Second Time Around

by Nancy Herkness

  “That’s the caretaker’s house. He was a nice guy, but his wife always looked like she’d just bitten into a lemon. Which meant that Schuyler and I would dare each other to play pranks on her.” He actually smiled at the memory. “There were some good ones.”

  “Did you get in trouble?” She wanted to keep him talking about something that had happy associations for him.

  He shook his head. “She never tattled to our parents, although she must have known it was us. I give her credit.”

  Will would have been irresistible as a child, those amazing eyes unclouded by experience, his face alight with impish laughter, his charm and intelligence endearing rather than intimidating. Even a sourpuss would have been hard-pressed to stay angry with him.

  “She secretly liked you both, I bet,” Kyra said.

  “She hid it well. But her husband, George, snuck us her homemade cookies. Those were a high treat, partly because they were illicit.” A shadow crossed his face. “We didn’t get that kind of guilty pleasure at the big house.”

  “Wait, this woman baked cookies, and it never occurred to you that they were meant for you and Schuyler? I think she played the grouch with you guys for fun.”

  Will sat back in his seat, his gaze turned inward. “I never thought of that. Now I’m glad I went to her funeral two years ago.”

  It was the sort of thing he would do: attend the funeral of someone he thought hadn’t liked him because she had worked for his family and he owed her that sign of respect.

  The helicopter came to a hover and slowly lost altitude. Kyra practically smashed her face against the window to watch the aircraft ease down in the middle of a well-mowed field. She was also relieved to be back on solid ground.

  The rotors slowed to a halt and Will unlocked the door, pushing it upward, while the steps dropped down. He exited before turning to hold out his hand.

  It was an angle she hadn’t often seen him from, so she enjoyed the view of his face tilted up. She could examine the way his hair swept back in waves from his forehead, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, and the dark lashes that outlined his brilliant eyes. For a long moment, she crouched in the doorway, mesmerized by his beauty.

  “What did you think of the ride?” Roxy’s voice sliced through the spell.

  As Kyra put her hand in Will’s, she grinned at the pilot and said, “Next time let’s do the Rambo run.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Roxy said, giving her a thumbs-up.

  Kyra indulged herself in leaning on Will’s strength as she came down the helicopter’s steps. His grip was firm and his arm was steady as a rock. A rush of longing coursed through her as she thought of how wonderful it would be to occasionally have someone to lean on. It was exhausting to fend for herself all the time.

  He dropped her hand but put his palm against the small of her back to guide her toward what looked like a miniature sports car parked on the grass. It was bright red and “Will” was painted on the hood in swirling gold script.

  “Honey, I shrunk the Ferrari,” Kyra said.

  Will gave her a pained look. “It’s a golf cart. My parents gave it to me when I was a kid. Schuyler has one that looks like a classic Mustang Shelby.”

  “You really did grow up in Disney World,” she said as he helped her into the passenger seat.

  “Is that what you think?” He released her hand but didn’t move.

  She met his gaze. “Disney World also has rides that make people scream.”

  He laughed, but the sound held no joy. “No one would dare raise their voice in my family.”

  He walked around the cart, settled into the driver’s seat, and turned the key. “It doesn’t have the same pickup as a real Ferrari, but I loved it as a kid.”

  She grabbed the side as they bounced across the meadow before turning onto a paved lane. As the stone turrets of the house came into view, the sound of big band music wafted over the hum of the golf cart’s electric motor. The muscles in her throat tensed as she faced the prospect of meeting Will’s parents and a few hundred of their closest high-society friends.

  She fiddled with the bracelet Emily had loaned her. It was eighteen-karat gold, set with Peruvian opals that glowed a soft, translucent aqua. She wore matching teardrop earrings as well. At least her jewelry would pass muster.

  “No reason to go in the front door,” Will said, swinging the cart off the lane and across the grass. He steered through an arched trellis and pulled up in the crook of a stone wall. Now the murmur of voices mingled with the music.

  Kyra took a deep breath.

  “You look worried.” Her head snapped around to find Will leaning on the steering wheel as he watched her. “No need for it,” he said. “My parents will be scrupulously polite to you.”

