by Nora Roberts
"I know there was moral support in there somewhere," Margo said after a moment's thought. "I just have to weed it out from my poor judgment, questionable taste, and foolish career. Then again, I have to remember that your judgment is always good, your taste perfect, and your career brilliant."
"That's true." There was a flush on Margo's cheeks now and fire in her eyes. Relieved, Kate grinned. "You look beautiful when you're angry."
"Oh, shut up." Margo marched to the terrace doors, wrenched them open, and strode out onto the wide stone balcony with its mini garden of impatiens and violas.
The weather was clear and fine, one of those unspeakably beautiful days drenched with gilded sunlight, cupped by blue skies, perfumed with flowers. The Templeton estate, Big Sur, stretched out, tumbling gardens and tidy stone walls, graceful ornamental bushes and stately old trees. The pretty stucco stables that were no longer used resembled a tidy cottage off to the south. She could just catch a glint that was the water of the pool, and the fanciful white gazebo beyond it, decked with pretty four-o'clocks.
She'd done some dreaming in that flower-drenched gazebo, she remembered. Imagining herself a fine lady waiting for a devoted and dashing lover.
"Why did I ever want to leave here?''
"I don't know." Kate came up behind her, draped an arm over Margo's shoulder. In heels she was still an inch shy of Margo's stacked five ten, but she drew Margo against her and supported her.
"I wanted to be someone. Someone dazzling. I wanted to meet dazzling people, be a part of their world. Me, the housekeeper's daughter, flying off to Rome, sunning on the Riviera, decorating the slopes at Saint Moritz."
"You've done all those things."
"And more. Why wasn't it ever enough for me, Kate? Why was there always this part of me that wanted one more thing? Just one more thing I could never get a grip on. I could never figure out what it was. Now that I may have lost all the others, I still haven't figured it out."
"You've got time," Kate said quietly. "Remember Seraphina?''
Margo's lips curved a little as she thought of how she had stood on Seraphina's cliff the night before. And of all the lazy days when she and Kate and Laura had talked about the young Spanish girl, the conclusions they'd come to.
"She didn't wait and see." Margo leaned her head against Kate's. "She didn't stop and see what the rest of her life had to offer."
"Here's your chance to wait and see."
"Well." Margo blew out a breath. "As fascinating as that sounds, I might not be able to wait for some of it. I think I may be in some stormy financial waters." She drew back and tried to put on a sunny smile. "I could use your professional help. I figure a woman with an M.B.A. from Harvard can decipher my poorly kept and disorganized books. Want to take a shot?"
Kate leaned back against the rail. The smile didn't fool her for a minute. And she knew if Margo was worried about something as casual as money, it was a desperate time.
"I've got the rest of the day. Get some clothes on, and we'll get started."
Margo knew it was bad. She'd expected it to be bad. But from the way Kate was grumbling and hissing, she understood it was going to be a hell of a lot worse.
After the first hour, she stayed out of Kate's way. It did no good to hang over her shoulder and be snapped at, so she occupied herself by unpacking, carefully hanging dresses that had been carelessly packed into the rosewood armoire, meticulously folding sweaters into the scented drawer of the mirrored bureau.
She answered Kate's occasional questions and tolerated the more than occasional abuse. Desperate gratitude flooded through her when Laura opened the door.
"Sorry I was gone so long. I couldn't—"
"Quiet. I'm trying to perform miracles here."
Margo jerked a thumb at the terrace. "She's working on my books," Margo explained when they were outside. "You can't imagine what she pulled out of her briefcase. This little laptop computer, a calculator I'm sure could run equations for the space shuttle, even a fax."
"She's brilliant." With a sigh, Laura sat down on one of the wrought-iron chairs and slipped out of her shoes. "Templeton would hire her in a heartbeat, but she's very stubborn about not working for family. Bittle and Associates is lucky to have her."
"What is this crap about seaweed?" Kate shouted.
"It's a spa treatment," Margo called back. "I think it's deductible because—"
"Just let me do the thinking. How the hell can you owe fifteen thousand dollars to Valentino? How many outfits can you wear?"
