by Hilary Rose
“Not so much,” she admitted with a sheepish laugh. “I mean there’s my foundation for cancer research. Otherwise, I’m not that well read and my movie-going experiences tend toward whatever’s playing at the multiplexes and I don’t pay a lot of attention to politics. As for traveling, I’m ashamed to say I haven’t traveled a lot except with my mother for occasional Spencer Publications business. I’ve never been to Paris, if you can believe it. I’ve been single-minded about designing and moving up in the industry, I guess.”
“Never been to Paris? Oh, Caroline.” He sighed. “What you’ve been missing. Life is short, you know.” He paused. “Okay, I’m giving you an assignment. It’s multifaceted and it has nothing to do with the fashion show. I want you to take yourself to one of the art-house cinemas in town and watch a foreign film—with subtitles. I want you to read something other than Vogue: a novel you think might move you or a biography of someone you admire. I want you to get tickets for a sporting event—Lakers, Clippers, Dodgers, Kings; doesn’t matter. We aren’t necessarily known as a sports town here in LA and you don’t strike me as the athletic type, but we’ve got some very good teams and you should go to a game or two because the crowds get rowdy and fun and there’s nothing like it when your team wins. I want you to eat at LA’s best restaurants—not the standard-issue, white-tablecloth, overpriced, expense-account establishments, but the ethnic places, the food trucks, the joints where the chefs are taking risks—and savor the food as if it was your last meal, not just wolf it down because you’re hungry. And when all this fundraiser stuff is over and you have the time, I want you to hightail it out of LA and New York—book yourself on a trans-Atlantic flight and go to Paris, and then go to London and Rome and Barcelona and Sydney and anyplace else that arouses your curiosity. But get out of the bubble, Caroline, and do it while you still can.”
“Is that why you went to Paris, Ridge? To get out of the bubble? I thought you went there to run Forrester International.”
“I did, but also to experience the city and the people,” said Ridge. “I’d been to Paris many times, but I’d never seized the opportunity to enjoy living there, to explore new neighborhoods, go to museums, immerse myself in the French culture. Getting out of the bubble is how we learn about the world, learn about ourselves too.” He leaned forward in his chair and shrugged. “Forgive me. I sound like some washed-up old college professor giving a tedious lecture.”
Caroline shook her head. “I liked what you said. I just wish you didn’t think I was so one-dimensional.”
“No, not one-dimensional, Caroline Spencer,” he said softly, kindly, almost affectionately, a tone he wasn’t used to using. “Definitely not that.”
*
Her mind reeling from their conversation, Caroline hurried to her scheduled meeting with Hope, who rushed to the door to greet her, crushing her in a hug. Rick’s younger sister was still so lovely—a blue-eyed princess, a honey-blond prom queen, her wholesome youth having given way to a strong, sexy, independent young woman whose message reached legions of young women around the world with her clothing line.
“So? How did Ridge like everything?” Hope asked with breathless anticipation. “I’ve been checking my watch every five minutes, wondering what was going on down the hall. I almost texted you.”
“Sorry, we ran late,” said Caroline. Was her face flushed? It felt that way, almost as if she and Ridge had shared an intimate experience, not merely a professional one. “He liked my presentation a lot, Hope. I think it’s all going to work out.”
“Yes!” Hope squealed. “I knew it! If anyone could get through to Ridge it would be you, Caroline. You’re awesome, and I’m so grateful. We all are.” She hugged her again. “What’s the next step?”
“You’ll be getting the line-up for the fashion show today, and hopefully production and marketing will work their magic. I can’t wait to see it all take shape.”
Hope giggled. “That’s all great, but I meant what’s the next step for you?” Her eyes twinkled. “Rick said there might be a romantic dinner-for-two tonight?”
Caroline smiled, appreciative of Hope’s eagerness to help her reconcile with Rick and of her good intentions, but careful not to convey any false promises. “I’ll be having dinner with Rick tonight, yes. But we’re divorced, Hope. There was a reason we split up and I hadn’t seen him in six months until yesterday. The whole idea of us getting back together is totally new for me and I don’t even know how I feel about it. So it’s much too soon for some romantic candlelight thing. It would be inappropriate at best.”
