“How is Hayley faring with the Whitbys?” her mother asked when she had returned to the table.
“Okay,” Amy said. “She met Mr. Whitby’s son from his first marriage.”
“What’s he like?” Vera asked.
Amy shrugged. “All I know is that he works for his father’s company and showed up for a weekend visit.”
“Well, I hope he’s not one of those spoiled, rich-kid predator types who think he can have his way with the help. Not that Hayley can’t take care of herself.” Vera frowned. “I just realized I have no idea if Hayley’s ever had a serious boyfriend.”
“She hasn’t,” Amy said. “I can’t remember her even having a crush on anyone.”
“Sadly,” Leda added, “I suspect Hayley regards being in love as an unnecessary indulgence.”
“She’s afraid to fall in love,” Amy explained. “She thinks that love leads to disaster. Look at what happened to her mother.”
Vera sighed. “How depressing.” And then she turned to Leda. “Did you know that La Prior has announced she’ll be acting as Amy’s mentor this summer?”
Leda frowned. “You’re supposed to be a nanny, not a protégé.”
“You guys!” Amy cried. “Come on!”
Her mother reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just being overprotective.”
Amy smiled. She could never stay mad at her mother for long. “You never were any good at tough love. Cressida is all about tough love.”
Vera reached for a brownie. “No doubt she is.”
Chapter 32
Leda was having breakfast with Phil Morse at Over Easy. The restaurant wasn’t inexpensive, and there was no way Leda would be able to afford to eat there on a frequent basis if she weren’t the owner’s closest friend.
The restaurant was cozy in the extreme. Vera had gone for a French provincial atmosphere. The furniture featured scrolls and molding. Surfaces were done in earthy colors like mustard yellow, cranberry, and sage. Table runners were made from a white and blue toile fabric. Farm animal paintings by local artists hung on the walls. The tiny ceramic salt and pepper shakers on each table were shaped like elegant little birds. The napkins were linen and patterned with images of tulips. One of Leda’s tapestries, the largest she had ever done, had pride of place on an exposed brick wall. It was a still life depicting a table filled with platters of fruits and vegetables; a pitcher held a bundle of wild flowers. It was purposely reminiscent of Flemish still lifes of the seventeenth century but without the addition of dead animals and birds.
Phil gently pushed the creamer across the table. “I asked you here today for a reason,” he said.
Leda smiled and poured a bit of cream into her coffee. “Not just to enjoy my sparkling company?”
“As pleasant as that company is, I have an ulterior motive.” Phil leaned in, and his handsome face took on his serious, down-to-business expression. “The Fiber Arts Fellowship just announced the categories in this year’s competition. There’s a new category called Best Emerging Talent, and I think you should submit one of your tapestries.”
“I couldn’t,” Leda said automatically. It wasn’t the first time she had made that reply to one of Phil’s suggestions that she seek more recognition for her work.
“You can,” Phil said, sitting back in his chair. “You choose not to.”
“I’m a little old to be considered emerging,” Leda pointed out.
“No, you’re not,” Phil argued. “Toni Morrison published her first novel at the age of forty, as did George Eliot, aka Mary Ann Evans. Grandma Moses didn’t start to paint in earnest until she was almost eighty when arthritis got in the way of her embroidery and quilting.”
“I didn’t know any of that,” Leda admitted.
“So, what do you say?”
Leda was about to protest yet again when she remembered that Cressida Prior had announced her intention of being a mentor to Amy this summer. Leda had always assumed that she was Amy’s role model. “Okay,” she said. “I promise to think about it.”
“Good. Get on the website and you’ll find the details for submitting your work. If you have any questions I’m sure we can figure out the answers together.”
Vera came by bearing their breakfast. Leda had ordered the poached eggs; poached eggs were a dish she had never been able to master at home. “So? Did you convince her yet?” Vera asked, taking the seat across from Phil and next to Leda.
“She’s a stubborn one,” Phil said, reaching for his fork and knife. “But I’ve made a start.”
