Straight from the Hart

by Tracie Banister

  We weave our way through the salon, skirting around groups of people who try to grab Ian and pull him into their conversations, as well as servers carrying trays of champagne-filled flutes and an appealing assortment of hors d’oeuvres. If I were the least bit hungry, I’d be all over the caviar and smoked salmon blinis, which look delish. Ian must feel the same because he scoops one off a tray and pops it in his mouth. He also manages to appropriate two glasses of bubbly, pushing one into my hand without ever breaking stride or spilling a drop. I take a big swig right before launching myself at our parents.

  “Nicola! Andrew!” I greet the Ellingsworths with much more enthusiasm than I normally would as I squeeze in between my mother and Viv. “It’s so good to see you both. This party is incredible!”

  Nicola’s berry-colored lips curve into a soft smile that showcases her beautiful teeth. She’s every bit as gorgeous and glam as you would expect Ian’s mother to be. Tonight she’s dressed to the nines in a royal blue gown with an unusual neckline (one shoulder is bared while a train flows from the other) and has a diamond choker around her neck that probably cost a mint. Her makeup is flawless and her stylishly cropped, chestnut brown hair has been brushed forward so that thick bangs sweep across her brow and draw attention to her large, dark eyes.

  “We’re so glad you could be with us tonight, Vanessa,” Nicola says in her crisp, English accent, which is still strong even after all her years of living in the States. She extends her hand toward me, and I give her my left one since I’m holding the champagne in my right. Too late I realize my mistake.

  “The Ellingsworth emerald!” Nicola exclaims, clutching my hand. “Oh, my dear, I am thrilled beyond measure to see you wearing this. Well done, Ian.” She beams at him with motherly pride. “Andrew, did you see this?” She lifts my hand up to his chin—like all the men in the Ellingsworth family, Ian’s father is very tall. “Our son’s getting married!”

  “And his choice of brides is just as exceptional as mine was.” Effortless charm is another thing Ian inherited from his father.

  Taking my hand, Andrew drops a light kiss on my knuckle right above the ring before saying in a tone full of gravitas, “This emerald has been worn by some remarkable women through the years, and now you join their ranks, Vanessa. I have no doubt you’ll bring great credit to our family and I hope you and Ian will be as happy as his mother and I have been.”

  “Thank you.” I incline my head respectfully and withdraw my hand because my palms are suddenly very sweaty. I like the Ellingsworths and don’t enjoy deceiving them. How did I let Ian talk me into this?

  “So Ian proposed and you said yes?” my mother pipes up next to me, and I inwardly cringe because I know she’s going to have very strong opinions about this.

  “That’s the way engagements usually work,” I say breezily. “Right, Viv?” I toss the conversation to her in hopes she’ll bail me out of this.

  “Mmmm . . .” She studies the champagne at the bottom of her glass while swirling it around. “As I recall, I only had two formal proposals where the man popped the question. I asked your grandfather when the rabbit died. Marriages three and five were mutual, spur-of-the-moment things. And when it comes to husband number four, who knows?” Addressing the Ellingsworths, she explains, “Klaus and I were partying with Mick and Jerry at Studio 54 one night and when we woke up on Andy Warhol’s infamous red couch at the Factory the next morning, I had a wedding ring on one hand and a marriage certificate clutched in the other.”

  “What were you thinking?” Mom wants to know and she’s glowering at me, so I believe I’m the one the question is being directed to. Fortunately, Viv misunderstands and answers instead.

  “I was thinking someone must have slipped an extra party favor in my Woo Woo—”

  “Viv!” I shriek in mortification, certain that she’s referencing a private part of her anatomy. Hearing Ian snicker on the other side of my grandmother, I pray that this ship will spring a leak (just a small one!) so that we’ll have to disembark and this soirée will be over.

  “No need to clutch your pearls, child. A Woo Woo’s just a fruity cocktail I liked to drink back in the day. I first discovered it when I was bar-hopping in Manhattan while shooting a film with a young and impressively virile Ben Kingsley. No, wait, that would have been a year or two after that night at Studio 54 . . .,” Viv trails off as she tries to remember her own timeline.

