by Megan Mulry
But most of all, his immediate family looked to him because they wanted to make sure they were relieved of the burden of having to handle the brunt of what was coming down the pike. That Max was on it. Because Max was always on it. He could handle it. Just like his father used to handle it.
Max had a momentary recollection of when the family had moved from Yorkshire down to Dunlear, after his grandmother had died. George’s father had asked them to move in and begin taking on the ducal responsibilities in the late eighties. The family had been like a little troupe of (very well-to-do) tinkers. Displaced. His father had seemed particularly mindful. Max remembered how his dad kept asking the young ones (Max, ten; Devon, eight; and Abby, six) how they were adjusting. How they liked their new home. If they’d found any good hiding places.
Max scowled.
His father could not have cared less about securing the line. His mother was an idiot. She was more concerned about where to seat the queen’s representative, the Duke of Gloucester, at supper that night than about Max’s marital happiness. Max felt the familiar resentment bubble up and did his best to toss it aside. For whatever reason, his father loved his mother—had loved, he corrected—but that was a love that somehow skipped a generation. Sylvia, Lady Heyworth, the Duchess of Northrop, had no love for her eldest son. And the (lack of) feeling was mutual.
Max looked up to the sky and watched as the flock of starlings was spooked and flew away in a sweeping arc from the cemetery where he stood. His father would have loved that. Bronte would have loved that. The temporary, ephemeral, beautifully orchestrated moment. And then nothing.
His father would have loved Bronte.
And, damn it, that’s what finally made him cry after all. He had withstood all the cool, empathic glances of his relatives and the well-wishers in the chapel and then out here in the beautiful open air. He hadn’t even felt the slightest press of emotion. It was logically too soon to miss his father—he’d been alive three days ago, for goodness’ sake—but missing Bronte was starting to ferment.
He smiled bitterly as the tears slowly rolled down his cheeks. At least he could stand there, unassailed, and weep for the loss of a woman who had revealed a part of him to himself that he’d never been able to admit was present, or perhaps a place into which he had never allowed himself to admit anyone. She had slid into his soul through a strange alchemy of bitter humor and raw vitality. It wasn’t the sex. (Of course it was, but not in the way it sounded.) He hadn’t told anyone about her.
Max had kept her as some sort of secret. At the time, he’d thought he was savoring those first few precious months of private intimacy in anticipation of what he’d thought was going to be a lifetime of shared public happiness. Now he regretted that he hadn’t relayed every anecdote to Devon or Willa or David, so he could call upon them and ask them to tell him (over and over) that it had been real. That she had been real. Of all the people he could have shared his feelings with, why had he chosen the one who was now there in the ground at his feet?
He reached into the inside pocket of his gray morning coat, pulled out the perfectly pressed linen handkerchief, and rested it slowly against each of his eyes. Willa and David had been the last to leave him alone at the graveside. Willa had looked like she wanted to say more when Max thanked them for passing along his contact details to Bronte a few weeks before. He probably appeared barely interested, as his attempts to avoid thinking or talking about Bronte led him to appear wooden when her name came up. As much as he thought he was “processing” his father’s death in a healthy way—and that may have technically been true—if he was honest, the effort it took to stay in control of that particular grief meant that everything else had to be very carefully carved out, wrapped up, and put away. Especially thoughts of Bronte.
To people on the outside—the press, his family—it was justifiably difficult to balance his life in the face of the unexpected loss of his father. If he confessed that he was more likely to have a nervous breakdown at the loss of a woman he’d only known for a few months, they really would have had him committed.
So he allowed himself to mourn. And if he was mourning the loss of Bronte as much as the loss of his father, then that was his business, and no one else really needed to know. One was the loss of what might have been and one was the loss of what was. Neither was more or less real to him at that moment. He figured he could wring it all out together and be done with the whole bloody mess in a few months’ time.
