—“Have you seen what Helena Barnett is wearing?”
—“How could I miss it? The fabric is rich enough, but that pattern! Nary a flower to be found. Not even a stripe. And the color—well! The whole ensemble makes widow’s weeds appear the denier cri. Is it any wonder she’s about to be on the shelf?”
—“About to be? I’d say she’s firmly wedged in between bookends and gathering dust already!”
At twenty-seven years old, Helena was well aware that her opportunities for a suitable match were dwindling. The prospect of spinsterhood did not trouble her. Indeed, she rather enjoyed the idea of remaining “on the shelf,” sealed and self-contained like one of the leather-bound volumes tucked away in the library. She took her leave as soon as good manners would allow, refused all offers of escorts and carriages, and breathed a sigh of relief as she set off on foot toward home.
She took her time meandering along the garden path flanked with low hedgerows and vibrant blooms. The breeze was warm and the sunlight glorious, so she took off her bonnet and gloves. A sprinkling of freckles made no difference, after all, to a confirmed spinster.
As had happened repeatedly over the course of the day, her musings turned to the man who’d arrived the night before. Her mind roiled with questions about who he was, why he had come—
Foliage rustled just behind her. She whirled around to find herself facing the man who’d consumed her thoughts. Without a word, he strode closer until she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. Disconcerted, she immediately reverted to her drawing-room decorum.
“Forgive me, sir.” She schooled her features into a tepid smile. “You gave me quite a start.”
“Did I, then?” His bold gaze roamed over her, from her kidskin boots up to her uncovered red hair. Was his deep voice tinged with a Scottish burr?
The corners of his mouth settled into a frown. “Your attire is leavin’ much to be desired.”
Definitely a Scot. A towering, broad-shouldered—
His words finally registered. Helena had become accustomed to stinging remarks about her lack of fashion and imminent spinsterhood, but this man’s bold appraisal shocked her far beyond anything she’d ever experienced in a ballroom. She disguised her discomfiture with tartness. “My propriety can easily be restored by putting on my bonnet and gloves. You, sir, however, appear to be inalterably lacking in the most basic tenets of civility.” She lifted her chin. “And as long as we’re unintroduced strangers brashly pointing out one another’s flaws … Your penchant for dramatic late-night entrances will go unappreciated in a simple town like mine. Perhaps a swashbuckling character such as you fancy yourself would be better suited for the London stage?”
His frown vanished and was replaced with a roguish smile. “Ah, you mistook my meaning. I merely meant to say that I prefer your revealing attire from last night.”
Her cheeks heated. “It was a modest gown—”
“Aye, but a hallway sconce gifted me with a silhouette I’ll no’ soon forget.”
Oh Lord! How much did he see when I hastened up the stairs?
“Let us be strangers no more,” he continued, as if he hadn’t just mortified her. “Helena Barnett, I am Ross MacCormick, charged with your younger brothers’ education.”
“The new tutor? Then why the urgency to arrive?” And why had her father been so secretive?
“I take my commitment to academics very seriously.”
“You truly are to be their teacher? I fear they are doomed.”
“I teach many subjects, lass. Society etiquette is no’ among them.” He captured her ungloved hand in his and bowed low. The heat of his skin against hers seemed scorching as he slowly but deliberately stroked his thumb against the soft underside of her wrist.
She snatched her hand away. “You are quite improper, sir.”
His eyes laughed at her, but beneath the amusement, she saw a challenge. “But I wager no’ half so improper, Miss Barnett, as you.”
“If things were simple, word would have gotten around.”
—Jacques Derrida, Limited Inc.
I’m probably your dream client.” Maureen Richmond smiled across the coffee shop booth at Jamie and took a sip of herbal tea. “I’m very decisive, I’m very clear about my expectations, and I live in Vermont, so I’ll be out of your hair for the most part. But Sarah is my only child, and I’ve been thinking about her wedding for years. We both have. I want it to be a day she’ll remember for the rest of her life. And of course, I’m willing to write the checks to turn our dream into a reality.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Richmond, I’ll make sure it’s a beautiful, memorable day. You don’t have to write a bunch of checks to ensure that,” Jamie said.
“Please call me Maureen.” The older woman stirred her tea and set her spoon down on the thick white saucer. “I want it to be a beautiful, memorable day with the best champagne, the most delectable food, and the most breathtaking floral arrangements upstate New York has to offer.”
“Then by all means, open the checkbook.” Jamie laughed. After Maureen approached her yesterday at the garden reception, Jamie had suggested this early-morning meeting at Pranza, a homey little café on Pine Street. The décor tended toward checkered cotton tablecloths and worn red Naugahyde booths, but the menu catered to both vacationing foodies and hungover college kids, offering everything from organic goat cheese tartlets and fair-trade espresso to hash browns and grilled cheese. Maureen had ordered only a cup of tea, citing concerns about fitting into her mother-of-the-bride finery, but Jamie was chowing down on a generous platter of French toast.
“My daughter is currently living in Manhattan, and she’s been working with a wedding coordinator in the city,” Maureen continued. “They’ve already taken care of most of the major details: the invitations, the guest list, the wine and liquor.”