“Eat your eggs while they’re hot,” Vera instructed.
Leda picked up her fork. “So, you two are in this together?”
“We have your best interests at heart, yes,” Vera confirmed.
“Phil,” Leda said suddenly, “do you know anything about Cressida Prior, the founder of Prior Ascendancy?”
Phil looked up from his French toast. “No. Other than the fact that Amy’s working as nanny to her children this summer. Why do you ask?”
Leda looked to Vera and then back to her breakfast. “No reason,” she said. “I was just wondering.”
“Well, if I do hear anything of interest,” Phil said, “I’ll be sure to let you know. My customers do tend to talk.”
“That’s what I like in a man,” Vera declared. “A good ear for gossip.”
Chapter 33
Before Marisa had left for the college earlier that morning she had told Hayley that Ethan had arrived late the night before. “He’s still in his room,” she had said while filling her water bottle at the sink. “Don’t let him get in your way,” she had added with a smile. “He can be quite chatty.”
Hayley had smiled in return, hoping her unease wasn’t obvious. She wondered if Ethan would tease her about the plunger and mud mask. She had left out those details when she mentioned to Amy that she had met Mr. Whitby’s son.
About midmorning Hayley settled on the back porch while the twins napped. The baby monitor was on the small table next to the white wicker chair in which she sat. This sort of peaceful moment, however brief, was something Hayley rarely experienced and certainly never while at home. But her reverie was broken by the sound of the sliding door that led into the house being opened. She didn’t turn around. She knew who it was.
“Mind if I join you?” Ethan asked as he came into view.
“It’s your house.” Hayley silently cursed herself. So much for charm. “I mean, no, of course not.”
Ethan sat in the matching white wicker chair on the other side of the table. He was rather beautiful in the way that some men could be. There was a sort of masculine grace about the way he moved; his hands were expressive, and there was a poignancy to his face Hayley hadn’t noticed the first time she had seen him. The depth of her physical attraction rattled her.
“What’s that you’re reading?” he asked.
“It’s the third volume of Peter Ackroyd’s History of England,” she told him.
Ethan’s expression brightened. “Looks like we have something in common. I’m a total history buff.”
“You are?” Hayley said quickly. She was surprised, but she knew that she shouldn’t be. Why wouldn’t a person who worked in finance also harbor an interest in subjects that had little to do with—well, with whatever it was exactly that Ethan did?
Ethan laughed. “I am. I’ve had to put up with teasing from some of my friends for being such a nerd. What about you?”
Hayley hesitated. The only one who had ever teased her for her interests had been her father. Rather, he had mocked her intelligence and her intellectual curiosity. But that was not something Ethan Whitby ever need know. “No,” she said. “I’ve never been teased, though I’m pretty much the only one I know who prefers reading nonfiction to fiction.”
“I enjoy both equally,” Ethan told her. “During spring break in my junior year at Harvard I took a road trip on my own to the Folger Shakespeare Library in D.C. It was gr
eat. I caught a production of As You Like It, which has always been one of my favorite of the comedies, and I got to hear the Folger Consort perform a program of baroque music. The Folger is a fantastic institution,” Ethan went on excitedly, “but try telling that to the majority of spring breakers who have their hearts set on hookups and drinking games.”
“I’ve never been to D.C.,” Hayley said. She felt embarrassed admitting this and wasn’t sure why she had; most schoolkids counted Washington, D.C., as a guaranteed destination. But when her grammar school had planned a bus trip for the seventh grade, Hayley’s parents hadn’t been able to spare the few hundred dollars the trip cost. Hayley remembered overhearing a phone call from someone, she never knew who, who seemed to be offering to pay for Hayley to go along with her classmates. But Nora Franklin had hurriedly turned down the offer. Hayley had never asked her mother why. Pride? Her father certainly wouldn’t have said no. Eddie Franklin would knock over his own grandmother to be the first to grab a dirty coin from the sidewalk.
