I nodded in agreement. But, in truth, what did I really know about Harlow Trembley? One thing was certain, I was overcome with the fascination of finding out much more.
“SATURDAYS WERE MADE FOR spa days,” Afton said, tipping her champagne glass in my direction. After refilling our glasses, I sat back feeling totally relaxed. The Hawaiian sugar scrub treatment was doing wonders for my feet.
“And in celebrity news, Actress Heather Young dropped a bombshell on daytime television. In an interview with Stacy Carlton, the Common Place star alleged that her ex-husband, actor/model Grady James, made her seek treatment for drugs and alcohol. The Emmy nominee revealed that he was both emotionally and mentally abusive.”
My champagne glass hit the edge of the end table when I jolted upright in my chair at the news coming from the television. I stared at the screen as the video clip rolled showing Heather with tears carving two mascara stained paths down her cheek and Stacy grasping her hand in comfort. Her words were vile and tasteless.
“Whoa,” Afton murmured. “She can’t be serious.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “No, no way. This is a total fabrication. Heather spiraled out of control days before Fashion Week. I know for a fact that she went to rehab voluntarily.”
I knew because she called me from the rehab facility “spa” telling me how much sympathy she would get from the media and her fans. She just knew that she would be back on television or the catwalk in no time. My fingers flew over the screen of my phone as I scanned the comments section on Tinsel and Hollywood dot com. I’d turned off all my notifications for all the gossip sites right after Henry ended things with me.
“What are they saying? Do they believe Heather?”
“Heather is getting a lot of sympathy, but Grady has more celebrities speaking out for him.”
“If this goes bad for Grady, I don’t think I can hire him for the campaign. I can’t take the negative publicity.”
“Oh, come on,” I scoffed. “When have you ever cared what the public thinks?”
“I’ve always cared a little. More so since my sales figures took a hit last quarter,” she staged whispered across the space between our chairs.
“I blame Cynthia,” I shot back. “That bitch was nothing but trouble for you.”
“At least she had the good sense to publish after my father passed away.”
Cynthia Manson, Afton’s ex-stepmother, wrote a nasty tell all book about the Buchanan family. The book was mostly fabrications, however the stuff about Afton’s father was true, rumors of womanizing, philandering, gambling, and a hefty dose of political scandal. It hit the bestsellers list and Buchanan Beauty took a sizable financial hit through the holiday season.
“Luckily her time in the spotlight quickly burned out. I have no doubt that the company will bounce back, especially with this new campaign. I just cannot take any more negative press.”
“I understand,” I said, before taking sip of my drink. “I’d hate to see Grady lose this opportunity because of Heather.”
“Since when do you care so much about Grady James and his career?” Afton asked, eyeing me over the rim of her glass.
I shrugged, leaning back into my seat. “I don’t know. I kind of felt bad for him yesterday. We talked a bit before the call out, I got the feeling that he had been going through a rough time ever since the divorce.”
That was the biggest reason I believed what Heather was saying was nothing but a pack of lies. Grady looked as if he had been the one put through the emotional ringer. It made me wonder what exactly happened that ended their marriage. And I know that it is none of my concern or business, but for some reason my heart ached for Grady.
“And now we turn to sports. All eyes will be on Russia with the World Cup only days away and Team USA is gearing up to play England in the first round.”
My heart slammed into my chest at the words tumbling from speakers. Before I could stick my fingers in my ears and hum aloud, Afton had the manager switching channels.
Afton dragged me out to The Hutton Summer House for a lobster boil and cornhole tournament. The sky was streaked a magnificent shade of lemony yellow and tangerine as we pulled up to a historic sprawling whitewashed estate. Stylish couples walked hand in hand up the gravel driveway in their staple East-Coast, preppy attire, bright Lilly Pulitzer and striped J. Crew dress shirts. It was all very matchy-matchy, like they planned to have photos taken for their annual Christmas card. So, the two us fit right in—Afton in her billowy, white Issa dress and me in my Isabel Marant silk-crepe dress. I loved yoga pants just as much as the next girl, but it’s always fun to get dressed up.
