by Megan Mulry
The one time that Sarah had attempted a “spa” vacation with Jane, it turned out to be a starvation and military boot camp falsely advertised as a wholesome, serene retreat in the mountains of central California. Instead of massages and mojitos, the menu included hot yoga and high colonics. Sarah ended up sneaking off the property for wine and chocolate to supplement the sprouts and leaves that were supposed to pass for food. She also brazenly slept through two of the “recommended” morning hikes, which Sarah referred to as forced marches. Not surprisingly, Jane did not find Sarah’s attempt at exercise humor in the least amusing. Exercise was not a laughing matter.
“I do love my job.” Sarah smiled back, choosing to ignore the implied double meaning of committed. Obviously, Jane James would consider it psychotic to work sixteen hours a day when the proverbial coffers were already full to bursting. In that way (only), she was quite like Sarah’s grandmother, Letitia.
Unfortunately, Jane was feeling particularly generous with her opinions this morning. “I know you love it, Sarah, but maybe you should take a little break. You are such a lovely girl, and with just a tiny bit of exercise and—”
Nelson shook his newspaper; it could have been to straighten a page, or it could have been a precursor to saying something.
Jane hesitated before continuing. “Well, maybe, I just thought if you ever want to meet with my trainer in Chicago or let me introduce you to some of the handsome young men—”
Nelson cleared his throat: again, could have been food, could have been a warning salvo.
Jane paused again, then patted Sarah’s hand for good measure. “You are a lovely girl.”
And what was she supposed to say to that? Yes, you’re right, I am lovely!? What she wanted to say was: There is a smoking hot, totally satisfied, blindingly handsome young man up there in my hotel room, you emaciated Second Wife, you! My extra inches didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest!
But.
That would have been petty.
“Thank you, Jane. And I’d love to meet any handsome young men you might have in mind in Chicago. I think I might stay for a couple of weeks this time, so just let me know and I’ll give them a call—”
“Oh, dear, of course you wouldn’t have to initiate such a thing. I will call Tina Ballard and Monica Schuller and you will have a string of dates lined up before we land.”
“Well, I don’t need a string, Jane. One or two would be nice while I’m in town. Just the cream of the crop.” Sarah tried to give that last a hint of conspiratorial fervor, some approximation of a colluding mother-daughter grin. Maybe if she got Jane on the man hunt, she’d get off the Sarah-makeover bandwagon.
Nelson James folded his newspaper with precise finality and looked across the table at his wife and his daughter. And all he could think was: night and day.
“All righty then!”
Sarah almost spit her coffee out of her mouth—her father’s American accent sounded identical to Devon’s parody of a few minutes before.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing. Something about that expression just reminds me of a funny story. Someone at the party last night… never mind. The Brits have such a dry sense of humor, don’t you think?”
Nelson looked at Sarah and narrowed his gaze as if to say: I do not want to know. “Shall we get going?” Nelson was up and out of his chair before he finished the sentence, not expecting a response.
Their luggage had been sent ahead in one of the hotel Range Rovers, and the unlikely trio left the country house hotel amid a flurry of good-byes and thank-yous to the very kind staff. Sarah surreptitiously palmed an overgenerous tip into the hand of the bellman who had been saddled with moving her steamer trunks, his returning glance confirming her unspoken implication that it was really hush money about the guest who remained in her room.
Sarah tried to see her odd little family through the bellman’s eyes, the three of them as different from one another as possible. Nelson James had gone totally gray after the death of his first wife. It had aged him considerably at the time, but now that he was in his late sixties, he looked remarkably young. He had always adhered to a well-tailored, if nondescript, fashion sense: blue blazers, khakis, and Belgian loafers on weekends; single vent suits (navy or gray, no stripe), white Oxford shirt, and wingtips during the week.