“You should put D.C. on your list of places to visit,” Ethan said enthusiastically. “You could easily spend weeks at the Smithsonian alone. Have you been to Paris?”
“No,” Hayley said with a forced smile. “Not yet at least.”
“I was there just last year. When you go be sure to visit Napoleon the First’s tomb at the Hôtel des Invalides. I’m not a huge fan of Napoleon, but you don’t have to be to appreciate the baroque style of the building and the contents of the Musée de l’Armée itself. The costumes and paintings and old regiment standards, the maps and old cryptograph machines. It’s all so interesting and pretty moving.”
Hayley suddenly remembered something she had read back when she was in college and studying European history. “Doesn’t the museum have armor supposedly worn by the future king Henry II?” she asked.
Ethan’s eyes widened. “Yeah, it does!”
Hayley smiled and felt a rush of pride. She might not have a college degree, but she was not ignorant.
“I can’t help myself when I visit museums,” Ethan went on. “I spend a small fortune on books in the gift shop.”
Hayley felt a flash of annoyance. She wondered what Ethan considered a “small fortune.” She had never had any fortune to spend on books. With a bit of effort Hayley got control of her knee-jerk annoyance. “Money spent on books is never a waste,” she said.
“I agree,” Ethan said. “The only problem is I can’t seem to ever let go of a book. I’ve still got all of my college texts and even a bunch from high school. One day I’m going to have to have an entire room in my home for books.”
Hayley recognized all too well the tone of keen passion in Ethan’s voice. “All this interest in history and you didn’t go into academia?” she asked.
“Gosh, no,” Ethan said. “I’m not a rigorous intellectual, just an enthusiastic amateur. I work in finance because, frankly, math and economics come easily to me. And I like working for my father. I know he wants me to take over the business once he retires. The idea is kind of daunting, but I’d hate to let him down after all the hard work he put into founding the company.”
“You respect your father,” Hayley said.
“More, I like him.”
“So, he would be disappointed if you didn’t want to take over when he retires?”
“I think he would,” Ethan admitted, “but he would never force me to do what I didn’t want to do.”
Hayley looked down at the book in her lap. Ethan’s relationship with his father could not be more different from her relationship with hers. The notion of leaving a positive legacy for his children clearly had never occurred to Eddie Franklin. As for a sense of loyalty, Eddie Franklin certainly had never installed that in either of his children.
Ethan suddenly stood. “I’ll let you get back to your book. Before long the girls will be awake and you won’t have a moment to yourself.”
“It’s what I’m getting paid for, to work,” Hayley said sharply. There it was again, that ingrained tendency to take offense, to protect herself. “I mean,” she went on, “thanks.”
Ethan smiled, but the smile didn’t seem quite as genuine as it might have been. But maybe Hayley imagined that. And then he went back into the house.
Hayley felt unnerved. She didn’t know what exactly she expected from Ethan Whitby, but it certainly wasn’t genuine companionship. And not once had his eyes roamed to her breasts or her legs. Ethan seemed oblivious to her physical charms. Well, that was a good thing. The last thing she needed was to be dodging the wandering hands of the son of her employer.
Chapter 34
“I think that from now on I’m going to call you Aimee.”
Amy looked up from the presentation she was collating. “I’m sorry?” she asked.
From across the desk Cressida replied with a tight smile. “I said that I’ve decided to call you Aimee. The French pronunciation is so much more sophisticated. Remember what I’ve said about appearance and presentation. Aimee can open doors Amy cannot.”
Amy didn’t know how to respond. She had always liked her name. Anyway, what did an unsophisticated person need with a sophisticated name? But like Cressida said, appearances and presentation were super important. Amy was sure she looked more important since she had put away her sundresses. Aimee. It did sound nice. And it might also be spelled with an accent, like protégé.
“You don’t have a problem with it, do you?” Cressida pressed.
“Of course not,” Amy said hurriedly.
Amy went back to the collating. She felt flattered. People who were close had affectionate nicknames for one another. If that’s what Aimee was, a term of affection. Maybe Cressida just liked the way it sounded, more sophisticated like she had said.