Gazing around the property, I sighed taking in the perfect scene right out of a Ralph Lauren catalog. Couples sat in Adirondack chairs facing the ocean watching the classic Chris Crafts, wooden Rivas, and catamarans rock back and forth. Umbrellas and blankets as colorful as the men’s coral and lime green shorts dotted the croquet course.
We stepped up to the bar—the Belle de Brillet Champagne Cocktail, Cherry Blossom Martini and classic gin and tonic were the specials for the evening. Cooling stations sat at either end of the bar, adorable pitchers of water infused with strawberries and mint. If staying hydrated wasn’t your thing there were handheld oriental fans and parasols.
Strands of lights hung overhead illuminating the way, as we took our champagne cocktails over to the comfy seating area near the fire pit and cornhole boards.
“Here’s to a night to remember,” Afton professed, clinking her glass to mine. “Let’s get you laid tonight.”
I nearly choked on my drink. “Um, if this is your plan for the evening. I’d never have come out with you.”
We all have that friend, the one who thinks we need to get laid, like our lives are in turmoil if we’re not regularly getting dick. Actually, I should be worried about Afton. I had zero knowledge of her current, dating situation. The last guy I remembered her telling me about was the investment banker from Boston.
“Tell me about your sex life, Afton,” I mused, smiling at the guy sitting with his significant other one seat over.
“No, this is not a topic for discussion.” Her voice trailed off as she pretended to fumble with her phone.
“Look, I’m not going to force you to talk to me about your dating life, and I know that your mom taking off for parts unknown is weighing heavily on you. On top of that, online dating sucks balls . . .”
She waved me off, eyes still focused on her phone. “Yeah, yes . . . online dating is full of weirdos. Much like carbs, I’ve cut dating out of my routine.”
I sipped my drink, realizing Afton wasn’t going to open up about her love life. For all I knew she was texting a booty call. “So, why are we here, exactly?”
Afton hummed and held up a finger, still committing to the role of pretending to be on her phone, checking messages or emails. “We’re here because you need to be seen and meet people.” She rocked back and forth, bopping her head up and down. “Meet people and party. Party and meet people.”
I rolled my eyes. “I so don’t need to meet people and party.”
“Speaking of meeting people,” she said, while jutting her chin towards the far end of the lawn. “Do I spy with my little eye . . . some eye candy named Grady James?”
The answer was, yes. Yes, she did. I hid my smile behind my martini glass. “What did I tell you about ogling the models?”
She shoved her phone back into her clutch. “It’s part of my job,” she replied, running a hand through her newly sun-kissed highlights or babylights as she referred to them. “It’s not wrong to appreciate the male figure in all it’s delicious glory. It’s polite.”
“Polite, ah yes.” Crossing my ankles, I sipped my beverage. Moments of my time in Europe flashed back through my mind including my last day in the piazza. Polite society, much like there, tonight everyone was engaged in conversation. They weren’t snapping a hundred selfies trying to get the right angle or make sure they had photographic evi
dence of each little moment. No, they were enjoying those little moments, being present. That’s what I loved so much about The Harbour.
“What are you thinking so hard about over there,” Afton asked.
“The decline of polite society.”
She shifted, placing her elbows on her knees. As much as Afton loved clichéd girl talk, she enjoyed obscure topics of discussion more.
“Are manners, politeness, and courtesy simply dead rituals or are we as a society destroying them?”
No sooner had I asked the question than two people walked past us, saying hello to Afton, and then nodding in my direction. I smiled and said hello.
“Good question, if I’m being honest I think people are destroying them—manners exist for a reason.”
A shadow passed over us, and I looked up to see Grady James standing in front us. Being this close to him, nearly took my breath away.
“Harlow, Afton, nice to see you both again,” Grady said with his eyes trained on me as if Afton and the guy standing next to him didn’t exist.
His blue eyes, those damn blue eyes of his, they were beautiful. The kind of eyes you get lost in and I guess I did because they rendered me speechless.