Jane was a very tidy fifty-five. She kept her hair in a jet-black Coco Chanel cut (she traveled with a pair of professional haircutting scissors to trim the rare, unruly wisp) and always wore clothes that were one shade too bright. She had once commented to Sarah that having such dark hair allowed her to wear such a wonderful array of colors. Sarah wanted to let her know that just because she was allowed to did not mean she should.
Today she had on a blinding, lemon-yellow leather jacket that was, not pleasantly, reminiscent of Claude Montana circa 1985. It was probably vintage and fabulously expensive, but it looked a bit too young on Jane. She paired it with a black leather miniskirt, opaque black tights, and black suede pumps. She looked like a tiny, well-kept bumblebee.
Sarah always felt too large around her. Even if she were to lose the supposed twenty pounds that would make her fabulous in Jane’s eyes, Sarah was certain her very bones were simply too big for Jane’s taste. Jane was a bird; Sarah was, well, a mammal, at least.
The trio traveled in the hired limousine to the private airfield where Nelson James’s G6 private jet was fueled and ready for takeoff. Sarah thought the driver looked familiar, but she tried not to make eye contact, fearing he’d start up a conversation regarding late-night, nonsolitary transportation from one local landmark to another. She took out her iPad and scrolled through the news, answered a couple of emails, and put it back in her slim bag. She looked up when she realized her father was looking at her across the rear-facing seat of the limo.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing. Just another generation, I suppose. Always distracted by the latest thing. Willing to spend $2,000 for a pair of shoes.” He shrugged and looked out the window.
Sarah took a deep breath and tried not to care.
“But,” Nelson said, turning back to face her, “I guess if you are the one selling them and not buying them, I shouldn’t be too concerned by your folly.”
Refusing to be drawn into the same argument that had boiled between them for years—that high-end shoes were at best absurd and at worst obscene—Sarah refrained from pointing out that his wife Jane was in possession of many pairs of $2,000 shoes that Nelson had, in effect, purchased. Instead, she shook her head and looked out at the passing scenery, realizing that the large pile on the distant rise was Dunlear Castle. Bronte and Max were actually married. Maybe Sarah would visit them the next time she was back in London.
Maybe she’d see Devon.
Her cheeks went inexplicably red at the thought and Jane, ever observant, asked if she was having a relapse of the rosacea incident that had plagued her when she’d returned to Chicago from France.
“No, I’m fine, thanks. It’s probably just the wool in this jacket. I should be more careful.” Sarah tugged at the high collar, as if it were the culprit, and wondered if the so-called free ride on her father’s private plane was worth eight hours of intense observation and parental scrutiny.
She thought not.
Nor did she have the heart to tell her stepmother that the rosacea of three years ago was brought on by the fact that her father had somehow forgotten to mention that he’d married Jane while his only daughter was living in Paris with her grandmother. So, when she returned to Chicago, ready to take the city by storm with her avant-garde shoe designs and shrewd business plan—and to shake the need for (or obtain) her father’s approval once and for all—Sarah was momentarily overwhelmed by the unforeseen existence of Dear Jane. Once the reality of said stepmother was acknowledged, contemplated, and digested, said rosacea was no longer in evidence and never returned.
While the whole “rosacea incident” had been a nightmare at the ti
me, it had also taught Sarah the valuable lesson that her body was not, as she had so often treated it, a separate entity from (nor mere vessel for) her constantly clicking mind. After her frisky weekend in England, she was worried the pendulum might have swung in the opposite direction altogether: she was starting to suspect that her brain might be taking a backseat to the demands of her treacherous, awakening body. She shook off the thought just as the Range Rover arrived on the tarmac and spent the rest of the trip in deep preparations for her upcoming board meeting and expansion plans.
***
Devon slept for a while longer, surrounded by the pleasant scents of Sarah’s perfume happily interwoven with the mingling aroma of the large floral arrangement he’d sent over the day before. He finally got out of bed around ten, foregoing the shower since he’d have to get back into his day-old clothes anyway. He called down to the front desk to see if there might be a car available, momentarily cursing Sarah’s foolishness about not wanting his car parked in the hotel parking lot. He knew he was going to be the brunt of Max’s jokes when he returned to Dunlear in the Amberley Castle Hotel limousine. Luckily, the more rugged Range Rover was the first car to hand, and Devon was able to make his drive of shame in relative peace with the local gamekeeper from the Castle Hotel’s falconry school as his chauffeur.
