“My editor’s thoughts exactly. Then he got a call from the paper’s owner. Seems the head of RGI called him. They have mutual friends. Suddenly, I’m told I have to drive here and cast some positive light on the resort plans.”
She snorted. “I’m not surprised, considering the bribery rumor. You’ve given me another reason to dig for more. That firm president can’t be trusted.”
“Watch yourself. He’s not only connected, he’s sitting on some big bucks. So is his family.”
“Interesting. Well, I just got this assignment. Gabby had to be removed because of a family problem.”
“Yeah, I was surprised to see you there in reporter mode. I figured they wouldn’t want you to cover this one.”
Marcus had offered a sympathetic ear during her recovery from the Ryan Malarkey incident, although somehow she suspected he’d never let his heart guide a story as she’d done. “What else did you find out about Jamieson?”
“He grew up in Bronxville, right outside of Manhattan. Town’s so rich, the flowers smell like the inside of a bank vault. His father started a huge law firm in New York City, with offices overseas. My brother-in-law is a lawyer in Manhattan. I asked about the senior Jamieson and he said he’s a guy used to getting his way. Hold on.” Sophie heard a voice in the background then Marcus said, “Gotta run. Let’s catch up later.”
“Okay. Thanks for the info.”
Another black mark against the Jamieson name, a jab that pleased her reporter side. The single woman side, however, tried to ignore the disappointment welling inside her chest.
Too much had happened in the past twenty-four hours. She’d give anything to travel back in time and take a do-over on the parking lot interview. The level of her rudeness broke boundaries, exactly the opposite of how she should treat someone whose cooperation she needed to perform her job.
She recalled her flirting accusation and died a little inside. His amused grin proved seducing her hadn’t even crossed his mind. It would take a glacier to reduce the swollen bruise to her ego.
None of it mattered anyway. Gabby, who should’ve reported on this to begin with, hoped to get a helping hand from her brother with her dad’s health issues. Sophie would be thrilled to pass the baton of the story. It wouldn’t prevent her from following up on the bribery, though, merely allow her to do so without compromising her duties at the paper.
She looked up to the ceiling as a low thunderous sound came from Cliff’s second floor office, most likely the rolling of his chair. Fifteen minutes earlier, he’d walked off with a fresh cup of coffee to read her article on last night’s hearing. The story wouldn’t win any awards. A crumpled five dollar bill was stuffed in the pocket of her khakis, the bet she’d made with him a sure loss. The proposed headline, “Goliath RGI Defends Project” had merit, yet her tough editor sniffed through details the way a bloodhound tracked a scent.
She propped an elbow on the cluttered desktop and read another e-mail. Cliff’s footsteps tapped the wooden staircase of the turn of the century colonial and seconds later, he entered the main office area. He stopped alongside her desk.
She looked up. Beyond his bulbous nose, he watched her, his full gray brows squished together and her story clasped in his hand.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Cliff handed her the paper.
Several red-inked question marks spotted the margins. “You’re missing quotes from a key player.” The worry lines across his forehead were more pronounced than usual.
Ever since the takeover of the newspaper two years earlier by CNMedia—aka Community News Media—Cliff had metamorphosed from relaxed man approaching retirement to stressed guy trying to please his new boss.
Sophie twirled in her chair to face him and spotted a stain at the bottom of her long-sleeved pull over. Now she knew where the coffee she’d dripped earlier went. “Whose quotes are missing?”
“Jamieson. RGI’s president.”
The sales manager, who sat at his desk, peeked over the top of the paper in his hands, probably since Cliff rarely criticized Sophie’s work.
“So, the piece is no good?”
“It’s good but…” He slipped his hand behind his neck, inside the collar of his blue flannel shirt, and rubbed. “Was Jamieson unresponsive?”
The idea of blaming this on Duncan held great appeal. Deceit however, according to Bernadette, registered on Sophie’s face like the “cha-ching” of a cash register drawer popping open. “No. It wasn’t him. Guess I rushed our interview. Do you want me to contact his office for more details?”
