Just What the Doctor Ordered

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  “Maybe she was scared.” Ainsley patted his arm, feeling guilty all over again for her part in his misery, wanting to fix it somehow, reminding herself of Ilsa’s advice to let Scott work out his own solution. “Maybe it all happened too fast and she got scared.”

  Scott shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” Although it was clear that it did.

  The audience applauded with a collective vigor that signaled the end of the presentations, and Ainsley clapped, too, before accepting her newly refilled glass. She took a slow sip of the water and pondered what she could say to make her cousin feel a little less miserable. “Maybe this will work out for the best,” she offered lamely.

  “Yes,” he agreed without enthusiasm. “That’s what my father keeps saying, too…except he doesn’t add the ‘maybe.’”

  It was true, Ainsley knew. The family had switched sides after Molly’s desertion. Where she’d been deemed entirely suitable for Scott before she’d left him at the altar, everybody now claimed the match had never been a good idea. “Give it time, Scott,” she advised. “Things have a way of working out.”

  “Sure they do,” he tried to sound brighter, hopeful. Unsuccessfully, but at least it was the most effort he’d displayed since their conversation had begun. “You’re a matchmaker, Ainsley,” he said, suddenly, desperately clutching her arm. “Do you think there’s any hope Molly will ever speak to me again?”

  She didn’t know. She really didn’t. But that was not what he wanted, needed, to hear. “If that’s what you want, Scott, I’m sure she will. Eventually. If you give her some time to think things through.”

  “I just need to know she’s happy,” he said. “Even if it’s not with me.”

  The hangdog look had returned, worse than before, and Ainsley had to do something. “You know, maybe you’d feel better if you asked someone to dance. Got your mind off of Molly for a little while. What about that nice Shelby Stewart?”

  “Who?” he asked, although Ainsley knew he had met Shelby on at least one other occasion.

  “Shelby Stewart,” she repeated. “I think she’s always had something of a crush on you.”

  That was a little desperate sounding, Ainsley thought, but she smiled as if she believed what she’d just said. “Why don’t you go over and ask her to dance?”

  He frowned. “I’d look really stupid asking a girl to dance before the band gets started. Besides, you know I’m not very comfortable on the dance floor.”

  “Ask her to sit one out with you, then.”

  “Oh, right, like she’s going to want to do that.”

  Ainsley was growing a trifle impatient with feeling guilty. Maybe Scott didn’t want to feel better. “Tell her you have an old football injury.”

  He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “She’d never believe I got injured playing football.”

  Which was probably true. “Shelby’s very nice,” she said in a last-ditch effort to coax him into stepping outside the box. “She’s pretty. She’s smart. I think you’d like her. She might be just what you need to forget your troubles.”

  He looked across the room where smart, pretty, likable Shelby was sharing a laugh with her father. “She’s not Molly,” he said.

  And that, apparently, was that. Ainsley gulped the rest of her water and decided she’d go to the ladies’ room and powder her nose. Or fix her lipstick. Or just hide out until Scott had taken his sad, defeated attitude and looked for comfort somewhere else. She felt badly about deserting him. She felt badly about having botched up his romance in the first place. She even felt badly about trying to fix him up with Shelby again. But her feeling badly obviously wasn’t doing one thing to help Scott feel any better. “Things will work out, Scott,” she said. “I believe that. I hope you can, too.”

  “Thanks,” he said in a half-hearted way, and picked up his neglected glass again.

  Leaving him at the bar, Ainsley began to make her way toward the ladies’ room, She wished Ilsa were back from her trip and here to advise her on how she might have helped her cousin. At the moment, she was sorely tempted to catch a midnight flight to Florida and drag Molly back here to face the heartache she’d left behind.

  Of course, taking that kind of action would be matchmaker interference of the highest order…and therefore, against the rules. Not to mention an all-around bad idea.

  “Excuse me,” Ainsley said, as she skirted past a tight cluster of people in the midst of the crowd. Now that the program was over, everyone was up and moving around, which necessitated some maneuvering. The ballroom at Rosecliff, another Newport mansion, was long and narrow, large enough to handle tonight’s crowd, but not without something of a walk to reach one of the powder rooms.

  Ainsley loved all of the Newport mansions, although Danfair, of course, was her favorite. Danfair was still a private home, as opposed to a public treasure, and wasn’t open for tours and events. Her parents had been surprisingly adamant that Danfair should be their children’s haven, where they were free to be whomever they chose. Over the years, Ainsley had come to understand that Danfair was the reason Charles and Linney could leave their children behind with such equanimity. Her parents loved the house and its gardens, defined the view as the most beautiful they’d ever seen, and the landscape as peaceful as Heaven surely must be. They trusted the house in a way that was both puzzling and purposeful, and they had a serene faith their children were safe there.

  And so it had turned out to be.

  Ainsley wondered if her parents would retire from their mission trips and live again at Danfair, but somehow she couldn’t picture them settled, content to spend the last years of their lives simply looking at the view. They’d work until they dropped…wherever that happened to be. The house would be donated to the Preservation Society and, sometime in the future, perhaps, tourists would wander through the rooms at Danfair, imagining the family that once had lived there.

