Whit had forgotten the adorable way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. “By the way,” he said, “I meant to tell you before. You look great. That dress is amazing on you.”
He’d also forgotten how deliciously pink her cheeks got when she blushed. Her long lashes swept over her eyes as she glanced away. “Thank you. You look good too.”
That was a lie, but he wouldn’t challenge it. Instead, he turned to the wall display, where on the same wall as the portrait of a stern-looking woman, there was a noticeable space.
“A Manet hung there,” Jamie said, noting his gaze. Took him a moment to realize she was talking about one of the paintings stolen during the museum’s infamous art theft. Perhaps to avoid touching on more personal topics? “The larger one, the portrait, was out for cleaning the night of the break-in,” she told him. “Makes you wonder, had it been here, if we’d be looking at another empty frame right now.”
Probably. The museum seemed to have immortalized the stolen works by leaving their empty frames hanging on the walls. “I know the stolen paintings are still missing, but don’t you think that after three decades, the museum would have purchased a few replacements?”
Jamie shrugged. “As many people come here because of the robbery as they do to see the art. Did you know the whole thing took hardly any time at all? The robbery, I mean. The thieves came in the front door, tied up the security guard, took the Degas works and the Manet from this floor, and then went upstairs to take the three Rembrandts, the Flinck and the Vermeer. They were in and out in just eighty-one minutes.”
“That’s quite the download of information,” he said. More than he’d anticipated.
“Sorry. Force of habit.” Her cheeks pinked again. “I wrote a book about the theft.”
She’d carried through on her plan after all. Whit felt a bittersweet surge of pride. “Congratulations. You always said you wanted to be a writer. I’m impressed.”
One night, while doing homework—well, she’d been doing homework, he’d just been waiting for her to finish so they could get down to more important business—she’d mentioned that she planned to write a novel.
“What’s the title? I’d love to read it.”
She studied her drink again. “Surprisingly enough, it’s called Eighty-One Minutes.”
“Wait a minute, there’s a streaming series named that, isn’t there? Is the series based on your book? I thought it was written by some detective.” At least that was who was doing the interviews.
“Technically...” She sounded almost sheepish. As though embarrassed. “His name is on the cover, but I wrote the words. I... I ghostwrote it for him,” she added, probably because he looked confused.
“Still, you wrote a book,” he said. “I couldn’t write one.” Let alone one that became a television series at that. Whit was truly impressed. From the looks of things, Jamie had gone on to do well for herself. He was glad. Nice to know not everyone had wasted their potential after leaving college.
Happy laughter permeated the room. Correction, Whit realized. No one else had wasted their potential.
“Hey,” he said, refusing to let the dark mood take hold of him. “Did you ever write that story you talked about? What was it, something about a cursed necklace?”
“An amulet.” She looked surprised that he’d remembered it. To be honest, he was too. Recalling pillow talk wasn’t exactly his forte when he was younger. Then again, one didn’t normally do a lot of talking during a hookup. He and Jamie, on the other hand, had talked a lot. Like had actual grown-up conversations, about life and dreams. Things that mattered. Okay, maybe he hadn’t exactly bared his soul to her—as a rule he didn’t bare his soul to anyone—but he’d definitely shared more with Jamie than anyone else before or after her. And he’d definitely liked listening to her talk. Her voice had the sweetest cadence.
“Not yet.” Her reply brought him back to the present. “I’ve been working on it, but I have to squeeze in the work between projects and I’ve been pretty busy lately. I just wrapped up a project for a local investment CEO. And last year I wrote a memoir for a former minor league baseball player about his battle with depression and substance abuse that’s being released soon. He talked about everything, warts and all. It was pretty powerful stuff.”
“Sounds like it was a hard book to write.” Whit looked down at his untouched drink, a burning sensation forming in his sternum.
“Probably not as hard as it was for him to tell the story in the first place. I can’t imagine getting trapped in such a downward spiral. Talk about ugly.”
She has no idea. “Why put it in a book, then?”
“In this case, the guy, Frankie, is hoping to launch a speaking career where he goes around talking about his experiences and advocating for mental wellness. The hope is for the book to sell well so he can book engagements.”
“And if the book doesn’t sell?” he asked. “Does he get mad at you?”
“God, I hope not,” she said, giving a soft laugh. “If the book doesn’t sell, I think Frankie will still be happy. He said doing the project gave him a lot of closure emotionally. What about you? What’s Whit Martin doing these days? Last time we saw each other, you were heading to Europe to wave a mallet.”
“Only you would refer to polo as ‘waving a mallet.’”
“Are you still playing?”
“No. I retired a couple years ago.” That wasn’t the entire truth, but it was close enough to get by. “I run a charitable foundation these days.”
“Really?”
“Surprising, right?” In college, he’d been Mr. Good Times, more interested in having fun than helping others. “When I got back to the States, I wanted to do something that would contribute to society. The Martin family has a tradition of being civilly minded, and goodness knows, there’s certainly the need, so I created an organization to support underserved neighborhoods around the country.”
“Wow, I’m impressed,” Jamie replied.
That made one of them. “Certainly, it’s more productive than hitting a ball with a mallet,” he said wryly.
A silence fell between them as they stood smiling at one another. Whit struggled to think of something to say. He wasn’t ready to end the conversation.
“Hey, you two.” Keisha appeared by his side in a flash of purple satin. “I hate to break you up, but we need to get this toast going. Terrance’s mother is breathing down my neck about cutting the foolish engagement cake.”
