"Great idea. I will." Doug got down on the floor, leaning against the bookcase. "You know, Granddad and Gran were really something else. They built this little empire without milking their celebrity much at all. I think it's admirable."
Priscilla nodded. "Very true. Which is exactly why this Ginger Wallford interview is a bad idea, Doug. You know she wouldn't want you doing it."
He sighed. "I know you don't agree, Cilla...but I want to do it. We've also been asked to sit down with Sir Gregory Appleton, one of England's most respected journalists, and I've agreed to do that one too."
"Yes, but do you know how many times she turned down these same requests? Consistently, year after year? She's always said that once she'd left the business, that was it, she was done, and she didn't owe the public any answers or any insight into her life."
"Well, this isn't really about Gran, though, is it? It's about us."
"How can you say that? Of course it's not about us. We're not in the public eye—she is. She's the name people know. We'll only become known once you start feeding the public interest in her life, giving TV interv—." Priscilla's phone chimed on the desk. She picked it up and read the text. "It's Paula. Hang on a sec," she said, shooting off a quick reply.
When she hit send, she fell back into her grandmother's chair, biting her lip. "She wants me to get out, go to the park or something but I told her she should just come on over. I'm not up for it yet."
"Well, that's understandable," said Doug. "But you should at least try to keep up with your work, Cilla. Don't wallow in grief. Gran wouldn't want that—she wouldn't stand for it. She lived a full, rich life and accomplished a lot. She wanted the same for you. Just think...together we could take Favorite Things to the next level. For them and for us."
"I know," Priscilla said quietly.
Doug smiled. "I won't stop pushing you to come across the pond, you know. I can show you the ropes and get your input on things. We'll be a dynamic duo. So start brushing up on your French."
"Well, I do want to come over," she replied. "I want to get involved. This is our inheritance and I know we have to do right by it. I definitely want to keep their legacy alive, so please don't think it's not important to me—it is." She exhaled deeply. "But again, just give me some time to register that Gran's actually gone. Please. It hasn't even been three weeks, Doug. It's so strange being here without her...I'm not ready to go anywhere...not yet. But I must admit," she chuckled, "the idea of being thousands of miles away from Charlotte tempts me daily to reconsider."
"Well, I do understand," said Doug, nodding. "And I'll be waiting for you, sis."
He rose up from the bookcase and they got back to work.
•~•
When Paula came by, she gave Priscilla a great big, warm hug and said, "A walk in the park would do you some good, Cilla. I'm just worried about you being cooped up in the house all this time."
"I'll get out soon, P. Truth is, all the paparazzi at the funeral kind of freaked me out a little bit. We've never had that before. Gran was very low key, and you know how serious she was about leaving all that stuff behind. So it was freaky, you know?"
"I hadn't thought about that," said Paula. She laughed. "Sometimes I just forget who you guys are."
Paula Fleischman was the twenty-six-year-old daughter of one of their closest neighbors in Mayfair. Her family owned an adjacent estate and was big on the international real estate scene. They'd been living on the island a long time, even before the Bauers.
"I just don't want to go down that road," Priscilla said. "And I'm worried about Douglas agreeing to sit down with Ginger Wallford so soon. Can you believe it? Gran's barely cold in the ground and the media trolls are coming out in full force."
"I've never exactly seen Ginger Wallford as a troll, Cilla. I doubt anyone does. She's as respected as they get."
"Oh, please," said Priscilla. "All those TV people are the same. You really think she cares about Douglas and me?"
Just then, Priscilla's phone chimed. She smiled when she saw that it was Michael.
He must be back, she thought, opening the message.
Hi there. Home safe. Need to talk to u. Call when u can. — M. Frost —
"Haven't seen that smile in a while," said Paula, watching her face. "Who's the guy?"
Priscilla glanced up with a sheepish grin. "Give me one second."
Leaving her friend in the den, she jogged up to her bedroom. The text had had a more sobering tone than she was used to from Michael, so she wanted to call back right away.
"Hey. Glad you made it home safely," she said when he answered. "Hope everything went well."
"It was okay," he said, his tone sounding rather dull. "You know, Priscilla..." He hesitated. "I did a lot of thinking while I was away...about us and what I've sort of forced you into here."
She sighed, rolling her eyes. "Haven't we been through all that? You didn't force me into anything—it's okay."
"Yeah, that's what I thought. But after speaking to my father this weekend, he convinced me I was wrong. You do need more time to grieve, Cilla. And it was selfish and rather immature of me to push in on you the way that I did and not allow you that time."
"So, what are you saying?" she asked.
"I'm saying you were right. The timing is wrong. And I'm gonna back off for a while. But for the record,"—he sighed heavily—"this is really hard for me, because I like you a lot, Priscilla, and I do want to be with you. But you were right. It's bad timing."