Chapter Six
“A quiet table by the fireplace, sir, as you requested,” said the tuxedoed maître d’ as he bowed with the deference of someone who’d already been given a healthy tip. He pulled out Caroline’s lushly upholstered high-back chair, and made sure she was comfortable before placing a white linen napkin across her lap and unfolding a small rattan stand on which he deposited her purse. He turned to place Rick’s napkin across his lap, then said, “I’ll send your server over right away.”
“Right away” apparently meant right that very second, because a young man wearing a crisp white shirt with a black tie and black pants appeared with leather-bound menus weighing as much as old telephone books.
Next came a veritable cavalcade of other, equally fawning, black and white clad servers. The first delivered a bread tray offering six options, from a warm potato roll to a cone-shaped baguette, accompanied by small ramekins of truffle butter, almond butter and olive butter. He was followed by the “water sommelier,” who announced selections of water, both still and sparkling, from ten different countries, including California’s own limited edition “vintage water.” He made way for the “master sommelier,” who, before turning over the wine list to Rick, recited his credentials and imparted the intended note of gravitas to the occasion. Eventually, the “server-in-chief,” as he referred to himself, showed up to report the chef’s recommendations of the day and asked, “Is this a special occasion for the two of you? A birthday or anniversary, perhaps?”
Caroline couldn’t help thinking of Ridge throughout the evening, kept hearing his words reverberate in her mind. The restaurant Rick had chosen for their first dinner together since the divorce was exactly the kind of place Ridge had told her to avoid in order to get out of the bubble, a “standard-issue, white-tablecloth, overpriced, expense-account establishment.” It was also pretentious and silly—the sort of fussy, stereotypical restaurant where men routinely took their dates to propose or celebrate Valentine’s Day. All of which would have been perfectly fine with Caroline if she and Rick were, indeed, celebrating something but, as she told Hope, it was much too soon for that.
She did appreciate being seated next to the fireplace, though. Dense fog—the marine layer, they called it in California—had blanketed LA by sunset and the air had turned chilly and damp. She’d paid little attention to the weather forecast and regretted it. She hadn’t dressed appropriately, given her sleeveless cowl neck top and short skirt, not bothering with a sweater or jacket. Despite her East Coast roots, she felt the cold more keenly in California, and was shivering until the fireplace began to warm her.
Rick looked as handsome as ever in his elegant, custom-made suit, his hair slicked back off his finely chiseled face, his scent reminding her of their languid nights in bed when they made love again and again until they finally fell asleep in each other’s arms. All was right with the world then. Caroline really believed that. She’d viewed Rick Forrester as if he were a reward—the prize she’d won in the hard-fought competition with Maya. She’d thought the contest was over, and they would thrive as Mr and Mrs Eric Forrester, Jr, a fashion industry power couple whose comings and goings would be chronicled in glossy international magazines, Spencer Publications’ own Eye on Fashion included. It was a fairy tale, she realized now, as she watched him drain his wine goblet. They were a fairy tale, and fairy tales were for children.
“This is nice,” he said duri
ng one of the five or six courses, Caroline couldn’t keep track of them. “Being here with you is like old times. I haven’t been this happy in—well, since you left.”
He took her hand, brought it up to his lips and kissed it. The dinner hadn’t started out with compliments and kisses. Rick had ordered wine for them and asked her if she was warm enough and quizzed her about her meeting with Ridge. But it was obvious to Caroline from the outset that he had more on his mind than small talk. She could tell by the way he worked his jaw and flexed his fingers that there was pent-up nervous energy he needed to exorcize, that he was dying to talk about a possible reconciliation, about whether they could begin again, about whether she would forgive him and take him back.