Margo sat down. "It probably wouldn't be smart for me to tell her that was for one cocktail dress."
"I'd say not," Laura agreed. "The kids will be home from school in an hour or so. They always put her in a good mood. We'll have a family dinner to celebrate your homecoming."
"Did you tell Peter I was here?"
"Of course. You know, I think I'll make sure we have champagne chilled."
Before Laura could rise, Margo covered her hand. "He's not pleased with the news."
"Don't be silly. Certainly he's pleased." But she began to twist her wedding ring around her finger, a sure sign of agitation. "He's always glad to see you."
"Laura, it isn't nearly twenty-five years of knowing you that lets me see when you're lying. It's that you're so lousy at it. He doesn't want me here."
Excuses trembled on her tongue, but they were useless. It was true, Laura admitted, lying was a skill she'd never mastered. "This is your home. Peter understands that even if he isn't completely comfortable with the situation. I want you here, Annie wants you here, and the kids are thrilled that you're here. Now I'm not only going to go see about that champagne, I'm going to go bring a bottle up here."
"Good idea." She would have to worry about guilt later. "Maybe it'll help Kate keep me in the black."
"This mortgage is fifteen days overdue," Kate called out. "And you're over the limit on your Visa. Jesus, Margo."
"I'll bring two bottles," Laura decided and kept a smile in place until she'd left Margo's room.
She went to her own, wanting a moment to herself. She'd thought she had gotten over her anger, but she hadn't. It was still there, she realized, high and bitter in her throat. She paced the sitting room to work it off. The sitting room that was becoming more of a sanctuary. She could come here, close herself in with the warm colors and scents, and tell herself that she had correspondence to answer, some little piece of needlework to finish.
But more often she came here to work off an emotion that choked her.
Perhaps she should have expected Peter's reaction, been prepared for it. But she hadn't been. She never seemed to be prepared for Peter's reactions any more. How could it be that after ten years of marriage she didn't seem to know him at all?
She stopped by his office on the way home from her committee meeting on the Summer Ball. She hummed to herself as she took the private elevator up to the penthouse suite of Templeton Monterey. Peter preferred the suite to the executive offices on the hotel's ground level. It was quieter, he said, made it easier to concentrate.
From her days of assisting and learning the business in the nerve center of the sales and reservations offices, she had to agree. Perhaps it separated him from the pulse, from the people, but Peter knew his job.
The sheer beauty of the day, added to the pleasure of having her old friend home again, lifted her mood. With a spring in her step, she crossed the silver-toned carpet to the airy reception area.
"Oh, hello, Mrs. Ridgeway." The receptionist offered a quick smile but continued working and didn't quite meet Laura's eyes. "I think Mr. Ridgeway is in a meeting, but let me just buzz through and let him know you're here."
"I'd appreciate it, Nina. I'll only take a few minutes of his time." She wandered over to the seating area, quietly empty now. The leather seats in navy were new, and as pricey as the antique tables and lamps and the watercolors Peter had commissioned had been. But Laura supposed he'd been right. The offices had needed some sprucing up. A
ppearances were important in business. Were important to Peter.
But as she gazed through the wide window she wondered how anyone could care about navy leather seats when that awesome view of the coast presented itself.
Just look at how the water rolled, how it stretched to forever. The ice plants were blooming pink, and white gulls veered in, hoping some tourist would offer a treat. See the boats on the bay, bobbing like shiny, expensive toys for men in double-breasted navy blazers and white slacks.
She lost herself in it and nearly forgot to retouch her lipstick and powder before the receptionist told her to go right in.
Peter Ridgeway's office suited the executive director of Templeton Hotels, California. With its carefully selected Louis XIV furnishings, its glorious seascapes and sculptures, it was as erudite and flawlessly executed as the man himself. When he rose from behind the desk, her smile warmed automatically.
He was a beautiful man, bronze and gold and trim in elegant Savile Row. She had fallen in love with that face—its cool blue eyes, firm mouth and jaw—like a princess for a prince in a fairy tale. And, as in a fairy tale, he had swept her off her feet when she'd been barely eighteen. He'd been everything she'd dreamed of.