“That’s quite a feat, planning an Adirondack wedding from Manhattan.”
“Yes.” Maureen’s lips thinned. “I begged Sarah to have the wedding in the city—so much more accessible for out-of-town guests, not to mention style reporters from the Times—but she insisted on having it here. And in November! What if there’s a snowstorm? I tried to be agreeable when she said June was ‘too cliché,’ but what’s wrong with September, for heaven’s sake? October, even?”
“Thanksgiving weddings are very chic,” Jamie said. “Clearly, your daughter is on the cutting edge.”
“She’s stubborn, just like her mother.” Maureen shook her head and laughed. “I need you to act as the local, day-of coordinator. To make sure everything goes smoothly at the big event, the rehearsal dinner, and the bridesmaids’ tea.”
“Sounds simple enough. I take it your daughter is a Thurwell alum?”
“No, Barnard College,” Maureen said with obvious pride.
“Oh.” Jamie tried to politely suss out their connection to the college and the board of trustees. “Did you and your husband go to Thurwell?”
“No. Both of us had to work our way through the University of Vermont,” Maureen said. “And then my husband, Henry, got into law school in Boston and we had to pull together a wedding in six weeks during summer break. We had absolutely no money, and our parents couldn’t help us out, but we did the best we could. I went to a bridal salon and offered to buy whatever they had on sale. They sold me a ghastly gown that was four sizes too big, but my mother and I got out the sewing machine and altered it ourselves. We made the bridesmaids’ dresses, too, out of upholstery fabric, of all things. Henry and I bought each other plain gold bands, and we had the whole shindig in his parents’ backyard. I carried a bouquet of fresh wildflowers Henry picked in the meadow for me just before the ceremony.”
Jamie rested her chin in her hands and imagined the heartfelt, homespun ceremony. “Aw. That sounds lovely.”
“It was.” Maureen touched the simple gold ring still adorning her left ring finger. “For me. But not for my daughter. Sarah’s going to have only the best. We ordered her wedding gown and veil
from Vera Wang six months ago. Her shoes are being flown over from Milan. And of course, we’d always envisioned Henry walking her down the aisle, but he passed away two years ago. She’s asked me to do it in his stead. Isn’t that sweet?”
“Very sweet. I can’t wait to meet her.”
“She’s planning to drive up next weekend, so I’ll be sure to arrange a meet and greet.” Maureen dug through her handbag and pulled out a leather organizer bursting with folded papers, fabric swatches, and multicolored Post-its. “Now, let’s see … your friend Anna has agreed to do the cake. Do you happen to have contact information for her?”
Jamie spelled Anna’s name and recited her email address and phone number.
“Excellent. I’m so pleased to have found her. I can’t begin to tell you the problems we’ve had finding a suitable cake. The pastry chefs in Manhattan refuse to deliver all the way out here, and the local caterers have been pressuring me to hire the local baker, who they claim is the only available option in Thurwell, and who I’m certain is not up to Anna’s level.” Maureen scribbled away in her organizer. “Now. As for accommodations. We’re expecting a good number of out-of-town guests, and the inn we’ve selected in Saratoga Springs is already booked to capacity. Can you think of a suitable hotel to accommodate the overflow? Someplace charming, nothing corporate or cheap.”
“As it happens, there’s a cozy little B and B right here in Thurwell that’s about to open its doors. Down comforters, scented soaps, afternoon scones, the whole deal. It’s called Paradise Found Bed-and-Breakfast. As soon as we’re done here, I’ll tell the owner to clear her reservation books for the weekend of the wedding.”
“That sounds perfect!” Maureen beamed. “You are a treasure.”
“What can I say? You just have to know the right people.”
“True, very true. Tell me, how many weddings have you planned?”
“Well, I was in charge of three in Los Angeles,” Jamie said, omitting the tiny detail that she had been the bride-to-be in all three and never once made it down the aisle. “But this is my first one in the Adirondacks.”
“A Hollywood wedding planner! No wonder you’re so connected. And you did an excellent job managing the party yesterday afternoon.” Maureen, true to her word, looked like she had made up her mind and felt entirely confident in her decision. “You’re hired. Did you happen to bring your contract?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jamie produced the standardized form she had downloaded from the Internet last night and modified with the appropriate names and dates. “Two copies, one for each of us. I just need a signature and a deposit, and we’re good to go.”
Maureen signed the contract after only a perfunctory skim, then whipped out her checkbook. “It sounds like you’ll do a wonderful job. I can’t wait for you to meet Sarah; you two should get along famously.” She flipped through the organizer and handed Jamie a series of business cards, along with the deposit check. “Here’s my home number, cell number, email, contact information for Sarah and her coordinator in New York City. … Feel free to call any of us at any time, day or night. Are there any other questions I can answer for you now?”
“I don’t think so,” Jamie said, and then glanced back at her signed contract and realized what she’d left out. “Oh, wait. Just one, but an important one. I assume you’ve already booked the ceremony and reception venues? Because if not, I could always—”
“Oh, of course. That was the very first thing we arranged. How silly of me not to mention it. The wedding will be held at the college president’s home. You seemed very comfortable there yesterday. It all works out splendidly, doesn’t it?”