“Harlow? Are you okay?” Grady asked waving his hand inches from my face.
“Oh sorry,” I said, shaking the cobwebs. “I thought I heard . . . fireworks across the sound.”
“Ridge Stephens,” he said, lobbing his drink between Afton and me. “I’d like you to meet Harlow Trembley and Afton Buchanan.”
During the brief exchange of pleasantries, I learned that Ridge played polo with Grady. He was good-looking, tall with broad shoulders, dark brown eyes and dirty blond hair. When Afton invited the two of them to sit with us, I took that as a good sign that maybe tonight was a cheat day where her dating life was concerned.
“What were the two of you talking about when we came up?” Grady asked, setting back onto the cushy chair.
“We were discussing the fall of polite society.”
Ridge nodded, tossing back a swig of his beer. “Look around, this is the last of polite society.”
I nodded in agreement. “Manners and politeness are designed to ease an awkward or uncomfortable situation. Even if someone bumped into me, I say I’m sorry. It’s not that I’m admitting fault, I’m acknowledging that it happened and that there was no malice intent behind it.”
The three of them nodded in unison.
“The other day I was at the grocery and a woman,” Ridge began, setting his beer bottle on the table. “Certain societal norms will say that I’m not allowed to address her age or her height as a probable issue, however she couldn’t reach the item that she needed on the shelf. As a man, do I insert my manners and offer help or do I walk away and allow her to work it out on her own?”
“I say insert your charm and be gentlemanly,” I replied, and tipped my glass to him. “I have no problem with it at all.”
“And just because I can’t reach a can of tomato soup off the top shelf, for me, that doesn’t translate that a man is trying to fuck me or assert his male dominance,” Afton added.
“I think it’s nice to offer help,” Grady spoke up. “Manners are designed to acknowledge others. There’s no need to complicate the matter of opening a door with feminism or being a gentleman. It’s simply a door that needs to be opened and it’s flat out rude to slam it in a person’s face.”
“Here, here,” Ridge announced, tipping his beer bottle in our direction. “To reviving manners and basic politeness.”
“To chivalry,” Afton added.
I chimed in, with the final anecdote. “And common respect for your fellow person.”
The four of us clicked our glasses and engaged in idle chit chat until refreshers were needed.
Ridge pushed to his feet. “Afton, would you care to join me for a round of croquet?”
“I’d love too,” she replied.
They walked away leaving Grady and me alone. I didn’t expect to be face to face with Grady again, well, at least not this soon. My eyes shifted to his hands, the same hands that held me close to his body hours ago.
He scratched at the skin under his watch. “Hey, there’s a row boat over there,” he said, pointing towards the beach. “Let’s get some drinks and take it out.”
I shrugged. “Can we do that?”
“I don’t see why not, I think it belongs to Hutton House.”
A sunset boat ride with Grady James, this should be interesting. Grady distracted the bartender with a conversation about New Zealand wines while I grabbed a bottle of champagne. The warm breeze drifted over my skin as I hopped down the steps, taking in the smell of fresh cut grass.
Grady appeared beside me, just as I kicked off my heels. I wasn’t about to get sand on these new strappy Jimmy Choo’s. Once he took his own shoes off, he helped me to climb into the tiny turquoise colored boat, and then pushed us into the water.
As I took a deep breath, a familiar scent filled my senses: salt and seaweed. As much as I loved city life, there was nothing more heavenly that the vast ocean. During the school year when Afton was missing home, we’d drive out to Rockaway Beach so she could feel closer to the sea. She missed beach hair and the gusts of salty wind on her skin. At one point, I wondered if Afton was a real-life mermaid.
The light passed over Grady’s face and I recognized that same sullen look he had before the photoshoot. He stopped rowing and we drifted along as the sun sank lower over the horizon. The sounds of waves lapping against the boat drowned out the music coming from the shore.
“I just wanted to tell you that it was really great working with you yesterday,” he said, pulling the oars from the water.
