by Mulry, Megan
“I must just be a little flushed,” Claire said defensively. She covered her cheeks with her hands as a very atypical silence descended over the table.
“She’s never said the word orgasm out loud,” Nicki continued. “Isn’t that priceless?”
Sanger narrowed her eyes across the farm table in Claire’s direction. “You’re joking, right?”
Ben leaned back to get a better look at Claire; he’d been resting his left hand on her right thigh for most of the meal. Now, he folded his arms and grinned.
Claire shook her head. “It’s just never come up.”
Hoda and Cady burst into gales of laughter. “Come up! Get it?”
“You all are being mean,” Ben’s mother said, looking to make sure Claire wasn’t getting her feelings hurt. “It just can’t be true. Tell them, Claire.”
“Well…” Now everyone was so quiet, Claire felt like she should stand up and recite a few lines of poetry, as her parents had always made the children do on special occasions. Olympia took a sip of wine and gave her an encouraging wink.
“Just say it, Claire,” Nicki said.
“Nicolette!” Betty chided. “Stop being so…loud.” Obviously, Betty wasn’t going to chastise her for content, but delivery.
Claire took a deep breath. “So you want me to just say the word, for no reason.”
Ben’s other sister, Joumana, who was the professor at Penn, had arrived just before dinner with The Republican Boyfriend, as Ben’s mother introduced him. His name was Rob, and he sat to Claire’s left. He raised his glass. “Orgasm!” he yelled.
Ben’s father, usually quiet, especially in the face of the full battalion of female energy roaring around him at holiday times, raised his wineglass next. “Orgasm!” And around the table it went until all the glasses were raised and all eyes were gleaming with jolly expectation at Claire.
She took a deep breath and raised her glass. After a moment of hesitation, she yelled at the top of her lungs, “Orgasm!”
They all clinked their glasses and laughed and were enjoying the return of the usual melee when Ben’s mother raised her voice. “Wait!”
“What?”
“What is it?”
The table of people quieted again and Ben’s mother looked at him with a crease of worry in her brow, then shifted her eyes to look at Claire. “Just because you don’t say the word, you still have them, don’t you? I raised my son to know better—”
“Oh my god!” Ben shouted. “How am I even related to you people?”
His father smiled as all the sisters started talking and laughing again, and Claire worried she might never return to her normal skin color, but instead remain in that permanent state of beet red. Ben’s mother was still looking at the two of them, waiting for an answer.
“Mom!” Ben barked. “Stop! Yes, of course. I mean, good god, just get off.”
Hoda and Cady and Nicki all burst out laughing again. Wiping her eyes, Hoda said, “You did not just tell Mom to get off, did you?” Everyone started laughing again.
Ben raised his eyebrows and shook his head in complete defeat. He put his arm around Claire’s shoulder and pulled her toward him. “I tried to warn you. They’re crazy.” Then he leaned in and whispered hot and close, “And they adore you.” He kissed her cheek.
During the days, Claire took a few long walks with Nicki. Lydia was going to be spending Christmas and New Year’s in Lyford Cay, and Claire wanted so much to rebuild their relationship. And for Lydia to get along with Ben. And she hoped Nicki could help.
“I feel like I’m using you,” Claire said at one point, when she and Nicki were plodding through the snowy trail.
“As the song goes, use me up. What is it about your daughter that makes you so…upset?”
Claire tried to think if that’s what it was, if Lydia upset her. And if so, why. “Well, it’s just that she’s so…useless.”
“Ouch.”
“You asked me to be honest, didn’t you?” Claire felt instantly guilt-ridden.
“Yeah, but that’s…really honest.” Nicki gave her a rueful smile. “I mean, nobody’s useless.”
“I didn’t mean it literally, Nicki!” Claire tried to remember she was seeking advice from a human being who thought 1990 was olden days. She took a deep breath of the cold air. “It’s just a British expression that means, oh I don’t know, kind of lazy and unambitious.”
