’t always easy to do as so often celebrities mix and mingle with sports heroes, which from my experience spells disaster. I know all too well about that.

I reach for the auction program to peruse in an effort to push any thoughts of the past and so many mistakes out of my head. But tonight I’m moving on from them all, and I’ll live with no regrets starting tomorrow.

I scan the items and people on the block tonight, skipping past the various packages anyone can bid on, like the Lovers’ Night Package at the Portland Ritz, and the Ski Weekend Getaway for Two to Mount Hood. We’ve had the snowiest winter on record for some years here, so that should make any skiers happy tonight if they win. Eventually, I find the page of five bachelors up for auction for a dinner date at the renowned five-star Le Gris Pigeon French restaurant.

Why any man would purposely put himself up for auction is beyond me, even for a good cause. Bought by a stranger for a dinner date? It’s awkward enough to meet someone for real, but knowing they are only at the dinner because you bought them doesn’t appeal. How could you trust they really want to get to know you and not just there to enjoy a good meal?

Yes, thanks to William, I have trust issues. I pity the next man I meet if they try to convince me to fall in love with them. I’m not sure I believe love is right for me. It would take a lot to get me to jump into love again with both feet.

Anyway… That’s not the point. I’m not here expecting to find love. There’s no cupid needed, no roses and no boxes of chocolates either,because I’m on a mission.

With my trusty paddle number ten, I’ll try my hand at bidding. I have up to fifty thousand to spend on a bachelor to rid myself of this cruel money, and that’s all there is to it. The bad and the sad this brought into my life will be gone then, I’m convinced of it, and the lucky man I win will be off the hook. No date necessary.

Easy peasy.

Maybe next year, cupid can see fit to visit me and bring me a hottie as my reward for putting up with all of this. I deserve some good karma and a good long night with a man who can please.

Although perusing the photo of the first gorgeous man tonight up for auction, has me rethinking my strategy. I mean, if I win a bachelor, why not take the date in all its awkwardness and enjoy myself with a Michelin chef’s meal at least? It could even lead to sex, which I’d be open to, because God knows it’s been a long dry year.

I skim over the rest of the profiles on the program when the auctioneer begins. While I jot down notes, being sure to list Bart’s wife in attendance, and take photos here and there to support my article, one thing is clear from the bids I’m hearing. These women here tonight are out for blood.

They bid excessively high on the various packages, in my opinion, and are rather cutthroat about it in the process. As if the real prize is in out-bidding each other and earning bragging rights of such at their next ladies’ luncheon.

When I moved back home here, having left for college several years ago and not been back, I found Portland had changed so much. It used to be an affordable, somewhat gritty city, well known for wilderness adventure seekers. While still embracing a little of its weirdness, the city has grown and earned respect, with urban sprawl, rich industries, and a changing skyline. And ladies with money who do lunch.

“Now that those packages are out of the way…we come to what you are all here for. The Heartthrob Bachelor Auction,” the emcee breaks into my thoughts, as does the excitement level of the women clapping and cheering. Oh boy. This should be interesting.

“Here we go, ladies,” Mrs. Frasier says, grabbing her numbered paddle from the center of the table.

A shiver works down my spine as I down the glass of the bubbly for liquid courage to go through with this. My mind tempts me once again with images of all sorts of things I could spend this money on; one last effort to deter me from this plan. But all I want is the satisfaction of knowing this money goes to a charity.

The bachelor auction starts and I hold back, watching and waiting. The first man, a professional soccer player, stands tall in a dapper suit with a bright smile holding up his jersey. The rest of the bachelors stand in the wings off the stage, the lights too bright for me to see any of them clearly.

There’s a few good one-liners between the auctioneer, the emcee, and the bachelor, bringing some laughs, and the bidding gets heated.

“Sold for twenty thousand dollars to Mrs. Annabelle Gardner,” the auctioneer shouts and bangs his gavel.

With a grin ear to ear, huge dangling diamond earrings, and a brown fur coat, likely all real, the robust woman jumps up and gives a rather undignified fist pump in the air. “Yes. I got him. I told you I came to win tonight, ladies, and I got the first one,” she shouts with a cackling howl like she’s a competitor on the field at a championship game.

The chairman’s wife across from me groans, tossing a twenty at Mrs. Frasier. “You won that round, Marie.” Two others follow suit, one bill almost landing in my champagne flute.

“Word to the wise, never bet against Annabelle Gardner. She’s as cunning as they come.” Mrs. Frasier chortles and deposits the money she won in the side bet into her studded evening bag. Either I like these women more and more, or the champagne is going to my head.