“Only if you’re interested in doing a thorough piece.” Quite matter-of-fact, he turned to walk away, but she couldn’t miss the corner of his lip wrestling a grin. “Last chance before you owe me five bucks.”
The dig settled under Sophie’s perfectionist-laden skin. She hunted down the phone number to RGI’s Hartford headquarters. Duncan’s secretary transferred her to company spokesperson, Carl Hansen. Mr. Hansen addressed Sophie with formality, as if reading from a well-crafted press release. After he answered her questions, she thanked him.
“Any time, Ms. Shaw. In the future, though, Mr. Jamieson suggests you direct all your questions to me.”
Ouch. Seemed her flippant remarks in the parking lot caused a roadblock on the bridge leading to Duncan Jamieson, not her smartest professional move.
Sophie updated her piece with Carl Hansen’s comments and printed off a final draft for Cliff’s review. While waiting, she Googled “Duncan Jamieson.” Under the results, the middle initial “C” appeared in several sites. One displayed his full name, Duncan Carter Jamieson. An uncomfortable weight settled in her stomach, the kind that comes the second you admit you might have been wrong.
She clicked on the images button. Photos popped up on her monitor of the well-off company president dressed in casual attire, as well as suits. One photo, taken at a New York City hospital fund-raiser, showed him in a tuxedo. Very GQ. Centered among a group of administrators, Duncan stood out from the others. His handsome face, rich blue eyes, and faded bronze curls made her breath stall.
She replayed the events at the kayak cleanup. At the part where she’d pointed at the Tates’ land then begged him to save her from the nasty developer, she froze the frame. Bingo. A confession at that moment would’ve saved her from a great deal of humiliation.
Nope. Duncan Jamieson would get no apology from her.
* * * *
Sophie trotted up the lit walkway leading to Meg McNeil’s raised ranch. The once-a-month Friday girls’ night would provide the needed respite after the public hearing two nights earlier. The deep bark of a dog at the house next door broke the silence of the quiet cul-de-sac, shared by five houses of the same design.
She couldn’t wait to talk to Meg, who worked for the only real estate agent in Northbridge. If Duncan Jamieson planned to move here, Meg would have all the details.
Sophie balanced a ceramic platter on one hand and tapped on the door. Nobody replied so she went in. Laughter rose above the aroma of Meg’s famous homemade focaccia, the number one reason they’d decided on “Italian Night” for their gathering theme. The number two reason—they’d all agreed—was an excuse to watch “Under the Tuscan Sun” again. Heading down a hallway lined with soft pink and mint striped wallpaper, she went straight to the combined dining and kitchen area.
Sophie once called Meg’s décor “A Hallmark store gone wild.” Bric-a-brac covered every free space: fragranced candles, teeny picture frames with cute sayings, little statues of angels and figurines for any occasion, lace doilies, frilly curtains. If she added a card rack and cash register, the chain might let her operate as one of their retail outlets.
“Sorry I’m late.” Sophie pushed aside a plate of mini pizzas and a tortellini salad to make room for her platter on the oak table.
Bernadette and Veronica sat around the table, which was decorated with pastel pink placemats and matc
hing floral napkins. They were dressed in the only allowable attire for this event—jeans or sweatpants and a comfortable top. Anybody who gussied up would be sent home to change. Sophie had sufficiently under-dressed in black yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt reading CAPE COD in bold letters across her chest.
Bernadette cased the food like a starving dog. “We’ve been waiting for this.” She tugged up the cuffs of a long-sleeved Red Sox T-shirt and removed the plastic wrap from the platter. “Your antipasto is the best.”
“The one thing we agree on.” As director of the town’s library, Veronica approached everything with the logical order of the card catalog, not with the outspoken passion Bernadette often unleashed. She playfully batted her dark lush lashes at Bernadette and grinned.
“True. I think we also agreed that Hugh Jackman is the hottest man alive.”
Veronica laughed and looked at Sophie. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” She looped a finger through her signature pearls. The group allowed the dressy indulgence, certain nobody ever asked Barbara Bush to remove hers no matter what the occasion. “Things okay?”