  “We had Sir Ben and his wife, Daniela, over for dinner the last time we were at our estate in Oxfordshire,” Nicola says. “The Kingsleys are neighbors of ours there. Oh, Andrew!” Her eyes light up and she grabs her husband’s sleeve.

  “We should host Ian and Vanessa’s wedding at Mapleton House. It would be perfect! We have so much room,” she tells us, “and the grounds are lovely no matter what the season. I especially love Christmas there when all the decorations are up and a blanket of pristine white snow is covering everything. Oooooooo, what about a winter wedding, Vanessa? You could wear a faux fur wrap over your gown and put diamond snowflake pins in your hair. We could do it in early December so as not to interfere with anyone’s holiday plans. I know that’s only six months away, but—”

  “This has gone far enough,” my mother interrupts in a brusque tone, pulling us all back from the nuptial dreamscape Ian’s mother was painting.

  Ever the well-mannered Brit, Nicola says, “You are quite right, Victoria. Forgive me. I got carried away by my excitement over the wedding, but you’re the mother of the bride and choosing a venue should be entirely up to you and Vanessa. Just know that Mapleton House is at your disposal should you like to use it.”

  “And that is incredibly generous of you, Nicola. I think my mother . . .” I wrap my arm around her shoulders and give her a bone-crushing squeeze to remind her that she promised to keep a lid on any inappropriate comments tonight. “. . . is just concerned about a December wedding date conflicting with her next book release.”

  “But Bad in Bed won’t be out until—”

  “The week of Christmas. I know, I know, Mom. Everyone, please mark your calendars and remember to put the book on your wish list for Santa.” I force a chuckle and give Viv a nudge with my other elbow.

  She responds with a laugh too, but hers sounds much less artificial. “Our Victoria is a planner and she’ll probably have a book tour or some-such leading up to the release, which is why December would be a problem for us, but no worries because there are eleven other months in the year. Ladies, why don’t we go have a little confab about this and let the Ellingsworths mingle with their other guests? We’ve been monopolizing them for too long.”

  I continue to keep a commanding grip on my mother as we take our leave from my potential in-laws, then guide her over to the darkest, most private corner of the salon. When I finally release her, she turns to face me with an expression that could best be described as perturbed.

  “Explain yourself,” she demands. “Because based on your erratic behavior over the last twenty-four hours, I think, to put it in layman’s terms, you’ve lost your mind, and suggest that you immediately check yourself into a rehab facility where you can get some rest along with a comprehensive mental health evaluation. I can pull some strings and get you into a good one.”

  “And you say Viv is the dramatic one in the family,” I deadpan.

  “This is no joking matter, Vanessa. We’re talking about you making a legal, lifetime—” Viv snorts and my mother gives her a quelling look. “—commitment to someone you do not have romantic feelings for. You, the girl who officiated a wedding between her Smurfette and Hefty Smurf figurines because you thought they were so perfect for each other and were mad when the cartoon never got them together, the tween who watched Titanic at a friend’s house even though I warned her not to and was so upset over the ending she cried hysterically for days afterward, the adolescent who had such high standards for Valentine’s Day that she dumped two perfectly decent boyfriends when they ‘didn’t do enough,’ and the woman who start
ed a business with the sole purpose of helping others keep the romance alive in their relationships.”

  “And in every instance you just cited, you lamented that I wasn’t more practical like you,” I reminded her.

  “Because I didn’t like seeing you disappointed or hurt!”

  “No chance of that if I marry Ian, right? You should be pleased that I’m thinking about the future in a more sensible way.”

  “Vanessa . . .” My grandmother takes my free hand in hers. “. . . this is a historic day in our family because I’m actually going to agree with your mother about something. Just because you can’t be with Alex doesn’t mean you have to swear off love and marry with your head instead of your heart.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that considering how many times you married for love and ended up in divorce court.”

