by Julia London
“What is taking you so long?” he shouted back. “It’s time to go!”
“I’m coming!” She did one last twirl before the mirror and then walked to the door, adjusting the bodice of her dress as she opened it. “Hold your horses, pal. It takes a lot of work to—” Lola’s words trailed off, because Hardhat Harry looked like a GQ model. He was wearing a dark blue suit that was formfitting . . . formfitting . . . and a creamy white shirt open at the collar. He’d brushed his hair back behind his ears and he’d shaved. Lola couldn’t help but stare, so astonished was she by the transformation.
He waited for her to finish her sentence. When she didn’t, he cocked his head to one side. “Are you checking me out?”
“Yes,” she admitted, still slightly dumbfounded.
Harry slipped his thumb under her chin and pushed it up to meet her upper jaw. “What, were you expecting a hard hat?”
“Yes! I mean no, of course not. Okay, maybe I was a little. I sure wasn’t expecting this,” she said, gesturing to the full length of him. “I mean . . . this is completely surprising.”
Harry chuckled. “I’m not sure how to take your utter surprise. But I guess you approve. And by the way, you look fantastic, Lola.”
“What?” She glanced down, then smiled at him. “Are you buttering me up?”
“You’re my date, aren’t you?” He grinned, put his hand on her shoulder, and dipped down to look her directly in the eye. “Are you as ready as I am to get this over with?”
She wouldn’t have put it precisely like that, but she said, “Yes,” as if this party ranked right up there with trips to the dentist.
The funny thing was, she suddenly wasn’t worried about how dicey the party could get if they weren’t careful. She was suddenly looking forward to it.
Fifteen
Mallory was right—there was only one house on Hackberry Road, and it was the biggest house Lola had ever seen.
A valet had divested Harry of his key, and the truck was already inching along a very crowded drive, back up to the road, where cars were being parked along the shoulder. This was no small party; there had to be one hundred cars parked in and around the property.
Lola looked up at the sprawling mansion. She had guessed that Mallory came from money, but this was insane.
“Nice,” Harry said.
“It looks like a hospital,” Lola said.
“I don’t think it’s going to look like one inside.” Harry casually put his hand to the small of her back, ushering her to the front door.
It was opened by a uniformed man who pointed them in the direction of booze and food—straight through a very crowded living room. The room itself was the size of a hotel lobby, and was dressed in white furnishings. In the corner, a man played a baby grand piano. Waiters in black waistcoats sailed through the crowd with trays held high above their heads. And the people! There were dozens of them, women milling about, dazzled with jewels and expensive designer sheaths, and men dressed like Harry. Lola was intimidated by all the finery. She felt out of place in her little green cocktail dress.
“Would you like a drink?” Harry asked.
“Not yet,” Lola said. Her palms were damp, and she resisted the urge to wipe them on her dress. Somewhere in this crowd, Birta Hoffman was lurking, and Lola could feel all of her well-rehearsed lines rapidly fading from her brain. She was out of place. She didn’t belong at a fancy party like this. Where the hell was Mallory?
“Let’s go have a look outside,” Harry suggested, and once again, steered her along with that giant hand to the small of her back. But this time, his thumb was singeing a tiny patch of her skin, and Lola was acutely aware of its heat. She was aware of the glances from women as they passed, too, checking out the hunk that was Harry. A few of the glances raked over her, too. No one had to tell her she wasn’t supposed to be with a guy like him.
Outside, the view of the lake was spectacular. There were multiple levels of decks, all of them festooned with lights and flowers, all of them joining to create a giant staircase down to a grassy lawn, which swept down and bled into a white sand beach. There was a double boat dock, and even that had been dressed for the party.
Scores of people milled about here, too. Two levels down from the house, a three-piece string ensemble played lovely, lilting tunes that seemed to Lola to drift up into the night air. And on the boat dock, a duo sang popular songs from the Billboard charts.
Lola and Harry had wandered through the entire party, neither of them seeing anyone they knew. “I don’t know how we are ever going to find your friend in this crowd,” Harry said.
“I know,” Lola agreed. “I had no idea about . . . this,” she said, gesturing to the big fancy house and its many decks, the glittering people.
“It’s a much bigger event than a party,” Harry said. He frowned slightly at Lola. “What’s the matter?”
Lola turned toward the bar, putting her back to the tony people walking past. “I feel out of place,” she said low, glancing around her. “I shouldn’t have come. I can’t meet Birta Hoffman in a place like this. I should wait until I run into her at the coffee shop. I—”
“Hey, hey,” Harry said, and caressed her arm. “Relax. It’s a party.” He snatched a glass of champagne off the tray of a waiter walking through the crowd and handed it to her. “Drink it. Calm down. You’re not out of place any more than anyone else here tonight. Who the hell are these people? No one,” he said, looking around him, apparently unbothered by the crush of bodies.