“You had me at ‘cake,’ babe,” Jamie said with a smile. “Lead the way.” Before Whit could say anything, the two women walked away.
Meanwhile he stayed behind and watched them head to the center of the room, where the rest of their friends had gathered in a circle. Once upon a time, he would have been in the center of the crowd, leading the others in teasing the bride and groom. The life and soul of the party.
Now there were days where he could barely stand to look at himself.
If the therapists at the rehab clinic were here, they would immediately chastise him for the thought, and give him a long speech about self-compassion and forgiveness. You can’t blame yourself for an accident, they’d say. Forgive yourself and move on. They were very good at giving him those speeches. Two years later, he was still trying.
He listened as Terrance toasted his thanks to the bridal party. His former roommate wore a goofy smile that only a man completely head over heels could manage. Keisha’s smile matched.
Seeing them left an empty ache in Whit’s chest. Would be a long time—if ever—before a woman looked at him with the same besotted expression. Who could love a man with blood on his hands?
A cheer went up and the group raised their glasses before clinking them with one another. Whit lifted his as well, but he was more interested in the woman wearing the raspberry dress standing in front of him. Taking advantage of the commotion around him, Whi
t let his eyes roam down her figure, remembering the body beneath the dress. The women who’d crossed his path in Europe had nothing on her. Most of them had been fake-breasted toothpicks living on cigarettes and diuretics. Jamie, on the other hand, was athletically built. Lean but muscular, with legs built for straddling a man. She also had a brain. Something else the toothpicks had lacked. Although in fairness to the toothpicks, he hadn’t exactly used his own brain all that much in Europe himself.
He really was glad Jamie had found success. Ghostwriting. Not quite the career he’d envisioned for her, but he wasn’t at all surprised to hear she did it well. If he were to ever want to share his story with the world, she’d be the kind of person he’d pick to work with too. He made a note to buy that baseball player’s memoir. The man deserved more than closure for airing his messes. For that matter, could someone even get closure from sharing their story?
Wouldn’t that be great, if it were true? he thought. If, by putting all your demons on paper, you could not only help others, but find a way to cleanse your soul?
What if...? Whit watched as Jamie’s ponytail bounced in response to her laughter. “Things happen for a reason,” the therapists used to say in rehab. “You just have to pay attention to what the universe is trying to say.” The therapists had said a lot of woo-woo type stuff. Whit usually ignored them. But what if they had a point? What if the universe was trying to tell him something by dropping Jamie Rutkowski back into his life?
“So, thank you all for joining us for the engagement party, and here’s to a terrific wedding,” he heard Terrance add. On the other side of the circle, his old roommate raised his glass for a second time. “Cheers.” The crowd cheered in return, and everyone began clinking glasses with one another again.
Jamie turned away from the circle, only to duck her head shyly upon seeing him standing behind her. “Cheers,” she said.
“To a fun few months,” he said, tapping the rim of his still-full glass to hers.
“Hope so. I’ll settle for them being drama-free.”
“How much drama could there be between now and then? All we have to do is show up on the day and do what we’re told.”
She eyed him over her glass. “You ever been in a wedding before?”
“A couple, when I was a teenager.” Both weddings, if he remembered rightly, were large, formal family-laden affairs and deadly dull. He and the other groomsmen had done a few shots beforehand to get through them. “I don’t remember any problems.”
“Trust me, there’s always drama. Someone’s dress doesn’t fit, or someone else skips the shower planning meetings or doesn’t get the exact shoes the bride requested.”
“Makes me glad I’m not a bridesmaid. I am pretty sure groomsmen don’t have any of those problems.”
“Consider it the hidden misogyny of weddings,” Jamie said. She drained the last of her champagne. “Speaking of, I should go see if there are any bridesmaid instructions. Keisha claims she’s going to be a low-key bride, but...”
“She’s Keisha.”
“Exactly.” The atmosphere between them, which had been vacillating between comfortable and awkward all evening, slid back into awkwardness. They both looked to their glasses in hopes of finding something to say.
“Well,” Jamie said after a couple seconds. “I guess I’ll see you in few months. It was good seeing you.”
“Before you go... What did you mean when you said the ballplayer thought the book would bring him closure?”
From the way her brows drew together, she obviously thought the question strange. Whit had to admit, the question did sound like it had come out of the blue.
“He—Frankie—said he’d never told anyone the complete story from beginning to end before,” she said. “I got the impression he thought doing so would be like finally and truly coming clean about his mistakes.”
“Makes sense.” A lot of sense. After all, wasn’t confession supposed to be good for the soul? “Did it help? I mean, did he get the closure he wanted?”
She took her time in answering. “Yeah,” she said finally, “it did. When we finished, Frankie said that writing the book really helped clarify some things for him. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Your comment stuck in my head is all.”
“Okay.” There was still confusion on her face, but she didn’t press. “If that’s all you wanted, I’ll get off. See you around.”
“Actually, there’s one more thing.” He stopped her again.
Maybe he was crazy, but he was also tired of feeling weighed down. So much of what had happened had been swept under the rug. Exposing it to the light of day might be the answer. God knows, he’d tried everything else.
“Are you free for lunch tomorrow?” he asked.
Copyright © 2021 by Barbara Wallace
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ISBN-13: 9781488073656
Summer Fling with a Prince
Copyright © 2021 by Katrina Cudmore
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Summer Fling with a Prince Page 16