by Vicki Delany
Which turned out to have been a marvelous thing to do, and I hadn’t regretted it for a moment. As far as I was concerned, Erica could have not only Max but the heartless, shallow world in which they lived and worked. I’d had a lucky escape.
I hadn’t picked up a copy of Jennifer’s Lifestyle since, but the business news, as well as my friends who’d found new jobs rather than work under Erica’s imperious management style, reported that circulation was dropping fast and advertisers were stampeding to pull out. Erica, quite simply, didn’t know her audience and wouldn’t let anyone tell her. She wanted stories on makeup and clothes and features on celebrities, not articles on how to throw a casual alfresco dinner party, prepare a perfect picnic for twelve on the beach, or decorate a woodland getaway. It was rumored that Jennifer was considering coming out of retirement. The new travel section sounded like a good idea to me, and I wondered if that was Jennifer, who I’d adored, trying to get back in the saddle before her empire collapsed into ruins.
“Isn’t your wedding going to be a big story in the magazine?” I said. “And the honeymoon?”
Max growled. “You see my problem, Merry. It’s not just a wedding, it’s a special edition. The whole magazine has been tied in knots all year getting ready for the big event. I’m nothing but a prop. They might as well get a store mannequin to fill in as the groom for all the input I have into this. I don’t want to do it. I can’t do it.”
I studied the menu. “I’m going to have the seafood pasta and an heirloom tomato salad to start. All the produce used here will have been sourced directly from local farmers. What about you?”
“Merry, I . . .”
The waiter arrived at our table, pencil poised. He’d rattled off the specials when he took the drink requests.
“Order, Max,” I said.
He didn’t even open his menu. “Steak and frites. Rare. Caesar salad.”
I placed my order, and the waiter collected the menus and left us alone.
“You’ll want lots of pictures of Santa arriving by boat,” I said. “The weather forecast is for a hot sunny day with only a light wind. The kids are going to love it.”
Max always did have a way of not paying any attention when I was talking. Funny how I never realized that when we were together, but in retrospect it became perfectly clear. Now he was looking over my shoulder into the dining room. An unpleasant half grin turned up the corner of his mouth. “Well, well, I wouldn’t have taken her for a fast mover.”
“Who?” I turned to see what was happening behind me.
“She’s new since your time. Amber Newhouse, junior props assistant. So junior she was the only one I could drag away from the wedding plans”—Max made quotation marks in the air with his fingers—“to bring out here to the back of beyond. You know what they say about still waters running deep. You never can tell with the plain, quiet ones, can you?”
A man and a woman were being shown to a table for two. A Touch of Holly was the nicest (and most expensive) restaurant in the town of Rudolph. Each place was set with a stiff, ironed white napkin with a small cluster of red berries embroidered in the corner. The tables had starched white tablecloths, a tiny votive candle in a glass holder, and a small vase containing a few sprigs of fresh summer flowers accented by a clipping from a holly bush. The big fireplace was unlit, of course, and the space had been filled with giant vases piled high with colorful glass balls, most of them from my shop. The room glowed with subdued lighting and the flickering glow of candles shining off crystal glassware. Conversation and laughter swirled around us.
My heart stuck in my throat. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, Max’s sneering comments droned on.
The woman was attractive enough, never mind Max’s scorn. She was in her late twenties, but I thought her hairstyle—a shoulder-length blond flip—was seriously out of date as was her too-short pink skirt. She walked awkwardly on pink sandals with miles of lacing and four-inch heels. The man following her across the crowded room was none other than Alan Anderson, woodworker, toymaker, and . . . I didn’t know what he was to me anymore.
The woman saw us watching and lifted a hand to wave. Alan followed her gaze and his brilliant blue eyes settled on me. She said something to the waiter and changed direction. They headed toward us. Max got to his feet.
“Amber! So nice to see you.” He thrust his hand at Alan. “Max Folger.”
