“Do you trust me?”
I nod. Beast one drops the femur on my feet, but I am too overwhelmed by the feeling of Knightley’s strong, warm hand holding mine, the scent of his cologne teasing my nose, to care. Continuing to hold my hand, Knightley turns around to confront the panting, heaving beasts. With his free hand, he forms a fist. The dogs immediately sit. Knightley points at the ground, and the dogs drop onto their bellies, still, alert, eyes fixed on their master. Knightley squats.
“When you are comfortable, squat down beside me,” he says, looking up at me. “The trick to greeting a strange dog is to remain relaxed and allow them to come to you.”
I hold Knightley’s hand and lower myself until I am squatting beside him, our knees touching, beast one’s giant muzzle inches from the toe of my boot.
“Is this Adeline or Theodore?” I whisper, keeping my gaze on beast one.
“Adeline,” Knightley says. “She is a pup still.”
“A pup?” I look at Adeline’s paw, as wide as Knightley’s hand, and shake my head. “You are kidding me. You mean she is still growing?”
“She is a year and a half, so she has a little more growing to do. Adeline loves every human she meets, don’t you, girl?” He scratches Adeline’s head and I swear, the beast’s eyes roll back in her head. “She is rather less friendly with four-legged creatures, though. We are working on her aggression toward other animals.”
“How is that going?” I ask, keeping my eye on beast two.
“She is making strides. Adeline spent time with the Swinbrooks’ new litter this afternoon and didn’t devour a single Westie pup.”
I look at Knightley, eyes wide. He laughs. Adeline stares at me with soft eyes, her massive tail thump-thump-thumping against the grass, sending a tornado of flower petals in the air. Aww. She is cute. With brown eyes and silvery-gray fur that sticks up on her head like an edgy punk-rock haircut. I hold out my hand. She sniffs my fingers, her wet nose and wiry fur tickling my skin.
“Awwee!” I giggle. “She is sooo sweet.”
Adeline’s massive pink tongue shoots out of her mouth and licks my hand until my fingers are dripping sticky dog saliva.
“Point your finger at her,” Knightley instructs.
I point my finger at Adeline. She stops licking my hand and rolls onto her back, letting me rub her big gray belly. Theodore inches closer, finally nudging my hand with his head. I scratch his brown head and he closes his eyes.
Knightley stands.
“It looks like my gentle giants made you a dog lover.”
I scratch Theodore’s head and then give Adeline’s belly one last pat before standing beside Knightley.
“I didn’t not like dogs.” Bravo, Emma Lee. Use a double negative when speaking to a bigwig book publisher. “I love dogs. I just haven’t ever owned one.”
“Why is that?”
I tell Knightley the synopsis of the Tragic Tale of Baby Dumpling, the precious bow-wearing, bloated Boykin Spaniel who broke my best friend’s heart.
“I am sorry,” he says, smiling softly. “It sounds as if Baby Dumpling’s death traumatized you more than it did your friend.”
“What do you mean?” I frown. “Ginger May was devastated.”
“No doubt, but you said Ginger May adopted another dog.”
“So?”
“So, losing Baby Dumpling did not stop your friend from opening her heart and home to a new pet. It stopped you, though. Why is that?”
Ouch! Knightley is probing into the deepest, most sensitive areas of my psyche. I am not stupid. I know loss has marked my life—my love life, or lack thereof—and I don’t need this drop-dead gorgeous Englishman to remind me of it. I stare at him, trying to think of a polite way to mind his beeswax. Fortunately, he changes the subject.
“It is late. You must be famished.” He snaps his fingers, and the dogs bound off again. “Would you like to clean up before dinner?”
“Yes, please.”
We begin walking back to the main house.
“Miss Isabella said you named your dogs after characters from one of your favorite novels. Which novel?”
“Theodore and Adeline are two of the characters in the novel The Romance of the Forest by Ann Radcliffe. Have you read it?”
“No”—I consider telling a little white lie, but fibbing to Knightley feels wrong—“but if it’s one of your favorite novels, I’ll download a copy when I get back to Wood House.”
“I think you will enjoy the story.”
“Why is that?”