"Well, if that's the way you feel," she replied, "I respect that." She prayed her disappointment was well masked. "I won't argue. Under the circumstances it probably is for the best."
For a moment neither spoke.
"I'm glad you liked the bracelet," he said. "And I hope you won't forget about me."
"No, I'm sure I won't, Michael. Bye." She ended the call feeling like something inside had deflated. His words had sounded sensible enough...but Priscilla couldn't help feeling that something was off about them.
Closing her eyes, she remembered the earnest and eager reassurances he had given her in her sitting room, and again down on the beach. But all the shame she had felt about having slept with him on sight—the day of the funeral of all days—still came rustling back.
Well, she thought. At least now I don't have to bother saying a word about him to anyone. The horse never even left the gate.
Bearing her disappointment, she headed back downstairs, resigned to forgetting about this complete lapse in judgment—a.k.a. Michael Frost—and just putting the whole episode behind her.
If nothing else, at least Douglas would be relieved.
• CHAPTER ELEVEN •
It had been only a few short days since Michael had ended things with Priscilla, and his life was now back to the dismal routine he realized he'd been drowning in. Slowly.
Jason had convinced him that it was best to work things out with Amber, and after that conversation he realized that leaving her would be akin to swimming against the tide—his father would be against it, his best friend was advising him against it, and Amber was certainly against it. So nobody wanted it. Nobody but Michael. And everyone else couldn't be wrong, could they?
So, he had made the difficult decision to let Priscilla down as gently as possible, and then he'd gone home to Amber.
But today, as he locked up at the office and went out to the parking lot headed for his car, Michael had to swallow an overwhelming urge to reach out to Priscilla again. He wanted to hear her voice so badly he could taste it. What was she doing right now? Who was she talking to? Was she thinking about him? Would they ever see each other again?
He sat there in the car for several minutes, scrolling through their texts. It's over, he thought as he finally clicked them off. Let it go.
Pressing the button, he started the Corvette's engine. His eyes closed as it roared to life. You'd better get home now, he thought. Amber's waiting.
But Michael didn't go home. He couldn't. Not jus
t yet.
Instead, he called Jason to see if he was free and they agreed to meet at Stools.
•~•
Stools Bar & Grille was an off the road sports bar with a billiard set up Michael and Jason had always enjoyed. It had been a sanctuary for them over the years, a problem-solving haven as they journeyed from boys to men. Never overcrowded, it was the perfect place to grab a drink, a bite, relax and figure out how to solve the world's problems. Tonight Michael was feeling especially dramatic.
When Jason arrived, he found his friend nursing a whiskey and...sulking? "That bad, huh?" he asked, joining him.
Michael huffed. "I could easily hold you responsible for this, you know."
Jason signaled the bartender. "Quit being so melodramatic, Michael. If you really want to end it, then just go ahead and end it—but stop being such a blonde about it."
"If only it were that simple."
"Newsflash," said Jason, making an imaginary banner with his hands. "It is that simple."
Michael smiled, despite. This was why he loved this guy. He could always count on Jason to clear the fog. "You wanna know why I'm staying?" he asked.
"Oh, you mean it's not because you love her?"
Ignoring his friend's sarcasm, Michael said, "I'm staying because I couldn't live down the guilt after the way she begged me not to leave her." He looked seriously at Jason. "I mean it. It would be like a dark cloud hanging over my relationship with this other woman."
"You still won't tell me who she is?" Jason said, raising a bushy eyebrow. "You sure it isn't someone I know?"
Michael looked at his friend and sighed. "Let's just shoot some pool." He got up with drink in hand and walked over to their favorite table. Grabbing a stick, he got the game started with a near miss. They played on and Jason beat him pretty badly.
"Dude, you're shooting like a blind woman! What is with you, M? Look. You've made a decision, get onboard with it, or change it. But I highly doubt any other girl is worth throwing away a perfectly decent eleven- or twelve-year relationship. You've been with Amber since you guys were like sixteen—that's gotta count for something."
"Damn it." Michael swore, frustration gripping his gut.
Jason stared at him now, a little worried. "Seriously, Frost. You can't keep this up, and you don't have to. Hell, I bet if Amber could see you like this right now—even she wouldn't want you to."
Michael downed the last of the whiskey. "Ahh," he said, raising the empty glass. "At least this is one shot I’ll never miss. Hey," he called out to the bartender, "another round."
When the drinks came, Jason was having his usual; always something fruity like sangria. Michael shook his head at the drink and attempted a laugh.
"Talk to me, M," said Jason as he racked a new set.
"I'm afraid to tell you who she is."
"Why? She can't be married or something. You wouldn't leave Amber for a married woman, would you?" Jason hesitated. "Would you?"
"C'mon, be real. She's not married."
