“You sexless old biddy. Someone amputated your libido before the Berlin Wall fell. If I only prefer single men in my home, how is that any of your concern?”
“If you’re playing hostess in a negligee and there’s money changing hands, I’ll draw any conclusion I damn well please.”
Furious, Norah smacked her adversary’s jean-clad knee. Ruth poked her right back, igniting a squabble. Once more the doorbell rang. Frances struggled out from between them. She’d barely escaped the living room when Sylvia let herself in.
Pausing in the foyer, Silvia regarded the yelping women. “Airbnb? I told them I’d set up their listings after I got off work.”
“Then why are they hounding me?”
“Greed, mostly. They’re eager to get their profiles built and find customers. If this keeps up, the inn will have competition in the hospitality trade.”
The noise in the living room rose to a fractious pitch. Ruth latched on to Norah’s flowing scarf. She yanked her sideways like a horse she was determined to break. What Ruth lacked in size she made up for in sheer aggression. Flailing wildly, her statuesque opponent rolled off the couch.
Frances pressed a hand to her heart. “Stop them, will you?”
“Frances, I wish you’d grow a backbone. We’re supposed to be co-leaders of the Sirens. You always leave me with the dirty work.”
“Silvia, please. I’ll never get the blood out of my upholstery.”
“A tragedy, I’m sure.” Silvia cupped her hands around her mouth. “Who wants ice cream?”
It was the sort of summons sure to break up a brawl between schoolboys. Norah, a New York model in her youth, was immune to the bait. However, Ruth never missed an opportunity to sample the Häagen-Dazs Frances stowed in the freezer.
Silvia was scooping a bowl for her when the doorbell chimed once more, and Frances hurriedly opened the door.
On the stoop, Cat scanned the cars in the drive with ill-concealed trepidation. “Frances, is this a stealth move by the Sirens? I’m out of here.”
Frances ensnared her wrist, propelling her forward with an impressive show of force. The pearls around the elderly Siren’s neck bounced. Teetering on her pumps, she hauled her quarry up and into the house.
The Waterford lamp on the foyer table joggled.
Righting it, Cat shot her a look of pure exasperation. “Geez, Frances. Planning to knock me out cold if I refused to enter?” Perking her ears, she zeroed in on the lively conversation in the kitchen. “Oh no you don’t. I’d expect my mother to form a lynch mob to hunt me down. Coming from you, this is a real shock.”
“There’s no lynch mob.” Frances straightened the belt on her stylish dress. “I apologize for inviting you here under false pretenses.”
“Did you feed Mami the same line about needing advice on rearranging your den?” A crafty stratagem, since they both loved to help with the never-ending decorating of the spacious colonial. Lowering her voice, Cat added, “I don’t care how many Sirens are lurking in your kitchen. I can’t let them hold seminars. I’ve resorted to having Mr. Uchida send text alerts whenever the Sirens show up at the inn. I’m tired of making business calls in the ladies’ restroom. The place echoes.”
“Relax, dear. I’m on your side.”
Cat was taken aback. “You are?”
“Of course I am. The seminars are an imposition you don’t need.”
Shrugging off her irritation, Cat checked her appearance in the foyer’s gilded mirror. She’d grown tired of the dull grey and taupe dresses Jada insisted she wear and had switched it up today. If she donned sackcloth, would it matter? For a week now, she’d been dodging Jada in the mornings and trading soulful looks with Ryan for the remainder of each day.
From the kitchen, her mother appeared. “Where have you been? Your father’s invited you to dinner twice this week, and you’ve canceled both times.”
With an angry shimmy, Cat repositioned her breasts in her bra. “Leave Papa out of this. I’m sure he’s blameless.” Her skin-hugging dress had also shifted halfway around her hips, thanks to Frances’s manhandling. “If I had come over, were you planning to feed me in the kitchen or the dining room?” She wasn’t remotely interested in one of her mother’s advice-laden meals in the dining room.
“Now, hold on. I’m the one asking questions.”
“Ask someone else. And don’t flare your nostrils at me. Frances is right. You look like a mad bull when you’re upset.”
