Great-Aunt Sophia's Lessons for Bombshells

by Lisa Cach

  “Mm-hmm,” Cat murmured knowingly. “You know what I think?”

  Grace didn’t want to know.

  “I think that you’re afraid to admit you love him, because he might not love you back.”

  “His type can’t love.” After that night they’d spent together, to leave without even a good-bye …

  “That’s ridiculous. You of all people should know that intellectuals like Andrew—and you—are uncomfortable with messy emotions. It doesn’t mean they’re not there, though.”

  Grace started. Andrew. Cat was talking about Andrew, of course, not Declan.

  Cat went on, “You and Andrew have to have the courage to face your emotions.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “This isn’t about courage. He seems more interested in me as a friend than as a romantic partner.”

  Cat laughed. “Isn’t that exactly the same technique you usually use on someone you’re interested in? You befriend them and slip in under their radar, because there’s little risk of romantic rejection that way.”

  “No, I do that because that’s how you build a relationship with a solid foundation.”

  “Whatever the motivation, Andrew is probably doing the same with you. Be patient with him. Encourage him.”

  Grace scowled, not believing what she was hearing. “You’re trying to help me hook up with a guy?”

  Cat was quiet on the other end of the line. “Grace,” she finally said, her voice sad, “I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy and to have what’s best for you.”

  “So you think Andrew is ‘what’s best for me,’” she said drily.

  “Yes. And I can’t tell you how much it relieves me to hear you being angsty about him. I’d been worried that you might get involved with Declan.”

  “You think I’m an idiot?”

  “I think you’re female. Even I could feel the man’s sexual aura, so an attraction didn’t surprise me. But I’m glad that your true self has shifted your interest on to Andrew, who shares your values.”

  Grace felt a cloak of “should” settling over her, muffling anger and passion under a layer of reason. Her shoulders slumped and she felt her mouth pursing in disgruntled resignation. She really should redouble her efforts with Andrew instead of wasting thoughts on annihilating Declan. Which path, after all, was more likely to lead to long-term happiness?

  “Oh, I meant to ask,” Cat said in a sudden shift of tone, “did your mom ever answer your questions about why Sophia is estranged from your family?”

  “She doesn’t know. And she won’t ask anyone, either. She says she sees no point in stirring up old dirt. She thinks it would be intrusive. I think she’d like to pretend that Sophia doesn’t exist and that I’m not here with her.” Anything positive that Grace had said about Sophia either in an e-mail or on the phone had been met with a decided silence on her mother’s side. Her mom was a generous and loving woman, but if someone managed to get on her bad side, they stayed there.

  “Have you told your mom about the weight you’ve lost?”

  Grace hesitated. “I want to surprise her.”

  Cat murmured unhappily. “Is that it, or are you afraid of how she’s going to react? You know she’ll blame Sophia for making you feel that your body wasn’t good enough.”

  Grace felt a spark of returning anger. “Cat, lay off it. You’ve never been overweight, so just … lay off.”

  “So I have to have been overweight to understand what damage self-loathing can do?”

  “For God’s sake, I don’t hate myself!”

  “Andrew isn’t going to suddenly start showering you with affection if you lose another ten pounds. Weight loss isn’t a magic potion.”

  “Sure it is!” Grace snapped, angry now and wanting to goad her. “It always is, where men are concerned. So if I want love and happiness, of course I have to lose ten more pounds. At least ten.”

  “You are kidding, aren’t you?”

  “Am I? Let’s get real, Cat. Weight matters. You may be ‘more evolved’ about it, but the rest of the world is made up of assholes who aren’t. Fighting them is a losing battle.”

  “Grace, this isn’t like you,” Cat said, worried.

  “Says who? You going to start telling me who I am now, too?”

  “Maybe you need reminding! The Grace I know isn’t a bitch.”

  The nasty name hit her like a sucker punch, knocking the wind from her. Grace hung up without responding, her hands shaking, her emotions a roiling mess of anger, hurt, and guilt. She flung herself down on the bed, staring at the canopy overhead.