She lifted her mouth for a kiss and received an absent peck on the cheek. "I don't have much time, Laura. I have meetings all day." He remained standing, tilting his head, the faintest line of annoyance marring his brow. "I've told you it's more convenient if you call first to be certain I can see you. My schedule isn't as flexible as yours is."
Her smile faded. "I'm sorry. I wasn't able to talk to you last night, and when I called this morning, you were out, so—"
"I went by the club for a quick nine holes and a steam. I put in a very long night."
"Yes, I know." How are you, Laura? How are the girls? I missed you. She waited a moment, but he said none of those things. "You'll be home tonight?"
"If I'm able to get back to work, I should be able to make it by seven."
"Good. I was hoping you could. We're having a family dinner. Margo's back."
His mouth tightened briefly, but he did stop looking at his watch. "Back?"
"She got in last night. She's so unhappy, Peter. So tired."
"Unhappy? Tired?" His laugh was quick and unamused. "I'm not surprised, after her latest adventure." He recognized the look in his wife's eyes and banked down on his fury. He wasn't a man who cared for displays of temper, even his own. "For God's sake, Laura, you haven't invited her to stay."
"It wasn't a matter of inviting her. It's her home."
It wasn't anger now so much as weariness. He sat, gave a long sigh. "Laura, Margo is the daughter of our housekeeper. That does not make Templeton her home. You can carry childhood loyalties too far."
"No," Laura said quietly. "I don't think you can. She's in trouble, Peter, and whether or not any of it is of her own making isn't the issue. She needs her friends and her family."
"Her name's all over the papers, the news, every bloody tabloid show on the screen. Sex, drugs, name of God."
"She was cleared of the drug charges, Peter, and she certainly isn't the first woman to fall for a married man."
His voice took on the tedious patience that always put her teeth on edge. "That may be true, but'discretion' isn't a word she seems to be aware of. I can't have her name linked to ours and risk our standing in the community. I don't want her in my house."
That brought Laura's head up and erased any thought of placating him. "It's my parents' house," she tossed back with fury sizzling in every word. "We're there, Peter, because they wanted it to be lived in and loved. I know my mother and father would welcome Margo, and so do I."
"I see." He folded his hands on the desk. "That's a little dig you haven't tried in some time. I live in Templeton House, work for the Templeton empire, and sleep with the Templeton heiress."
When you bother to come home, Laura thought, but held her tongue.
"Whatever I have is due to the Templeton generosity."
"That's certainly not true, Peter. You're your own man, an experienced and successful hotelier. And there's no reason to turn a discussion of Margo into a fight."
Gauging her, he tried a new tack. "It doesn't bother you, Laura, to have a woman with her reputation around our children? Certainly they'll hear gossip, and Allison, at least, is old enough to understand some of it."
The flush rose to her cheeks, then died away. "Margo is Ali's godmother and she's my oldest friend. She's welcome at Templeton as long as I live there, Peter." She straightened her shoulders, looked him dead in the eye. "To use words you'll understand, those terms are nonnegotiable. Dinner's at seven-thirty if you're able to make it."
She strode out and controlled the urge to slam the door.
Now, alone in her room, she fought back the resurging temper. It never did her any good to lose it, only made her feel foolish and guilty. So she would calm herself, put on that smooth false front she was growing so accustomed to wearing.
It was important to remember that Margo needed her. And it was becoming painfully clear that her husband did not.
"Can I try your perfume, Aunt Margo? The one in the pretty gold bottle. Please?"
Margo looked down at Kayla's hopeful face. If they were casting angels, she mused, this one with her soft gray eyes and winking dimples would win the role hands down.
"Just a couple of drops." Margo took the stopper out and dabbed a whisper behind each of Kayla's ears. "A woman doesn't want to be obvious."
"How come?"
"Because mystery is a spice."
"Like pepper?"
Ali, three years superior to Kayla's six years, snorted. But Margo hauled Kayla up on her lap and nuzzled her. "In a manner of speaking. Want a dab, Ali?''