Frances blanched. “Leave me out of this, please. You’re both upset, and I’m part Dutch. My genetic makeup doesn’t allow me to handle turbulent emotions.”
The comment skimmed past Silvia. “I’m not flaring my nostrils!” She squared off before Cat. “Avoiding my calls and your father’s meals—he spent hours making pineapple barbecue sauce just for you. This is the thanks we get? I’m angry like a wasp.”
“Like that’s news. The seminars are still out.”
Ruth came into the foyer with a bowl of ice cream and Norah tracking her heels.
“What did you say?” Norah snapped.
Silvia whipped around. “Back off, Norah. Arm wrestle Ruth all you’d like, but I expect you to use a civil tone with my daughter.”
“I am using a civil tone. Considering how many of my calls she’s ignored, I’m being damn polite.”
Frances patted her salt-and-pepper hair. “Would anyone like a drink?” she asked in a shaky voice. Evidently this much excitement was playing havoc with her central nervous system.
The suggestion went unheard by Silvia. Index finger raised, she made jabbing motions in Norah’s direction. “I don’t care if my daughter deleted your number and never calls back. Butt out of my family business.”
“Wake up, Silvia. The seminars are Siren business. If you can’t pull your daughter into line, someone else will.”
Frances smiled with the manic gaiety of a woman on the edge. “I’m having a sherry. Anyone care to join me?”
Ruth eased past the battling women. Crossing the living room, she headed to the built-in bar nestled beside the fireplace. Dumping her ice cream into a glass, she added Bacardi.
“Let’s vote.” Her gravelly voice silenced the others. “Who agrees Cat should cut us loose to get the talks going for the Wayfair’s guests?”
Silvia’s and Norah’s hands shot up.
Squaring her narrow shoulders, Frances walked to the bar. “We’re not voting.” She took down a bottle of sherry, her sympathetic gaze finding Cat. “I’m tabling the idea indefinitely.”
Cat winced as her mother stomped her foot. “Who put you in charge of this matter?” Silvia demanded. Her bond with Frances never stopped her from battling for the upper hand.
“Zip it, Silvia. We’re not climbing Mount Everest, and I’m not vying for first rights to the summit.” Frances drained her glass of sherry, then refilled. She looked to the others. “The inn has three capable women sharing the helm. We mustn’t stand in their way. How can we pretend to uphold the finest ideals of womanhood if we’re intent on sabotaging the works of our younger peers? Are we meddling old fools, or are we Sirens?”
Norah scowled. “I’m not old, and I never meddle.” She threw an icy glance at Ruth, who was slurping her ice cream and rum. “You must be referring to someone else.”
“Norah, be still! We’re all equally guilty, equally to blame for butting in when our help isn’t needed. What right do we have to devise plans to entertain the Wayfair’s guests without inquiring if our help is wanted? ‘Hear the Siren’s call and give kindness in secret.’ Isn’t that our guiding principle? Isn’t that the noble ideal we seek? If we strong-arm Cat or visit her office uninvited, we’re neither kind nor acting in secret.”
Cat nodded in vigorous agreement. Assuming the eloquent Siren finished her sermon before pouring another sherry, there was a good chance she’d sway the others.
The lofty speech evaporated the cloud of anger surrounding her mother. “Let’s hope she finishes the speech before the sher
ry,” Silvia murmured, echoing Cat’s thoughts. She chuckled softly. “Get too much booze in her, and she’ll stop making sense.”
Cat released a pent-up breath. “I’d better lend a hand.” Relief over her mother’s improving mood gave her the courage to join Frances. “She’s right. I can’t let any of you host seminars.”
At her unusual show of guts, her mother and Frances nodded approvingly.
Buoyed up by their tacit approval, she added, “I haven’t made any final decisions because we’re nearing the date for the concert on the beach. There are a thousand other tasks to deal with. However, my associate from Adworks is putting together an event schedule to carry us through next year.”
Ruth made a face. “Ryan D’Angelo,” she muttered. “I should’ve popped him on the head with my gourd.”
An impossible feat given Ruth’s petite stature. “I’m glad you didn’t,” Cat replied. “He’s been an incredible help.”