  Goddammit, why did she have people like Cat and Declan in her life? She mentally thrashed through her history with them both, working herself into a froth that slowly drained away as her hands rested on her nearly flat stomach.

  The pillow of doughy flesh that she used to knead like a kitten seeking comfort had shrunk to the thickness of a summer quilt. She could feel the hard base of her muscles beneath it, waiting to be uncovered. If she could lose another ten pounds by the end of the month, no one would recognize her. She’d be able to wear any pair of pants without wondering if her butt looked like a sack of marbles. She could wear clingy knits without a body shaper. A bikini. If her breasts shrank enough, she could even go braless in a backless dress.

  She rolled off the bed and went to examine her face in the bathroom mirror. Her jawline had narrowed, and her neck was thinner, making it look longer. As she turned her head this way and that and lifted her hair into different styles, she caught glimpses of the Sophia in the portrait downstairs.

  Grace narrowed her eyes, thinking of how she could use her changing body to make Declan suffer, to give an “up yours” to Cat, and to transform Dr. Andrew into a man with a libido.

  For the first time, the face in the mirror was Sophia’s. Green eyes stared back at her with calculation and sultry schemes for her own benefit.

  Startled, Grace blinked and let her hair drop. Her expression of surprise erased the doppelgänger effect, but the moment she thought of Declan and narrowed her eyes, it returned.

  She shuddered. Was she taking on the personality of her aunt? Was she losing herself under Sophia’s influence?

  Or maybe it was worse than that. Maybe this angry, manipulative person in the mirror had always been inside her, waiting to emerge. Maybe the real Grace had always wanted to control people and be considered a beauty, and crush those who hurt her.

  She had the sudden, frightening feeling that her Ph.D. studies had all been an elaborate game of self-delusion to make it the world’s fault that she was not adored for being chubby, shy, and lacking in sexual confidence. After all, it felt better than blaming herself for not becoming what the world preferred: a sexually confident beauty who took no guff from anyone.

  A knock came at her door, followed immediately by Darlene’s cheerless voice. “Fifteen minutes. Don’t keep her waiting.”

  “Okay,” Grace called back.

  Self-analysis would have to wait. She and her aunt had what Sophia had called a very important engagement, and she hadn’t started to dress yet. She didn’t even know which shoes she was going to wear. A flush of panic washed over her, anticipating Sophia’s displeasure should she choose incorrectly.

  With a sense of guilty relief, she shoved aside the conversation with Cat and the disturbing doubts it had raised. Right now, she had to concentrate on looking her best.

  She had her $20,000 priorities, after all.

  CHAPTER

  18

  Grace clopped down the stairs in alligator mules, holding tight to the banister for fear of the slipperlike shoes flying off her feet and sending her tumbling to the marble floor below. Lali was waiting for her by the door.

  “Hurry up, hurry up! You’re late.”

  “I know, I know!” Grace said, reaching the floor in one piece and slip-stepping her way toward the door. She could hear the low rumble of a car motor out in the courtyard. “Do I look okay? I was told to put on ‘resort wear,’ but I’
m not sure what that means.” She’d settled on an above-the-knee lemon yellow linen skirt, a bateau-neck cream shirt made of a fine-gauge silk knit, and a long necklace of tortoiseshell and citrine. Her hair had been curled, parted on the side, and pulled back into a low barrette at her nape. She’d topped it all with her big straw hat.

  “You look great,” Lali assured her. “As far as I can tell, in Pebble Beach resort wear just means fake casual. You know, lots of sailor clothes that cost too much to wear on a real sailboat, and cashmere twinsets with pearls, and a skirt that looks like you could play tennis in it.”

  “I should fit in, then.”

  “Yeah, except you’re about forty years too young for this set.”

  “You know where Sophia is taking me?”

  Lali shooed her out the door and into the sunlight. “No time to talk! Go!”

  Grace carefully navigated the steps, watching her feet, then at last looked up.

