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At thirty, Wendy is still occasionally mistaken for a teenager. There is something deceptively innocent and ethereal about her, yet she’s anything but ethereal. When Wendy chooses to make an impression, her imprint remains, much like the treads of a bulldozer on soft ground.
    â€œI’d like to say I need someone as messy as me, but I’m afraid that might be asking for trouble.”
    â€œI’d say so.”
    â€œBut I need someone who could understand me.”
    â€œTolerate you, you mean.”
    Her sweet smile washed over me. “Exactly. You’ve learned to tolerate me. That means there’s hope for me yet.”
    I forced Wendy to take Imelda for a walk while I did the dishes. She was, after all, the one guilty of making her into a potential doggy time bomb with all that spilled mayo. Maybe it’s all the shoe leather she eats that makes Imelda’s stomach so touchy. Chips with fiery hot salsa is my downfall but, like Imelda, I pick my poison and eat it anyway.
    â€œCome here, Zelda.” I popped the top on a cat food can, piled it into a crystal goblet and put it down on the glittery beaded place mat she loves.
    Imperiously she marched toward the goblet, sniffed the contents delicately and considered for a moment if the aroma was satisfying to her sensitive nose and delicate palate. It seemed to be acceptable because she chowed down, purring and gulping like her last meal had been in the 20th century.
    As I scraped and rinsed the dishes, my thoughts returned to Carver Advertising. Or, more accurately, they returned to Jared Hamilton, the storm cloud of a man I’d met there.
    I’m not usually hypersensitive, but that man really managed to pet my fur the wrong way. Even today his words to Ethan Carver stung. What are you? Nuts?
    Or so Mr. Know-It-All Hamilton thinks. It’s easy to figure out what others should do. It’s not quite so simple when the problem is in your own backyard. Or with one’s own sister.
    I found myself scrubbing a dish so hard I was about to remove its painted design. What a waste—that man’s gorgeous looks, and a personality like a Brillo pad. For some reason Know-It-All Hamilton really gets on my nerves. Who does he think he is, anyway, snorting and stewing in the elevator, lurking in the shadows at Carver’s office and laughing at me?
    He’d never had desperate messages on his answering machine pleading for help from people who had lost their master’s thesis, their promotion, their lease or their job because of the disorder in which they lived and worked. Some of my former clients have me on their emergency call list with their doctor, plumber and the police station.
    How dare Jared Hamilton think he knows anything at all about me?
    â€œWhat’s with you?” Wendy asked when she returned withImelda. They both looked like they’d been running. “You look like you lost a best friend. But of course you didn’t, because that would be me.” She gave me a hug and a look of concern.
    â€œNo big deal. It was just something someone said, that’s all. I think I’m pouting.” I hadn’t let anyone get under my skin in a long time, but Jared Hamilton had managed it by saying four little words. He’d shaken my confidence without even blinking.
    â€œI’d love to stay and find out what’s getting you down,” Wendy said, “but I need to get to class. Can I take a rain check on it?”
    â€œOf course. See you later.”
    And Wendy disappeared through my front door.
    Feeling disheartened, I picked up Zelda and nuzzled her. As I took off her cashmere and cuddled her close, she purred until her little body vibrated. Sighing, I took my feline hot-water bottle and my Bible and went to bed.

Chapter Six
    â€œB e still, my heart!” Theresa swooned into my office on Wednesday, wearing the expression of a bedazzled groupie just having seen her favorite rock