In Love Again (Unruly Royals)

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In Love Again (Unruly Royals) Page 2

by Mulry, Megan


  “Oh, I doubt that. He was American and smart. And he was on his way to some prestigious American university. California somewhere. I don’t remember. But he was so…intense. And he seemed to fancy me for some bizarre reason.”

  “Why would someone need a bizarre reason to fancy you?” Sarah asked.

  “Oh, stop. I was pale and shy and, oh…” Claire waved her hand in front of her face. “Just a wallflower.”

  Sarah set her champagne glass down on her desk and circled around to her chair so she could look at her computer screen. “What’s his name?”

  “What? Who?” Claire asked.

  “What is Mister I-Fancy-You’s name?”

  “Well, it’s been so long…”

  Sarah stared at her sister-in-law with one eyebrow raised. “Are you really going to pretend that you don’t remember every little thing about him?”

  “Okay, fine. Ben.”

  Sarah stared with ridicule and impatience. “Ben what?”

  “Benjamin Hayek. Satisfied?”

  “Very.” Sarah grinned and started tapping the keys of her computer. As she waited for the results to come up, she asked, “He’s American, right?”

  “Yes. Well his parents were Lebanese, I think, but they were American.”

  “Oooh. Lebanese. Sounds exotic.”

  “This is mortifying. I feel like we’re stalking him,” Claire mumbled.

  “Stalking? You have no idea. This is like the tippiest tip of the iceberg. We haven’t even begun to plumb the depths of all the gritty details. Are you seriously expecting me to believe that after all those years alone in Scotland, you never once logged on to Facebook or Googled him, just to see what he looked like or where he lived?”

  Claire shrugged. “There was no Facebook in the mid-nineties, obviously, and later on, well, I thought I was in a committed marriage, remember? And in any case, I tried to tamp down my curiosity about such things. What would have been the point?”

  “The point?” Sarah laughed and took another sip of her champagne. “The point is that it’s fun. You can see if he’s turned into a pudgy, smug father of three hideous brats or if he’s got a toupee and an ant farm.” Sarah paused. “Okay, there are a few Ben Hayeks.” She hummed and tapped a few more keys. “I’m assuming he’s about your age?”

  “Two years older, I think.”

  Sarah kept typing and clicking. “And what did he do for a living? What was he studying when you met him?”

  “I don’t know what became of him. I think he wanted to be a doctor or something. He was pretty tall. And he had dark hair. His eyes were green.”

  Sarah hummed suggestively. “I’ll say.”

  “You’ll say what?”

  “I’ll say he’s tall, dark, and handsome and has killer green eyes. Is it this guy?” Sarah turned her screen so it faced out toward where Claire was sitting.

  The four-by-five-inch portrait stared at her. The dark hair was combed into a far more adult style, the green eyes had creases around the edges, and the mouth had a firm set that was the result of experience. And he was wearing a doctor’s white coat.

  Claire leaned closer to the screen and realized her breath was shallow.

  Sarah smiled and said, “So, I’ll take that as a yes.” She swiveled the screen back to face her. “You have excellent taste in men, Claire. Sheesh. He’s awesome. Look at that bone structure.”

  Claire actually blushed and was still blushing when Bronte burst in.

  “All right. What have I missed?” She threw her enormous Prada satchel on the floor near Claire’s seat and leaned down to give her a kiss on the cheek. “How are you doing, honey? What’s the latest on Le Bâtard?”

  Her sisters-in-law had taken to referring to Freddy as Le Bâtard. It had started out as a joke over drinks at Dunlear Castle a few weeks ago, when Bronte decided she no longer wanted to refer to him by name and asserted from that day forward, she would only call him Le Bâtard. “Because,” she had said, “it sounds dastardly and villainous.”

  Claire looked up at Bronte, there in Sarah’s office, taking in her barely contained energy, her vitality. “Well, it looks as if his solicitor or the courts have frozen all of our assets.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Bronte was in the midst of pouring herself a glass of champagne. She finished pouring, then paused and placed one hand on her hip, turning to face Claire. “How is that even possible? Your legal system is a shit show.”