  “And I don’t regret a single one of those marriages,” she proclaims, sounding a bit defensive and dropping my hand. “Love doesn’t always last, but that doesn’t make it any less worthwhile. And I have no doubt I’ll find it again before your mother has me shipped off to the Home for Celebrity Fossils.”

  “Is that a real place?”

  “It’s not, so don’t get excited,” Viv cautions my mother, then turns back to me. “Where was I?”

  “You were extolling the virtues of love even though you’ve had no luck in that department yourself.”

  “Must you keep reminding me of that?” she queries irritably.

  “Yes, and I’d also like to remind the two of you that while I do appreciate your input and concern, I’m a grown woman capable of making my own decisions. For the record, Ian is an amazing man and we’re compatible in many respects, so being married to him would not be a hardship. I would hope that if I do decide to become Ian’s wife—and yes, I’m still mulling over his proposal and am only wearing the ring right now to appease his parents—you would both accept him into our family and treat him with the kindness and respect he deserves.”

  Viv nods, but doesn’t look happy about it while my mother eyes me in a wary manner.

  “If you do this, you won’t take the Ellingsworth name, will you?”

  Viv gasps. “She couldn’t! She wouldn’t! Would you?” she asks before draining the rest of the champagne in her glass in one gulp.

  “Of course not,” I assure her and see my elder’s shoulders sag with relief. “Hart women always keep their maiden name after marriage and I wouldn’t dream of flouting that tradition.”

  “And none of that hyphenated nonsense,” my mother says with a moue of distaste. “It makes a woman look indecisive. You either take your husband’s name or you don’t. Either way, you should own it. If you’re lucky, you marry someone who doesn’t have archaic notions about the institution and wants you to continue to have your own identity.” She doesn’t have to say Garrett’s name for me to know that he’s the enlightened, supportive spouse she’s referencing and we should all aspire to find.

  “Ian’s views on the world are anything but archaic, so—”

  “Did I just hear my name?” my maybe fiancé queries as he saunters up next to me. “If you were all wondering how I could be halfway through my thirties and still look this good, I’ll let you in on a little secret.” Leaning forward, he drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and says, “Immortal jellyfish serum. I rub it all over.” He winks at Viv, and her eyes widen.

  “I’d heard rumors, but didn’t know the serum actually existed.”

  “It does if you know the right people in Japan. Since we’re practically related now, I’d be happy to procure a bottle for you . . . if you’re interested.”

  “Oh, you darling man!” Viv squeals with delight at the thought of getting her hands and other aging body parts on this magical serum. “Tell me more,” she says, moving to stand beside Ian and tucking her hand in the crook of his arm.

  “You shouldn’t be using a product that hasn’t been properly tested in a lab, and the makers of this serum are probably violating several FTC—”

  “Give it a rest, Victoria. Now that I’ve seen the benefits of having this one . . .” She beams at Ian. “. . . in the family. I’m going to change my nay vote from before to yay.”

  “But you can’t do that!” my mother protests. “You agreed with me!”

  “And it didn’t feel right, so I’m restoring the natural order. If you two crazy kids . . .” She waggles a finger between Ian and me. “. . . want to get married, who am I to stand in the way?”

  “Well, thank you, Viv. Your blessing means a lot. And Dr. Hart, I understand your reservations about this, but I intend to do everything in my power to win you over. Will you do this birthday boy the honor of sitting beside him at dinner?” He offers her his other arm, and that’s when I notice our fellow guests flocking toward the ornately decorated tables, a sign that the meal is about to start.

  “I suppose,” she says, taking his elbow, “but be forewarned that I’m not as easily charmed as these other two.”

  “Duly noted,” he replies with a twinkle in his eye and I have no doubt he’ll have my mother singing his praises in no time.

  Ian leads us to the banquet table in the center of the salon and rearranges some place cards so that he’s on one side with me to his left and Mom on his right and Viv’s in a chair directly opposite us next to Nicola and Andrew. Once everyone is seated, the man footing the bill for this evening stands and raises a glass of the red wine that’s just been poured for everyone. A hush descends upon the room and he begins his toast.

