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powerful urge to keep whirling right back onto the comparatively safe sidewalk, she stepped into the cool lobby.
    “Here’s our celebrity chef now,” Tim called out.
    “I beg your pardon?” Totally confused and hoping it didn’t show,
especially
in front of Shannon, Rebecca looked pointedly at Pauline for help.
    Pauline gave her a brilliant smile. “Rebecca, you’ve been invited to be a guest chef at the Chicago Culinary Institute of America’s Black-Tie Benefit for Young Chefs. Celebrities prepare their favorite dish in front of everyone,” Pauline blurted out. Reddening to her scarlet roots, she glanced at Tim. “Sorry, Mr. Porter.”
    He nodded, his face flushed. “I know. I know. I didn’t think you could do it, Rebecca, but you rose to the challenge. Now I recognize I was a genius for moving you to the Food section. When David Sumner heard about this great exposure for the new Food section, he decided to fly in early to watch you do your magic.”
    Complete and utter disaster!
She wasn’t ready yet to meet her foe face-to-face.
    Faking a show of excitement and totally ignoring Shannon’s existence, Rebecca moved slowly forward. “Fabulous news! When did this all happen?”
    Kate was watching her carefully, a furrow deep between her eyes. “They called Tim last night, and we agreed this morning to accept on your behalf. I hope you don’t mind.”
    “Mind? I’m ecstatic.” Rebecca lied, smiling so wide her cheeks felt numb. “Now I have a good excuse to shop for a new evening gown.”
    “Oh, Rebecca, you always have the best clothes of everyone on the paper.” Pauline sounded as proud as she did bragging about her darling daughters. “Indiana University called this morning, too. About the local alumni group honoring you this year. They want to do a piece on you in the national alumni magazine.” She glanced past Rebecca. “Oh, Shannon, you should write something in your column about it.”
    Hiding a smile, Kate coughed carefully into her palm.
    Watching the happily calculating look on Tim’s face, and the carefully controlled blankness on Shannon’s, Rebecca felt mild hysteria tickle her throat.
    “Excellent idea! After all, we’re all on the same team. Take care of it, Shannon,” Tim ordered like he’d thought of the plan himself.
    “You know I will, Tim.” Shannon nodded and managed a slight smile toward Pauline. “Would you please contact IU for me so I can get all the details for my column?” Her soft, wispy voice couldn’t quite cover a sharp edge of annoyance. “And . . . um . . . congratulations, Rebecca.”
    The tickle of hysteria in her throat changed course to become a nauseating twinge of fear in her stomach.
    The horror of cooking in public, Shannon exposing my silly secret by digging into records at IU, and David Sumner arriving early in town are the final straws. It can’t get any worse.
    Feeling
this
ill brought back memories of a particularly nasty “commode-hugging” episode she’d suffered through in her mildly misspent youth. As Walton Julius, the most fascinating older man in Chicago, had taught her, there was only one surefire cure for a queasy stomach after a rowdy night of fun or, in her present case, gut-curdling stress.
    To hell with the calories.
All day she downed can after can of sugar-rich, caffeine-infused,
real
Coke. She sat at her desk burping as discreetly and politely as possible until finally, midafternoon, her stomach stopped roiling and her blood sugar spiked. While experiencing this momentary burst of false optimism, she rationalized both looming horrors.
    She had two weeks to plot with Harry before the potentially disastrous cooking event and the inevitable meeting with David Sumner. The only way to make it all less catastrophic was to have Harry at her side. She called the Culinary Institute to request that he be her celebrity chef assistant, and after she was given the pleased approval she called Harry to plead her case and beg for his help.