All but salivating over the fascinating bottles and pots on the vanity, Ali tried her best to sound nonchalant. "Maybe, but I don't want what she has."
"Something different, then. Something…" Playing it up, Margo waved her hand over this bottle and that. "Bold and daring."
"But not obvious," Kayla chimed in.
"That's a girl. Here we are." Without a thought, Margo sacrificed a few dabs of a two-hundred-dollar-an-ounce scent. It was Bella Donna's new Tigre. She probably had twenty of the gorgeous handblown bottles in her Milan flat. "You're growing up on me," she accused and tugged the gold curls spilling to Ali's shoulders.
"I'm old enough to have my ears pierced, but Daddy won't let me."
"Men just don't understand these things." Because she did, perfectly, she patted Ali's cheek before shifting Kayla on her knee. "Decorating ourselves is a woman's privilege." Giving Ali a bolstering smile in the mirror, she went back to perfecting her makeup. "Your mom'll talk him into it."
"She can't talk him into anything. He never listens."
"He's very busy," Kayla said solemnly. "He has to work and work so we can stand."
"So we won't lose our standing," Ali corrected and rolled her eyes. Kayla didn't understand anything, she thought. Sometimes Mama did, and Aunt Kate always listened, but she had hope, great new hope that her glamorous and mysterious Aunt Margo would understand everything.
"Aunt Margo, are you going to stay now that those bad things happened to you?''
"I don't know." Margo set down her lipstick with a little click.
"I'm glad you came home." Ali wrapped her arms around Margo's neck.
"So am I." The unstable emotions were stirring again. She rose quickly, grabbing each child by the hand. "Let's go down and see if there's anything fun to eat before dinner."
"We're having hors d'oeuvres in the front parlor," Ali said loftily, then giggled. "We hardly ever get to stay up for dinner with hors d'oeuvres."
"Stick with me, kid." She stopped at the top curve of the stairs. "Let's make an entrance. Chins up, eyes bored, stomachs in, fingers trailing carelessly along the banisters."
She was halfway down behind the girls when she saw her mother at the bottom landing. Ann stood with her
hands folded, her face solemn.
"Ah, Lady Allison, Lady Kayla, we're honored that you could join us this evening. Refreshments are being served in the front parlor."
Ali inclined her head regally. "Thank you, Miss Annie," she managed before she bolted after her sister.
It wasn't until Margo had reached the bottom that she caught the twinkle in her mother's eyes. For the first time since her return, they smiled easily at each other.
"I'd forgotten how much fun they are."
"Miss Laura is raising angels."
"I was thinking the same thing myself. She's done everything right—everything I haven't. Mum, I'm sorry—"
"We won't talk about it now." But Ann laid a hand briefly over her daughter's on the newel post. "Later—but they're waiting for you now." She started to walk away, then paused. "Margo, Miss Laura needs a friend just now as much as you do. I hope you'll be a good one."
"If something's wrong, tell me."
Ann shook her head. "It's not my place. Just be a good friend." She walked away, leaving Margo to enter the parlor alone.
Ali was already crossing the room, her tongue caught in her teeth, her hands full of a flute of fizzing champagne. "I poured it for you myself."
"Well, then, I'll have to drink it." She lifted the glass, scanned the room. Laura had Kayla on one hip, and Kate was sampling the finger food arranged on Georgian silver. A sedate fire flickered in the hearth framed by rich lapis. The stunning curved mirror over the mantel tossed back reflections of glossy antiques, delicate porcelain, and rosy light from globe lamps.
"To being home with friends," Margo said and sipped.
"Eat some of this mini quiche," Kate ordered over a full mouth. "It's outrageous."
What the hell, Margo thought, her weight was hardly a burning issue any longer. She took one bite, hummed in pleasure. "Mrs. Williamson's still a wonder. Lord, she must be eighty by now."
"Seventy-three last November," Laura corrected. "And she can still whip up the most incredible chocolate souffle." She winked at Kayla. "Which, rumor has it, is on for tonight."
"Daddy says Mrs. Williamson should be retired and we should have a French chef like the Barrymores in Carmel." Because Margo had, Ali sampled a quiche.