The second bidding for a well-known, good-looking custom home contractor in the area reaches a similar feverish pitch. I attempt bidding once, but soon step back, watching things unfold. This time, the banker’s wife battles it out with a woman across the room and loses when she’s outbid; the contractor goes for thirty thousand. Her fist pounds the table with some expletives I am surprised a prim and proper looking woman like her would know.

I chuckle to myself while my paddle, with lucky number ten on it, shakes in my hand as nerves hit me. I’ve had nothing more on my mind over the past twenty-four hours than this plan, and suddenly I want to back out.

“You can simply make a donation in any denomination, no need to bid.” Mrs. Frasier leans over and whispers as if she reads right through me. Her eyes are kind. Far different from my mother’s. It’s been so long since a motherly figure cared about me.

“Oh. Okay.” I sink back in my seat, taking the easy way out. “Yes, that’d be the sensible thing to do. Just make a donation and carry on with my life. Be done with it all.”

But isn’t that what I’ve always done? I tried to stand up for what was right in L.A., but got fired. So I slinked away to Portland to hide without raising a fuss.And when William broke up with me, and told me he’d been seeing Vanessa on the side and was falling fast for her, I should have given him—and her—a piece of my mind. Screamed at least. Maybe even keyed his car on my way out for what they did to me and to my heart.

I’ll never forget the pain of these things that happened to me, but they also numbed me. Everyone responds to horrible, painful news in different ways. I learned what I do. I walk through life like a zombie.

All these thoughts rage inside my head and gain steam. My chest heaves, and my blood boils, like I’m finally waking up and seeing the light, sending my pulse racing and nostrils flaring. The anger heats inside of me to levels never recorded in my life before.

Screw all of it. I grip the paddle tighter. I’m. Going. Through. With. This. I am my own greatest comeback story.

“And now, for the final bachelor of the night…” I blink and shake my head at the emcee’s words, somehow losing track of time and missing the auction of the last two bachelors. I have one chance left to enact my revenge for the greatest comeback ever.

“And ladies, let me explain that the original man listed in your program came down with the flu. So we’ve had a last-minute substitution. But I think you’ll be more than pleased,” the emcee croons and teases.

The auctioneer takes over. “Now coming on the auction block, wearing jersey number ten, the new Center of the Portland Glaciers hockey team, recently traded here from Denver. The Hockey Heartbreaker himself, Mr. Kristoffer Kringer.”

My face falls, along with my shoulders, my heart, my everything. I slump, boneless, numb again. “Oh, my God. No. Not him. Anyone but him,” I whisper, fumbling for the program to confirm he wasn’t listed there before.

Mrs. Frasier gasps. “Do you know him, too? We just had him over to dinner last night, his first night in town. He’s handsome and a great guy. Now why couldn’t my daughter date him instead of the loser she has now? You know what, ladies, put your paddles down. This one is mine and I don’t care what my husband says about his daughter being off-limits to the guys on his hockey team.”

The other women join her in admiring the gorgeous figure taking the stage, but I can hardly bring my eyes up to see. I’m blinded by memories of Los Angeles and how I was the one who christened him with the heartbreaker name in my articles in the first place.

This cannot be happening to me right now. I almost walk out, the guilt too much to bear. But then I force my eyes up and take a good look at Kris. He’s…the very definition of hot. Always has been. Tall, muscular, perfect hair, with eyes and full lips that know how to land a panty melting, smoldering gaze.

He smiles broadly as the bidding gets underway, charming the entire room with whatever comes out of his mouth. I stopped following him on social media after I left L.A. So many times, I wanted to reach out to him and tell him the truth about what Tia really did. He deserves to know, doesn’t he? But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Here in Portland, years later, he looks good. Like he’s bounced back and doing well, the opposite of me. How wonderful for him. I shouldn’t upset the apple cart and I should leave. Now.

But a nagging little voice tells me to stay, to fight, to finish what I started. He’s doing fine, but I need a comeback, right?

If I go through with this and win, I’ll put the money toward this good cause, and then I’ll find a way to tell Kris the truth. Hopefully, that would make up for everything in the past. Absolve me of my guilt. No date needed.

I send a quick prayer up to the ceiling. Please. I just want to be done with this entire ordeal.

Mrs. Frasier sits there with a smug grin on her face as her last bid at thirty-five thousand is almost going once, twice—when I raise my paddle high into the air and yell, “Fifty thousand!”