Alan’s expression shifted when he heard the name, but I doubt Max noticed. “Alan Anderson.”
“Alan’s an old family friend.” Amber’s voice was so high-pitched it was heading toward the grating end of the scale. “When I heard we were coming to Rudolph, I knew I had to look him up.” She giggled and smiled at me. “Hi.”
“Merry Wilkinson,” Max said. “A local businesswoman. Merry’s giving me the inside scoop about what we need to be on the lookout for on Saturday.”
“Oh, Max.” Amber giggled. “You’re always working.”
Alan smiled at me. I smiled back. “Merry and I are old friends,” he said. Old friends? Is that what we’d become? I continued smiling.
“Why don’t you join us? We’ve only just ordered.” Max apparently hadn’t noticed that we were at a table for two, and the tables on either side of us were taken.
“That would be great.” Amber looked around for the waiter. “Let’s see if we can get a bigger table.” Max’s smile cracked, and I smothered a laugh. As awkward as this was, it was funny to see Max’s New York fake politeness taken seriously.
“We wouldn’t want to disturb you,” Alan said. “Have a nice evening. Nice meeting you, Max. Merry.” He led Amber to their waiting table. She wiggled her fingers at us over her shoulder.
Max sat back down and picked up his glass.
“She seems nice,” I said.
“Way out of her league,” he said. “We’ll see how long she lasts. Not long, I expect. The first small-town hick to offer her a house with a white picket fence and two-point-three kids and she’ll be gone. Speaking of small-town hicks, he fits the bill. Judging by those hands, I’d say he’s a pig farmer.” Max laughed and took a swig of his wine.
“You know what I’ve just realized, Max?” I said.
“That you can’t live without me?”
“You’re not a very nice person. Were you born mean, or did New York make you that way?” My blood was rising and flames shot through my face. My hands shook. Alan’s hands were scarred and calloused because they were the hands of a man who earned his living with them. He made stunning things that filled homes with beauty and children with delight. Things even people with limited funds could own and cherish. His wasn’t a fake world of garden parties for one hundred, picnic boats, morning horseback rides through fog-draped woods, meals prepared and rooms scrubbed and polished by an army of invisible servants before the photography team arrived.
I pushed back my chair. “This was a bad idea. Good night, Max.”
“Wow,” he said, “you really have got the small-town bug, don’t you, Merry? Or is it that guy? I’ll admit, he scrubs up well.”
I reached under my chair for my purse.
“Don’t move.”
“I’m leaving. Enjoy your dinner.”
“I mean it. Don’t move and don’t turn around. I can’t believe this.” He was staring over my shoulder with a look of absolute horror on his chiseled face. I started to turn, to see what dreadful event was going on behind me. “I said, don’t look,” he snapped. Then he swore. “Too late. She’s seen us.” He planted a smile on his face and stood up. I swiveled in my chair, thinking that it couldn’t be all that bad.
But it was. It was worse.
An excessively thin woman dressed in a blue and white striped summer dress and sky-high stilettos was bearing down on us. Her heels tapped a furious rhythm on the hardwood floor, carefully colored brown hair with caramel highlights swung arou
nd her shoulders, and her perfectly made-up black eyes threw thunderbolts around the room.
The hostess skipped along behind her, waving a menu, mouth flapping open and shut.
I heard one of the women at the table to my right say, “Isn’t that . . .” and to the left someone said, “I think that’s Erica Johnstone. My, but she’s thin.”
Erica stopped at our table. She put her hands on her nonexistent hips and said, “I should have known.”
“Hey, babe. Isn’t this a pleasant surprise? Won’t you join us? Bring another chair,” he ordered the hostess. “And a wineglass.” She scurried away to do his bidding.
Women tended to do that for Max.
I’d once done that for Max.
“When I heard about your idea to run a feature on some stupid summer Santa Claus parade, I figured it would do you good to get out of town and out from underfoot. Looks like I was too busy planning my wedding to worry about what my fiancé was up to.” She looked at me for the first time, but continued speaking to Max. “Some people are loyal to me. Jason phoned and told me she was here.”
