“Where are the guys?” Vida asked Trinny with all the nonchalance she could produce.
And why the hell hadn’t Trinny come to the florist with us?
“They took Ian off somewhere to do manly things.” She allowed herself an indulgent smile. “Max went with them.”
“Then they can’t be too manly,” I told her, and pinned all my hopes on the dinner dance some friends were throwing in Connie and Ian’s honor at a nearby country club.
SHAYLA DID MY HAIR and makeup wearing a strapless vintage Dior that she told me she’d picked up in a thrift shop on Haight Street back home.
“Good for you,” I’d greeted her. “It’s about time you and Roger got to go to a party.”
She giggled. “I feel just like Cinderella.”
She may have felt like it, but I looked the part. Max had insisted on what I can only describe as a ball gown for this party. Apparently he’d been paying attention during one of Connie’s many social briefings, where my mind tended to wander. It was a good thing because when the gang all gathered in the French Room for pre-party cocktails, the scene was more glam than Oscar night.
“Where did you get that?” I asked Vida. She was in a full-length crimson thing that had criss-cross ruffles at the bust and hugged her perfectly.
“Do you like it?” She looked down at herself. “Max bought it for me in London. He said I’d cause an international fashion incident if I wore the same dress to every party.” She looked around at our glittery companions. “I hate it when he’s right.”
The fashion guru himself sidled up to us, looking nothing short of dashing in a white dinner jacket à la James Bond.
“Hi, guys. Listen, I was thinking I could give you a little Botox in your underarms so you wouldn’t have to worry about perspiration.”
He read the looks on our faces.
“Never mind. Just a thought.”
Connie joined us out of thin air. “Max, did you tell them about the Botox?”
“Connie, you didn’t!” Vida said.
She looked at us as though we were crazy. “I have a twelve-thousand-dollar Richard Tyler wedding gown upstairs. Damn right I did it.” And she was gone.
Just as well, because I finally found him in the crowd. I doubt there was really a sort of glowing light all around him, but there might just as well have been. The first time I’d seen him in a tux I’d just had a bump on the head, so I might have been imagining things. But this time, clear-eyed and sober—relatively sober, anyway—I was able to confirm that Sir Charles Shipley was the most perfect man I’d ever seen.
“Make your move, tiger,” Max muttered as he gently propelled me toward the vision of masculine perfection. “Remember what I told you—shoulders back, natural smile, you’ve got it, now chin up—you’re ready.” I felt his hand leave my back, and I was reminded of the very first time my father let go of my bike without training wheels.
“Sir Charles,” I said smoothly, when I came within his sightline.
“Rebecca,” he responded, and I loved the fact that he didn’t use my boyish nickname. “You look lovely.” It would have been nice if there hadn’t been a definite tang of surprise in his voice, but I ignored it as he stepped closer, looked down at me with a decidedly wicked smile, and murmured, “You must save a dance for me.”
It was at that precise moment that I understood why people in musicals sing.
THERE WAS ONLY one problem.
“It’s a ball,” I hissed to Max.
The evidence was all around us: the orchestra playing what I could only assume were waltzes or fox-trots or polkas or something, the couples moving together in a complex series of patterns that clearly had some meaning, the polite applause after each dance ended.
“What did you think?” Max hissed back. “Wasn’t the fact that you’re wearing a ball gown any sort of a clue?”
Vida joined us with a look of panic on her face and identified the central problem. “I don’t know how to do these goddamn dances!”
“Where’s Phillip?” I asked her.
“Dancing,” she moaned. “And of course he’s great at it.”
“Who’s he with?” Max asked.
“That’s the only good news.” Vida nodded her head in the direction of her sexual holy grail. “He’s with Trinny.”
The brother and sister moved flawlessly across the dance floor.
“They probably took lessons when they were kids,” I said.
“Looks like Ian missed out on that,” Max observed. I followed his gaze in time to see Connie wincing as Ian stepped on her foot for probably not the first time.