When he finally did delve into their relationship, he expanded on what he’d written in the letter, about his chaotic adolescence and his pattern of screwing up. It was an effort to explain his behavior, explain about Maya, explain how his self-esteem was so low after Ridge kicked him out of the president’s office that he grabbed for the nearest fix, the quickest numbing agent, and Maya was it.
“Why didn’t you come to me instead of her?” Caroline asked, the question she’d considered many times in the six months since the divorce. “We were supposed to be a team and teammates stick together, for better or worse.”
“I know that now,” he said, holding her gaze. “I guess I was ashamed to come to you. You had such high expectations for me, Caroline. Maybe I didn’t want to let you down.”
“So you let me down in the worst possible way,” she mused. She did have high expectations for him, just as she’d had for them as a couple, but she’d been his best sounding board and never judged him, always tried to cheer him up when things didn’t go in his favor. Caroline suddenly had a thought: Rick never asked her about herself, not like Ridge had earlier, never like that. In fact, the letter he’d written focused on his needs, his shortcomings and his childhood hurts, just like this conversation. And it had ended with an invitation to dinner so he could “pour his heart out.” At no point in the letter did he say, “I want to hear about you, about your life.”
“If Ridge hadn’t come back from Paris, maybe none of this would have happened,” Rick muttered now. “It all went downhill from there.”
“You’re seriously blaming Ridge for your affair with Maya?” Caroline said hotly. “He didn’t force you to reach out to her, to sleep with her, to blow up our marriage.” She was appalled, and the fact that she was appalled surprised her. Before she came back to LA, she’d resented Ridge almost as much as Rick did. She’d bought the argument about how Rick’s demotion had been so unfair, so egregious, that it had caused him to act irrationally, and she, too, had demonized Ridge. But while Ridge did have a low opinion of Rick and his promotion of his son Thomas was questionable, he certainly wasn’t responsible for the breakup. She could see that clearly now.
And she could see how Ridge seemed to value her in a manner that Rick no longer did, if ever. Although his eyesight was compromised, Ridge had this uncanny knack for looking right through her, into her heart and soul. They’d only worked together for a mere two days, but they’d been intense, and she’d felt useful again, appreciated. He stimulated her not just to create better, bolder designs, but to question her goals in life, venture out of her comfort zone and grow, explore the world and her own thoughts and feelings, stop rushing around getting things done and checking items off a to-do list and instead get out there and see, smell, touch, use all her senses. He’d said as much as far back as the party at Luc’s but she hadn’t really heard him, hadn’t let his words register. She’d always been in the bubble, ever since she was a little girl drawing dresses instead of playing a musical instrument or sticking her nose in a book. She’d had stirrings of wanting to broaden her interests and tastes but had never quite known how. Now she realized Ridge was so much more interesting than she’d ever given him credit for, and she was excited about spending more time with him. She had a sneaking suspicion he didn’t mind having her around either. It dawned on her that his opinion mattered to her—not just his opinion of her designs but what was inside her. She knew she looked good on the outside; she’d had enough men fall all over her to understand the affect her appearance had on them and she spent enough on clothes and beauty products to enhance what nature had given her. But did any of these men take her seriously as a person with more going on in her head than the quest for the perfect little black dress? Did she even take herself seriously that way?
“Look, I don’t like Ridge,” said Rick. “No secret there. Half the time I walk around wanting to punch the guy in the face. The other half just wants him to fly back to Paris and stay there. I hate to think of you having to be cooped up in that office with him, Caroline. Must be torture.”
“Not at all, actually,” she said after a pause, a flush spreading across her cheeks.
Rick cocked his head at her. “What’s this? You changing teams on me?”
When Caroline hesitated for just an instant, Rick’s brows furrowed. “I can deal with you needing more time to trust me, to let me show you how much you mean to me and how badly I want us back together, but I couldn’t handle it if you ever chose him over me. It would start a war, Caroline.”
A war? Caroline knew Rick could be hotheaded, but his choice of words set off alarm bells. He and Ridge had done verbal battle too many times to count over the years, starting long before she’d ever met either of them, and a couple of those battles had resulted in hand-to-hand combat. The last thing Forrester Creations needed during the countdown to the fundraiser was any sort of family conflict, especially over her.