“Gee, thanks, Jason,” Max mumbled.
“You can’t admit defeat, can you?” Erica pointed a sharp red fingernail in my direction. “You had to lure my man back into your web by dangling a story in front of him.” The light from the candle on our table caught the ring on the third finger of her left hand and white fire flashed. The square-cut diamond at the center of the ring was enormous, and a row of smaller diamonds was inset into the band. That ring would have cost far more than Max could afford on his salary from the magazine.
“Hey,” I said, tearing my eyes away from the diamonds. “This has nothing to do with me. I didn’t even know . . .”
A waiter arrived with a chair, and another held a wineglass. Everyone in the restaurant had stopped what they were doing to gape. The only one not watching was Amber, who had buried her face in her napkin, no doubt not wanting her boss to see her. Alan had risen to his feet, his eyes fixed on me.
“Why don’t you sit down and have a drink, babe?” Max said, his voice low and soothing. “It’s all a misunderstanding. Merry and I were discussing the best location for the photo shoot on Saturday. Santa Claus will be coming by boat, so I’m wondering if we should rent a boat for ourselves, to get the best perspective. What do you think?”
“What do I think!” Erica’s voice rose. “I don’t think my fiancé takes a woman to dinner behind my back to talk about photo angles.”
I glanced around the room. People were pulling iPhones out of jackets and bags. Oh dear. I put my hands over my face and peeked out from between my fingers.
“No need to be concerned,” Max said. I was surprised at how calm he sounded. He must have had a lot of experience trying to control this spoiled drama queen. His hand was steady as he poured wine into the fresh glass and held it out to Erica. “Another bottle,” he said to the waiter. “This is nothing but a business meeting. Merry used to be one of our top style editors. You remember, don’t you, babe?”
Erica accepted the glass and took a deep drink. “Oh yes. I remember her. I fired her because her taste hadn’t evolved since she left the rust belt on the back of a turnip truck.”
“Hey,” I said. “That’s not true. I quit.”
She threw the contents of her glass into my face. The entire room let out a collective gasp. Lights flashed as cameras clicked. Wine stung my eyes and liquid dripped down my face. I felt a hand on my arm and I was lifted to my feet.
“Let’s go, Merry,” Alan said.
“That’s enough,” Max said. “Sit down, Erica.”
She dropped into a chair.
“You folks can go back to minding your own business now,” Max said in a voice just loud enough to be heard in a restaurant that had gone deathly quiet. He snapped his fingers and shouted, “Muriel!”
“Oh my gosh, Erica, are you all right?” A woman rushed past us. “Can I get you anything? A glass of water, more wine?” It was Muriel Fraser, Erica’s personal assistant. The one the employees called the Unfriendly Ghost. When Max first started seeing Erica, I’d wondered if Muriel went along on their dates. I guess she did.
Alan pressed a napkin into my hand, and I was still blinking tears and wiping wine out of my eyes when we left the chilly air-conditioned restaurant and walked into the fresh night air. A light breeze carrying the scent of flowers from the huge pots on either side of the door ruffled the hair on my arms.
“You don’t think she saw me, do you?” Amber said. “Oh my gosh, if she saw me watching, I’m finished.”
“I suspect she had her mind on other things.” I opened my eyes cautiously. I blinked rapidly, trying to focus.
“That’ll be all over Twitter in about half a minute,” Alan said. “If not sooner.”
“She won’t care,” I said. “Not unless her grandmother sees it, and she probably will. Jennifer keeps herself up to date.” Erica would be called and a lecture given. She’d be contrite and tearful. And nothing, I knew, would change.
For the first time, I felt very sorry for Max.