“I—” Jamie froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Really?”
Maureen nodded. “If the weather is warm, we’ll try to have the ceremony in the garden; but in all likelihood, it’ll be freezing and we’ll hold the whole thing indoors.”
“Wow.” Jamie chose her next words very carefully. “How’d you finagle that? The administration is notorious for barring ‘noncollegiate’ events from campus.”
“As you say, it’s a matter of knowing the right people.” Maureen winked. “Getting permission to hold the wedding at President Tait’s house is easy when President Tait is the groom. You’ve met Terrence, I assume?”
I’ve been waiting for you,” Brooke said when Jamie walked through Paradise Found’s front door. She appeared to be all ready for work in pearl earrings and a baby blue button-down shirt, with her black leather satchel in hand. “I’m going, but I didn’t want to ask you this over the phone.”
“I can’t talk right now,” Jamie murmured. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed, burrow under the covers, and devote the rest of the day to a protracted panic attack.
Brooke blocked the path to the staircase. “I know something’s going on.”
Jamie rubbed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “I don’t feel well.”
“Look, you know you can tell me anything, right?”
Jamie didn’t reply.
“Right?” Brooke prompted.
The two women stared at each other across the sun-filled foyer. Finally, Jamie said, “What now?”
“Arden’s estate attorney just phoned. He said he’s been leaving messages on your cell for the last few days and you haven’t called him back.” Brooke put one hand on her hip and waited until Jamie made eye contact. “Why haven’t you deposited your inheritance check?”
“‘These are not the hands of a lady,’ he said and tossed them into her lap. …
‘ You’ve been working with those hands. …’”
—Margaret Mitchell, Gone With the Wind
I just forgot.”
That’s what Jamie had claimed when Brooke first confronted her about the phone call from Arden’s lawyer. And then, when Brooke had persisted in asking how anyone could “just forget” about $250,000, Jamie had reverted to I just haven’t gotten around to it, which progressed to I just don’t feel like it, until, at last, they’d ended up in a stalemate with Brooke reiterating “But why?” and Jamie buttonhooking around her and fleeing up the stairs.
Brooke picked up the pace on her walk to campus and wondered what her friend could possibly have to hide. Jamie had a big heart and a bigger mouth, and her total inability to keep secrets had become a group joke over the years. And she was almost as bad at holding on to money as she was at holding her tongue.
So what on earth had happened between Jamie and Arden that would compel Jamie to turn down a quarter of a million dollars? Their friendship had never suffered so much as a ripple of discord, at least as far as Brooke knew. But she planned to investigate further.
Right after she investigated how to replace knob-and-tube wiring.
“Hi.” Brooke approached the circulation desk of the Thurwell College library. “I’m embarking on a few home improvement projects, and I’m searching for books on electrical wiring. Nothing too technical. I need something written for the layman. Where would I look for something like that?”
The pale, obviously sleep-deprived student working behind the desk glanced up from her textbook. “Electrical wiring?”
“Yes. A how-to manual along the lines of Rewiring Your House for Total Imbeciles. Something at that level.”
The student adjusted her retro cat’s-eye glasses and tapped away at the desktop computer. “I’ll check the system, but I don’t think we have anything like that. Now, if you need a compendium on electrical engineering …”
“Here’s the deal.” Brooke sighed. “I don’t have what you’d call a hard-science background. I was an English major here ten years ago.”
“Ohhh.” The student nodded with newfound understanding. “You know who you should talk to?” She wound her long dark hair around her index finger. “Professor Rutkin.”
Brooke had a sudden flashback to the one and only course she had ever dropped out of. “Of the physics department?”
“Yeah, some of those science profs know all about electrical stu
ff. Professor Rutkin always helps the theater geeks set up the stage lights. They did a wicked series of gels for No Exit last semester.”
Brooke smiled. “Let me guess. Theater geek?”
“Card-carrying member.” The student smiled back. “Hang on, I’ll look up Rutkin’s office number.” She pulled up the college website and clicked through the faculty listings. “Oh, look, the physics department has office hours scheduled for this afternoon. You should drop by. They probably won’t remember you after all these years though, huh?”
“Oh,” Brooke said with a rueful laugh, “I think Professor Rutkin might.”
Brooke bolstered her confidence with a five-minute pep talk in the ladies’ room mirror before finally mustering the courage to approach Professor Rutkin’s office door. The physics department was buried in the basement of Thurwell’s science building, and the total absence of natural light, combined with scuffed green floor tiles and academic posters detailing student research projects, gave the hallway an atmosphere of cold, clinical detachment.
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
Departmental office hours notwithstanding, the area appeared deserted. Brooke could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights and the low drone of a vacuum running somewhere near the stairwell. She stepped back from the office door and reevaluated the wisdom of this plan. Why humiliate herself this way? She could call another contractor. Read a few books. Professor Rutkin probably wasn’t even here.
Second Time Around Page 8