“Becks,” Vida spoke with dread in her voice. “You’d better think of something. You’ve got the LOTM on approach at six o’clock.”
I braced myself. I smiled charmingly when he tapped me lightly on the shoulder. I made polite conversation with him as Max and Vida faded away. I considered reminding him of my twisted ankle but didn’t want to promote the whole klutz image I was trying to overcome. So I made delighted sounds when Sir Charles Shipley asked me to dance, and I faked it.
“SERIOUSLY, it wasn’t that bad.” The next morning Vida spent a good half hour trying to convince me I could come down to breakfast without the risk of people snickering behind their napkins.
“I would never have known you didn’t know what you were doing,” Shayla offered. She’d decided Vida and I were a lot more fun to hang out with than Connie the Compulsive, and had come by to lend her support. “I mean, until…”
Until the incident. With the cellist.
I closed my eyes. “You go on without me. I’d rather starve than face them all.”
Vida didn’t give up. “You really were pretty good out there, Becks. How’d you do it?”
I tried to summon the feeling I’d had on the dance floor with Sir Charles Shipley’s masterful arms around me. “There’s a lot to be said for a guy who can lead,” I told them.
Max spoke from the doorway. “If only you hadn’t gotten goosed by that cello player’s bow.”
I moaned. Max continued. “I blame him. Or maybe Sir Chuck for backing you into him. Anyway, I really don’t think this one was your fault.” He took a sip from a teacup he’d brought with him. “Why haven’t you guys come down for breakfast?”
“I’m not leaving this room until the ceremony,” I told him. “I’ll do my bridesmaidenly duty for Connie and then I’m coming straight back to this room. I mean it.”
“Oh.” Max sipped again. “Then I shouldn’t bother telling you that the LOTM is going riding this morning. Alone.”
I was dressed and downstairs in five minutes flat. After all, horseback riding was clearly listed as a Day Two event on my plan, and here it was Day Three already. I had some catching up to do.
And I’m an excellent rider.
“YOU’RE QUITE AN EXCELLENT RIDER,” he complimented me. We’d just jumped a small fence, and I was feeling fully redeemed from the incident of the cello. We came to the top of a hill, and I realized we’d made a big circle because after riding for an hour or so we were coming back toward Lakewood House again. The lake itself was to our left. “What’s that building out on the island?” I asked him.
“Oh that? Just the folly.” He dismissed it.
Of course, just the folly. Don’t we all have a folly on our private island? I took a moment to imagine him by moonlight in front of it. Leaning over me, closer, gazing deep into my eyes, lips parting slightly…
“Damn!” he said forcefully. His horse had made some sort of misstep. Did I mention that it was a white horse? Well, light gray anyway. Still—I was out on a date with a real-life, actual knight on a white horse.
“What’s the matter?”
“This damn beast might not have been as good an investment as I thought.” He shook the reins. “Still”—he flashed me a grin—“he’s rather lovely to look at, isn’t he?”
Rather.
I tore my gaze away to take in the scenery. “Is all of this yours?”
“More or less.” He looked toward the house. “My father is still living, and I’m guardian to two nephews. Their parents died in a boating accident.”
I looked at the lake. “Here?”
“Lord no.” He shook his head. “Somewhere in the Pacific between Tahiti and somewhere else.” He shrugged.
So they hadn’t been a close family. A movement down by the water’s edge caught my eye. “Who’s that?” I pointed to a figure who was struggling toward what was probably a boathouse because it was next to a small dock. He was swaying under a load of what looked like lumber.
A flash of distaste crossed Sir Charles Shipley’s perfect features. “An old gardener.” He sniffed and seemed bothered by something.
Okay. Not a good subject. “What’s that town in the distance?” I asked. “Is that where the train station is?”