Chapter 3
I live only a couple of blocks from the center of Rudolph, so Alan and Amber walked me home. At eight o’clock it was still daylight, and shades of soft pink and gray streaked the clouds in the west. As we passed the park, the lights of the town’s year-round Christmas tree in the bandstand came on. Lights bobbed on boats moored in the harbor, and the park was crowded with picnickers and walkers. Tomorrow, the weekend festivities would open with a family BBQ hosted by the mayor and town councilors, followed by a teenage dance party at the bandstand.
Amber moaned a few more times that if Erica had seen her in the restaurant, watching, she’d be fired, but at last she stopped talking. We walked on in blessed silence. Alan didn’t talk much, and never if he had nothing to say. I suspected he had a lot to say tonight, but he could tell I wasn’t up to making idle chatter. Activity on the street died as we left the shopping district and then the park. A few people were out walking their dogs and the occasional car drove past. The lower level of my house was a blaze of light, and that, I knew, was not a good thing. I live on the top floor of a grand old Victorian in a charming apartment with use of the spacious backyard for Mattie. The only thing I didn’t like about where I lived was my landlady, Mrs. D’Angelo, the fastest gossip in the East.
The curtains in the front room moved as we turned up the path. The door flew open before I could dash for safety, and Mrs. D’Angelo came onto the porch. She wore a lime green T-shirt and matching shorts secured by a wide belt. The purpose of the belt was to hold her cell phone on the odd occasion she didn’t have it firmly in hand. She’d updated her technology recently, and blue earbuds trailed from her ears into the pouch on her belt.
“Merry Wilkinson! Janet Lawrence, whose daughter works at A Touch of Holly, called to tell me you were attacked by Erica Johnstone. Imagine! Erica Johnstone here in Rudolph. I knew, of course, that a team from her magazine was here, but not Erica herself.”
Mrs. D’Angelo seemed far more excited about the presence of Erica than the supposed assault on me. “Don’t worry, Mrs. D’Angelo,” I said, “I am unharmed.”
“I read that magazine all the time. They did a lovely piece on historic homes of Cape Cod a couple of years ago. Perhaps they’d be interested in doing the same thing again, this time here in Rudolph. We do, of course, have some marvelous examples of eighteenth-century colonial architecture, many with beautiful gardens to match. I might even be convinced to open my own house for a photo spread.” This property did have a lovely garden. Eight months of the year, Mrs. D’Angelo could be found out front, digging, planting, weeding, trimming. All the better to keep an eye on activity on our street. In the winter, she spread salt, chipped ice, and shoveled snow, whether we had any or not. “Perhaps you could suggest that to her, Merry.”
“Suggest what
?”
“The article on my house and garden, of course. I mean, the houses and gardens of Rudolph.”
“I don’t think Erica will be seeking my advice anytime soon.”
Mrs. D’Angelo glared at me, clearly disappointed that I had allowed Erica to fight with me. Her phone rang and she pushed the button on the blue cord. “Yes, I heard. Here in Rudolph!”
“Thanks for coming to my aid,” I said to Alan. “I’m okay now. You’ll want to go back and finish your dinner.”
“I can’t show my face there,” Amber said. “If she sees me, I’ll be done for. I really need this job. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of.”
“You didn’t get any dinner, either,” Alan said to me.
“I seem to have lost my appetite.” That was certainly true. My stomach was only now beginning to stop churning. “I’m going to get Mattie and go for a nice long walk.”
“Need company?” he asked.
I flushed and glanced away.
“I’m starving,” Amber said.
“You two go and have your dinner. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” Alan said. “If you’re sure.”
“I don’t think she saw me, do you?” Amber said. “She was focused on Max. She doesn’t usually notice the staff much. I was at her house for a few days when we did the story on her engagement party. She barely even looked at me the whole time. Except to tell me I was doing everything wrong. Right now she’s like totally occupied with her wedding.”
They walked away, into the deepening dusk. I headed upstairs.
I’d turned my phone off before going into dinner, and I turned it on as I climbed the stairs. It immediately started beeping to tell me I had voice mail messages. I ignored them all and switched the phone off again.