“Okay, so you mean you want to help her figure out what she wants to do with her life?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“First of all, I don’t think you should use words like worthless and useless.”
“Ouch,” Claire mimicked.
They both laughed, then Nicki continued. “I mean, not like I know what I’m talking about but, you know, she must have something, some thing that she loves…that inspires her?”
Claire shook her head and looked down at the path as they walked on. “I don’t know. It’s a terrible thing to admit, but I don’t feel like I did a good job helping her foster anything unique like that.”
“Well, what do you love? What inspires you?”
“Oh,” Claire sighed and looked up at the trees. “Everything. The branches. The color of the snow. Patterns. Fabric. How things are made. Your uncle—”
“Enough with the goo-goo love stuff. I mean, what else out in the world? What does Lydia do that she loves? Like you love design and color.”
Claire hadn’t really thought about it like that, but it was the truth. She had loved color and shapes and objects long before she ever thought of that as the foundation of a career. “I guess that’s a good place to start, isn’t it? I’ll ask her. It’s terrible that I don’t already know.”
“Maybe she doesn’t know either.” Nicki shrugged. “My roommate’s such a great singer, but she didn’t even know she had a good voice until she got with this one teacher.”
“You’re fabulous, Nicki. I can’t wait for you and Lydia to meet each other.”
“Oh, I would love that. I bet she’s wonderful.”
When they said good-bye very early on the morning of Christmas Eve, everyone hugged and squeezed and whispered encouraging words about babies and happy couples and second chances. Claire felt filled to the brim with the outpouring of love from Ben’s family.
Chapter 22
“Be careful with that!” Lydia barked at the porter as he removed one of her six pieces of luggage from the van she’d been forced to take from the grubby airport in Nassau. She scowled as she saw Devon and Sarah pull into the front circle of the hotel in their glitzy convertible. She doubted they’d flown commercial either.
“Hi, Lydia!” Sarah called as she got out of the car and walked toward her.
“Hello, Sarah.” Little Miss Perfect, Lydia thought snidely. “Have you just arrived?”
“No, we came in a few days ago to spend time with my parents.”
“Oh. Your mother and father are here?” Lydia had met the aggressive wench and the stuffed shirt at Devon and Sarah’s wedding. How tedious if Mr. and Mrs. James were going to be here too.
Sarah’s face pinched. “She’s my stepmother. And no, they were here until this morning, but they’ve flown back to Chicago. Did you just get in?”
Lydia sighed. “Yes, the flight was horrific. So crowded and miserable. Hi, Dev.”
Devon had come over after talking to one of the men who worked at the tropical resort. He was always trying to pretend he was so egalitarian all the time.
“Hi, Lyd. Are you going to be a twat again this year or are you going to have a nice holiday in paradise for once?”
“Bugger off.”
“I’ll take that as a twat.”
Lydia smiled despite herself. “Look. The last thing I want to be doing is hanging out with a bunch of pie-eyed lovebirds like you two. And now my own mother sounds all lovey-dovey too. And grandmother! It’s like goddamned Fantasy Island or something.”
Sarah laughed. “Maybe you’ll meet someone?”
> The young Bahamian man who was loading the last of her luggage smiled to himself.
Lydia snapped. “What are you smiling about?”
“Nothing, miss.” He tipped his chin down and caught Devon’s eye as he walked past with the luggage cart piled to high heaven.
Lydia stomped her foot. “You are all ganging up on me as usual. Seriously. What did I do to deserve that?”
Devon grumbled something into Sarah’s ear and turned toward the front entrance of the main building. “Bye, Lydia.”
Sarah lingered. Perfect. Now the lecture, thought Lydia.
“Your mom is really nervous about introducing Ben to everyone. You could try to be nice.”
“What do you care?”
“Lydia. Grow up. Devon and I have been married a year. I’m part of this family now.”