“Why can’t you add our ideas to the mix?”
Silvia, never one to shy from battle, took up the gauntlet. “Ruth, you read the USA Today article just like the rest of us,” she said. “You saw how many accounts Ryan has managed for big companies. Cat has a true professional guiding her decisions, and he’s working at a discount. With all the fine work he’s done tying charities into marketing for Ohio corporations, he’s better at drumming up business than all the Sirens combined.”
Cat added, “I need to use Ryan’s expertise while it’s available. We won’t have him for much longer.” The admission leached something vital from her. “After the concert, he’s handing off the Wayfair to a secondary team at his firm. The feature in USA Today is a bigger boost to his career than anyone expected. He’s fielding offers to work for companies across the state.”
At the strain in her voice, her mother and Frances looked up. A knowing glance passed between them, the secret communication that was the hallmark of their friendship.
Silvia dumped the last of Ruth’s ice cream drink in the wet bar’s sink, drawing a muttered complaint. “We’re done here. Ladies, if you don’t mind, I have a private matter to discuss with my daughter.”
From the coffee table, Norah scooped up her laptop. “What about Airbnb? We haven’t set up our accounts.”
“Stop by my house after dinner. Ruth, you too.”
They left. Silvia returned to the living room with her bronzed features brewing another storm. “Cat, why do you care if Miri’s golden boy leaves and someone else takes over? You haven’t sounded this sad since the Clemson kid moved to Chicago for the insurance job.”
Her mother was referring to Tory Clemson, whom she’d dated for nearly a year. “Mami, I was sad because Tory conveniently forgot to return my iPad before he left.” He was one of the nicer men she’d dated. “I wouldn’t put him in a league with Ryan.”
“Am I getting this straight? Something’s going on between you and the boy from Adworks?”
Impatience flashed through Frances’s eyes. “Silvia, you act as if anyone under the age of forty is still battling acne and low self-esteem. Ryan D’Angelo isn’t a boy.” She regarded Cat. “Are you and Ryan dating?”
“We’re not.”
“Is he thinking about asking you out?”
“Look, it’s hard to know what Ryan thinks about anything. He’s warm and funny for hours. Then he’s aloof.” Although he tried to stay upbeat whenever she was nearby, the sadness in his eyes hinted at something from the past that still haunted him. He was moodier whenever he received a flurry of calls from his mother.
She recalled the day of his unexplained panic attack on the beach. I guess my mother needed the Continental Divide between herself and the past. I know I did. The moon-shaped blemish beneath his eye wasn’t the only scar he carried. Some event from his life made him wary of intimacy.
Breaking into her thoughts, Frances asked, “You’re saying he’s not interested in dating you?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. We’re caught up in this ritual where we behave professionally for an hour. Then I find an excuse to touch him, or he bumps into me when we’re crossing the room, and we’re back to trading glances hot enough to leave blisters.”
Three bar stools were stationed before the wet bar. Silvia slid onto one. “You are smitten.” Her tone felt carefully neutral.
“I passed smitten ten laps ago.”
“I’m not sure that’s happy news.”
“It’s not. Ryan is already spending more time than needed in Sweet Lake, and I feel guilty about taking his mind off his other accounts. Not that I’m giving the right signals to send him away. I can’t wait to see him. When he finishes work each day and climbs into his car, I spend the night missing him.” She shrugged. “But what does it matter? He’s got a great career in Cincinnati, and I love my job. Linnie’s put her trust in me. I’ll screw up a dozen times along the way, but I want to succeed in my new post. For her, and because it’ll make a difference to the employees we’ll rehire once the advertising kicks in.”
The explanation didn’t sit well with her mother. “Ambition is fine, but we’re talking about your happiness. What does your heart tell you? Is there a chance our talented Mr. D’Angelo is the one? I don’t need to remind you that your favorite childhood game was staging your own wedding—and stealing my best lingerie for your costume. You’ve been waiting to meet your life mate since you were a little girl.”
