by Lisa Norato
They did nothing but kiss. Literally, nothing but kiss. No groping, grabbing, or pulling of clothing. Their kisses were everything, not just a prelude on the way to love-making. It was the love-making. And it was the most arousing experience of Marcella’s life. Small talk would’ve been an unnecessary interruption. Their lips said everything that needed to be said.
Marcella remained just barely unaware of time passing. Or later, the darkening sky. Or even the cool raindrops when they began to splatter on their warmed skin, until it was too late and they were caught in a downpour.
They hurried inside, and after drying off, Marcella prepared the appetizers and the pasta primavera, which they ate in the tiny dining room to the sound of rain pattering above. Later, they had coffee in the parlor and made out on the squashy sofa.
*
It was rather late by the time William got Marcella back to her hotel. Much too late to pop in for one final drink and a bit more time with her. Just as well, he supposed. She needed to get up first thing to catch her flight.
Rather than drop her at the door, he parked the seniors’ minibus in the visitors’ area and escorted her through the car park to the inn’s entrance. Lanterns bathed their faces in golden light, which might have been quite romantic if not for a mosquito buzzing round his head.
He reached for her hand and gazed into her lovely, exotic face, swallowing back the lump in his throat. No putting it off any longer.
“We’ll have to say our goodbyes here,” he said. “I’ve an early funeral in the morning. Marcella, I’m really, really sorry I won’t be able to see you off at the airport, but there’s absolutely no way I can get out of it, you understand.”
She seemed to understand perfectly. She seemed fine with it. He, on the other hand, was devastated. He wondered what she was thinking. He couldn’t say, but he was fairly certain his own overly earnest stare was quite transparent. It was all he could do not to plead, You won’t forget me?
He wouldn’t forget her. First chance he got, he’d make a call to the bishop and ask to be assigned a curate. Surely, Bishop Laughton would understand how busy things were at St. Francis. And he’d be pleased to learn William had met a woman he’d taken serious interest in. ’Course, Bishop Laughton might not see the urgency in that, but then William didn’t intend to mention the lady in question was from another country, much less another faith.
So this was it, then? Ms. Marcella Tartaglia had gotten what she needed for her magazine and was taking her cheeky wit and fabulous breasts back to New York. Blimey, he should have made love to her when he had the chance. Bertie’s condom. Yes, she still had Bertie’s purple condom. Perhaps he could—No, he couldn’t. Bloody hell, what had come over him?
Focus, Will, focus.
At this very moment, dearly departed Mrs. Barker was resting in her coffin awaiting burial, and her family was depending on him to be on form. They’d need to lean on him for strength during their time of grief, even if the poor duck had been ninety-eight when she’d passed on, God bless her soul.
Already it was becoming sadly apparent that trying to build a relationship around his and Marcella’s careers was going to prove quite the challenge.
*
Marcella returned to a darkened suite. A soft light shone from her room to illuminate her way, and as she tiptoed past Sallie’s door, she saw her friend was fast asleep. Sallie lay on her side, cheek to pillow, long silky hair splayed across her face and over the edge of the mattress.
Marcella slipped quietly into her own room, too wired to sleep. Her mind raced through the last two days, scrambling to preserve every moment with William in her memory. Who knew when she’d see him again?
She flopped onto the bed, leaning back into something that crumpled beneath her weight. Startled, she reached behind and pulled out a Harvey Nichols shopping bag. Harvey Nichols? Harvey Nichols! Had Sallie bought her a present during her shopping spree? Marcella dug inside, peeling back layers of tissue paper to expose a black satin evening purse covered in pink velvet roses.
She hooked a finger beneath its skinny strap and lifted out the bag, totally mesmerized. Love it, her fashion sense sang. Love, love. Inside, Marcella found more tissue paper and unwrapped a beautiful silk orchid hair clip embellished with Swarovski crystals.
And here she’d thought she’d have to go to bed alone.
Already, Marcella could feel herself begin to wind down. She got undressed and ready for bed, but when she slipped between the sheets, thoughts of William returned. As much as she loved the accessories, and she did love them, she couldn’t help but wish she were spending the night with him. A fling might be just the thing to still this adrenaline rush through her system and set her head straight. But no, that only worked for men, didn’t it?