  “Oh, it’s possible all right.” Claire looked up at the ceiling, pretending she was interested in the plasterwork rather than staving off tears.

  “Don’t you dare cry about him!” Bronte barked. “He’s such a douchebag.”

  “Bronte!” Sarah cried.

  “What? It’s the truth.” Bronte shrugged at Sarah then turned to Claire with more concern. “I know you know he is. Don’t you?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Claire sighed, because even now she had to force herself to face facts rather than the idea of what she had always believed her life was supposed to be. “But—”

  “But nothing,” Bronte interrupted, thinking she was being supportive.

  “But Bron, seriously, he’s the father of my only child. All those years that I thought he was…decent.”

  Bronte pressed on. “That’s what makes him even more reprehensible. Think about it. All those years. All those years of you doing your good works and helping your father and mother and tending to Freddy’s whims. And what’s the thanks he gives you?”

  “I know,” Claire said, willing herself not to weep, to be practical. “But if it was all a lie to him, then it was all a lie. My life—” She choked and took another sip of her champagne.

  Bronte sat in the chair closest to Claire’s and pulled her free hand into hers. “Your life has not been a lie. He’s the bastard for making you think so. You have a beautiful home. You have a beautiful daughter.”

  Claire smirked.

  “Well, Lydia is salvageable,” Bronte hedged. “She’s a bit of a handful, but she has spunk. And she is half you, so she knows the difference between right and wrong. Maybe Abby will set her straight.”

  “At least I don’t have to worry about her for a while.” Claire’s youngest sister, Abigail Heyworth, had started a foundation to educate young women in sub-Saharan Africa, and Lydia had been recruited into service after she announced she was dropping out of university following one lackluster year. Lydia was traveling around different African villages with her Aunt Abby for the summer.

  “Exactly. Focus on yourself,” Sarah chimed in. “Get a job.”

  An abrupt silence descended over the bright office. Night had fallen outside the dark wall of windows, and the interior sparkled with the tiny halogen ceiling lights against the chrome-accented furniture. All three women sat frozen.

  “What?” Sarah finally cried. “Like it’s a four-letter word or something? Repeat after me. J. O. B. Job.”

  Bronte smiled and swirled her champagne glass slowly.

  Sarah must have noticed that she hadn’t taken a sip. “Why aren’t you drinking your champagne, Bron?”

  “No reason.” But she still didn’t take a sip.

  Claire clasped her hands. “Oh! Are you going to have another baby?”

  Sarah sputtered. “Wait? What!”

  Bronte smiled and looked a bit sheepish. “Two babies, actually.”

  “What? Twins? Oh, that’s the most wonderful news!” Claire leapt up and hugged her hard. “Why didn’t you tell us straight away? It’s so much more exciting than my dismal divorce. You are quite terrible for keeping it from us.”

  “It’s all pretty new. We haven’t told a soul.”

  Sarah hugged her next and suddenly started crying.

  “Oh my god, Sarah!” Bronte grabbed her by the shoulders. “I’m not dying. I’m pregnant. Why are you crying?”

  “We’re not all as emotionally cut-and-dried as you are, Bron, all right?” Sarah grabbed a tissue off her desk and started dabbing at her ey
es.

  “Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry.” Bronte pulled Sarah into a tight hug. “I’m such an insensitive idiot.”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine.” Sarah finished drying her eyes and took a deep breath. “Whoa. Okay. Totally fine.” She took a sip of champagne. “All better.” Claire and Bronte stared at her as she collected herself. “What?”

  “Are you and Devon going to start trying soon?” Bronte asked point blank.

  Sometimes Claire wondered how these women made it through the day without emotional flak jackets. It was like open season on life’s most intimate details. She stared harder into her own glass of champagne and tried to be invisible.

  “What? No, of course not. You know neither one of us wants to have kids right away. I’m just happy for you.” At least Sarah’s voice was starting to sound normal again. She gestured around her cluttered office, full of sketches and work orders and leather samples. “Does this look like the office of someone who is trying to have a baby?”