Two weeks later, he received the condolence letter Bronte had written. It gave him the courage to let her go altogether. It was so devoid of any true feeling. So perfunctory. He replied to every condolence letter he had received. By hand. Eight hundred and twenty-three to be precise. He replied to Bronte’s just as he replied to the queen’s. Politely.
By Christmas, the combination of sexual frustration and desire had started to push him to the breaking point. He had finally confided in Devon, who was beginning to worry about the cause of Max’s perpetual irritation. In a moment of pique, Max had been uncharacteristically short-tempered with a group of labor leaders who were representing the agricultural workers at Dunlear Castle. After Max had clenched his hand into a fist and slammed it on the negotiating table, Devon had hastily called the meeting to an end, citing a family emergency, and then summarily punched Max in the face once everyone else had left the room.
With Devon furiously grabbing the lapels of Max’s chalk-stripe suit jacket, Max had finally collapsed into a chair and told him the whole sorry story about the chit from Chicago.
“So let me get this straight,” Devon said. “You fall madly in love with this woman and now you are letting her go?”
“Damn it, Dev, you sound just like Dad. I can’t very well make her love me.”
“Of course she loves you!” Devon waved his hand in the air. “You are the lovable one, remember? I’m the rat bastard around here.”
Max smiled as he poured them both a few fingers of scotch. They had gone back to Max’s house in Fulham after the labor meetings had ended so disastrously. Devon took one of the glasses from his brother and continued speaking.
“Seriously. So what? So you didn’t come right out and tell her that a future with you would be full of flashing paparazzi cameras and prying reporters. That’s not irreconcilable. Call her now. It’s Christmastime.” Devon tossed his phone at his older brother. “Quit being a puss.”
“Shut up.” Max caught the phone but stared at it without dialing the number he’d never forgotten.
“Just do it.”
Max took a fortifying slug of scotch, then dialed the number. It went straight to voice mail and her message was damnably short. He was recording dead air before he’d even considered what he might say. “Merry Christmas, Bronte. I hope… you have a wonderful year ahead.” Click.
“You’re going to have to call her back. Tell me you did not just leave that stilted piece-of-shit message on her answering machine! That was a joke, right?” Devon was laughing.
Max whipped the phone back at his younger brother.
“Ow!” He scrambled to protect his face.
“Serves you right, you pushy bastard. I wasn’t prepared to talk to her. I need to think about the best way to go about it.”
“For another six months? Time’s a-wasting, Max.”
“Just shut up. I want to get foxed.”
“That I can do!” Devon stood up and retrieved the nearly full bottle of scotch. “Let’s get despicably drunk, shall we?”
“Perfect.” Max held out his glass for a refill and the two brothers proceeded to get hammered. Max was passed out cold a few hours later when Bronte returned his call.
The fact that he let it go to voice mail struck Bronte as some sort of petty retaliatory gesture for her not having picked up his lame Christmas greeting. She left him a mirror version of the message he’d left. Empty and meaningless. And she began to feel more and more grateful that she’d escaped with her heart (barely) intact from a man who c
ould run so hot and cold.
Chapter 7
Having just gotten her hair done and looking like a goddamned shampoo commercial, Bronte was humming one of her favorite New York tunes and feeling like the city was her oyster. She gave her long, dark mane an extra sassy swing as she headed out onto Madison Avenue.
Damn that guy was good. No matter how hard she tried to brush, treat, blow, condition, or deep-fry her hair on her own time, it never felt as good as it did after two hours at Frederic Fekkai. What was up with that?
As long as she didn’t factor in her nonexistent love life, the year that had passed since her move to New York had been very, very good to Ms. Bronte Talbott, if she did say so herself. The Sarah James flagship store and atelier had swooped into Manhattan like a heat-seeking missile. Everyone was crazy about her barely-there, sky-high styles, and Sarah herself was the perfect It Girl to embody the whole brand. She didn’t need to promote it: she lived it.