“You and everyone else, it seems.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, never mind. I’ll try to play nice in the sandbox.”
“Why do you have to try in the first place? What’s so hard about being Lydia anyway?”
They started to walk into the lobby.
“I’ve already got a shrink in London. I certainly don’t need you analyzing me, Sarah.”
“You should get a new shrink, then, because he or she is doing a crap job of helping you appreciate your life.” Sarah turned from the front desk, then turned back. “We’re meeting for drinks at six thirty. Dinner’s not until eight. We’ll be down at the beach before then if you want to hang out.”
“Oh, twats welcome, then?”
“Whatever, Lydia.” Sarah turned away and walked out the large French doors and onto the path leading to the bungalows.
When Lydia returned her attention to the front desk, the porter who had transferred all her luggage from the van was already gone to deliver her things to her villa. In his place was a distractingly handsome young black man standing tall and serene behind the desk.
Now, Lydia wasn’t one to stare, but he happened to be one of the more attractive blokes she’d ever laid eyes on. Dark, smooth skin that pulled across sharply defined, high cheekbones, long black lashes that should have made him look feminine but didn’t. And a mouth…lips that were…sinful. He was everything intense and masculine compared to the pale toffs she’d been partying with in London lately.
Her mind wheeled through the possibilities, then screeched to a halt. Lyford probably had some stupid rule about not letting him fraternize with the guests. Nor did she fancy being some absurd hot-for-the-help cliché, either. Still, there was something about him, something unfamiliar—because it felt real—that pulled at her.
“Please sign here, Lady Lydia.” He turned the registry book toward her and pointed to where she was supposed to sign. His hands were particularly elegant. Strong and confident.
She got distracted by the way he tapped the page with that long, strong finger. “Quit tapping!” she snapped.
But when she looked up, he was still smiling. He tapped one more time, just to let her know he could. She couldn’t help it. She smiled back. Maybe she’d be having a fun holiday after all.
“What’s your name?” She bounced the pen against her palm while they stared at each other.
Before he could answer, an older Bahamian man, the general manager of the resort, came out of a door behind the desk. “Alistair?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered respectfully, all hint of mischief gone.
“Please show Lady Lydia to her villa.”
“Yes, sir.”
Yes, Alistair, do show me.
Once she had signed the registry and they were out of earshot of Mr. Grumpy Boss, Lydia asked, “So what time do you get off work? Is there any fun to be had around here?”
He shook his head. “No, miss.”
“Oh, please, don’t no-miss me. No, you don’t get off work? Or no, there’s no fun to be had?”
“There’s horseback riding or parasailing—”
“Stop! You know perfectly well that’s not what I mean. I’m going to be bored to tears!” She kept trying to get his attention, to force him to look at her instead of keeping his back so straight and the set of his jaw so firmly forward. “Look,” she continued, “the nearest relative to my age is that goody-two-shoes Sarah James, and even though she’s only about six years older than I am, she acts like she’s the most mature woman in the world. Boor-ring.”
“This way to your villa, Lady Lydia.”
“Oh, why thank you, Lord Alistair,” she answered in a mimicking tone.
He repressed a smile.
“Seriously!” She blocked the path, now that they were out of sight of the main hotel building and she wouldn’t get either of them in trouble if she were seen impeding his duties. They were hidden in one of the winding narrow paths that ensured everyone had privacy. He stood still, waiting for her to let him pass. He raised his eyebrows and looked over her shoulder.
“Take me out on the town, Alistair.” She liked saying his name. It sounded all buttoned-up, but she suspected—she hoped—there was a very unbuttoned Alistair lurking very close to that all-business surface. “Come on. There must be some fun to be had in Nassau. It’s like a prison here at the hotel.”
He looked up at the bluest blue sky and then over his shoulder at the most turquoise of turquoise seas. “Some prison.”
“You know what I’m saying.”
