by Nora Roberts
“I know. We’ll just have to show her how tough we are. We are tough, aren’t we, Laura?”
“Oh, sure. You bet. The disgraced celebrity and the betrayed trophy wife.”
Temper snapped into Margo’s eyes. “You’re nobody’s trophy.”
“Not anymore. Now, before I forget—why was Candy looking at me as if she was hoping to grind up my liver for pâté?”
“Ah.” Remembering the scene put a sneaky smile on her face. “I had to tell her whose idea it was to call Mr. Hansen when she was trapped naked in her locker.”
Laura closed her eyes, tried not to think of the next meeting of the Garden Club. She and Candy were co-chairs. “Had to tell her?”
“Really had to.” Margo smiled winningly. “She called you ‘poor Laura.’ Twice.”
Laura opened her eyes again, set her teeth. “I see. I wonder how difficult it would be to stuff her bony butt into a locker at the club?”
“For tough babes like you and me? A snap.”
“I’ll think about it.” Automatically she checked her watch. Her life now ran on packets of time. “Meanwhile, we’re having a family dinner tonight. A real one this time. Kate’s meeting us at the house, and I left a message for Josh.”
“Ah, Josh.” As they started for the stairs, Margo linked her fingers together, pulled them apart. Wished desperately for a cigarette. “There’s probably something I should tell you.”
“Mmm-hmm. Look, Margo.” Chuckling, she leaned on the rail. “Dad’s playing with the cash register and Mama’s packing boxes. Aren’t they wonderful?”
“The best.” How could she tell Laura she’d spent the night ripping up the sheets at Templeton Monterey with her brother? Better left alone, she decided. In any case, the way they had parted, it was unlikely to happen again.
“What did you want to tell me?”
“Um . . . only that I sold your beaded white sheath.”
“Good. I never liked it anyway.”
Margo felt she’d made the right decision when Josh arrived at Templeton House. He joined the family in the solarium, exchanged warm embraces with both his parents, then helped himself from the hors d’oeuvres tray. He entertained his nieces, argued with Kate over some esoteric point of tax law, and fetched mineral water for Laura.
As for the woman with whom he’d spent the night committing acts that were still illegal in some states, he treated her with the absent, vaguely infuriating affection older brothers reserved for their pesky younger siblings.
She thought about stabbing him in the throat with a shrimp fork.
She restrained herself, even when she was plunked down between him and Kate at the glossy mahogany table at dinner.
It was, after all, a celebration, she reminded herself. A reunion. Even Ann, who considered it a breach of etiquette for servants to sit at the family table, had been cajoled into joining in. Mr. T.’s doing, Margo thought. No one, particularly if it was a female, could say no to him.
Surely part of Josh’s problem was that he resembled his father so closely. Thomas Templeton was as tall and lean as he’d been in his youth. The man Margo had frankly adored for twenty-five years had aged magnificently. The lines that unfairly made a woman look worn added class and appeal as they crinkled around his smoky gray eyes. His hair was still thick and full, with the added dash of glints of silver brushed through the bronze.
He had, she knew, a smile that could charm the petals off a rose. And when roused, a flinty, unblinking stare that chilled to the bone. He used both to run his business, and his family, and with them he incited devotion, unswerving love, and just a little healthy fear.
It was rumored that he had cut a wide, successful, and memorable swath through the ladies in his youth, romancing, seducing, and conquering at will. Until thirty, when he’d been introduced to a young Susan Conway. She had, in her own words, hunted him down like a dog and bagged him.
Margo smiled, listening to him build stories for his goggle-eyed granddaughters of herds of elephants and prides of lions.
“We have the Lion King video, Granddaddy.” Kayla toyed with her Brussels sprouts, hoping a miracle would make them disappear.
“You’ve watched it a zillion times,” Ali said, tossing her hair back in the way she’d seen Margo do.
“Well, we’ll have to make it a zillion and one, won’t we?” Thomas winked at Kayla. “We’ll have ourselves a moviethon. What’s your favorite video, Ali?”