  “What are their names?” Kyra swallowed to clear the tightness in her throat.

  “Twain and Betsy. My father got the nickname because he’s William the second.”

  She would have a hard time calling them anything other than Mr. and Mrs. Chase.

  He sprang out of the cart and came around just as her feet touched the ground. Her taupe patent leather sandals had wedge heels, which would prevent her from sinking into the grass. She’d gotten the idea from studying photos of Kate, the Duchess of Cambridge, at garden parties. She’d figured that the stylish young duchess would have practical experience with such events.

  “Anyone else I should know about?” she asked.

  “Schuyler might have a date, but I’ll be meeting him for the first time, too.”

  Will rested his hand on the small of her back again. She was getting to like that little gesture that claimed her.

  They walked around the wall and through a formal garden, where a cascading fountain glittered in the sunlight. The party sounds grew louder just before they rounded a corner of the house.

  Kyra stopped to take in the swirl of brightly colored dresses and the charm of natty bow ties, the dance of white-jacketed waiters balancing silver trays filled with drinks in various hues, and the flutter of pastel tablecloths, all highlighted against the brilliant emerald of closely mowed grass.

  “Having second thoughts?” Will’s tone was sardonic.

  “No, it’s so beautiful, I want to admire it a moment.” It was also way out of her league.

  She glanced up at Will to find him surveying the scene before them. “I suppose it is, on the surface. But like the ocean, there’s an undertow,” he said.

  A young woman with a tray of champagne flutes approached them. Will took two, handing Kyra one before touching her glass with his. “Morituri te salutant.”

  “I didn’t study Latin.”

  “The slaves who were forced to fight to the death in a staged naval battle for Emperor Claudius greeted him by saying, ‘We who are about to die salute you.’” Will took a sip of his champagne, his movements stiff with tension.

  “You’re being dramatic.” Kyra tilted her glass in the direction of the party. “There’s no blood on the grass.”

  “Yet.” Will took another gulp of champagne before offering her his arm, along with a tight smile. “Let me introduce you to my parents.”

  He led her past serving tables laden with platters of canapés that looked like tiny, colorful sculptures, bouquets of fresh fruit on skewers, and chocolates dusted with gold flakes. Guests called out to him as he passed, but Will just presented a dazzling, distant smile and kept walking. Finally, they reached a set of wide, shallow steps that led to the stone porch running the length of the house. As soon as they hit the top step, Will put his arm around Kyra’s waist and pulled her in against his side. Startled, she stiffened, but his grip stayed firm. It was then that she understood he was using her as a shield.

  An older man and woman stood by the door, greeting guests as they came out through the house. Kyra had time to see that the man had light-brown hair shot with silver while the woman’s hair was pale blonde. He sported a blue-and-white seersucker suit with a yellow bow tie, while the w
oman wore a linen sheath dress in a vivid green-and-yellow pattern, embellished around the keyhole neckline with tiny gold beads.

  “Mum,” Will said, leaning down to brush a kiss on his mother’s cheek. “I’d like you to meet an old college friend, Kyra Dixon.” Somehow he managed to make the word “friend” sound like something much more intimate. “Kyra, my mother, Betsy.”

  His mother’s warm smile went stiff as she pivoted to hold out her hand to Kyra. But it was her eyes that made Kyra blink. Will had gotten the deep jade color from his mother. “Lovely to meet you. You graduated from Brunell, then?”

  Why did she have to phrase it that way? “I was a year behind Will,” Kyra said, shaking hands. “Thank you for including me in your hospitality.”

  “Any friend of Will’s . . .” Betsy’s gaze skimmed over her, and Kyra knew the woman had accurately assessed her dress as costing $39.99, making her feel like trailer trash. “Enjoy yourself, my dear.”

  Will’s father shook her hand. “Kyra, I’m Twain. We’re delighted to have you here. Will, glad you made it.”

  The two men locked gazes.

  “Have I ever not, Dad?” Will said.

  “You’ve always come,” his father acknowledged. “And it hasn’t always been convenient for you to do so.”