Unfortunately, he didn’t make it up the back stairs fast enough, and Max and Bronte called him into the morning room when they caught sight of his retreating form silhouetted in the far door frame.
“Trying to sneak past us, are you?”
He turned reluctantly back. “Aren’t you two supposed to be on your honeymoon or something?” Devon walked into the room with trepidation; he looked well used.
His sister Abby was sitting at the other end of the table, and she smiled at his ridiculous appearance when she looked up from the newspaper. She raised her coffee cup and gave Devon a wink.
“Our flight leaves from Heathrow at two o’clock. We didn’t want to have to rush out at some ungodly hour of the morning.” Max looked him up and down. “Have you been out for a morning stroll?”
Devon could do nothing but smirk his silent reply since he was wearing his formal jacket and trousers from the night before, with his pleated white dress shirt wrinkled and untucked, and his hair looking like he had combed it with a nearby fire iron. “Very funny.”
“You might as well join us.” Max gestured for Devon to take a seat.
He reluctantly complied, dreading his older brother’s inquisition and his younger sister’s ridicule.
Max launched at him first. “We don’t have that much time before we go and we’d love to hear how you enjoyed the… wedding. What was the holdup with the rings, by the way?” Max had been spreading orange marmalade on his scone while he was talking and proceeded to put a piece in his mouth as he waited for Devon’s reply.
“Yeah, Dev,” Abby ribbed him, “what was the holdup?”
“No holdup.” Devon had taken a seat a few places down from his brother and stretched his arm out casually across the back of the empty chair next to him that separated him from Abby. It was like a goddamned interrogation. “I was just distracted. I mean, I’m sure all that religious toing and froing was meaningful, but I just sort of spaced out, I guess, and then you were standing there and, well, it wasn’t egregious, was it?”
Bronte had been unaccountably quiet, sitting far too close to her husband (she loved saying it over and over) and letting her left hand rest on his thigh. She was like an adoring concubine, for goodness’ sake.
“Did you and Sarah hit it off?” Bronte asked idly, managing to tear herself away from lusting after her husband long enough to procure a little gossip on behalf of her friend.
Both men looked at her as if she had two heads.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, all innocence.
Max just shook his head and smiled. “What can I say, Dev? She’s direct. So, did you and Miss James hit it?”
“‘Hit it off,’ you fool. Not ‘hit it!’” Bronte grabbed Max’s thigh harder under the table and he gave her a quick smile in return.
Devon saw his exit. “If you two are going to coo all over each other and grope under the table—”
“It is rather disgusting to see them being such a couple all the time,” Abby said from behind her newspaper.
Devon tried to turn the tables. “Speaking of couples, where’s Tully, anyway?”
Abby lowered the newspaper enough to see Devon across the top. “She left early this morning. Something about another oil spill in Russia.”
Devon rolled his eyes.
Abby shook the paper. “You know, I should really defend her, but I have to confess I’m growing a bit tired of all her saving-the-world.” Abby shrugged. “But what am I supposed to do? Baby. Bathwater. And all that. I’m on my way back up to Findhorn to meet up with her in a couple of days. Mother wants me to come to London for some reason, so I thought I’d try to be obedient.” Abby gave Devon a look that said, in other words, she was going to try to be more of a kiss-ass like he was.
“Shit. Is she still here?” Devon rose off his seat slightly and looked around into the hall, fearing that his mother was about to make an entrance.
Bronte laughed. “She’s just now finished punishing the caterers and informing the party planners where they fell short and has headed back into town. I had the pleasure of her company for a full thirty minutes. Apparently, the ways of packing are mysterious and riddled with pitfalls. I had to be schooled. You can thank me later for throwing her off your scent.”
