"If you're hearing this, your name must be Vicky, since I only used this number with you. Sorry, kid, but consider this your notice of termination, effective immediately. I've decided that, given the current political atmosphere, the best thing I can do is retire, and I see no reason to wait. I already mailed the relevant paperwork, including a reference letter. At the end of the month, this line will be disconnected, so I won't be any more help with future employment. Good luck, Vicky. You were the best assistant I ever had. Have a nice life."

Instead of a beep to mark the start of recording, an electronic voice informed Victoria Grunell that the mailbox was full. A click, and then a dial tone buzzed in her ear. Automatically, she dropped her phone on the white tablecloth and tapped the red circle on the screen. Her forehead joined the phone on the table a moment later. Tears she could no longer suppress flowed down her nose to be absorbed in the crisp fabric. The final lines of Gillian Welch's "Paper Wings" haunted her thoughts.

This morning she'd arrived at Mason Plather's office with two coffees and two fresh bagels from his favorite deli, as usual for their Saturday morning planning meeting, and the electronic lock refused her code. Since this was not its first malfunction, she called the security company that installed it to get the current bypass code. She entered the office only a few minutes after nine, an apology half-formed on her lips, to an unrecognizable space.

All the office furniture was stacked by the front door: desks, chairs, file cabinets, paper shredders, and two bookcases. No computers. A pair of bulging black plastic bags concealed piles of multicolored confetti, the shredded remains of all the paper records she'd kept meticulously organized, no doubt. Invoices taped to one of the desks confirmed the sale of the furniture to a used goods store, and the hiring of a cleaning company. One final slip of paper noted the early termination of the office lease, and the payment of an undisclosed fee related to the matter.

Naturally, she called Mason to see what was going on. They'd worked together for years, been friends even longer. She helped craft his first campaign for his district's school board, stood by proudly at his city councilman's swearing in, and filed the official candidacy paperwork for his mayoral run just last month. It was a rare day they didn't speak in person about professional or personal details of some sort. Rarer still were the days without at least a text or a phone call about the same. Yesterday had not been one of those days, and he'd made no mention of pending disaster.

Then that blasted message and impersonal beep. Her first voicemail accused him of playing a practical joke and teased him about his coffee getting cold. An hour later, her second voicemail demanded he call her back, that the humor of the prank had worn off. Then reporters swarmed the office, and she fled. The questions they hurled at her retreating back sparked her doubts. A quick Google search, and she knew Mason's "retirement" for what it really was: fleeing from justice. The joke really was on her, just not how she expected. Those poor girls. With no time to recover from the blow, she stuffed her writhing feelings in a box and moved onto her next – and most important – engagement of the day: celebrating her best friend's new relationship status.

The distraction of the past few hours helped maintain her composure, but now Claire's wedding reception had gained a momentum of its own. Her services as an amateur wedding planner were no longer required. She'd ushered the newlyweds out to their waiting Jeep a few minutes ago, per their plan, the first verse of Lyle Lovett's "Smile" pinning up her happy expression until they drove away. Then the morning's trauma crashed over her again, sending her to an unoccupied table far from the crowded dance floor. Calling Mason's phone to convince herself that the entire day hadn't been a fever dream of some sort broke her emotional floodgates.

A thunk beside her cheek startled her. Jerking upright, she twisted in her seat and glanced around. Her vision caught the sparkle of a glass and an unfamiliar looming form settling in the chair beside her, both rendered blurry with her remaining tears. She felt blindly for a napkin to dry her eyes. The stranger pushed one under her questing fingers, and she smiled in gratitude in his general direction before ducking her head low to dab at her face. Warm fingers brushed her hair behind her ear, sending sparks of static electricity dancing on her temple. She blushed at the familiarity and dabbed harder. FInally able to see clearly again, she twisted toward his chair, only to find it empty.