Besides, it was all so ridiculous. Caroline’s interest in Ridge was purely professional and vice versa. She needed to diffuse the sudden tension at the table and she did so by laughing. “Nobody’s doing any choosing,” she assured Rick, reaching out to stroke his cheek, the first time she’d initiated any physical contact between them. “We really shouldn’t be focusing on Ridge when this night is about us, isn’t it?”
His face relaxed into a smile. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said. “Us. I like the sound of that.”
He leaned over to kiss her and she gently placed her hand on his chest.
“Too soon, Rick,” she said. “I’m not saying it’ll never happen. I’m not putting a timetable on it. I’m just asking if we could take baby steps. I’m still getting used to the idea of being back here, you know?”
He nodded. “Of course. I don’t want to rush you. I just want you to know where I stand … whenever you’re ready.”
*
The fog was so thick as they drove back to Beverly Hills from Santa Monica that they could barely see the hood of the Porsche, much less the other cars in front of them. It was treacherous, and Caroline wished they could pull over and wait out the fog, but that wasn’t how it worked with marine layers; they often hung around for days. So Rick continued to drive, slowly, carefully. “I have to protect my precious cargo,” he said, patting her knee.
They were going no more than forty miles an hour on the freeway when Rick spotted a car parked on the shoulder, a woman standing outside it, waving frantically for help.
“We should stop,” he said, slowing down so he could park behind the car.
“Yes, good idea.” Caroline smiled knowingly at Rick as he fished his flashlight out of the glove compartment. She did love that about him, how he enjoyed being the white knight to damsels in distress, except, of course, when the damsel was Maya. He had a kind heart. She’d seen it many times. It only disappeared when he thought his manhood was threatened—by Ridge.
The woman’s Honda Accord had been rear-ended by another car whose driver had kept going—a combination fender-bender and hit-and-run—and she had cuts and bruises as well as a sore neck and back. She’d called 911 for assistance but the California Highway Patrol must have had a busy night, because it had been over two hours and they still hadn’t come.
Rick offered to
call a friend who volunteered as an EMT, and within thirty minutes the medics arrived to examine the woman and take her to the nearest hospital. She was extremely grateful to Rick, and Caroline was proud of his willingness to lend a hand without having to be asked.
She was also freezing. Not wanting to seem insensitive, she’d stood outside in the damp night air, waiting for help to arrive, instead of taking shelter in the Porsche. Rick wrapped his jacket over her shoulders and it did add a layer between her and the dampness, but her teeth were still chattering by the time they got back on the freeway.
“Do you feel feverish?” asked Rick as he bumped up the heat in the car. “I don’t want you catching pneumonia on my watch.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I can’t afford to be sick, not with the fashion show coming up.”
“Then let me take care of you,” he said. “Just for tonight. No strings. I promise.”
“Oh, Rick. That’s sweet, but I’ll be okay. Really.”
“No arguments. We’ll go straight to your hotel and I’ll order you a pot of hot tea, put you in bed, pile on the blankets and be there to check on you all night.”
“All night? I don’t think that’s a good—”
“You’re in a suite, Caroline,” he reminded her. “There’s a sleeper sofa in the living room. I’ll tuck you in, say goodnight and close your door. I’ll be right nearby if you need me but out of your way if you don’t. Let me do this for you. I have so much to make up for.”
She tried to protest again that she’d be fine on her own, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted to protect her, to show her he was the sort of man she could count on, nothing more.
“It’s a beginning,” he reminded her. “A baby step, just like you said.”
Back at the Beverly Wilshire, Rick did exactly as he’d promised, the perfect gentleman. He ordered the tea while she changed into her nightgown, helped her into the king-size bed, asked housekeeping for an extra comforter and laid it gently on top of her to make sure she was warm enough and then he kissed her on the forehead, turned off the lights and headed for the adjacent living room.