  “For years after Ian was born, people asked when we’d have another child and Nicola always said . . .” Andrew places a hand on his wife’s back and she rises to her feet.

  “Why mess with success?”

  Everyone chuckles, and Nicola’s mouth curves into a smile.

  “I know all parents say this, but Ian really is the perfect child. He’s excelled at everything he’s ever done from potty training, which he mastered by the time he was two because he didn’t fancy how his diaper ruined the line of his Burberry shorts—”

  We all laugh and Ian admits good-naturedly, “It’s true. I was a fashion plate even back then.”

  “—to his studies and sports. We’ve got two whole rooms at the house filled with his awards.”

  I raise an eyebrow at Ian because this is the first I’ve heard of him being a champion athlete.

  “Water polo,” he mouths the words to me.

  A sport in which he and other Speedo-wearing men with Michael Phelps-like physiques got wet and smacked balls? That tracks.

  “And,” Ian’s father picks up the story where Nicola left off, “he’s spent the last ten years learning the ins and outs of the family business and is now so skilled at running it I’m hardly needed at the office anymore.” Andrew grins proudly at Ian, so we all know he’s happy to be usurped.

  “But what matters more to us than any of Ian’s accomplishments is his sterling character,” Nicola claims. “He is a good man who never shirks responsibility, genuinely cares about other people, and is generous to a fault.” She pauses, tearing up with emotion, but quickly composes herself and asserts, “We love you, my boy. Having you in our lives has made your father and I feel blessed every day of the last thirty-five years. And we look forward to celebrating many more milestones with you, including your upcoming wedding to this charming woman.” She gestures across the table at me and I can feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  Lifting her wine goblet in the air, Nicola toasts, “To Ian and his fiancée, Vanessa!”

  The party guests cheer their approval of the big news.

  “Didn’t your parents promise to keep our engagement to themselves?” I query under my breath.

  He clinks his glass against mine and mutters, “They did, but Mum loves to grandstand, and apparently she couldn’t help herself. Just smile and pretend like you’re thrilled by the prospect of marrying me.”

  Party guests are beaming in our direction and r
aising their glasses to toast our impending nuptials. So I respond in kind and do my best to glow with happiness while everyone clamors to see the ring.

  CHAPTER 42

  I’m supposed to be prepping for a Zoom meeting with my new clients, Annie and Caleb, an adorable couple from Grand Rapids who are getting married in the fall and want to honeymoon here in LA, but I can’t seem to focus. All I can think about are my own possible nuptials.

  In all honesty, I really enjoyed everyone making such a fuss over me after news of my engagement to Ian was leaked by his mother at the party last night. Everyone was so excited by the prospect of a wedding, and they seemed to be genuinely happy that Ian had finally put a ring on it. I received so many good wishes and compliments about what a beautiful bride I was going to make that I couldn’t help but start fantasizing about the big day.

  Nicola put a bee in my bonnet about getting married on the Ellingsworths’ estate in Derbyshire and now I’m picturing a whole Downton Abbey-inspired extravaganza next spring. I could wear a lacy, Edwardian-style gown that would be really flattering on my tall, slender frame, put my bridesmaids in antique rose or dusty blue, and outfit the wedding party’s men in morning dress with black tailcoats, charcoal trousers, and silver waistcoats.

  Maybe we could get cars from that time period to ferry us and our guests to the church and then back to the estate for an afternoon reception on the grounds! It could be a big, fancy garden party with crystal chandeliers hanging from the trees (I saw this on Pinterest!), a string quartet playing Bach from a rose-covered gazebo, and a massive, all-ivory cake with hand-shaped sugar paste flowers and fondant pearls encircling each tier. English lemon curd would be a must for the cake filling, but I think I’d do a raspberry jam on every other layer so that there’d be a nice mix of tart and sweet. Wait, doesn’t Ian hate raspberries . . . or is it blackberries that make him gag? How can I marry a man whose fruit preferences I’m totally clueless about? And why am I obsessing over small details for a wedding that may not even happen?