The Perfect Kiss by Susan Hatler

Author:Susan Hatler [Hatler, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hatco Publishing
Published: 2015-12-27T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

An hour ago, the frazzled version of Greta I’d seen at breakfast made my blood run cold. Not only did I need to worry about keeping my job, now I had to make sure the retreat’s leader hadn’t completely fallen apart. As I stepped out of the shower, I recalled how Greta had entered the dining room, loaded a plate with eggs, set her breakfast untouched on the table, then ran from the room sobbing. My confident mentor had turned into a quivering mess.

I needed to check on Greta to make sure she was all right, but the women were gathering and anxious to begin today’s exercise.

I pulled my hair into a low ponytail at the base of my neck and thought about the scheduled activities for today: relaxation, journaling, and baking bread with each other—chapter seven, a confident woman makes healthy food for herself, giving her body the energy she needs to succeed. Maybe Greta should bake a dozen loaves.

Since we were staying at the mansion, I put on jeans, a white top, and a black cardigan. Around my neck, I clasped my delicate four-leaf clover necklace that Charlie had given Wendy, Megan, and me right after graduation. She’d told us that wearing our necklaces would bring us luck, and keep our friendship solid forever. I’d brought the necklace with me on a whim, and the piece felt right hanging just under my clavicle.

Time to check on Greta. With soft steps, I walked down the hallway to her room, and knocked lightly on the door. “Greta? It’s Olivia. May I come in?”

“Why not?” she said, her tone flat.

Alarm bells sounded in my head, but I eased the door open, and slipped inside. I knew what getting your heart broken felt like, and I understood how holding that hurt inside made anger grow. Greta sat on the bed, her dark bangs sticking out in all directions. She wore a pair of sweats and a wrinkled shirt that was half tucked in. Her eyes were red and swollen. Wads of used tissues surrounded her on the comforter with a fresh box sitting on her lap. She didn’t look like a confident, independent woman, who succeeded fine without a man.

She looked like a woman with a shattered heart, who had no idea how to pick up the pieces so she could heal.

I stepped past littered candy wrappers and an empty ice cream carton, then sat down gingerly on her bed. “Oh, Greta. Is there anything I can do?” I asked as gently as I could.

“Do I look okay?” She turned her head and stared at me blankly, then raised her hand and fussed with her hair.

I tried to think of something nice to say about her appearance, and failed. I noticed a hardback copy of her book on the nightstand, which was propped open with a shoe, and had a red stain that looked like wine on one of the pages. This was bad.

I cleared my throat. “I think you’d feel a lot better if you stood up, took a shower, and got dressed.

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