“She likes to watch kissy movies.” Striking back, Kayla pursed her lips and made smacking noises. “She wants Brandon Reno to kiss her on the mouth.”
“I do not.” Mortified, Ali flushed scarlet. It proved there was no secret safe with a little sister. “You’re just a baby.” She dug for her deepest insult. “A baby pig-face.”
“Allison, don’t call your sister names,” Laura said wearily. Her two little angels had been sniping at each other for weeks.
“Oh, and she can say whatever she wants. Just because she’s the baby.”
“I am not a baby.”
“I thought you were my baby.” Thomas sighed sadly. “I thought you were both my babies, but I guess if you’re all grown up and don’t need me anymore . . .”
“I’ll be your baby, Granddaddy.” Eyes wide and sincere, Kayla gazed up at him. Then she saw, to her delight, that a miracle had happened. The dreaded Brussels sprouts were gone from her plate. They’d made the leap to his. Love swarmed through her. “I’ll always be your baby.”
“Well, I’m not a baby.” Far from ready to surrender, Ali jutted out her chin. But her lip was quivering.
“No, I suppose you’re not.” Laura cocked a brow at her daughter’s mutinous face. “And since you’re not, you won’t fight with your sister at the table.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Margo picked up her wineglass. The fairy light of crystal chandeliers and flickering candlelight shot through it in red and gold glints. “I always fought with Kate at the table.”
“And you usually started it,” Kate added, forking up a bite of lamb.
“You always started it.”
“No, I always finished it.” Kate peered around Josh to grin. “You always got sent to your room.”
“Only because Mum felt sorry for you. You were so outgunned.”
“Outgunned, my butt. When it came to a verbal showdown, you were always playing with blanks. Even when I was Ali’s age, I could—”
“Isn’t it nice to be home, Tommy?” Susan lifted her glass in a toast. “It’s so comforting to see that no matter how life goes on, little changes. Annie, dear, how are you managing all our girls without me?”
“It’s a trial, Mrs. T. Now, my ma, she kept a switch in the kitchen. A good hickory switch.”
War forgotten, Ali gaped at Ann. “Your mother hit you with a stick?”
“Once or twice she did indeed, and sitting down after was a punishment itself. Mostly just seeing it there on the peg by the door was enough to keep a civil tongue in your head.”
“Your weapon of choice was a wooden spoon.” Remembering, Margo shifted in her seat.
“A fine deterrent it was to a sassy mouth, too.”
“You walloped me once with it, Annie, remember?” It was Josh who spoke.
“Really?” Intrigued, Susan studied her son. “I never heard about that.”
Josh sampled his wine and watched Ann squirm out of the corner of his eye. “Oh, Annie and I decided it would be our little secret.”
“And so it has been,” Annie muttered. “Until now.” She cleared her throat, dropped her hands into her lap. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. T. It was hardly my place to spank the boy.”
“What nonsense.” Intrigued, Susan leaned forward. “I want to know what he did to deserve it.”
“I might have been innocent,” Josh objected, to which his mother merely snorted.
“You never had an innocent day in your life. What did he do, Annie?”
“He’d been hounding me.” Even after all the years tha
t had passed, Ann could remember the insistence in his voice, the demon in his eye. “I tell you the truth, I’ve never known a child so tenacious as Master Josh. He could devil you beyond death, and that’s the truth.”
“Persistence.” He grinned at Annie, then glanced at his father. “It’s a trait of the Templeton males, right, Dad?”
“And plenty the times I earned a warm rear end because of it,” Thomas agreed.
“I’d love to hear about Josh’s.” Margo tipped back her glass, sent him a smoldering look. “In fact, I’m dying to. How many whacks did you give him, Mum?”
“I didn’t count. It was—”
“I did. Five. In rapid and shocking succession.” He met Margo’s look sneer for sneer. “I still say it was Margo’s fault.”
“Mine? Oh, that’s so typical.”