“Yeah.” Sophie nodded. “Just busy. Nice haircut, by the way. Edgy. A little Pat Benatar.”
Veronica dropped the pearls and they disappeared inside the opened collar of her fleece pullover. “It wasn’t what I asked for, but I’ll live. I have a blind date this weekend.” She crinkled her nose and the teeny turned-up end lifted. She raised a hand. “Don’t ask.”
Bernadette clanged a fork on her glass. “Ladies, Meg has some scoop to report. Probably on your new friend, Sophie.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“I’ll bet he thinks you are.” She winked.
Veronica giggled.
“I think you mistook his nervous tic for something flirtatious. In fact, I’m starting to think you’re developing a tic.”
Footsteps pounded the basement stairs. Meg hurried in carrying a bottle of wine and scrutinized the table filled with food. “Damn. I’m never going to be able to stick to my diet.”
“Weight Watchers again?” Sophie had joined with her this time last year in order to shed fifteen pounds added from stress eating after Mike moved out. The pounds slid off Sophie like wet soap while poor Meg had looked on with envy.
“Yeah. I’ve got those rules down pat, could probably run the meetings. Too bad I can’t stick to the plan.” Meg’s rosebud lips pouted. “Roy made a not so subtle remark the other day about the size of my wedding gown compared to my size now. I’ll show him.”
Sophie had never liked Roy, a jerk even when they were teenagers. “You worry too much. Nobody had more boys after her in our younger days than you.”
Meg uncorked the Chianti. “You’re exaggerating.”
Meg’s extra childhood pounds now molded into nicely shaped curves, a voluptuousness Sophie had admired in those early years of developing. Topped off with her beautiful round face, shiny auburn hair, and positive outlook, most boys in high school had found her quite approachable.
“Hurry up and sit, Meg. We want your scoop.” Bernadette patted the empty chair to her side.
Meg put the wine in the center of the table and did as commanded. “Well, we have a very wealthy, very single man who’s about to call Northbridge home.” Her emerald eyes widened.
Bernadette smirked. “Sophie already knows him.”
“Is it Duncan Jamieson?” Sophie lifted the napkin over a basket of focaccia and inhaled.
Meg frowned. “You knew?”
“Kind of. So he really does want to buy a house here?”
She nodded and her mid-neck blunt cut shook. “I took him out Tuesday afternoon, right before the hearing. Boy, oh, boy, was I glad when he offered to drive while I showed him places. I couldn’t have concentrated on the road with him sitting nearby. He sure made me want to drink a large glass of water.”
“Were you thirsty?” Bernadette’s sarcastic lilt filled her voice. “Because if you’re trying to say he’s a handsome man, the expression is ‘he’s a tall glass of water.’”
Sophie recalled the day in tenth grade English class when Meg anointed herself the queen of idioms. For the most part, their group of friends overlooked her incessant misuse of the clichéd quotes, Bernadette the one exception.
“Whatever.” Meg narrowed her glance at Bernadette. “You knew what I meant.”
“He’s wealthy?” The white Camry he’d been driving—the one he’d pointed out seconds before wrapping his warm hands around hers—certainly didn’t fit into her image of wealth. “Why would a rich guy be driving a Toyota?”
“It’s a rental.” Meg bobbed her head. “He travels a lot. He flew into Bradley Airport, rented a car, and then drove here. How’d you know what he drove?”
Sophie revealed all the details about their first meeting. “When I realized he owns RGI, I thought he lied to me about moving here.”
Veronica paused with a forkful of eggplant just outside her slender lips. “Is that why you were arguing with him by your car after the hearing?”
“Jeez, are there hidden cameras all over town?”
“Guess again. I ran into Viv Taylor. She had coffee with your neighbor, Sue, who claims to have passed you and Mr. McMoneybags in the parking lot after the meeting. She’s quoted as saying ‘Sophie snapped at the nice-looking resort guy so badly I thought she’d take his head off.’” Veronica chuckled softly. “True or pure fiction?”
“A slight exaggeration, but he got an earful.” She turned to Meg. “Did he find a place to live?”