  Or more likely, her parents would eventually want Danfair to become an extension of the Foundation. A halfway house for refugees or a place of shelter for those seeking asylum. Even a school, perhaps. Ainsley couldn’t even imagine all the opportunities her home might someday provide.

  It was sort of odd to think about not living there with her brothers and sister. On the other hand, they’d all have families of their own at some point. They wouldn’t live at Danfair forever. Well, Matt might, she supposed. For her part, Ainsley wouldn’t mind moving away from Newport entirely. Perhaps to another part of the country. Somewhere The Danville Foundation wouldn’t be so endlessly present in her life.

  Reaching the smaller of the ladies’ rooms, Ainsley was surprised and relieved to find it deserted. As the outer door swung shut behind her, she stepped in front of the double mirror and eyed her reflection critically. Was she really that selfish? she wondered. The Foundation did great things. Her parents accomplished more good in the world than they ever acknowledged. Giving was in her blood. It was her heritage. But more and more, Ainsley struggled with the compromise her parents had made, continued to make. She’d had a charmed life, she knew, but that didn’t erase the fact that she’d grown up virtually an orphan, with her parents more often a voice on the other end of the phone than a genuine presence in her life. She didn’t want her children to grow up that way. She didn’t want them ever to feel they were unimportant to her or to wish they had known her better. She didn’t want them to have to wonder where they fit in. She wanted a husband and children and a life that belonged only to her.

  Was she the only Danville to ever feel that way? Uncle Edward hardly ever left New England. He managed the family’s personal investments, spearheaded new financial and commercial ventures, which increased the Danville fortune, which in turn brought more money into the Foundation’s coffers, which in turn financed the good works her parents were able to do.

  If she had a h
ead for business, she could follow in her uncle’s footsteps…none of his children seemed to have the slightest inclination to do so. Or if she’d been a take-charge organizer like Miranda, she could play a role in planning the Foundation’s future. As smart as Matt, and she could oversee projects and investments, evaluate requests, suggest new areas of aid and help ensure the Foundation functioned successfully in an ever more complex world. As brave as Andrew, or as talented, maybe she would have wanted to travel and help document the Foundation’s good works.

  But she was just Ainsley. The baby of the family, who felt selfish because she didn’t want the Foundation to be her whole life. The Danville who wanted to be a matchmaker and change the world of one man and one woman, one love story at a time.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t even claim she had much talent for that. Otherwise, her cousin wouldn’t be out there, now, telling some other sympathetic ear that he was okay. Fine, just fine.

  Studying her reflection, she could see her nose did need powder and her lips could stand some color. But she had nothing with her to do a repair job. She had trouble keeping up with a purse at these functions, so she never brought one. Forethought…also not her strong suit.

  Miranda came through the door. “I thought I saw you dart in here,” she said, moving to stand beside Ainsley in front of the mirror. She set her Judith Leiber evening bag on the counter, flicking up the clasp on the beaded cowboy boot to retrieve her tube of lipstick, and then leaned in toward the mirror to assess her appearance. She looked flawless, of course, despite the lack of Chanel on her lips. “I saw you were seated at the table with Lara and Bryce Braddock. Any word from Ilsa and James? Are they enjoying their honeymoon?”

  “Who wouldn’t?” said Ainsley. “A handsome husband, a beautiful wife, a Mediterranean cruise? Why would they even want to come back?” Ainsley knew from her own phone conversations with Ilsa that the weeks had flown by, that the vacation was perfect, but that both were eager to come home and begin their life together at Braddock Hall. “I encouraged her to stay longer, but I imagine they’ll be home next Thursday, as scheduled. Personally, I’d want my honeymoon to last as long as possible.”

  Miranda laughed. “I’m not sure you’d enjoy a two-week honeymoon, Ainsley. In fact, I’m not certain you’d make it a whole week away from Danfair. You’re more of a homebody than anyone else I know.”

  And Ainsley, inexplicably, felt inadequate in a whole new area. Better to change the subject than try to defend her stay-at-home tendencies. Which didn’t necessarily mean she wouldn’t enjoy a long honeymoon. “Who were you sitting with at dinner?” she asked, as if she actually wanted to know.

  “Carolyn, again.” Miranda’s lips formed a moue of vexation, but that could have had more to do with the faded lip color than with the seating arrangements. “I did meet someone you’d like, though. Peyton O’Reilly. Do you know who she is?”

  Ainsley shook her head, watching her sister scroll up the lipstick.

  “She’s new to the area, just moved to Newport a couple of months ago. Her parents are the originators of the O’Reilly Diner chain of restaurants and they’ve just relocated the headquarters to Providence. Theirs is a real mom-and-pop success story.” She touched the color to her lips. “Peyton is delightful and better yet, she’s eager to volunteer. When I told her about the new peds center, she practically begged to volunteer.” Miranda pulled back from the mirror to observe, then leaned in again to dot the lipstick twice more against her lower lip, twice more against her upper, then finally, she pressed them together and smoothed out the color. “You look a little pale,” she said, glancing at Ainsley again, as she scrolled the lipstick back down in the tube and recapped it. “Is something wrong with you?”