"I mean, it's not my wife, is it?" Jason smirked.
Tapping the pool stick against his chin, Michael walked over to his friend. He leaned in and said quietly, "It's Priscilla Bauer."
Jason frowned. "Why does that name sound familiar?"
"She's Veronica Bauer's granddaughter."
Jason's eyes widened. "The Veronica Bauer?"
Michael nodded.
"Well, how in the hell did you meet her?"
He explained about attending the funeral. "And I fell hard, Jay. Like, really hard." He took another sip of whiskey.
Jason took a while to respond, apparently needing a moment to digest this news. He glanced around the bar thoughtfully before he finally spoke. "Well, fuck."
"Right?"
"And she was willing to go out with you?"
"Yep."
Jason's voice suddenly went high-pitched. "And you dumped her?"
"You told me to!"
"Yes, but that was before I knew we were talking about richer than shit Hollywood royalty over here!"
"C'mon," said Michael. "You and I both know that shouldn't make any difference."
"Maybe it shouldn't, but it does," Jason said, looking him right in the eye. "Michael, you know it does. It's a definite game changer if ever a game changer there was."
"How so?"
"How so?" he asked. "Hell, I don't know—it's fucking exciting! It's like you're dabbling in a parallel universe or a higher frequency or something."
Michael just shook his head and set down his glass, ready to get back into the game. He rolled his neck around to relieve some tension, then took the next shot. Lining it up perfectly, he hit it home.
"Now, that’s more like it!" Jason exclaimed, giving him a round of applause.
"So, let me get this straight," said Michael. "You're telling me that your advice would've been completely different if I'd told you exactly who she was? Seriously?"
"Look," Jason replied, "I won't lie to you. I love Cindy to death...but a hot, vulnerable celebrity chick would turn my head just as quickly as the next man's. It's just human nature, Michael. Now, would I leave Cindy just to date her? Dunno, I couldn't say for sure...but probably not. Then again—I'm still in love with Cindy."
Yeah, thought Michael. And I've obviously fallen out of love with Amber—or I wouldn't even be considering it.
A basket of greasy, gooey nachos covered in double jalapenos and dripping beef was laid at their table. They abandoned the game to dig in.
"Look, like I said, you've made a decision," Jason argued around a mouthful. "So stick with it. Make the best of your life with Amber—it's not the worst thing in the world. She loves you."
Knowing he was right, Michael nodded. But as he chewed, he barely tasted the food.
• CHAPTER TWELVE •
"I told you, Ms. Rivers," said Amber. "Your article will be up by Monday—I’m just about finished. You might even have it by tomorrow."
Muting the Skype call, Amber heaved a frustrated sigh.
What a paranoid bitch of a nag!
She threw her pen down on the glass desktop and massaged her temples before she returned to the call. "Yes, I've made the introduction pretty theatrical. And as we discussed yesterday, the article delivers the support, so it's not overly so once you read the whole thing. Would you like me to go ahead and send you what I've written so far?"
Oh, how Amber hated being micromanaged! The client had already given her a detailed outline; so detailed, Amber had looked it over wondering why the hell the woman hadn't just written the article herself.
After the call ended, she wrapped up the piece, proofread it and then shot off an e-mail delivering it ahead of schedule. She thanked the client profusely, saying she'd love to work with her again when it was actually the very last thing Amber wanted to do.
Margie's piece is due tomorrow, she thought, attempting to stay focused. Might as well get a jump on that. But still, she found her mind wandering. So taking a break, she did some online shopping. Anything to keep from wondering why Michael hadn't made it home yet.
It was definitely time to move forward with the plan—but Amber was nervous and kept questioning her ability to pull it off.
$388 later, she finally heard Michael's key in the lock. He came in smelling of single malt Scotch and Stools ambiance. What a relief!
"Welcome home," she said, keeping her voice light as he walked in. She didn't even bother turning around from the computer.
"Hey," he replied, rather neutrally. "What's for dinner?"
Hearing a slight slur in his words, she turned to look at him. He's drunk? He looked fairly normal, standing there in his baby blue button-down and well-fitted gray trousers. His hair was tousled, as if his hand had been through it a few times. "Uh, we’re ordering out tonight," she replied. "I didn't have time to cook anything—have a couple deadlines to meet. How does Chinese sound? Coffee's on, so feel free to sober up. I have something to share with you. Some news."
> He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Good news, I hope—can't wait to hear it." He removed his satchel and dropped it on the sofa. Heading for the kitchen, he added, "And Chinese sounds good. Just had some nachos with Jay but there's plenty of room left."
Yep, he's definitely slurring, she thought. And that was a first. He drank, of course, but never to excess.
Maybe I should wait until tomorrow...
Raindrops on Roses: Book One of the Favorite Things Trilogy Page 7