“Yup. We checked out six places, but he fell in love with the old Burnham estate. Said he loved its Craftsman style and seclusion. Plus, it’s empty. He wants to move in ASAP. Before Christmas. We signed the papers yesterday.”
“That’s fast.” Veronica speared a chunk of Italian sausage. “Where’s he from?”
“New York City. His wife died three years ago.” Meg’s usual cheery optimism melted. “Poor guy. He has a daughter who just started college and a son in high school.”
“Are you sure he wants to stay here year-round?” Bernadette opened her palms and wavered like an antique balance scale. “Manhattan or Petticoat Junction.” Her right hand plopped on the tabletop. “Manhattan wins.”
“I’m positive. He wants a simpler lifestyle. His family visited here when he was younger. Said everything is still quaint.” She poked Bernadette’s arm. “I heard about your aggressive posturing toward our First Selectman at the hearing. Thank God you didn’t scare my client off.”
“Meg, not everyone believes the masses should stay silent and the government will run fine on its own.” Bernadette flipped her head and her bangs shifted, revealing her thin brows. “Dissention is part of the process.”
Veronica pushed around a piece of eggplant with her fork. “Didn’t a Jamieson own a summer house here years ago?” Her voice mimicked a snobby tone. “I believe they lived on ‘the upper east-side.’”
Sophie grew up on the other side of town from the high-priced, private community. Her father told her it had come to life in the early 1900s when the lake gained fame and the new name, thanks to Harry Langstrom’s column in the Hartford Courant. Local folks began to refer to this enclave of the rich using the same name as the affluent NYC neighborhood. Most estates were only occupied in the summer.
Veronica didn’t wait for an answer. “I think they lived here around the time we started high school. I remember my parents whispering about something gone haywire with that family, like they were selling the house because of something the son did.”
Sophie didn’t remember any such gossip. “I wonder what he’s really up to by returning here. Even the resort seems far-fetched. Who’d want to vacation in Northbridge?”
“We’re forgetting the most obvious way to size up this guy.” Bernadette twisted her mouth into an eager grin directed at Sophie. “What would Nana have said about him?”
Sophie laughed. “I’m asha
med to admit this. I Googled the meaning.” She popped a pitted, oily olive into her mouth.
“And…” the ladies chimed in unison.
She licked the salty remnants from her lips. “Duncan means ‘dark prince.’”
“Ha!” Bernadette’s palm slapped the tabletop. “Prince Duncan. How fitting…. He pranced into town like he already owns the place.”
Meg shook her head. “He’s a prince, all right, but not the way you’re seeing him. Mr. Jamieson’s been a delight to work with. If I were single…well, I’d be all over him like an egg noodle.”
Bernadette’s mouth dropped open with a ready blast. Sophie kicked her under the table.
“Ow.” Bernadette scowled at Sophie but clamped her lips tight.
They all understood Meg meant wet noodle. Besides, when Duncan helped Sophie with the boats, she’d walked away with the same opinion.
* * * *
Duncan pulled into the driveway of his parent’s whitewashed brick colonial. The lamppost cast a spotlight on an arrangement of various-sized pumpkins and wilting mums near the walkway leading to the entrance. The charming houses in the quaint town of Bronxville sold for far more than they were worth anywhere else in the country, a fact he’d never realized growing up.
His gut swirled as if a herd of butterflies had come to life inside. He parked behind his dad’s Mercedes sedan and took a second to calm down. Only his parents could cause this much unease. Not true. Sophie’s speech in the parking lot left him uneasy, too, with all the awkwardness he’d possessed as a teenage boy. Giving her the brush-off when she called the next day and directing her to Carl for future questions might have soothed his beaten ego, but days later, the act seemed petty. He blew out a breath. Stop thinking about her and focus on tonight’s hurdle.
He stepped out of the car. After a quick knock on the front door, he wandered in, never quite sure of the formalities in his former home, a place where attachment had never come easy.
“Mom? Dad?”
His mother’s disembodied voice traveled from upstairs. “Be right down.”
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