  “Thanks,” Will said. “Kyra and I are going to grab something to eat.”

  “I imagine it will be a bit different from what you serve at your little fast-food franchise,” Betsy said, those startling eyes projecting nothing but indulgent good humor.

  Kyra nearly gasped at the insult. No wonder Will hated to come home. However, his smile was unfazed. “Actually, I shared some of my recipes with your caterer.”

  Betsy trilled out a laugh. “Oh, dearest, you’re such a hoot.” She turned to Kyra. “Isn’t he funny?”

  “I eat at Ceres every chance I get,” Kyra said, knowing she was digging her own grave. What the hell? She’d never see Will’s mother again. “The food there is delicious.”

  Will’s father made an odd sound in his throat, almost as though he were choking on something. Kyra couldn’t read his expression well enough to interpret it.

  “You’re a sweet girl,” Betsy said with utter insincerity before turning away to greet the next guest coming through the door.

  “I hope you can stay afterward so we can get to know you better, Kyra.” Twain smiled at Kyra in a way that reminded her of Will’s smooth charm. He shifted his gaze to his son. “I’m interested in your move into organic farming. Maybe we could discuss that later. See if we could implement some of your methods here at Arion Farm.”

  Will nodded but said nothing as he moved away.

  “The opening skirmish is behind us,” he muttered, steering her back down the steps and toward one of the bars set up on the lawn. “I need something stronger than champagne.”

  Kyra was still sipping her bubbly, but when the bartender offered her a beautiful pink Cosmopolitan, she decided a stronger beverage was in order after being reduced to postmidnight Cinderella status by Betsy Chase. Will ordered straight scotch and swallowed half of it in one gulp.

  “Will, how the hell are you?” A man dressed in plaid madras trousers, a yellow shirt, and a navy belt embroidered with lime-green martini glasses strolled up. He winked at Kyra. “Leave it to my old pal to find the prettiest gal at the party. I’m Farrington Lange. My friends call me Farr. Possibly because that’s where they wish I would go.”

  “Farr!” For the first time, Will’s expression relaxed into a real smile. “My mother didn’t tell me you were coming.” He shook hands with the other man. “Kyra, stay away from this guy. He’s trouble. Farr, this is Kyra Dixon, an old friend from Brunell.”

  Farr leaned in to give her an air kiss, his breath indicating he’d had a few drinks already. “If you get tired of this stuffed corporate shirt, come find me for some fun.” But the twinkle in his hazel eyes undercut the insult.

  Will snorted. “Pot, meet kettle. You’re an investment banker.”

  “IBs work hard but we play hard, too.” Farr scanned Will up and down. “You look like you haven’t had enough to drink.”

  “I’m working on it,” Will said, swirling the scotch in his tumbler.

  “Will’s been keeping you a secret, Kyra,” Farr said.

  “We just reconnected,” Kyra said, liking Will’s genial pal. “I ran into him at a Ceres in the city.”

  “Will’s a very conscientious CEO,” Farr said. “Always checking up on the dining experience. That’s what I told the fellows at work when we bid on the Ceres IPO.”

  “I appreciated the endorsement and the bid,” Will said.

  “Were you a classics major like Will?” Farr asked Kyra.

  “No, English lit. The only foreign language I speak is Pennsylvanian.”

  “Ah, she’s funny as well as lovely. I’d lure you away from Will, but he needs all his reinforcements.” Farr’s smile faded. “Just a heads-up: Petra is here.”

  Will winced. “I suppose that was inevitable.”

  Kyra felt comfortable enough with Farr to say, “Why is Petra bad news?”

  Farr looked at Will, who said with forced disinterest, “I was engaged to her a couple of years ago. Our parting was a little . . . difficult.”

  “Which is to say that Petra would like to still be engaged to him,” Farr elaborated.

  The shock of Will’s near marriage made her slosh her Cosmo over the rim of her glass. Although why should she be surprised? Women must throw themselves at him on a regular basis. That didn’t stop her from feeling a sear of ridiculous jealousy, though.