Lola drank from the champagne, then set it down. “I need a napkin.”
Harry shifted to his left, leaned across a temporary bar and asked the bartender for a martini, and handed Lola a napkin.
“See?” Lola said as she wiped her palms. “Martini. That’s what all of these people probably drink,” she said, noticing the number of highball glasses people were holding. “I’ve never known anyone who drinks martinis, and I worked in a law firm.”
“Am I maybe misreading the situation?” Harry asked curiously, making a swirling motion at Lola’s face. “Because you seem on the verge of losing your shit.”
“Yes!” Lola whispered loudly. “Completely on the verge!”
“Hmm,” Harry said. He turned back to the bartender. “Make it two.”
“No!” Lola hissed, glancing around her to see if anyone had heard. “I cannot get blotto before I meet Birta Hoffman.”
“You’re not going to get blotto from one drink,” he scoffed.
“You don’t know me, Harry. I’m a super lightweight.”
He suddenly grinned and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You didn’t look so lightweight to me when you were putting down the nachos today.”
“Hey! That was different! I had to if I was going to get any of them, because you were going to eat them all! Why are you always so hungry, anyway?”
“Baby, I’m a grown man with a grown man’s appetite,” he said, and winked at her as he accepted the drinks from the bartender. He handed her one of them. “Just sip it, nice and easy. It’s not water.” He touched his glass to hers, then tasted the concoction, and nodded approvingly.
Lola peered down at the clear drink with the little row of olives floating serenely on top. She hesitantly tasted it and immediately wrinkled her nose. It tasted like kerosene. But it also left a trail of warmth in her that she liked. She sipped again.
“Easy,” Harry reminded her.
“Lola!”
Harry and Lola both jerked around at the sound of Mallory’s voice, suddenly close and loud. She was standing right behind them, grinning gleefully. “Check it out,” she said, holding her arms wide. “Lillian hired a stylist to doll me up.”
“Wow,” Lola said with true astonishment. Mallory was a knockout. Her crazy hair had been tamed back into an artful chignon. She was wearing a formfitting dress that hugged all her curves. Diamond earrings dangled from her ears that matched the tennis bracelet around her wrist. “Mallory, you’re . . .”
“Go ahead and say it. I’m gorgeous.”
“You’re gorgeous!”
“I know, right?” Mallory twirled around. “Lillian doesn’t trust me. And with good reason!” She laughed at her own joke. “Lola, you look so cute! I love that dress.”
“Thank you,” Lola said. Cute. That’s what she was in this sea of designer togs and gorgeous women.
“And you, New Boyfriend,” Mallory continued, looking Harry up and down. “Hubba-hubba.”
Harry laughed. “Thanks, Mallory.” He caught her elbow, leaned forward, and in a very polished and easy move, kissed her cheek.
“You are definitely here with the best-looking guy in town,” Mallory said, jovially elbowing Lola.
Harry slipped his arm around Lola’s waist. “Did you hear that?” he asked. “Mallory thinks I’ve got it going on.”
Lola glanced hesitantly at Mallory, who was clearly waiting for her to agree. “You do,” she said.
“Aw, that’s sweet,” he said, and bussed her temple, startling her.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Mallory said. “Have you met Birta?”
“Is she here?” Lola asked, a little panic-stricken. “How do you know? There are so many people here!”
“She’s here. Come on, I’ll introduce you.” She grabbed Lola’s martini out of her hand and put it on the bar. “Don’t look so forlorn! We’ll get you another one just as soon as you say hello. She’s just down there.”
Mallory pointed through a throng. Lola didn’t know where “just down there” was, but her heart seized all the same. She stared with wide-eyed horror at Harry.
He smiled, picked up her drink from the bar. “Take another sip. No more than two.”
Lola did as he suggested without hesitation. She felt the burn slide down her throat and land squarely in her belly.
“Come on, lovebirds,” Mallory said, and began to sashay through the crowd.
“Better follow her,” Harry said and, with a little effort, wrenched the drink from Lola’s hand, turned her around, and nudged her in Mallory’s direction.
She and Harry followed Mallory down onto the lawn, where Adirondack chairs had been scattered around to face the lake. Most of them were filled, and people were standing about in clusters of three and four. Lola didn’t see Birta at first, but then caught sight of her standing beneath a tree, talking to a short, round man. Good God, could that be her agent? Was she really going to be so lucky to meet Birta Hoffman and Cyrus Bernstein in one fell swoop?
Lola’s heart abruptly began to pound in her chest. She grabbed Mallory’s arm. “She’s talking to someone,” she said frantically, trying to slow Mallory down.