“You are a romantic, and The Romance of the Forest is, primarily, a romance. In fact, Ann Radcliffe was considered the first writer to pen a gothic romance novel.”
“Girl, go!” I say, snapping my fingers.
Knightley chuckles. We walk onto the drive, our feet making crunching sounds on the gravel.
“I have a question for you,” I say, changing the subject.
“I have an answer.”
“Are you on Facebook?”
Knightley clears his throat. I can’t tell if it is an uncomfortable, you-just-caught-me-in-my-playah-ways throat clearing or what.
“No, I am not on Facebook.”
I stop walking.
“Are you kidding me?”
Knightley stops walking and looks over at me.
“I kid you not.”
“Knightley Nickerson,” I say, gently nudging him in the ribs. “There is a tree stump in South Carolina with a higher IQ than me if you think I am going to stand here believing that tall tale. We are more than a dozen years into the twenty-first century. Everyone has a Facebook page, except maybe that creepy little Kim Jong-un and his poor downtrodden people.”
“I am not on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re not a sleeper agent, are you? Sent by Kim Jong to infiltrate the Free World’s publishing industry.”
“You got me.” He laughs and makes a gun with his thumb and forefinger. “I am the North Korean James Bond, but with a much less exciting mission. The name is Nickerson. Knightley Nickerson.”
“You do have a sexy car and a closet full of expensive bespoke suits.”
“You think my car is sexy?”
I think you are sexy, Knightley Nickerson. Lawd! What is happening to me? My cheeks flush with heat.
“We weren’t talking about your sexy car,” I say, navigating the conversation out of the turbulent, sexually charged waters. “We were talking about why an editor at one of the largest publishing companies in the world doesn’t have a social media presence.”
“I am too busy to tweet.”
“Cop out.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Tweeting is just socializing using one hundred and forty characters or less,” I say, looking up into his handsome face. “You’re never too busy to socialize.”
“I socialize.”
From what Miss Isabella told me, Knightley is an introverted workaholic who prefers to spend his downtime alone, reading or hiking with his dogs. She said he has loads of friends but isn’t very good about staying connected.
“When is the last time you reached out to a friend, just to say hey there or find out what was happening in their life?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s why you need a Facebook account.”
“So I can find out what my mates think about the latest Ed Sheeran album, Marvel movie, or political scandal?”
“Exactly.”
“What if I don’t care what my mates think about the latest Ed Sheeran album or Marvel movie?”
“You have to care.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . because . . .” I stare at Knightley, my mouth opening and closing, like I am a bug-eyed trout out of water.
“When I meet someone intriguing enough to make me want to ask such inane questions—What are you having for lunch? Have you binged the new Netflix original?—I will create a Facebook page. Until then, I am happy soc
ializing using more than one hundred and forty characters, thank you very much.”
I imagine Maddie’s response if she had overheard Knightley’s answer to my question. She would have snapped her fingers two times while saying, Girl, hush.
Chapter Twenty-one
Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Update:
Dating Tip from Emma Lee: Never snap your fingers at a man, even if he acts like a dog.
When we arrive on the front lawn, Annalise Whittaker-Smith is looking through the viewfinder of an expensive camera, snapping photographs of a litter of West Highland terrier puppies. The puppies are standing on their hind legs and have their front paws perched on the ledge of a low stone wall. Five white furry faces with black button eyes focused on Annalise and her camera. Four of the puppies have perky pink ears that stand straight up. The fifth puppy has a wonky ear; one stands straight up and the other flops over.
I notice Brandon standing behind Annalise, holding a large round metallic disc so it bounces the dwindling sunlight onto the puppies. Annalise snaps her fingers and Brandon raises the disc higher in the air.
Oh no, she didn’t! She did not just snap her fingers at that man, like she was scolding a naughty puppy. I wonder how Annalise Whittaker-Smith talked Brandon into being her equipment biatch.
“There you are,” Miss Isabella says, greeting us.
Four of the puppies become distracted at the sound of Miss Isabella’s voice and begin chasing each other and rolling around the grass. The puppy with the wonky ear remains standing on her hind legs, front paws resting on the top of the wall, head cocked quizzically to one side.
