CHAPTER 1
November 2004
“Is there any spinach dip left in the bread bowl?” Tracie Watson called out to no one in particular. Hearing no response, she came from the kitchen to check the buffet of assorted fattening foods and desserts mounted on top of the dining room table. Her silky brown hair glistened under the track lighting as it swept across her back. Satisfied that the bread bowl was sufficiently full, Tracie made a quick sweep of the room with the captivating green eyes that had made her the most lusted-after girl at Wayzata High School ten years earlier. She picked up a chicken wing, carefully removing the skin before nibbling on it — one of many ritualistic inconveniences she endured in order to maintain her sleek, waif-like body.
Unlike Tracie, most of her guests were clueless as to the fat content of chicken skin and had all but given up trying to save their physiques. They were in a nebulous state of stagnation, between 27 and 32 — waiting for something to happen. The problem was that none of them would be able to recognize the “something” if it were right in front of them. Most were married, engaged, or in serious relationships. The need to look good had been replaced by other concerns: mortgages, retirement plans, job security, and kids. Some had chosen such an existence, while others had had it thrust upon them.
Tracie had been married to Tony since two weeks after her twentieth birthday. And while her figure was still pristine, she had let herself go in other ways. There were so many things she’d wanted to do with her life — study in Venice, work in advertising in New York City, get her master’s degree. All of her dreams were collecting dust.
Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the arm reaching around her waist to grab a hunk of cheese. “Excuse me,” a rich, baritone voice said, blasting Tracie back to the party.
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