  Stretched out before her was the biggest, shiniest, most ridiculously beautiful vehicle she had ever seen, even in photos. She gaped at the vision in royal blue, cream, and chrome. It was a convertible from sometime before the Second World War, with a long, narrow hood; huge round headlights; and sweeping fenders over the spoke wheels. Chrome pipes curled like whiskers from the sides of the hood and swept underneath the running boards.

  Darlene sat at the wheel, dressed in an old-fashioned chauffeur’s uniform with a crushable hat and a high-collared black jacket that buttoned down each side. Sophia sat in the backseat, her head swathed in an Isadora Duncan-esque long scarf, enormous sunglasses hiding half her face.

  “There you are,” Sophia said. “Do come along, darling. It’s not kind to keep me waiting in the sun.”

  Grace shook off her shock and stumbled to the car, opening the back door and slipping onto the cream leather seat beside her aunt. “What is this thing?” she asked in awe.

  “This, my dear, is the finest American automobile ever made, a 1929 supercharged J series Duesenberg.”

  “It’s a duesy,” Darlene added from the front, and cackled as she put the vehicle into gear and they glided off.

  “It’s stunning,” Grace said.

  “It is, isn’t it?” Sophia agreed. “I’ve always felt that a beautiful woman should ride in an equally beautiful car. They set each other off. My second husband bought this for me. It was an extravagant gift even then, but he was an extravagant man.”

  “How much is a car like this worth?”

  Sophia tsked in disapproval. “Grace, you know that’s a rude question.”

  Grace bit her lip, contrite but still curious.

  “And besides, the value to me is in the memories of dear Chazz.” Sophia canted her head. “That would be husband number two, to you.”

  Darlene stopped at the top of the driveway and then pulled out onto 17-Mile Drive. As the car smoothly picked up speed, Grace held her hat onto her head with one hand, the brim flapping in the breeze. “I’m sorry, you’re right, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “However, I suppose you’ll just look it up online as soon as we return, so if you absolutely must know the dollar value …” Sophia’s lips twitched in amusement. “A few years ago, one sold at auction for one million.”

  “Excuse me?” Grace gasped.

  “It wasn’t quite as nice as this one, I don’t think.”

  “One million dollars? For a car? For this car?” Grace couldn’t grasp the reality. “And you drive it on the road?” she screeched.

  “Of course,” Sophia said lightly. “It adds a bright spot to people’s day to see it. Beautiful things should not be kept behind glass, they should be used. Just as a beautiful woman should live fully and not let herself turn into a hothouse flower, pampered and useless.”

  “But a million dollars! If we get into an accident—”

  “Pshh,” Sophia said, waving away Grace’s worry. “And so what if we do mar the paint? It’s just a car. In fact, I think you should drive us home later.”

  “No, no, no,” Grace said in panic. “Absolutely not!”

  “It would be good for you. It would preserve you from ever overvaluing a man based on the car he drove. You’ll always have the Duesenberg in the back of your mind, and know that you’ve driven better.”

  “But, but,” Grace said, scrambling for an excuse, “but I can’t drive a stick shift!”

  Sophia turned her head toward Grace, her eyes invisible behind the sunglasses, but the disapproving set of her mouth expressing all. “Did your parents teach you absolutely nothing of use?”

  Grace pulled in her chin defensively. “We had only automatics. I’ve never needed to drive a stick.”

  “Every woman needs to know how to drive a manual transmission.”

  “Why?”

  “There may be an emergency that requires it. But more important, men find it sexy.”

  Grace laughed. “Oh, come on! Men hate being passengers in cars driven by women.”

  “They hate being passengers in automatics with frightened, overcautious, or flighty women, yes. But put a man next to a woman in a short skirt who is working the gears with confidence and skill, and all he’ll be able to think of is running his hand up to her crotch.”

  “Oh, like that’s safe! Talk about distracted driving.”

  “You don’t let him, darling. Anticipation is always three-quarters of the fun.”

  “I guess that’s just one trick I’ll have to leave out of my bag, then, because there’s no way I’m going to learn to drive a stick shift today, in this thing.”