  She longed to know why he had broken it off but kept her questions to herself. Will was wound tightly enough as it was. He didn’t need her prying into a past that seemed to disturb him.

  “That’s awkward,” she said.

  “You’ll force her to keep her distance,” Farr said. “It’s part of the social code. Petra won’t bother Will when he has a beautiful woman on his arm.”

  “Ooh, I like the compliment subtly hidden in there,” Kyra said, trying to steer the conversation away from the source of Will’s discomfort.

  “Subtle is not a word that I associate with Farr.” Will joined the banter but his shoulders were still rigid.

  “You underestimate me, Chase. That’s your fatal mistake,” his friend said. “I see Leighton Davies headed in this direction. Let’s bolt for the food tables.”

  “Dear God, yes,” Will agreed, setting his hand against Kyra’s back and pressing her into motion. “He’ll tell us every tack and jibe of the last race he sailed in.”

  “I thought you sailed, too,” Kyra said as they navigated through the crowd.

  “Because my mother insisted. She’s the sailing fanatic.”

  Kyra stumbled in surprise. She’d assumed it had been Will’s father who forced him to sail.

  “Yet you still won all the races,” Farr pointed out. “Until Davies came along and gave you some real competition.”

  “I was glad he showed up,” Will said. “It gave me an excuse to quit.”

  “Your mother never quite got over it,” Farr mused.

  Kyra was adjusting her perspective on Will’s family dynamics. He’d talked about disappointing his father, but it seemed that his mother was the one who was most unhappy with Will’s choices. She certainly had reacted badly to Kyra’s presence.

  They’d reached the buffet table. Will handed her one of the china plates—a creamy white with a blue pattern of stylized leaves and flowers around the edge, accented by a rim of gold. Her mother had collected fine china teacups, so Kyra recognized the pattern as Grenville by Royal Crown Derby. Just the stack of plates on the buffet table represented thousands of dollars.

  As she served herself tea sandwiches decorated with real flowers, asparagus rolled in paper-thin bread, and sliced hard-boiled eggs topped with heaps of caviar, she noticed that all the tongs were sterling silver.

  “Save room for the lobster table,” Wi
ll said, nodding toward another buffet spread.

  “The lobster table?”

  “Technically, it’s the seafood buffet, but most people load up on the lobster tails.”

  “Even high-and-mighty Connecticut society loves free lobster,” Farr said as he piled three tenderloin crostini onto his plate.

  “Are you from around here?” Kyra asked.

  Farr shook his head. “Alabama born and bred. I went to boarding school with Will.”

  “We got assigned as roommates our first year at Marston,” Will said. “Best thing that happened to me there.”

  Farr feigned dramatic surprise. “I never knew you felt that way.”

  “I’ve told you often enough,” Will said with a grin.

  Kyra encouraged the banter between the men, grateful to Farr for easing the stiffness in Will’s shoulders.

  As Will walked ahead in search of an empty table, Farr came up beside Kyra. “If I’m being a third wheel, just say so, and I’ll wander off unoffended.”

  Kyra wished she could consider Farr a third wheel but she shook her head. “I’m just here as a friend like you.”

  “This party has bad memories for him,” Farr said. “That’s why I always try to show up.”

  “Petra?”

  “And other familial disasters.”

  “This way.” Will turned to indicate the chosen table. “What are you two colluding about?”

  “Just wondering if you were going to tack or jibe,” Kyra said.

  Will lifted his eyes to the sky, as though praying for divine intervention.

  “Hoping I will be struck dumb?” she asked.

  “On the contrary, you’ve been too quiet. Of course, it’s hard to get a word in edgewise when Farr’s around.” Kyra could see Will was trying to make light conversation, even as he periodically swept his gaze over the guests with a wary vigilance.

  “Kyra’s tired of listening to all those Connecticut lockjawed accents. She needs a little southern honey in her ear,” Farr said, exaggerating his drawl.

  They arrived at a table covered by a lavender tablecloth and adorned with an arrangement of lilacs and yellow daisies. Will put down his plate and held the gilded bamboo chair for Kyra. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had helped her with her chair.