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admit I don’t know anything about bass fishing,
Mr. Burke. But in baseball, runs matter.”
    The
group in the box didn’t know how to react to this unprecedented speech, but she
certainly had their attention. A few of them were smiling and exchanging looks
of amazement, while others looked to Dylan Burke to gauge his response before
reacting. With nothing left to lose, Suzanne went on. “And as long as we’re on
the subject of appearances, perhaps you shouldn’t assume that a Southern girl
with blonde hair and three-inch heels doesn’t know baseball, especially here in
Atlanta.”
    Dylan
said nothing, his expression momentarily frozen in surprise. The girl under his
arm stared daggers at Suzanne. A sudden piercing giggle broke the silence as
Yvette Olsen rushed over. “Oh, my! Isn’t she just a spitfire? Dylan just loves all this witty banter. Suzanne, could I steal you away to consult about the
beverage service, please?” She put both hands on Suzanne’s shoulders and
steered her firmly toward the bar at the back of the room. “Drink up, everyone!
Enjoy the game!”
    Being
hustled away by the squeaky manager, Suzanne managed a quick glance over her
shoulder. The partygoers were all returning either to their previous
conversations or to the game itself. She heard the loud pop of a bat and the
corresponding gasp of the crowd, followed by a collective sigh. A pop fly,
perhaps, or a close foul ball.
    At
the back near the bar cart, Yvette was nearly apoplectic. She couldn’t,
however, seem to find the words to express it. “Do you—how can—I’ve never—” she
spluttered. Then finally, “Do you treat all your clients this way?” The
khaki-clad bartender looked around uncomfortably and pretended to need
something on the other side of the room.
    Keep
smiling, no matter what, Suzanne’s mother commanded in her ear. She obeyed. “What do you mean, Yvette?”
    Yvette
stammered for a moment, trying to put her finger on exactly what Suzanne had
done wrong. In her mid-forties, Yvette had worked her way through the ranks of
several B- and C-list singers, mostly Christian musicians with limited
audiences, and landing a huge star like Dylan Burke a few months back had been
the opportunity of her career. Hiring Suzanne had been one of her first major
decisions since coming on as Dylan’s manager. She knew managers and agents
who’d found themselves suddenly unemployed for much less than this kind of
disrespect. How could she make this young, thin Steel Magnolias cast-off
understand?
    “I
think everyone is having a good time,” Suzanne offered, to fill the silence.
She gestured at the room full of people talking, laughing, and most important,
drinking. As she did this, she thought she saw Dylan glance her way with a
smirk.
    “Yes,”
Yvette replied tentatively, gazing around. Her beady eyes narrowed as she
returned her gaze to Suzanne. “Just keep in mind, please, that your performance
is a direct reflection on me. I take that very seriously. Okay?”
    Suzanne’s
phone buzzed in her purse. Probably Chad—a glance at the clock reminded her
she’d promised to check in half an hour ago. She flashed a final winning smile
at Yvette. “Of course, Yvette, I understand completely. Could you excuse me,
please?”
    She
flipped open the phone on her way out the door. “This is Suzanne.”
    But
it wasn’t a complaining Chad who greeted her. “Suzanne? It’s Rick.”
    Her
heart sank. She let the door to the luxury box close behind her and kicked
herself for not checking the number before answering. “Hi, Rick. How are you?”
Her voice was an octave too high as she tried to summon dignified politeness.
    “I’m
okay,” he said. “Listen, I feel kind of weird calling you about this, but I
have…something you left in the hotel room the other day.”
    The
panties. Suzanne felt suddenly, oddly vulnerable.
    “Oh,
you can just—” she hesitated. Throw them out. Burn them. Whatever .
    “I
thought maybe we could meet