He shook his head. “Honestly, I really don’t.” His voice had changed. He was no longer the luggage-toting, registry-tapping employee. He was a confident man. “What are you saying?” he challenged.
She inhaled, having a moment of shock, thinking of words her grandmother would have used, words like impertinence and insolence. And then she paused, because for once in her life, she didn’t want to deliver a setdown. She wanted this tall, strong, beautiful man to like her. Her heart started pounding, and she turned away. “Oh, never mind. Which way to my luxurious cell and golden handcuffs?”
“This way, please.” He was back to being an officious member of staff.
She followed quietly and tried to shake off the feeling that he saw right through her. When they reached the pale pink bungalow a few minutes later, he held the door open for her. “Your room is to the left.”
Lydia tried not to visibly shudder when she turned sideways to pass by him in the doorway. He was about six inches taller than she was, and broad. His muscled chest was…right there…in her face… How was she supposed to not notice it? she wondered. Her inhale was probably superfluous, but he smelled divine.
She exhaled when she was fully inside.
There was a central living room and small kitchen, all white clapboard with lovely, lazy fans spinning in the high rafters. He walked toward the bedroom where she was going to be staying. One of the other porters had already set all of her bags near the closet and on the luggage racks. Claire and Ben were going to take the larger suite on the other side of the communal space.
“Ugh.” She dropped her handbag on a chair with a disappointed toss.
The room was gorgeous, thought Alistair. Not that he was being boastful, but it had just been used for yet another magazine photo shoot. So Lydia’s existential boredom with it all simply made him laugh.
She turned quickly, like she was going to scold him. Then, surprising them both, she laughed as well. After a few seconds, she flopped into one of the oversized chintz armchairs. “I’m terribly spoilt, am I not?”
Alistair set the room key down on the armoire near the front door, dodging the question. “Please let the front desk know if you need anything else.”
“You know I do. Relief from boredom.”
He dipped his chin and started to leave.
“But in the meantime,” she raised her voice slightly to stay him, “I’ll start with a pitcher of rum dums.”
“Very well.” He bowed more formally and left.
Something in his voice made her feel chastised, then, very quickly, defiant.
Chapter 23
As he walked back to the main building, Alistair tried to figure her out. Initially, he’d dismissed her out of hand as one more worthless heiress come to complain about the bad cell phone reception and the tedium of having nothing to do. Sure, she was a little immature and petulant, but…
But nothing. Despite himself, after a few paces along the shady path, his mind was circling back to her eyes. Pale, pale blue, so frosty and distant, until she focused on him and he thought he saw her blasé shell crack a bit. That moment when she was signing the register, then again, right there on the path when she’d tried to block his way, he saw something spark to life in her, something more than the low simmer of aristocratic boredom, and he was damned if he didn’t want to get in there and bring her up to a rolling boil.
Ludicrous. He shook his head to dismiss any thought of Lady Lydia. He passed a waiter on the way into the main building. “Pitcher of rum dums to Lady Lydia Barnes, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
When he crossed back to the front desk, his uncle was checking in Lydia’s grandmother. “Oh, Alistair,” he called. “There you are. Please come introduce yourself.”
“Oh my!” the former Duchess of Northrop—now Mrs. Jack Parnell—said. “You look so much like your father.”
“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Parnell.” Alistair’s father had been one of the youngest members of parliament in the Bahamas and was now the minister of foreign affairs. He’d gone to Eton with Mrs. Parnell’s first husband, the eighteenth Duke of Northrop, long before there’d been any indication either man would amount to anything. Alistair had been his late-midlife child.
“And how is your mother?” Mrs. Parnell asked.
“She’s very well, thank you. I’ll tell her you asked.”
“Please do. I’d love to see them both if they are here.”
“Yes, they’ll be here tomorrow for Christmas lunch. I’ll make a point of finding you.”
“Very well. That sounds lovely.” She leaned down to sign the guest registry. “Alistair, your uncle tells me you’ve completed your studies.”