  Bronte stared at Sarah. “You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you? We all know you’re going to be checking on the factory work orders when you start dilating.”

  “Would you stop? We’re not trying to have a baby. I swear!” Sarah laughed and the hint of tension left the room. “Not that I don’t mind lots and lots of practice—”

  “Stop!” Claire pleaded through her burgeoning laughter. “He’s my brother. I don’t want to think of you two having lots of practice sex—” She nearly squeaked out the last two words.

  The door swung open just as she said it and Devon Heyworth—the brother in question—popped his head in. “Hi, ladies. Awkward moment?”

  “Oh god!” Sarah walked over to the door and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Did you have a good day at work?”

  He nodded and gave her a firmer kiss on the lips. “I did.” He looked over her shoulder. “What are you all up to?”

  “Drinks with the girls. I love you. Now go away.”

  “Hi, Claire. Hi, Bron.”

  “Hi, Dev,” they both answered.

  “All right then.” He kissed Sarah again. “I know when I’m not wanted. I’ll get dinner started. Because, you know, I want to make sure I’ve got lots of nutrition for tonight’s practice sex—”

  “Get out!” Sarah laughed as she slammed the door in his face.

  The sound of his receding laughter as he dashed up the stairs to their loft apartment echoed through the room. Sarah had a silly smile on her face as she walked slowly back to where Claire and Bronte were sitting.

  Watching Sarah and Devon’s loving banter, Claire wondered if she would ever feel that comfortable in her own skin, much less in a relationship with someone else. It seemed utterly incomprehensible—the teasing, the everyday intimacy.

  Sarah sat down and took another sip of champagne. “Sorry about that.” Then she was back to business. “Okay. So. Where were we?”

  Bronte settled more comfortably onto the long sofa and put on her best bossy expression. “Claire was needing to get a job. J. O. B. That’s where we were. And I couldn’t agree more.”

  Claire stared into her glass, then finally spoke. “I am unqualified to do anything.”

  “That’s patently ridiculous,” Sarah said. “You’re Lady Barnes—”

  Claire shook her head.

  “I mean… Marchioness Claire of Wick—”

  “You’re getting warmer…” Claire smiled this time.

  “Or Lady Wick. Or whatever! I’m no good at titles—you know that. But in terms of getting a job, your title has to mean something. Plus, you need the money.”

  Claire looked down at her Chanel suit and her outrageously expensive jewels. They were all family jewels on loan from her mother, of course. The clothes too. Whenever Claire came into town, she raided her mother’s closet and jewelry drawers. The former Dowager Duchess of Northrop, lately styled the lowly Mrs. Jack Parnell, had always enjoyed the latest fashions and would shake her head at Claire when she would arrive in her serviceable wools from Scotland.

  Sarah smiled again. “Not like you need the money to put a roof over your head or clothes on your back, but you need your own money. Back me up, Bron.”

  Bronte stared at Claire—lost in thought—then snapped out of it. “Of course, of course. But I’m more interested in what you really want to do with your life.”

  “I thought I was already doing something with my life.” Claire sounded small and defensive, even to her own ears. “You know, being a mother and a wife and a…decent person,” she added lamely.

  “Oh, dear,” Bronte said, “I didn’t mean it to come out all judgmental and accusatory like that. I’m so sorry.”

  Claire felt the press of tears again. “I’m trying not to be a baby about this, though it probably looks that way to you two superwomen, but I’m just a person. I never wanted to build an empire or transform an industry.” Sarah and Bronte took the hits. “It wasn’t easy creating a beautiful life in the wilds of Scotland. And I think I did a pretty good job of it.”

  The younger women tried to regroup. Bronte launched in first. “Of course you did. The castle is splendid. You spent years renovating it and making it gorgeous and all of that—”

  Claire opened her mouth to speak, but Bronte stopped her.

  “And I don’t mean all of that in a dismissive way. Honestly, I don’t. But admit it. You were hiding somehow. You were up there at the northernmost tip of the known world. Kind of tucked away.”