“He was teasing you unmercifully,” Ann put in. “And picking on Miss Laura. And as Miss Kate had just come to us, he had a new target there. He was twelve, I believe, and acting like a bully.”
“It was just high spirits,” Josh claimed. “And I still say Margo—”
“Four years your junior,” Ann said in a tone that made him feel twelve again. “And you, who should have known better, daring her and the other girls to clamber down those cliffs looking for that foolish treasure chest. Calling them names, too. And going out there after I’d told you to stay in the yard with them for one blessed hour. One blessed hour,” she repeated, shrinking him with a look, “so I could finish the ironing in some peace. But off you went, and if I hadn’t caught sight of you, the lot of you might have dashed yourselves on the rocks.”
“Oh, that time.” Margo smiled. “I’d like to know how that was my fault.”
Josh cleared his throat because his tie suddenly felt too tight. Annie, he realized, hadn’t lost her touch. “You said you knew where it was. That you’d seen it, and even had a gold doubloon.”
“So,” she shrugged, “I lied.”
“Which would have earned you a swat if I’d known that part of it.”
Satisfied, Josh poured more wine. “See?”
“Took it like a man, did you?” Thomas reached over to slap his son on the back. “And didn’t drag a lady’s name into it.”
“He yelped like a scalded dog.” Ann’s dry comment brought a burst of laughter around the table. “But it hurting me more than him was never truer. I was sure I would be fired on the spot, and rightfully so for spanking the master’s son.”
“I’d have given you a raise,” Susan said easily.
“Nothing like a mother’s love,” Josh muttered.
“Well, he came up to me about an hour later. Seemed he had thought it through well enough.” Now the look Ann sent Josh was full of warmth. “He apologized as neat as you please, then asked if we couldn’t keep the matter between us.”
“Smart boy.” Thomas slapped him on the back again.
Later, when Laura was up putting the children to bed, they lounged in the parlor. It was, Margo realized, moments like this, rooms like this, that had spurred her quest for more.
Soft, rich lights from jewel-hued lamps bathed the glossy walls, played over the dark windows where drapes had been left open wide. The faded colors in the Oriental rugs seemed to highlight the gleam of the wide-planked chestnut floors.
A perfect room in a perfect house, she thought, with the old, heirloom furniture more a statement of permanence than wealth. Fresh flowers lovingly arranged by her mother’s hands speared out of china and crystal. Terrace doors, flung open, welcomed a quiet, fragrant night with just the right touch of moonlight.
It was a room that breathed elegance and warmth and welcome. And, she understood now that when she had run from it to make her own, she had focused only on the elegance. Warmth and welcome had been neglected for too long.
Josh sat at the baby grand improvising blues with Kate. Lazy, blood-stirring music, she mused. That suited him. He didn’t play often. Margo had nearly forgotten how clever he was with the keys. She wished it didn’t remind her how clever those hands had been last night.
She wished that hearing the companionable way he and Kate laughed together, seeing the intimate way their heads bent close, didn’t shoot a burning blast of jealousy through her blood.
Ridiculous reaction, she told herself. Knee-jerk. Which certainly suited the occasion, as he’d been a complete and utter jerk all evening. But he wasn’t going to spoil it for her, she decided. She was going to enjoy her time with the Templetons, her evening in the house she’d always loved, and the hell with him.
Couldn’t he at least look at her when she was despising him?
She was too wrapped up in her own foul thoughts to notice the tacit look that passed between the Templetons. With a nod, Susan rose. She would go upstairs, corner Laura, and find out exactly how her daughter was feeling.
Thomas poured a brandy, lighted the single cigar his wife now allowed him per day, and sat on the curved settee. Catching Margo’s eye, he patted the cushion beside him.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll start bawling again?”
“I’ve got a fresh handkerchief.”
She did sit, brushed her fingers over the edge of white in his top pocket. “Irish linen. Mum tricked me into learning to iron with your handkerchiefs. They always felt so soft and smelled so good when they came out of the wash. I never see Irish linen without remembering standing at the ironing board in the laundry room, pressing your handkerchiefs into perfect white squares.”