“That?” He squinted. “No, that’s the village. The town is over there.” He maneuvered his horse close to mine, and we both came to a stop. Then he reached out and placed one hand on my back, extending his other arm over my shoulder so I could follow as he pointed to the town. This put his head close to mine, and his mouth just behind my right ear. I have no idea what he said, but I nodded at whatever he was pointing at and tried to resist melting against his chest.
His hand moved down my back and began making its way around my waist. I was trying to decide whether I should turn my head toward him, in a “kiss me” sort of way, or keep pretending to pay attention to his guided tour of the area. Should I wait for him to take the lead? Maybe he’d say something like “Rebecca, I must have you here. I must have you now.” Or maybe I wasn’t going to get that clear a message. Maybe he was waiting for me to indicate a certain willingness in some way. Maybe…
“Damn!” His beautiful horse kicked at mine and we were parted. Sir Charles gave me an angry look, possibly meant for his mount. “I’m going to have to give him a good gallop. Can you find your way back on your own?”
I wanted to say, “Hell, no—get off the stupid horse and come over here and kiss me.” But that might be interpreted as bitchy. So I nodded.
“Good. I’ll see you this afternoon.” The horse reared as he dug his heels in. “Damn,” he said as he turned away.
And then he was gone.
Damn, indeed.
Fifteen
I spent the ride back analyzing the exchange and came to the conclusion that it had gone well. I barged into Vida’s room the instant I returned. “Success!”
“Me too!”
The gong sounded as Shayla appeared behind me. “Oh,” she said, “this I’ve got to hear.”
It was a little like being sixteen again, only not like being me at sixteen—like being some popular-girl-who-was-into-boys at sixteen. Anyway, between getting our dinner dresses on and getting our hair and makeup done, there was a whole lot of giggling going on.
Vida had spent the day playing tennis with Phillip. It had been his suggestion, which would have been cause enough for celebration, but it also turned out he was just taking up the game, whereas Vida was a fairly serious player.
“So there we were,” Vida told us, “and Phillip Hastings was asking for pointers from me, and being great about it—not like a guy at all, you know? I mean, I hate it when some guy tries to show me how to do something that I’ve been doing better than him for years—”
This threatened to turn into a rant, so I steered her back on course. “So what happened after tennis?”
Vida beamed. “Well, we got started talking, and he was really impressed by my upper-body strength, and I told him it was the surfing. And it turns out he’s always wanted to try surfing.” She studied her fingernail in an attempt at nonchalance. “So he may plan a trip to California this summer.”
Fine, but in my mind that couldn’t compare to having Sir Charles Shipley’s lips within inches of my neck.
“Okay, so what’s your plan for dinner tonight?” I asked Vida. “I’m going to do my damnedest to get my guy out in the moonlight. I don’t care if it’s the terrace or the fountain or whatever.”
“I think it’s going to rain,” Shayla said doubtfully.
“Have him take you to the conservatory instead,” Vida suggested. “At least it’s got a glass roof. And I’ve got my evening under control. I’ve asked Phillip to teach me how to play snooker.”
“You guys are so complicated,” Shayla said. “If I want a guy, I just have a couple of drinks and jump him.”
Vida and I exchanged looks. I don’t think the direct approach had occurred to either one of us.
“What if he’s not interested?” Vida asked.
Shayla made a broad gesture encompassing her hair, her face, her impressive chest, her hips.
We got it. He’d be interested.
“If you want my opinion, and you’re both probably a lot smarter than me—” We protested, but she waved a hairbrush dismissively. “If you want my opinion, nothing works like pushing a guy up against a wall and planting one on him.”
EVEN IF WE’D DARED take Shayla’s advice—and we probably wouldn’t have—we never got the chance. When we went down to the Chinese Dining Room, we were greeted by a winking Trinny, who informed us that Sir Charles Shipley had arranged something called a “lad’s night” in Ian’s honor. All the men were gone.
“They’ll probably come back legless in the wee hours of the morning and sit around uselessly all day tomorrow, but boys will be boys,” she said. “They need their little indulgences, and we must keep them happy.”
