8 It made her feel guilty

FOURTEEN MONTHS LATER

Joy leaned back in a booth at Harry's Brew and Bake and let the air-conditioning do its thing. Being a native Southern Californian, she'd had no idea that Chicago summers sweltered. Wasn't this supposed to be the land of frigid lake winds and blizzards that brought the city of broad shoulders to a halt? The mixture of heat and humidity in the air this afternoon had her wilting by the time she hit the second step outside her front door.

"Oh, look," Sarah Weisman, a fellow teacher at the Steadman School, exclaimed, pointing out the window. Outside on North Avenue, a bus paused at a light. An advertisement for the movie Maritime looked oddly colorful and surreal on the mundane city bus, the bored profiles of passengers in the windows above the poster only adding to the impression. "I read in the Tribune this morning that the Midwest premiere of Maritime is going on in Streeterville tomorrow," Sarah continued excitedly. "You're going, right, Joy?"

"No." Joy laughed. She fingered her short tresses. Her hair was growing back after her cancer treatment, and she was almost back to her usual weight. She'd been fastidious about taking care of herself—regular diet, exercise, vitamins, and supplements out the wazoo. Still, she was hardly up for attending a high-profile, gilded event.

"Why not? Don't tell me you didn't get a ticket?" Max Weisman, Sarah's husband, asked, his brow bunched in consternation.

"No, I could go with my uncle if I wanted," Joy said quickly. She thought she understood Max's confusion. Sarah and Max both taught with her at an art school for gifted high school students. The entire staff had been involved in the hiring process, so they'd all seen Joy's résumé, including her mention of having done makeup on several high-profile movies, including Maritime. "A movie premiere isn't really my scene, that's all," Joy said, taking a sip of her iced chai tea.

"You're crazy," Sarah said with typical bluntness. "I'd give my right butt cheek to attend that premiere."

"I'd give my left one to make sure your buttocks stay exactly the way they are," Max said drolly to a smirking Sarah. He leaned toward Joy, suddenly intent. "You're not going doesn't have anything to do with how you're feeling, does it?"

Joy's cheeks heated. She hated the fact—despised it, actually—that the teachers and administration at her new job knew about her cancer diagnosis. It'd been necessary to reveal the basics of that information since she'd chosen to take a half-semester off from the school where she'd taught in Los Angeles while she'd undergone six cycles of chemotherapy followed by radiation. After her treatment and recovery, she'd decided to move. Start anew. People asked questions about a missing chunk of time in a résumé, though, and Joy had felt compelled to tell the truth, even if she kept her explanation to the bare minimum. It made her feel guilty, knowing that her good friends in L.A. knew less about her illness than near strangers at her present school. Not that Max and Sarah were near-strangers, but still . . .

"Max, you have the finesse of a dull ax," Sarah mumbled, obviously noticing Joy's discomfort.