“Oh, no, you were the star that day. I was just filler.”
His brows rose as he tapped finger along the edge of the boat. “That’s not true, the camera loves you. We had plenty of great shots together that prove it.”
No, the camera loves you.
“Well, thanks.” I handed him the bottle. “I hope you get the job.”
“So do I, I could use some good . . .” He cut himself off, and lifted the bottle to his beautiful perfect lips.
“Good press, because of ex-wife drama,” I offered, tucking my hair over my ear.
“Oh, you heard about that?” His voice cracked with laughter.
“Yeah,” I admitted, dragging my gaze to meet his.
He passed the bottle back to me. “I never thought loving someone would hurt so much. I made her go to rehab because I loved her enough to see her well.”
I paused to take a gulp of champagne. I understood what Grady was saying, Nicholas and I tried a few times to get our mother to rehab, but she refused help. She was convinced she could quit anytime, and she would—for a while.
“Well, I’ve sufficiently killed the mood,” he said, dipping the oars back into the water.
I smoothed my palm up my arm, trying to relieve the sudden chill from the breeze coming off the water. “No need to apologize, the mood is perfect for eating lobster and playing lawn games. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would definitely agree,”
THE WEEK CRAWLED BY at an agonizing pace. The paparazzi were all over me after Heather’s publicity stunt on Wake Up with Stacy was reported by every media outlet and somehow even the NBC Nightly News decided our former marriage was an interesting story for the evening broadcast. My concentration was off a bit during polo practice and Ridge wasn’t shy to let me know I sucked.
The only moments of peace I had were early mornings when I’d hit the waves on my board. The ocean air wrapped around me, reminding me of another peaceful moment—my time with Harlow at the Hutton Summer House shindig.
“You haven’t touched any of your food, Grady. What’s the matter? Does the quiche not taste good?”
I looked over to see Ella Connolly frowning. “It’s not a new recipe. I’ve made it at least a dozen times. Did I forget an ingredient?” she asked out loud to no one in part
icular.
“Babe, it’s delicious. Stop stressing out,” Alex said.
“It’s all great,” I said, digging my fork into the home fries. We were sitting on the patio at the home she shared with her fiancé, Alex Robertsen. Ella’s brother, Ronan and his fiancée, Holliday Prescott, sat across from me sipping Bloody Marys. Three years ago, I would have laughed my ass off at the mere thought of sharing a meal with Ronan Connolly, but the two of us had become friends. All thanks to a night out in Park City that involved a bottle of Irish whiskey and three stolen snowmobiles.
Holliday was one of my favorite people in the world. My relationship with her had been complicated—previously. We’d gone from lovers to frenemies, finally settling into a comfortable relationship as friends. If I was being honest, Holliday had become one of my closest friends. Having Alex’s and Ella’s friendships were an added bonus. Despite giving me shit about Heather, all four of them offered me unconditional support during the divorce.
“What’s up, Grady?” Holliday asked.
“He’s miserable because men do not brunch. It’s not in our DNA,” Alex offered, rocking his son to sleep. “Saturdays are for sports and beer, not brunch.”
“How could you not like brunch—tons of food, booze and conversation. What’s not to love?” Ella’s English accent was light with laughter. “Although I hate you lucky bastards who get to carbo load.”
“Seriously, Ella, everything tastes great,” I reassured, pouring more coffee into my mug.
“That’s the second time he’s used the word, great,” Ronan pointed out. “Okay, James, out with it—what did Heather do now?”
How was it possible to be sitting at this table and not a soul here had heard about Heather’s little “cry me a river” stunt.
Holliday punched his arm. “That is a name we do not mention, I thought we agreed henceforth she will be addressed as Lulalamoan—like a whore.”
I’ll never live this embarrassment down. Ella and Alex exchanged glances and nearly woke their son, Will, with the laughter. Holliday had a smug look on her face, fully satisfied with the clever nickname she’d given my ex-wife. It was clever, I’d give her that.
Healed by You Page 4