  “I guess you’re right. But—” Claire sighed. “But nothing. You’re right. I was. But the real world feels so busy and crowded and overwhelming.”

  Sarah had walked back behind her desk and leaned over to print up the image on her screen. She pulled it from the paper tray behind her a few seconds later and brought her glass and the picture back to where the other two women were sitting.

  “Well, well, well. What have we here?” Bronte asked, taking the picture out of Sarah’s hands with a low whistle.

  “Oh, stop that, you two.” But Claire craned her neck and tried to get a better look at the picture as she said it.

  Bronte looked up. “Would you like me to make more room on the couch so you can get closer?”

  Claire laughed. “No, but do hurry up and pass it here when you’re finished gawking.”

  Sarah and Bronte shared a quick glance then passed the picture of Dr. Ben Hayek to Claire, who pretended not to be all that interested.

  But she wasn’t able to repress that slight lift of her lips that probably let her sisters-in-law know that the fire and passion that had once burned in a young woman’s heart might not have been entirely doused after all.

  Chapter 3

  Ben removed his gloves, stepped onto the floor pedal of the stainless steel garbage can, and tossed the disposable latex in as he left the examination room. He was on autopilot, as usual. The molar removal he’d just performed barely registered in his brain. Unless he was playing his guitar at the jazz club in the East Village or working on an emergency at the free clinic downtown, he merely passed through life these days. Nothing seemed to resonate. Nothing seemed to stick. Even his marriage had just sort of faded away. He and Alice were still friends. They still went to the movies together. No drama. No tears. Just married. Then not.

  Apparently, Alice believed there was “more to life,” whatever that meant. Ben thought an apartment on the Upper East Side and a thriving dental practice would have been enough for someone. For Alice. But if he was honest with himself, it wasn’t enough. Not in the sense he was beginning to realize. It was way more than enough to satisfy his basic needs. Clothes. Cars. Country house in northern Connecticut. Or it should have been.

  He had accused Alice of suffering from the Dissatisfaction Disease. Nothing was ever going to be enough. She had argued, quite convincingly, as it turned out—she hadn’t made partner at thirty-six for nothing—that it was Ben who was suffering. She was cheerful and loved their life. He was the one who had turned into som
e weird, mopey version of himself. After nine years—the final two of which saw Ben pretending it was just a rough patch—Alice filed for divorce. He didn’t even blame her, really. He had become mopey.

  Still, there had been other problems. One of the main reasons Ben had decided to become a dentist was to give himself enough time to devote to a family. If he’d become an orthopedic surgeon, as he’d originally intended in undergrad, he decided it would probably limit his ability to be an attentive and loving father, like his own parents had been. He wanted that. A home filled with children and laughter and life. Alice had said she wanted that too. But.

  But a few years into their marriage, he felt like he was the only one on the baby train. The more he questioned Alice about when she was going to go off the pill, the more she resisted. Once she graduated from law school, she said. Which had sounded perfectly reasonable at the time. Once she became an associate. Again, seemed logical in the moment. Once she made partner. Yes. He understood. But by then, he felt like he was having to try too hard. And if he had to try that hard to get Alice even interested in talking about having a baby, he didn’t really see how she was going to be interested in the actual baby.

  Life just wasn’t turning out the way he’d planned.

  Ever since he was a kid, Ben had been led to believe—he believed—that if he tried hard enough and worked hard enough and studied hard enough, then there would be a pot of gold or brass ring. Not anything to do with money or prestige, but a loving home that made everything else worthwhile. Eventually, after things began to fade with Alice, he figured he was probably spoiled by all the love in his childhood. So many doting older sisters and two loving parents hugging and supporting each other and telling him how much they loved him—and each other—all the time.

  Eventually, he realized the futility of trying to re-create something that probably didn’t even exist anymore. Loving families were such a cliché. He lowered his expectations in hope of a day-to-day life that was at least pleasantly satisfying. Ben knew he couldn’t pin it all on Alice, though. He just remembered being happy at some point, of having the feeling that happiness wasn’t a pretense. But it had been a long time ago and was probably just youthful ignorance.

 

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