It makes me incredibly sad.

On the ride back to my parents, I let her prattle on with a steady stream of excited, cheerful banter about the coming holidays. I join in, but my mind is on Gloria. I’ve never seen her like that—subdued, solemn, scared.

Whatever’s going on with her must be big.

Trish leaves her packages with me and starts up the steps to the house. My mom is at the door to let her in before she reaches it. Mom’s dressed in sweats, her hair pulled back, a flour-stained apron tucked around her slender frame. She waves a jaunty hand and gestures for me to come in.

For a moment, I’m plunged into the depths of a memory. My brother and I coming back from a shopping trip and finding Mom in the kitchen, wearing a holiday apron decorated with another smear of flour, the sweet aroma of sugar cookies filling the house.

I suddenly want more than anything to join them. An ache in the middle of my chest, a visceral, physical longing, is strong enough to make me reconsider my promise to Gloria. What kind of trouble could she be in?

The kind of trouble that brought her to her worst enemy to ask for help.

Reluctantly, I roll down the passenger-side window and explain that I can’t join them because I have an appointment. I see them in the rearview mirror, Mom and Trish, their arms entwined as I pull away.

To deny me this time with my family makes my resentment of Gloria grow. If her life wasn’t in serious danger before, it is now.

“Glory’s” is the too cute name Gloria and her business partner, Rory O’Sullivan, came up with for the restaurant. By the time I arrive, it’s five in the afternoon. Too early for the dinner crowd, but not the TGIFers. The bar is hopping. The restaurant is at the Broadway end of Horton Plaza. It attracts clientele from nearby retail stores as well as lawyers and judges from the two courthouse facilities a couple of blocks away and bureaucrats from federal and city offices next door. In my jeans, blazer and Nikes, I’m the only non-suit in sight.

It draws attention. I don’t know what men think when they look at me, but I know how they act. As I push through the happy-hour crowd, more than one restraining hand and questioning smile is directed my way. Under different circumstances, I might pursue it, an opportunity for a night of unencumbered fun and games. Being a vampire is liberating in that sense. But not tonight. Tonight I’m here for a reason. For Gloria’s sake, it had better be a good one.

I ignore the smiles and invitations for drinks and head for the door at the back of the bar. I knock once and push it open.

Gloria is seated behind a desk, staring out the window at the caterpillar of lights on Broadway heading down toward the waterfront. She doesn’t turn at the sound of the door opening. I don’t think she knows I’m in the room.

“Gloria?”

She jumps, nearly out of the chair, and whirls to face me.

The look on her face, as if I’d done something wrong by coming in, makes me want to turn around and march out. “You told me to meet you here, remember? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Her expression loses its edge, becomes apologetic. “Sorry.”

Gloria apologizing to me? It’s the end of the world as we know it.

I park my butt on the corner of the desk. “I’m here. You have two minutes to tell me why I should stay.”

Gloria’s eyes cloud. “I’m in trouble.”

“I heard that the first time. What kind of trouble?”

I’ve known Gloria for five years. Never has she looked at me the way she’s looking at me now, with something other than condescension or malice in her expression. I wish she’d stop. I’m much more comfortable with the old hate/hate relationship. She looks scared and it’s unnerving. “Well? You’re down to ninety seconds and counting.”

Suddenly she starts to cry.

Cry.

I jump up. Then I remember. She’s an actress.

But those are real tears running down her cheeks, and there’s real snot running out of that five-thousand-dollar nose job. Her face is red and blotchy.

This is not theatrical crying. This is for real.

I’m so stunned, I don’t know how to react. In spite of the sobs shaking her shoulders, I can’t bring myself to put a consoling arm around her. This is Gloria, my arch nemesis, after all. I do the only other thing I can think of. I grab a box of tissues from the credenza under the window and shove it at her.

“Here,” I command gruffly. “Clean yourself up. Tears are murder on cashmere.”

She pulls a couple of tissues from the box and dabs ineffectually at her face, leaving a trail of mascara and eye-liner to mark the path of her tears. Now she looks like a deranged raccoon.

It takes great effort on my part not to mention it.

I wait for Gloria to compose herself. I’m only going to ask what’s wrong once more. If I don’t get an answer, I’m out of here.

“If this is about smoothing things over between you and David, you can’t believe how wrong you were to come to me. I’ve been deliriously happy to think he’d dumped you. You’ve done nothing but try to undermine our business relationship for as long as I’ve known you. Don’t think for one minute I’d plead your case—”

I’m getting warmed up when Gloria throws me another of those unfathomable looks. A plea? For what? It stops me cold.

She pushes back from the desk and stands up. “You know who my business partner is?”

I could be living in a cave and I’d know who Gloria’s business partner is. Rory O’Sullivan is second only to Donald Trump in notoriety. He’s a billionaire. A collector of high-end real estate, art and classic cars. He inherited a modest fortune and parlayed it into a megafortune. I think he’s listed as the fifth or sixth richest man in America.

All this flashes through my head in the time it takes me to say, “Yes, I know who your business partner is. What about him?”

Gloria has crossed to the wall opposite the windows. She studies her reflection in a huge gilt mirror. I take a careful step out of mirror shot as she wets a tissue with the tip of her tongue and carefully wipes away the ruined makeup.

Only when she’s finished does she square her shoulders and walk back to the desk. “Please sit, Anna. I need to tell you something.”

That sounds more like the Gloria I know and hate. The “please” is uttered as a formality. It’s an order from the queen. Still, she has piqued my curiosity. I don’t take a seat but lean against the far wall, crossing my arms and nodding at her to go ahead.

“What I’m about to tell you has to stay in this room,” she begins. She doesn’t wait for me to agree or disagree. As usual, she assumes her word is the world’s command. “Rory and I went into business together to start this restaurant. It was simply another business deal for him. For me, it was much more. It was a chance to ease my way out of the beauty business and into something different.”

She flashes a deprecating smile. “You have no idea how stressful the life of a celebrity can be. You see only the glamour and the clothes and the prestige . . .”

She lets her voice drop as if waiting for me to confirm. Truth is, the only thing I see when I look at Gloria is arrogance and conceit and ego. The trifecta of the self-indulgent bimbo. I shrug at her to get on with it.

She misinterprets the gesture as concurrence but does continue, which is, after all, what I want.

“Rory seemed the perfect partner. He had experience in the restaurant industry and the clout to attract a top chef. He oversaw all the details from furnishing the place to stocking the bar to hiring the help. We invested equal amounts of money, but really what he wanted from me was image and contacts. Show up here when I’m in town and get my show business friends to patronize the place when they are.”

She stops, breathless from the exertion of telling the story. She glances back at me, her lips trembling. She’s about to start crying again.