Had she imagined the tall stranger? Impossible. Spicy cologne laced with the scents of ripe banana and fresh grated cinnamon assured her a man had delivered the full champagne flute and the small plate overflowing with cake and a variety of milk chocolate truffles at her elbow. Whatever his identity or motive, he knew how to sooth a woman in distress. His disappearance confused her, but the rich sweetness of her first nibble of truffle washed away every feeling but appreciation for his thoughtfulness, whoever he was. By the time she finished the food and bubbly beverage, rejoining the party she planned no longer seemed impossible, and she sang along with the crowd to "Stop! In the Name of Love!" as she slipped into an open space on the dance floor.

Later, alone in her apartment, she curled up in her well-loved recliner, her softest pajamas against her skin. Sipping a small pour of her favorite red wine, she wallowed in all the hurt of the day, knowing that in the morning, her hunt for a new job must begin. Finding employment might be an insurmountable task, given her unfortunate association with a fugitive from justice, but her savings could only keep the rent and utilities paid for a few months, at best. In addition, she expected a call from the police in the near future to discuss Mason's activities, so while she searched the city's job boards, she'd interview a few attorneys, as well. Best to be prepared, and all that rubbish.

Feeling more than a little melodramatic, she took her now empty glass to the kitchen and opened the window over the sink. As usual for this time of the day, she missed Joshua. Her older brother handled any crisis with poise and creativity, even the stomach cancer that took his life shortly after she started working for Mason. He had warned her that something about the man gave him a chill – his version of the heebie jeevies – when she introduced them. He promised to use his connections in the private investigator community to check into her boss, just in case, but the cancer sickened him a few months later, and then he was gone. She doubted he had the time to follow through on his promise, as he never brought it up again.

Near the end, he'd moved in with her, refusing to die in a hospital. He loved to lie on a futon cushion on the floor while she cooked or cleaned after work, and they talked about everything and nothing. He teased her about being married to her career, and she joked that no man could live up to his shining example of masculinity. In their last coherent conversation, he made her swear to date, to find someone to make her laugh, calling her too young to be so serious. Those precious evenings in this kitchen kept her here, even when Mason pushed her to move into more affordable housing closer to the office. She refused to regret that choice, especially now.

With her position terminated and her future prospects in the area dim, she considered leaving town for a fresh start. No brother to visit, no office to attend six days a week, and her best friend planned to join her new husband and his bandmates on their mini tour of the state come summer. Claire already spent most of her time at work before meeting Colton, and now Vicky was lucky to get a cumulative hour a week chatting with her. Even the bulk of the wedding planning occurred by phone or video chat. She had no real reason to stay, beyond her memories.

Her mental jukebox chose yet another song from the '90's movie Hope Floats to match her mood, and with no audience to horrify with her terrible sense of pitch, Vicky began to sing the tune out loud. Deanna Carter's "What Makes You Stay," trembled from her lips and pulled fresh tears from her eyes. She paused before the bridge and final refrain, unable to continue, and fought to regain her composure.

From the darkness beyond the open window, a rumbly baritone broke the silence, picking up the song where she'd left off. Startled, Vicky froze to listen to the performance, the vocalist infusing the music with both emotion and perfect pitch. Embarrassment over forgetting the open window tugged at her mind, but it couldn't compete with the mystery singer outside. When the final "stay" faded into the night, she automatically started clapping, only to stop abruptly, blushing at her odd reaction.

To her relief, the unseen singer didn't comment on the applause. Rather, he began singing again, the duet "Chances Are" from the same movie. He paused at the end of Bob Segar's part, and despite how opposite of Martina McBride her vocal talent was, Vicky belted out the next lines. While she sang a mostly recognizable approximation of the recorded track, he infused his lines with passion, almost as though he sang just for her. By the end of the song, a tendril of jealousy wrapped around her heart, that some other woman so inspired her mystery man.

This time he left no time for her to applaud. After repeating the final refrain one additional time alone, he called out, "Until next time, beautiful," and then heavy footfalls faded into the night. A puff of wind stirred the curtains as he left, bringing the scents of banana and cinnamon in from the night. The perfume in the air lasted long after Vicky closed the window and retreated to bed. She expected a sleepless night, given the day's excitement, but instead, she drifted off moments after pulling her weighted blanket up to her chin.