Was this the force that drove Lynne Graham to leave New York and abandon her coveted senior editor position at Gracious Living? Awesome.
Suddenly, Marcella realized she hadn’t opened her organizer since early Saturday, and that was only to jot down pertinent William facts. The concept was mind-blowing.
She thought of him for hours. Eventually, she did drift off, but come morning, Marcella awoke feeling groggy from lack of sleep. Inside, a battle of conflicting emotions raged. She felt excited about returning to work. She was looking forward to a bath in her own tub. But seriously bummed to be leaving. And, as a result, was left with little energy or desire to glam up her appearance.
She threw on a pair of skinny-legged crop pants and some round toe flats. Her dark Jackie-O sunglasses and a little lip gloss was all she needed to slip quietly out of the country. Really, what did it matter? No one ever looked their best on a return international flight.
Except for Sallie.
Marcella did a double take. Her friend was styling in a new look. Close-cut, knee-length, white silk shorts with a clingy beige tee and an ivory soft-shouldered jacket. Sallie’s hair was pulled severely back from her clean-fresh face. The picture of chic. On her feet, Sallie wore a pair of pointy-toed mules with a kitten heel. Marcella had never seen her in anything other than Birkenstocks.
“Emma?” Marcella ventured.
With a nod, Sallie raved of Emma’s style-guru coolness.
Feeling like a frump beside her, Marcella followed Sallie out of their suite and through the motions of checking out. Together they met their cab outside the inn.
Marcella handed the taxi driver her makeup case, the contents of which had gone untouched, as he began to load the trunk. She hoped to get to the airport and on the plane before anyone saw her.
“Okay, am I hallucinating or is that a hearse?”
Hearse? With a baffled shake of her head, Marcella went back to counting her suitcases. One large rolling case, garment bag, a carry-on… .
“It is, Marcella, look. It’s a hearse. Why would a funeral procession be passing through the parking lot of our hotel?”
This time, the significance behind Sallie’s words clicked. Marcella’s head shot up. Her heart felt suddenly lighter.
Sure enough, a hearse was rolling down the drive, but it didn’t appear to be just passing through. No, it was headed straight for the hotel. A cavalcade of other vehicles followed, so slowly Marcella could hear the gravel crunch beneath their tires.
She whipped off her sunglasses. “Sallie, how do I look? Am I pale? Why didn’t I at least use some blusher?” Marcella shook out her hair, threw back her shoulders and tugged her camisole a little lower on her bustline.
Sallie studied her with a suspicious grin. “What’s going on?”
Marcella didn’t dare jinx the moment by voicing an explanation, lest this didn’t turn out to be what … or rather who, she hoped. Still, it was all she could do not to click her heels with joy as she watched the hearse and its motorcade crawl closer. The procession filed past their taxi and lined up along the front of the hotel. As the hearse eased to a stop, a black limousine broke behind it, followed by each successive car in turn.
There must have been
at least thirty vehicles idling in the drive, blocking her taxi’s exit. And was it her imagination, or did every face inside the cars seem to be gawking?
The taxi driver threw up his arms and swore in a language Marcella didn’t recognize.
A door to the limo opened. Someone was stepping out. Marcella saw a black shoe, the hem of a black pants’ leg. A tall figure began to unfold from the limousine, and a young, handsome, chestnut-haired vicar holding a long-stemmed red rose emerged.
Marcella beamed as he hurried towards her.
“I don’t believe you,” she squealed at his approach. “I have no idea how you pulled this off, but I’m happy you’re here.”
“Minor detour. When she was alive, Mrs. B. loved a good drive through the country. I suggested we might take her for one last spin past Blenheim Palace, and seeing as we were just across the street… .” He trailed off with a shrug, looking boyishly pleased with himself. “Can’t stay long, obviously.” He offered her the rose.
Marcella accepted and smiled into the bloom as she inhaled its fragrance.
“Eeeow,” Sallie squawked. “Marcella, you do realize that probably came off a funeral arrangement?”
William turned, his eyes widening as though noticing Sallie for the first time. “Sallie, look at you.” He gave her a quick once-over, obviously pleased at what he saw. “Enjoyed your shopping, I see. You look fantastic.”