Bronte glanced up to see which cross street she was on and realized that the Sarah James store was only two blocks north. She decided to pop in unannounced and check in on her favorite client and closest friend. As the sparkling, seemingly endless early June day was starting to wane, Bronte thought she might even convince Sarah to join her for a celebratory cocktail. The Council of Fashion Designers of America had surprised them all by shortlisting Sarah James for one of their prestigious CFDA awards, and the presentation ceremony and ball were the following night at Lincoln Center.
A couple of beautiful people were coming her way, Bronte noted absently, as she rummaged through her too-big satchel to retrieve her ringing cell phone. The woman was a tight little colt of a thing with a short blond bob, classic retro wayfarers, and Sarah James kitten heels clicking in time on the sidewalk, and the guy was in a great, classic blue suit, and had his arm hung loosely around her shoulder.
Bronte pulled herself up short and turned to face the Barneys window, lifting one knee to support the bottom of her bag. She attempted to dig deeper into her godforsaken garbage pail of a purse, murmuring a steady stream of “fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck” as the phone continued to ring and she continued to be unable to extract it from the quagmire that was the inside of her bag.
As she shook the long wall of her gleaming hair out of the way with an impatient toss, she looked up into the plate-glass window of the department store to see Max’s reflection staring at her back. She gave up on finding her phone and slowly turned around.
Thank God I am looking fucking hot, she thought stupidly. Her phone beeped one last petulant time to let her know she had missed the call.
“Hi, Max.”
“Hi, Bron.”
Did he have to say it in that deep, familiar way? Ugh.
He raised his sunglasses up on his hair. His killer hair. What? Did she think that after less than a year, he wouldn’t still have the best fucking hair in history? That he would have gone prematurely gray and bald due to her absence? His hideously perfect blond, nearly preteen companion was looking doe-eyed, moving her glance from one of them to the other, when Max came back to his senses, partially, and said, almost dismissively, “Oh, this is Lydia. Lydia, this is Bronte Talbott.”
“Nice to meet you, Bronte,” Lydia said formally and a bit shyly, looking up to Max as if for guidance.
“Nice shoes, Lydia,” Bronte commented dryly. “I was just on my way to see Sarah James as a matter of fact.”
“Ah,” Max said, “so you won that account after all. Congratulations.”
“Yes,” Bronte answered, surprised that he would even remember. “Sarah opened her shop on 68th and Madison last year.”
Max turned to his companion. “Do you want to go shoe shopping, Lyd?”
What the hell? Bronte thought. Did he think I could just bump into him and act all normal?
“Sorry,” Bronte cut in, “it’s a business meeting. We’re going over some advertising budget numbers for next year. Maybe another time.” Bronte gave the petite woman a tight smile, then turned to face Max.
Bronte lifted her oversized black sunglasses onto her head and caught Max’s eyes. Big mistake. His gaze pinned her tighter than a butterfly in a lepidopterist’s glass box. Not good. Definitely not good.
“Okay then,” Bronte snapped after that eternal stare, returning her sunglasses to her face: mortal combat required the proper body armor. No way was she going to survive those gray-blue eyes boring into hers right out here on the open battlefield of Madison Avenue.
“Great to see you, Max. Lydia, a pleasure.”
Bronte turned to go. Max gave her his best half-smile and reached tentatively for her upper arm—to stall her, touch her, she didn’t know what—then he thought better of it and looked heartbreakingly vulnerable for a split second. He put his sunglasses back on and made a gesture with his hand that was part salute, part wave.
Bronte continued apace, trying to regain her composure as she made her way north on Madison Avenue. She still hadn’t succeeded by the time she barreled into Sarah’s store and continued upstairs to her office, ripping the door open unceremoniously and throwing her enormous bag onto Sarah’s gorgeous white calfskin couch.
“Well, well, well,” said Sarah. “If it isn’t my brilliant advertising agent.”
Sarah then turned to her assistant, Julie, with whom she had been looking over some letters and last-minute speech adjustments for the CFDA awards (on the million-to-one chance that Sarah James the person actually received an award on behalf of Sarah James the brand) and told Julie she could go home for the day.