  Sophia patted her knee. “No, dear, of course not. That would be a wasted opportunity.”

  Grace sank back in relief, but then was pricked by the niggling question of what Sophia meant by “a wasted opportunity.” Before she could ask her aunt for clarification, Sophia was speaking again.

  “We’re lunching today at the Beach and Tennis Club dining room; it’s open only to members of the club and guests of Pebble Beach Resort. The ladies who will be joining us are all longstanding members of the community here who have formed a charitable organization called the Altruism Society, and I expect you to charm them.”

  Grace’s relief blew away in the passing breeze. “Charm them? How? You haven’t taught me anything about charming women!”

  “The principles are the same as with men. Just tone it down, as women are quicker to scent insincerity, with the sole exception of any discussion of their children. It’s the one topic they will never tire of, and you may keep them on it for as long as you can stand it.”

  “Great. What if they don’t have kids, or their kids are in prison for pushing drugs or something?”

  “Then fall back on the skills you already have. The goal in any interaction is to make the other person believe that you thought they were fascinating, witty, and possessed of an unusually warm heart. Women, especially, always like to hear that they’re kind, even when they know that they aren’t. It comes as a pleasant surprise to them, and they won’t want to disabuse you of the notion.”

  “This sounds like an awful lot of flattery and manipulation,” Grace said.

  Sophia sighed. “Grace, Grace. It will only come off that way if that is what you believe it to be. Look at it instead as the Buddhists do, and seek to recognize the divine within each person.”

  Grace gave her aunt a skeptical look.

  “I am trying to make this easier for you,” Sophia said.

  They turned off the main road and onto a drive that Grace knew, from the exploring she’d done on a bicycle, to lead to the Lodge at Pebble Beach, a white porticoed building that had been part of the resort since it was founded in 1919. They passed the lodge and went on to the Beach and Tennis Club. Darlene eased the Duesenberg to a stop at the main entrance and shut off the motor. Uniformed attendants rushed forward to open both Sophia’s and Grace’s doors and help them from the car, Grace less elegantly than Sophia, as she suddenly decided to leave her hat and sunglasses on the seat, realizing it wo
uld be ridiculous to have lunch with that enormous brim blocking out her neighbors at the table. Sophia cooed over the young male attendants, who addressed her by name and seemed delighted to see her, the car, or both.

  Staff ushered them through the lobby, giving Grace time for only a moment’s glance through a doorway to an outdoor pool sparkling in the sun and dotted with swimmers, and then they came into the dining room. It had a simple, airy elegance, but the furnishings were only a stage for the wall of plateglass windows that looked out onto the cerulean waters of Stillwater Cove and the jade green seventeenth fairway of the famous golf links. Grace gaped at the view, the other lunch guests making no more impact on her awareness than murmuring shadows.

  The sound of her name broke the spell, and Grace found herself being introduced to eight or nine women who immediately blended together in one well-coifed, conservatively made-up, extremely neat and moneyed phalanx of older women. Flash and bling were out with this set; tasteful neutrals and pastels were in. And reigning over them all was Sophia, dressed today in tones of camel and ivory, her jewelry reduced to a few heavy accents of matte gold.

  Grace exchanged smiles with the women, and a few words of chitchat with the woman seated to her right, named Ellen, who first ascertained that Grace was single and then made mention of her forty-eight-year-old son, presently also single. This prompted a mention of nephews from the woman two seats down, but despite this, it was obvious that something beyond matchmaking was on everyone’s mind. What it was didn’t come out until after they’d ordered their meals, a half dozen variations on lettuce and low-calorie protein, plus Arnold Palmers—half lemonade, half iced tea—or gin and tonics. An expectant lull followed the departure of the last of the waitstaff, and all eyes turned to Sophia.

  “So where are we?” Sophia asked. “Gwennie?”

  A woman with white hair in a sixties flip answered. “It’s worse than they originally thought. The pipe that broke above the ceiling of the vineyard’s banquet hall not only destroyed the plasterwork and warped the floor below but now there’s also mold inside the walls. It will be at least a month before the hall can be used.”