“Thank you.” Sallie shot him a sidelong grin as though affectionately to impart the opinion she thought him a little nuts.
William seemed to embrace that opinion with his smile. “Well, ladies, Godspeed. Have a safe trip home.”
Sallie stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek.
A horn honked. William turned and signaled he was on his way. “Duty calls. It’s off to the crematorium.”
He winked at Sallie, then stepped up to Marcella and took her hand. “Goodbye, Marcella.”
She felt her throat tighten. “See ya.”
He leaned in for a kiss. Marcella clung to his lips in a long, bittersweet kiss. As they slowly parted, William gazed into her eyes, nuzzled the tip of her nose, and whispered, “Don’t forget me.” Then he released her and turned to walk away.
Her heart was breaking. Just as well she hadn’t bothered with makeup. It’d only be running down her face now if she had. Marcella watched as William slipped back into the limo, surprised at how much it hurt to see him go. The passengers in those cars weren’t the only ones grieving.
She’d come to England for business and to attend a wedding. She had never expected this. Love at first sight. With a goodbye in the midst of a funeral procession.
Chapter 12
“I’m going to be honest with you, Marcella. Word’s out there’s a senior editor post available here at Gracious Living, and every self-proclaimed domestic arts goddess from coast to coast with an ounce of ambition and a scrap of publishing experience has expressed an interest. Now, don’t let on I’ve told you — it’s supposed to be strictly confidential — but I’ve recently learned… .”
Gracious Living’s Editor-in-Chief, Catherine Klein, leaned over her Day-Timer, layout pages, samples, photographs, and all the other paperwork cluttering her large cherry desk and continued in a secretive tone, “Beth Anne had lunch with Jillian Navarro at the Four Seasons last week. Beth Anne has expressed some concern at your being so young, and, apparently, Jillian’s looking to leave Country Home and Gardens.”
Okay, not good. Marcella felt a queasy lurch in the pit of her stomach. Beth Anne Copeland was Gracious Living’s Publisher. Was she seriously considering Jillian Navarro for Senior Decorating and Entertainment Editor? Okay, really not good. Jillian Navarro, with her faux French accent? Pleeaze. Sallie was more convincing speaking French to her dog. Jillian, with her condescending smile and tough-as-nails management style?
Marcella didn’t think she could bear the nightmare of losing this promotion to Jillian Navarro and then being forced to work under the Valkyrie. It was all she could do to remain seated in the cream-upholstered, cherry side chair opposite Catherine’s desk. She wanted to jump up and protest. Oh no, this can’t be. Beth Anne’s making a terrible mistake. But, being a professional, she kept her expression impassive.
Midwesterner Jillian had studied at the American University of Paris and had ten years experience over Marcella, but did she possess the passion, the ingenuity, the design skills, Marcella did?
Well, likely she did, or she wouldn’t be where she was today. Ah, but perhaps her ambition exceeded her talent. And how did Catherine feel about all this? That’s what Marcella needed to know. Surely, Catherine didn’t believe Jillian could do a better job.
Marcella inclined her head as though she found the news mildly disconcerting. “Catherine, I—”
Catherine raised a hand to silence her. “Since learning of this private luncheon, I’ve sat down with Beth Anne, and despite Jillian’s obvious experience, we both agree. She is not our first choice. You are, Marcella.”
As the reality behind Catherine’s words seeped into her consciousness, Marcella broke into a beaming, giddy grin.
Catherine had come through for her.
Marcella shrugged humbly. “Thank you, Catherine. As you can see, I’m thrilled. It means a lot to know that you believe in me.”
Catherine looked pleased with her reaction. “We certainly do. I speak for the entire executive board when I say you’ve shown remarkable talent for articulating Gracious Living’s editorial message. No other candidate embraces the magazine’s mission through her personality and her work quite like you. You have a skill for mastering new subject areas quickly and you always ask the right questions.”
Marcella savored the moment. She was floating. She could have, in fact, floated right through Catherine’s office windows overlooking a north view of the Manhattan skyline and walked on air sixteen floors above West 57th Street below.
Instead, she pulled herself from the clouds and kept her focus inside the room. Catherine’s office featured a suite of furniture which would have just as easily complimented the parlor of a restored nineteenth-century Connecticut colonial.