Bronte sat on the couch, one leg crossed over the other and kicking quickly, quickly, quickly.
“It’s times like this I wish I smoked, because all I want to do is rip open a pack of cigarettes and chain-smoke like a fucking dragon lady.”
“Hmmm,” Sarah offered noncommittally as she took a bottle of Veuve Clicquot out of the small refrigerator at the back of her cluttered private workroom/studio and began to uncork it.
“Only you,” Bronte said through a bitter laugh, “would have Veuve Clicquot at the ready at a time like this. You are truly the best woman on the planet.”
POP!
Bronte smiled warmly despite herself, grateful that even the most chaotic emotional upheaval could still be soothed by the sound of a cold bottle of champagne being uncorked.
“Talk,” Sarah barked unceremoniously as she handed Bronte an immaculate Waterford crystal flute. “As my grandmother says, everything’s better with the merry widow.”
“Who the hell is the merry widow?” Bronte asked.
“The champagne! Veuve Clicquot is French for merry widow.”
“And of course you would know that.” Bronte took a grateful sip. “Sarah, you are such a paradox. This office, or studio, or whatever you are calling it these days looks like a tornado just blew through, yet you have spontaneously produced a perfectly chilled bottle of the best champagne and two immaculate glasses from which to drink it. All I can say is, thank fucking you.”
“Keep going.”
“So, as you may or may not have gathered, that little fling with the duke has been rather difficult for me to, well, compartmentalize… this champagne is particularly restorative. I can’t thank you enough.”
Bronte sank deeper into the luxurious couch and took another sip, closing her eyes half-mast to further appreciate the delicate snap and flavor. When she reopened them, she saw the pink, orange, and purple sunset starting to color the sky behind Sarah’s silhouette through the fabulous studio windows that made up the west wall of her second-floor space.
“Go on.”
“I feel like I am at the best possible shrink appointment in Manhattan: champagne, sunset, and I can dump my heart out onto your beautiful carpet. So… whatever… I don’t really even know where to begin, but suffice it to say I thought it was completely over with a capital O and I just bumped into him on Madison Avenue with some little blond British bimbo hanging from his arm and he looked at me like… as if… y
ou know… as if we had been drinking coffee this morning and he was on his way home from work and what’s for dinner, darling? For fuck’s sake, here I am having the best fucking year of my career”—Bronte raised her glass to Sarah, which Sarah returned in kind with a wink and a wry smile—“and I’m feeling like I am all that and a side of fries, shaking my booty right out of Frederic Fekkai and hacking through this urban jungle with a goddamned, motherfucking Prada machete for chrissake. And then I bump into him and I am… fuck… slammed. I was a fricking deer in the fricking headlights. All my mojo was utterly fucking AWOL.”
“Who is he, Bronte?”
“Max. His name is Max. What’s he even doing in New York? I hope he’s not actually living here. That would be just fucking perfect. I would bump into him and his bit of fluff at every fucking crosswalk. How can I be so mature in other areas of my life and so fucking juvenile about this? Oh, Sarah. He was so damn good in bed. That’s the worst part. I didn’t really even care about little Blondie… I almost blurted out something along the lines of, ‘Want to meet up for a quickie while you’re in town?’ I mean that’s just lust, right? Nothing more than animal magnetism, right?”
“Ummm. Not sure I’m really the one to ask about the animal stuff. I’m pretty much a grab-the-animal-magnetism-where-you-can-find-it-and-never-let-go kind of gal. But if you are more of the take-it-or-leave-it variety, then maybe a quickie would be the right thing for you.”
“Of course, I would grab it and wrestle it to the ground if I had the courage, but the bottom line is I am your basic commitment coward. And I don’t even mean long-term, connubial commitment… I mean even committing to considering connubial has me running for the proverbial hills. But this guy, I mean, I could really hunt him down and tie him up and hold him hostage in my apartment for a really long time before the police came. I mean, I think he would really like that.”