“Are we interrupting?”
“Not at all,” Brandon says, lowering the reflector. “Annalise was just taking her last shot.”
Annalise slants a look in my direction. An unhappy look. Then she notices Knightley standing beside me. Her bottom lip turns down in a sexy little pout, making her impossibly angled cheekbones appear even more angled. I do not know which contouring kit Annalise Whittaker-Smith uses, but it is on point, ridiculously on point. She fashioned a headband from a silk Dolce & Gabbana scarf to keep her long, sleek chestnut bangs off her face while she shoots. I am not gonna lie, y’all. Annalise is arrestingly beautiful. With her hair swept off her face and the golden light of gloaming illuminating her perfect skin, she could be on assignment right now, shooting a fashion campaign. She looks like she just walked off the runway of a 1940s Gucci fashion show, looking trim and feminine in her high-waisted menswear-inspired trousers and crisp white shirt rolled to her biceps.
I hate Annalise Whittaker-Smith.
She hands her camera to Brandon and glides toward us, but the softly scented cloud of CHANEL Gardenia that seems to perpetually orbit around her arrives first.
“Hello, Emma Lee,” she says, greeting me with gardenia-scented air-kisses. “You look dead gorgeous in red lipstick. What shade is it?”
I was wrong. I like Annalise Whittaker-Smith.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling. “I love your headscarf. Very chic. I am wearing five shades, actually.”
“Five shades? You borrowed a page from Marilyn Monroe’s book! Well done! Clever, you. Her technique makes thin lips look fuller—not that you have thin lips. Your lips are quite lovely, actually.”
“Thank you.”
“With your blond bangs and bright red lips, you remind me of Reese Witherspoon, circa 2007, when she wore that canary yellow—”
“—Nina Ricci cocktail gown to the Golden Globes?”
“Exactly.”
Yaaas, queen! I barely spoke to Annalise Whittaker-Smith the night we met, so she has no idea how much I worship Reese Witherspoon, which means her compliment is sincere and organic.
I love Annalise Whittaker-Smith!
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Annalise turns her attention to Knightley.
“Why, hello there, Lord Mucky Muck.” She leans in, presses her chest against Knightley, and kisses his cheek. “I was just telling your mummy about that dreary day in Gstaad, when we were stranded at Bunky Davenport’s chalet, and you taught me how to make a proper Gin Rickey, slicing the limes with your Swiss Army knife. Who knew fizzy water and lime juice would make gin so scrummy?”
Lord Mucky Muck? Stranded in Gstaad? I glance at Knightley, and an image of him dressed in a turtleneck, mixing gin cocktails in a luxe Swiss ski chalet flashes in my mind. James Bond, indeed! I return my attention to Annalise—or should I call her Pussy Galore? She rests her slender, perfectly manicured hand on Knightley’s bare forearm in a familiar, proprietary manner, and a sharp pain stabs my heart.
I hate Annalise Whittaker-Smith!
Knightley looks at me. I imagine myself through his eyes and I do not like what I see, a jealous girl standing in her notice-me red prole-drift rain boots, clutching a peony like an obsessed Bieber fan clutching Justin’s discarded chewing gum.
Wait a minute! Jealous? I am not jealous of Annalise Whittaker-Smith. Sooo not jealous. Sure, she is a semifamous model with silky hair, porcelain smooth skin, wide doe eyes, and a perpetual pout. It is true, she could be Keira Knightley’s doppelgänger. And so what if she is one of London’s Bright Young Things and starred in a splashy, trashy article about the most fabulous members of Britain’s new aristocracy? What do I care? I am a bold, ambitious, outgoing American who rejects rigid class systems and aristocratic snobbery. I have naturally blond, silky-ish hair, sun-kissed, freckled skin, and porcelain blue eyes. What does Annalise Whittaker-Smith have that I don’t have?
Knightley.