“Thanks, Bron. I don’t think I could have handled her just now.”
Putting the newspaper all the way down, Abby looked at Devon and shook her head. “What does Mother have on you, anyway? You are such a patsy.”
“Oh, cut it out, Abs. I just like to keep the peace and you like to stir the shit. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how it’ll always be.”
Max and Bronte watched the exchange like a tennis match, popping bits of scone and sips of coffee into their mouths between volleys.
Abby tried to stare Devon down, then, finding it impossible, finally conceded. “Oh. Fine. You keep keeping the peace and I’ll keep stirring the shit.”
“Are you two finished bickering?” Max asked.
“Are you two finished groping?” Devon sniped.
Bronte let her hands fly up, as if she were in a holdup, and said, “Look! No groping. So quit stalling and let me know what you think of Sarah.”
Devon shook the flop of hair out of his eyes and looked out the window for a few seconds. “I think quite a lot of her, but she doesn’t seem to think much of me. I don’t think I’ve been so summarily dismissed since, well, since ever. But this entire conversation is ungentlemanly in the extreme and I will not—”
Abby gave a low hoot. “Someone has dared to dismiss The Earl?!”
The other three started laughing and Devon pursed his lips.
“What?!” Abby ribbed him. “You started it.” She went back to reading the paper and muttered, “Mr. I’m-not-an-earl-earl. What an idiot.”
“Devon!” Bronte cried, wanting more gossip. “Ignore her! It’s me, Bronte… hello?! Are you kidding me? I’ve seen you hit on every woman from chef to chauffeur—chauffeuse?” She turned to Max with a questioning look. “And now you’re going to pretend you’re feeling high-minded about giving me the goods on Sarah—”
“It was just a fling. Don’t push it, Bron.” Devon tried to keep his tone light, but the edge of something sharper came through. “No big deal,” he said, softer.
Abby looked at Bronte across the long table and raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, okay. Okay,” Bronte said. “No need to get prickly. We’re all grown-ups. Well, I’m not, but apparently you are suddenly keen to try it. No fun.” She pouted and went back to staring at her husband again.
Devon rose to take his leave.
“I’ll leave you two newlyweds to your… wh
atever it is you see in each other.” He gave Bronte a friendly wink and made for the door back to the kitchen. “Have fun in London, Abs. Call if you want to meet up for a restorative drink after Mother rakes you over the coals.”
Abby hummed her agreement and kept reading.
“Hold up a minute, Dev.” Max had been saying something quietly to Bronte before calling out to his brother across the room.
“What is it?” Devon turned, one hand resting on the doorknob, and girded himself for more sibling razzing.
“We wanted you two to be the first to know that Bronte is expecting.”
Devon stared, in shock. The dumb, gaping look made his face appear exactly as it had when he was eight years old and lost the fishing lure (again) and had to get Max to set up a new line, a new hook, and a new worm. Max never seemed to mind. He was patient about things like that.
“Wow. Since last night? That was fast,” Abby said with a mischievous gleam in her eye.
“Not quite so fast.” Bronte looked at her with a hint of a guilty grin.
Devon was striding back to congratulate them, giving his brother a firm shake with one hand and half hug with the other, then lifting Bron up out of her chair and spinning her around in his arms. “Well done, you. I’m going to be an uncle!”
“You’re already an uncle,” Max pointed out dryly.
“Oh, Lydia doesn’t count!” He waved his hand to dismiss his sister Claire’s eighteen-year-old pain-in-the-ass daughter.
“Not just an uncle… a godfather, we hope?” Bronte looked wide-eyed and particularly fetching in her creamy white travel suit—did all these American women have to be so spotlessly put together?—and Devon had a momentary flashback of Sarah standing by the bed earlier that morning.
“Of course, godfather at the ready.” He gave a mock salute and hugged her a second time. “Congratulations again. I guess since I am the first to know, you won’t be spreading the happy news just yet?”