“Ironing’s becoming a lost art.”
“It would have been lost years ago if men had had to do it.”
He laughed and patted her knee. “Now tell me about this business you’re running.”
She’d known he would ask, known she’d fumble for an explanation. “Kate could give you a better, more organized rundown.”
“I’ll get the fine print and bottom line from our Kate. I want to know what you’re looking to get out of it.”
“A living. I let the one I had get away.”
“You fucked up, girl. No use prettying it up, or moping over it. What are you doing now?”
It was one of the reasons she loved him. No sentimentalizing over mistakes. “Trying to make people buy what I want to sell. I collected a lot of things over the years. It was one of the things I did best. You know, Mr. T., I realized when I was packing up that I might not have deliberately surrounded myself with the interesting or the potentially valuable, but that’s what I did. I think I have an eye for buying.”
“I won’t argue with that. You always had a sense of quality.”
“Even when I didn’t have any other kind of sense. I tossed my money away on things, and now I’ve found a way that I don’t have to be sorry about it. Buying the building instead of renting was a risk, I know.”
“If it hadn’t been a good investment, Kate wouldn’t have let you do it, and she damn well wouldn’t have anted up her own money.”
“Including repair, remodeling, and startup, six hundred and thirty-seven dollars a square foot,” Kate said over her shoulder. “And some loose change.”
“A good price.” Thomas puffed on his cigar. “Who did the renovations?”
“Barkley and Sons handled the carpentry and subcontracted out the plumbing and wiring.” Margo took his snifter for a sip. “I did most of the painting myself.”
“Did you now?” He grinned around his cigar. “Advertising?”
“I’m using my checkered past to get print space with interviews, some television. Kate’s going to try to squeeze out time to look things over and see if we can budget in advertising money.”
“And how are you going to replace your stock?”
Looking forward made her nervous, but Margo answered briskly. “I’ll have to try auctions and estate sales. I thought I could contact some of the models and designers I know, negotiate to buy used clothes that way. But I’ll have to expand from that, because we’ve already gotten a lot of requests for larger sizes.”
&
nbsp; She scooted around on the settee, curled her legs under her. If anyone would understand the thrill of business dealings, it would be Mr. T. “I know we’ve only been open for two days, but I really think we can make it work. No one else has anything like it.”
She forgot to be worried, and her voice began to bubble with excitement. “At least I don’t know of any shop that offers secondhand designer clothes along with fashion and fine jewelry, furniture, glassware, antiques.”
“Don’t forget kitchen appliances and art,” Josh put in.
“My cappuccino maker isn’t for sale,” she shot back. “And neither are my paintings. But the rest”—she shifted back to Thomas—“hell, I’d sell my underwear for the right price.”
“You are selling your underwear,” Kate reminded her.
“Pegnoirs,” Margo corrected. “Negligees. Laura has already added to the stock. Of course, Kate won’t part with a bedroom slipper.”
“I’m still wearing them.”
“But we’re drawing people in, and a lot of them are buying.”
“And you’re happy.”
“I don’t know about happy yet, but I’m determined.”
“Margo.” He patted her knee. “In business that’s the same thing. Why don’t you have a display set up in the hotel lobby?”
“I—”
“We have half a dozen up for boutiques and jewelry stores, gift shops. Why don’t we have one from our own girls?” He jabbed the air with his cigar, spilling ashes that Margo automatically brushed from his knee. “Josh, I’d have expected you to take care of that. Templeton takes care of its own, and it has a policy of supporting small businesses.”
“I’ve already arranged it.” Josh continued to noodle out boogie-woogie. “Laura’s going to select the pieces for the hotel, and for another display at the resort.”
Margo opened her mouth, then set her teeth. “You might have mentioned it to me.”
“I might have.” He shot a look over his shoulder, his fingers never faltering. “I didn’t. Laura knows what works best for Templeton clientele.”
“Oh, and I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