Brandon joins our little circle. He greets me with a warm hello and a perfunctory hug. I get the sense Brandon is not a hugger, another thing he has in common with Hayley. Annalise continues to rest her hand on Knightley’s forearm while inching closer to Brandon, as if she can’t decide which Nickerson she fancies. When I was a child and couldn’t decide if I wanted to play inside or outside, my daddy would stand at the screen door with his hands on his hips and say, In or out? In or out? Which is it going to be, Emma Lee Maxwell, in or out? I want to stand between Knightley and Brandon with my hands on my hips and say, Brandon or Knightley? Brandon or Knightley? Which Nickerson is it going to be, Annalise Whittaker-Smith, Brandon or Knightley?
The Swinbrooks join the group, and the conversation turns to the weather. I zone out and watch the puppies tripping and rolling around at our feet. Wonky Ear notices me watching her. She cocks her head to one side and stares at me quizzically, her black button eyes alert. Finally, she trots over and belly-flops on my right foot. Not by accident. On purpose. She just lays on my boot, one ear pointing up to Jesus, one ear pointing down to the devil. I am not gonna lie, y’all. Wonky Ear is giving me all the feels.
Knightley leans closer to me.
“I see you have made another furry friend,” he whispers. “If you are not careful, you will leave here today with a dog in tow.”
“Me? A dog owner?” I snort. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t you like dogs, Emma Lee?” Annalise asks.
Everyone stops talking and looks at me. My cheeks flush with heat.
“I like dogs.”
“Don’t lie,” Annalise says, her lips curved in a smile. “It’s perfectly all right if you don’t fancy dogs. Right, Mrs. Swinbrook?”
“Who doesn’t like dogs?” Mrs. Swinbrook asks, in her clipped, upper-class British accent. “I mean, really.”
“Emma Lee likes dogs,” Knightley says, shaking Annalise’s hand off his arm. “She suffered a traumatic event when she was very young that has made her leery of dogs. That is all.”
“Were you maimed?” Annalise asks.
“Maimed?” Did I mention I hate Annalise Whittaker-Smith? “No, I was not maimed by a dog, Annalise. I watched my best friend’s dog die of bloat.”
“Is that all?” Mrs. Swinbrook sniffs. “That was natural selection at work, wasn’t it? The strong survive and the weak die off. The circle of life and a
ll that.”
“I am sure it was very traumatic,” Miss Isabella says, rising to my defense. “A child doesn’t understand natural selection. They only understand loss.”
“You Americans are so strange.” Annalise smiles sweetly. “The way you treat your pets is positively perplexing, infantilizing and sentimentalizing them. Can you see an Englishman dressing his terrier in a sweater and pushing it in a pram? Bonkers.”
“I cannot!” Mr. Swinbrook declares.
Savannah warned me the British think Americans are flag-waving, dog-loving fatties with firearms, but I dismissed it. Some people see stereotypes, I see people.
I know I should take a deep breath and ask myself, Now, Emma Lee, what would Jesus do? but little Miss Gucci Pants is standing there looking fabulous, enveloped in a cloud of gardenia-scented perfume, staring at me with a smug smile on her face, and I snap.
“Sister, please.” I smile and keep my tone as sweet as tea. “Don’t even come at me with your anti-American shade. I watched Downton Abbey. I saw the episode when Lord Grantham’s beloved Labrador died of cancer. That man wept like a child.”
Miss Isabella laughs. Knightley laughs. Brandon chuckles.
“Poor Isis,” Mrs. Swinbrook clucks. “Sad story, that.”
“I have never watched Downton Abbey,” Annalise says.
“Bless your heart,” I say. “That’s so saaad. Downton Abbey is such a great show.”
“When you have a successful modeling career, you don’t have time to lie about watching programs on the tellie. I am not complaining, though. Last month I was in Milan walking for Versace, this month I am shooting a campaign for Burberry, and next month I will be in Tokyo shooting the cover of Vogue.”
“How nice for you,” I say.
I hold Annalise’s gaze and continue to smile my sweet-as-tea smile. If I learned one thing from living in a sorority and being part of a cheer squad, it is this: The best way to deal with a mean girl is to look her straight in the eye and smile sweetly. I call it the my-now-nice response. When a Southern lady says my how nice, she really means eff you.
When Annalise breaks eye contact, I look at Mrs. Swinbrook.
Badly Done, Emma Lee Page 20