“Aimee?”
It was a moment before Amy looked up again. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry. It’s just that I’m not used to it yet.”
Cressida got up from her ergonomic chair. “You’ll get used to it,” she said. “Now, I’m going for a run. Finish collating those presentations and then take them to Federal Express. They need to be at the Atlanta office tomorrow morning.”
When Cressida had gone, Amy realized something. If her mother had been more of an achiever they might have been able to travel and afford important jewelry and designer clothes and maybe even a house with a pool. But Amy was soon to be on her own, and Cressida was offering a glimpse of what she might achieve if she turned away from Leda Latimer’s unambitious way of getting through life and embraced Cressida Prior’s go-getter attitude. If Amy truly turned away from Amy and became Aimee, she just might go far.
Amy smiled. Very far.
* * *
“Your mother makes the best lasagna. Be sure to thank her for me when she gets back from Vera’s.” Hayley frowned. “Why aren’t you eating?”
“I’m eating,” Amy protested.
“You had two bites. Oh well, more for me.” Hayley put another serving of lasagna on her plate and dug in.
Amy took another small bite of lasagna and put her fork on her plate. “Cressida has decided to call me Aimee,” she blurted. “That’s the French way to say Amy.”
“I know what it is,” Hayley said shortly. “Why didn’t you say no? She has no right to change your name.”
“It’s not really changed. It’s just different. Besides, I like it. I was thinking that maybe I’d go by Aimee with everyone and not just Cressida.”
Hayley laughed. “You have got to be kidding me! Suddenly, after twenty-one years of being Amy Latimer you’re going to go around Yorktide to all the people who have known you since you were born and tell them to call you by a new name? I’ve never heard of anything so pretentious. You are who you are, Amy, and that’s just fine. Wait, you’re not going to ask your mother to call you Aimee, are you?”
“No,” Amy said hurriedly. She wasn’t dumb enough not to realize that her mother might be insulted that she had decided to change her birth name. “No, of course not. Don’
t say anything to her, okay?”
“No worries. By the way, when was the last time you had a day off?”
“What do you mean?” Amy asked.
“It’s a simple question, Amy. When was your last day off? We’ve been working for over two weeks now.”
Amy picked up her fork and put it down again. “I haven’t had one, actually.”
“Why not?” Hayley pressed.
“I don’t know,” Amy admitted.
“You don’t have a formal agreement about that, either, do you?” Hayley asked. “Was it another figurative handshake with Cressida saying, yeah, you’ll have time off but not setting a schedule in advance?”
“It doesn’t bother me,” Amy said defensively. “I’m sure if I want to take a day off, Cressida would be fine with it.”
“She had better be! Look, why don’t you ask her to discuss a schedule with you.”
Amy was beginning to feel annoyed. “I said it doesn’t bother me. I’m sure Cressida will give me time off soon.”
“But how do you get anything done in your real life if you can’t plan ahead?”
“Being with Cressida is my real life, a part of it anyway,” Amy argued. “And you’re forgetting that she pays me hourly. The more I work, the more money I make. That counts for a lot.”
“Granted, but there is such a thing as fair treatment.”
“I am being treated fairly,” Amy said. “Seriously, Hayley, why are you so down on Cressida? You, my mother, and Vera.”
“Because something doesn’t seem right about the setup. But hey, if you’re happy, I’ll butt out.”
“I am happy, so thank you for butting out.”
The two young women sat in uneasy silence for a moment until Hayley got up from the table. “I should get going,” she said, taking her empty plate to the sink. “Thanks again for dinner.”
Amy managed a smile. “Sure,” she said. When Hayley was gone, Amy remained at the table, her hands in her lap, her shoulders slumped. The excitement and determination she had felt only that afternoon at Cressida’s, her mentor’s, now seemed like a very distant memory. Why did the people who said they loved her the most feel the need to burst her bubbles? It wasn’t fair, Amy thought. It just wasn’t.
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