They do? We must?
“Why don’t we all go out somewhere?” Vida proposed. But it was not to be.
“Becks, Vida.” Connie materialized at my elbow. “Come sit by me. We need to go over some of the things I’ll need you to take care of tomorrow at the garden reception.”
Resistance was futile. Day Three was lost.
ON DAY FOUR, Sir Charles Shipley disappeared. Some “unavoidable commitments” took him to London. The slightly scary housekeeper mentioned that he might not even show up in time for that evening’s reception in the walled garden—at which Vida and I would monitor the guest book, alert the staff if the canapés were running low, make sure the volume of the music suited the level of conversation, and carry out all the other duties on Connie’s lengthy and Trinny-free list.
After lunch, I stood at my bedroom window and glumly watched Vida and Phillip set off for a jog around the grounds. We were both supposed to be meeting Connie at the fountain to help supervise the people setting things up for the next day, but Vida hadn’t needed much encouragement to bail on that in favor of a sweaty run with her dream man.
Oh, well. At least one of us was happy. I gave myself five minutes to wallow in LOTM-induced self-pity, then set off to help Connie.
Two enormous trucks had arrived, and a gigantic white tent was being spread out on the open lawn behind the famous baroque fountain. Rows of immaculate white chairs were being placed in precise, angled lines facing the rose-covered arch that had been positioned in front of the fountain.
Swarms of efficient-looking workers seemed to have the situation completely under control. Connie was nowhere in sight.
“Excuse me.” I spotted a tall woman in a silk blouse and tailored trousers wearing a telephone headset and appearing to be in charge.
“What?” she snapped at me. “Do you work for me? What are you supposed to be doing?”
Wow. I expected snakes to leap out of her eyes. “I’m a bridesmaid. I’m supposed to meet the bride here.”
“You bloody fucking bastard!” she shouted. “No, that’s not good enough! I said fucking white silk organza ribbons and you’ll bloody well bring me fucking white silk organza ribbons!”
She was shouting into the headset, I realized, but I still took a step back. Her gaze flicked to me. “The bride’s in the house. I sent her away to take a bubble bath and think pretty thoughts or whatever the fuck brides do. What they do not do is tell me my business, thank you v
ery much, or get in my way while I’m trying to prevent a bloody fucking catastrophe!”
The last three words seemed to be for the benefit of her staff, who continued to rush around efficiently. I realized who she had to be.
“You’re the wedding planner.”
Connie had spoken in dismissive terms about someone she’d been faxing and e-mailing on this end. She hadn’t mentioned anything about the woman’s ability to breathe fire.
“That’s right. And unless you’ve got twenty pounds of pâté de fucking foie gras down your shirt I’ll thank you to let me get on with this fucking disaster!”
I fled in the direction of the lake.
I PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE TRIED to find Connie, but the thought of getting between her and the creature with the headset terrified me. Instead, I set off for the little dock I’d seen the day before with some sort of vague idea of finding a rowboat and investigating the island folly as a potential romantic backdrop.
But as I got closer to the dock, I heard a sort of clanging, banging sound coming from the boathouse. The door was open, so I stuck my head in to see what was going on.
I was greeted by the sight of a six-foot-tall white swan in the process of having its neck wrung by an elderly English gentleman.
“Hullo,” he huffed when he saw me. “What extraordinary timing. Could you please hold this in place for a moment while I try to find the right size spanner?”
“Um. Sure.” As my eyes adjusted to the gloom of the interior, I realized the swan was in fact some sort of sculpture in the final stages of construction. The man, I assumed, was the old gardener I’d seen from horseback the day before, struggling under his load of equipment.
I reached out and steadied the swan’s neck. “Here?”
“Lovely.” He stepped back to check the angle of the head. “Very nice.” He rooted around in a pile of tools on a shelf behind him and emerged triumphant. “Ah! Here you are!”
The Balance Thing Page 10