  She was getting that question a lot lately. “No,” Ainsley sighed. Leaning in, she checked her cheeks for color and thought she looked okay. Not as beautiful as her sister, who was wearing a gown of red bandana-like fabric in keeping with the evening’s western theme and looked capable of stopping traffic on the I-95 without half trying. Ainsley wondered, as she often did, if she’d have preferred being beautiful to being cute, but decided it wasn’t a fair question tonight. Not when Miranda had perfectly applied lipstick and she, herself, had none. She pursed her lips at her reflection and, even before it occurred to her to ask, Miranda offered the Chanel.

  “I don’t know why you won’t carry a bag, Ainsley. Then you’d have lipstick when you need it.”

  “Oddly enough—” she held up the tube as an example “—I usually do have lipstick when I need it.”

  “I meant, the right shade of lipstick,” Miranda said.

  Ainsley applied and blotted. “This is close enough.” She recapped the tube and handed it back to her sister. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I haven’t seen Bucky. Was he at your table?”

  “Oh, yes.” Ainsley had found Bucky to be quite annoying at dinner, although no one else had seemed to notice, so maybe it was just her mood. “I’m sure he’s saving you a dance.” Which made her think of Ivan. “Have you seen Ivan?” she asked with a return of enthusiasm. “He looks very handsome in his black denims and tuxedo jacket.”

  “Does he? I hadn’t noticed,” Miranda said, eyeing her sister in the mirror.

  Of course not. That would be too easy. “Well, you should take another look. He’s the best-looking man here.”

  Miranda dropped the tube of lipstick into her glittery little pod of an evening bag. “Ainsley, I have the strangest feeling you may be trying to set me up with Ivan.”

  Oops. “I don’t know why you’d think that,” she said, quickly on the defensive. “Are you interested in Ivan?”

  Miranda studied her in the mirror for a long moment, then closed her bag with a pointed snap. “Frankly,” she said, “I’ve never given it any thought.”

  Ainsley watched her sister walk out, newly lipsticked, gorgeous as always, the little pod purse swinging stylishly from her shoulder. Looking back at her own reflection, Ainsley realized the lipstick was the wrong shade for her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “What’s wrong with your lips?” Bucky asked the very second she returned to their table. “You look like you’ve been kissed hard by the sugarplum fairy.”

  Which didn’t sound like a compliment. “I haven’t been kissed by anyone for ages, but the right guy could remedy that.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not falling for that.” He shook his head, obviously believing there was no question he was the right guy she referred to. “Then we’d both have that stuff on our lips. No thanks.”

  She sighed and sat down. “You’re a true romantic, Bucky.”

  “You’re not the first woman to tell me that,” he said, sounding perfectly serious, and it crossed Ainsley’s mind that she might have been too hasty in deserting Scott.

  “Speaking of romantic,” Bucky continued. “Let’s dance. I believe they’re playing our song.”

  She listened and decided “The Way You Look Tonight” was romantic enough, considering her lips were sugarplum pink and therefore unkissable. She got up again and Bucky led her into the cluster of dancers, pulling her—with his usual deliberation—into his arms. With the ease of familiarity, she allowed Bucky to position her hands behind his neck, and her feet just naturally followed his lead into the rhythm of the dance. But then, over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Miranda’s red dress as she sashayed by in the arms of the best-looking man at the gala. Ivan, no less.

  Well, well, Ainsley thought, feeling an unsettling clutch of tension in her chest. She tried for a better look, but Bucky thwarted her efforts with a fancy turn and a series of complicated steps. He was the right height for her—five-ten to her five-five—but
somehow tonight he seemed taller, as if he’d deliberately grown a couple of inches just to keep her from spying on her sister. Irritated, for no particular reason, she moved her head from side to side, trying to see around him.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, stopping her furtive glances. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”

  He nodded, taking her at her word. “Your brother seems to be enjoying his evening out,” Bucky observed. “I’ll admit I wasn’t sure he would.”

  Ainsley frowned at him. “You were worried about Matt?”

  He frowned back. “Why would I worry about Matt?”

  Her eyes sought out her oldest brother, and her heart smiled at the sight of him. He looked every bit as handsome as Ivan did tonight and, bless his heart, he was sitting and talking animatedly with Julia Butterfield, a strapping and overly opinionated debutante who was, more often than not, a wallflower at these galas. Matt was kind, and Ainsley loved him for that. She worried about him, though, too. He was hard to read, but her instincts told her there was method behind his behavior and that by taking the noble course and spending much of the evening with the Julia Butterfields of society, he avoided the possibility of meeting someone special, someone he might fall in love with, someone who could offer him the real possibility of happily ever after.

  “I wasn’t worried about Matt,” Bucky clarified.

  “Well, Andrew isn’t here, so naturally, I assumed…”

  “I was talking about the doctor. Your extra brother. Remember him?”

  “Ivan?”

  “Of course, Ivan.”

  “I have no idea why you’d be worried about Ivan having a good time tonight. He always has a good time.”

  “I thought he might have a little trouble fitting in, that’s all.”