Who knew? Marcella thought. At this rate, maybe someday this office would be hers.
She swelled with pride. “Thank you, Catherine.”
Excitement sparked in Catherine’s eyes as she sat on the edge of her seat. “Starting with the next issue, your name will appear as ‘Marcella Tartaglia, Acting Senior Editor, Decorating and Entertainment.’ ”
Marcella was all ready to squeal with delight when a warning flashed in her brain and she realized what Catherine had said.
“Excuse me, Catherine, but I don’t understand. Why Acting Senior Editor?”
Catherine gave a knowing smile, leaning back with a composure that reflected none of Marcella’s concern. “Rest assured, I believe in your talent one hundred percent. Think of this trial period as a courtesy to Beth Anne. Give it, say, three months, and I’m confident by then Beth Anne will be satisfied with your ability to handle the responsibilities of the position, and the title will become permanent. Just continue to deliver the same excellence and quality of work you’re famous for, Marcella, and the job will be yours.”
Marcella was halfway to a smile, still digesting this bittersweet twist to her professional victory, when Catherine moved on with business.
“As of today, I want you in the boardroom with my other senior staffers for this issue’s show meeting. And, of course, you’ll need to save room in your calendar to meet with me one-on-one on a weekly basis. Now, have a look at this. Or better yet — taste.”
Catherine pulled a decorative oval tin towards her and removed the lid. It reminded Marcella of a small Victorian hatbox. Velvet ribbons draped down the sides, left to hang untied.
The heavy scent of brandy wafted through the air as Catherine reached inside to remove a thick slice of fruitcake. She placed the confection on a delicate Victoriana napkin and extended it across her desk to Marcella.<
br />
Marcella tucked her organizer under one arm and rose, stepping forward to accept the slice. From the moment Catherine dropped the fruitcake in her palm, Marcella could feel its moisture absorbing through the napkin.
She resumed her seat, staring at the fruit-and-nut laden slice. Catherine gestured for her to go ahead, and without breaking eye contact, Marcella bit into the wet cake. Between bites of soft, chewy cake, she crunched walnuts, chewed rich cherries, and rolled a lovely flavor around her tongue … sherry, oh! Enjoyable.
At her growing smile, Catherine commented, “Isn’t it marvelous?”
Marcella’s brows shot up in pleasant surprise. “Delish. I never knew fruitcake could be like this. My grandmother’s was always kind of dry. This is decadent.”
Catherine nodded her agreement. “It’s baked by a company called Victoria Reed Cakes. Pippa Carlisle is a young British entrepreneur who has started a mail-order business based on the old English cake recipes passed down to her from her great-great grandmother, Victoria Reed. The company is founded on the traditions of Grandmother Reed, once a young serving girl who worked in London. Every year, for instance, she would bake her Victorian fruitcake and carry it home to her mother on Mothering Sunday. Or what we Americans prefer to call Mother’s Day.”
“Mmmm,” Marcella mumbled while nodding her interest and swallowing a second mouthful of cake.
“The company operates from a bakery in Gloucestershire.”
“That’s in the northern area of the Cotswolds, isn’t it?”
“I believe so.” Catherine passed her an order catalog. “It’s all in here. The handmade cakes are packaged in attractive boxes, stylized for different occasions. They also fill orders for Marks and Spencer stores.”
“Impressive.” Marcella lay aside what remained of her fruitcake and began to browse the brochure. She read that Pippa Carlisle ran her bakery from the village of Mickleton in Chipping Campden, Gloucestershire. That was what? A half hour from Oxford? She couldn’t be certain, but it was close enough.
“The thing is, Marcella, Gracious Living needs to expand with more European articles, and our readers are especially curious about England. I’m very pleased with your coverage of Lynne’s wedding, and as a result, we plan on sending more editors to the U.K. to cover stories, starting with this one. I’d like you to send an editor and a photographer to Gloucestershire A.S.A.P. Maybe we can make the Christmas issue. We’ll do a four-page spread. Five hundred words. I wouldn’t be surprised if our coverage generated American orders for Victoria Reed Cakes. I know I wouldn’t be disappointed getting one of these delicious little treasures in the mail for Christmas.”