Despite her misery, Cat chuckled. “I’m long past the pretend weddings.” Back then, she’d destroyed her mother’s nicest slips. Hitching each one up like a wedding dress, she’d waltzed down an aisle designed with rocks snatched from the flower beds, then concluded the pretend nuptials by tromping through the flowers with her imaginary groom. “Ryan is everything I’d hoped to find. Kind, generous—scary smart, but also patient. None of which matters because this won’t go anywhere.”
“Real love doesn’t come around often. It requires sacrifice—on both sides. If Ryan does get up the nerve to ask you out, don’t make assumptions. He might choose to live in Sweet Lake because you’re more important than his career.”
“Mami, there’s more than Adworks keeping Ryan in Cincinnati.” His obligations to his mother, for one, and the mystery behind the Continental Divide. Whatever the event they’d shared, it had marked both mother and son in a profound way.
“Well, I don’t want you involved with a man who’ll ask you to leave Sweet Lake.”
“As if I’m cut out for the city. All the people crammed under the bright lights, and no stars overhead. Every time I take a road trip with Linnie and Jada, I’m always the first to get homesick. Some people wander endlessly, searching for the place where they belong. Can you imagine me living anywhere but here?”
“I can’t. Frankly, I couldn’t live without you.” Silvia grew thoughtful. “My suggestion? Keep things light with Ryan. Don’t get in over your head.”
“Too late. I’m already in deep.”
“Then swim your way to shore. If there’s no future, protect your heart.”
“I will,” Cat assured her. “I’ve never been this happy—or miserable.” Pain knotted in her throat. “Ryan won’t stay in my life, but at least he showed up.”
Chapter 9
Behind the mountain of yellowed guest receipts, Cat picked at her chipped nail polish. Punching names and addresses into a spreadsheet wasn’t difficult. Ryan shook his head ruefully. Thirty minutes at a pop taxed her concentration.
Today she’d worn another slinky dress. The outfit was purple, with a band of silver fabric drawing his eager gaze to the plunging neckline. On the side of her face, the heavy locks of hair were drawn into a barrette with jewel-colored rhinestones. A pendant of matching stones nestled enticingly between her breasts. Another ensemble more suitable for dinner and drinks, but he’d come to love her utter disdain for professional wear.
Unable to ward off the desire, he came around the side of the desk. “Are you typing or daydreaming? Honestly, Cat—you have the atten
tion span of a newt.” Pretending interest in the numbers glowing on the screen, he breathed in her floral scent. She changed perfumes often, from blends with rich amber notes to lighter fragrances like the rose-infused concoction she wore today. He had yet to come across one that didn’t stir his senses. “We should’ve finished building the data on Monday.”
“Don’t nag. I’m working on it.”
He poked through the stack of papers by her elbow. “You aren’t hiding nail polish in here, are you? Fooling around with your Magic 8 Ball, anything like that?”
“I am not.” Dutifully she lowered her hands to the keyboard and resumed typing. “I’m nearing the halfway mark.”
“Want me to take over?”
“Ryan, you’ve typed in most of the pages already.”
“Stop keeping score. This isn’t a competition.”
“Says you. This feels like a footrace, and I didn’t hear the starting gun. Staring at all these numbers is melting my brain.” Finishing a receipt, she flung it toward the pile scattered on the floor behind her desk. “How did it go with Mr. Uchida?”
The interviews for the brochure were going well. “Got everything I needed, and more. Lots of quotable material on the inn’s history. He took me down to the basement afterward. Like being on a scavenger hunt.”
“What did you find?”
“There’s a steamer trunk loaded with memorabilia dating back to the 1920s. Menus, photographs, clippings detailing the construction of the south wing—Mr. Uchida promised to check if there’s anything else hidden beneath the sands of time.”
“Count on it. Linnie’s ancestors built the main portion of the Wayfair in the eighteen hundreds. She comes from a long line of pack rats. Instruct Mr. Uchida to keep searching. More items will turn up.”
“Will Linnie mind if I take some of the relics back to Adworks? I’d like the art department to sift through, see if they can make digitals for future use.”
“She won’t care. Just return whatever you take.”
Ryan’s cell phone vibrated. Another text, the fifth one this morning. He typed a reply, wondering if he ought to call instead.
The Comfort of Secrets (A Sweet Lake Novel Book 2) Page 9