“She’s talking to Bob Gottenhoff. They’re neighbors. She won’t mind.” She shook off Lola’s hand and continued on, apparently eager to make the introduction.
Lola could not shake Birta’s hand, not with palms practically dripping sweat. She turned wildly to Harry and took his arm. He looked confused until she wiped her palm on the sleeve of his jacket.
Harry stared down at his jacket. “You seriously didn’t just do that.”
“Lola!”
Lola whirled around; Mallory was already in Birta’s presence, gesturing for to come over. Birta was leaning to her right, peering directly at Lola.
Harry leaned over her shoulder. “Go, scaredy-cat,” he said, and gave her a pat on her rump. It was enough of a surprise to make Lola’s feet move.
So many emotions were churning through her in those few feet—excitement, uncertainty, shock that she was so nervous. But here she was now, standing before the Great Birta Hoffman. Just like in her jacket photo, Birta’s long, dark hair lay like silk around her shoulders. She was wearing a satin kimono with an intricate pattern of birds and trees that made Lola’s little string of roses look like a child’s work. Two enormous turquoise rings covered the fingers on her left hand and matched the squash blossom turquoise necklace she wore around her neck.
“Lola, I’d like to introduce you to Birta Hoffman,” Mallory said, suddenly quite formal.
Birta smiled kindly. “Hallo, Lola.”
“It is . . . it’s such a pleasure to meet you,” Lola said, her voice almost shaking with anxiety. She extended her hand; Birta slipped her very limp one into it.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I’ve been a huge fan of your work since forever.”
“Have you?” Birta asked, with only a hint of an accent. “Which book did you like?”
“The Unforgiven series, of course,” Lola said, trying not to gush at the seminal works that had put Birta on the literary map. “I adored the Tobias Chronicle. And I think I might have been first in line to buy Inconsequential.”
“My, you’ve read quite a lot of them,” Birta said, chuckling. “Did you enjoy my newest?”
“Of course!” Lola said, beaming. In truth, she hadn’t liked it as well as she had the others, but she loved Birta so much she would overlook one less-than-stellar book out of ten.
Birta pulled her hand free of Lola’s, because apparently, Lola was still holding it. She turned her sultry smile to Harry.
“I’m so sorry!” Mallory said. “This is Lola’s boyfriend, Harry Westbrook.”
“Well hallo, Harry,” Birta said.
“Ms. Hoffman, it’s a pleasure,” he said.
“But I have to say that my favorite is Incomplete,” Lola added, suddenly remembering. “It was so masterful. The complexity of your plot just blew me away, and all that emotion—”
“Do you read, Harry?” Birta asked, cutting Lola off.
“Sports Illustrated,” he said.
Lola gasped with horror—how could he say such a thing? But Birta was not offended. She laughed, clearly amused.
“Actually, I love anything Lola writes,” Harry said. “She’s writing a book, too.”
“Oh?” Birta shifted her gaze to Lola. “What’s it about?”
Here it was, her big moment. Lola’s tongue felt thick in her head, and all the words, the carefully rehearsed words, had deserted her. “Ah . . .”
“Don’t be shy. Tell her about it, baby,” Harry said, and put his arm around her waist, pulling her close to him.
Birta stood, waiting expectantly, her gaze razor sharp.
“Ummm . . .” Lola couldn’t remember what she was writing. It seemed impossible, but in that moment, she could not find her book in her muddled thoughts.
Harry laughed warmly. “She’s so shy,” he said and pulled her tighter, even pinching her waist a little to shake her head out of the clouds. That was hardly necessary—it wasn’t as if Lola wasn’t painfully aware she was panicking and forgetting everything. “You know how writers are,” Harry said. “Such introverts.”
“We are, that’s true,” Birta said, her gaze on Harry again, the smile returned to her face.
“So I’ll tell you,” Harry said. “Because it’s great. It’s about this woman who is a psychopath. If a guy doesn’t respond to her texts, she kills him.”
Yes! Yes, yes, that was it!
Birta’s eyes widened with surprise, and she looked at Lola. “Really.”
“Yep,” Harry continued. “It’s American Psycho meets The Wedding Planner—”
“Actually, it’s American Psycho meets Gone Girl, meets Bridget Jones’s Diary,” Lola heard herself say.
“Oh my, that’s quite ambitious,” Birta said, and laughed. “And yet, it sounds somewhat intriguing.”
“And while Lola would never ask you in a million years, I think she would love it if you could take a look,” Harry said easily.
“What?” Lola cried, panicking all over again. That was not how these things were done! One did not walk up to a very famous author and ask her to read a manuscript! Harry clearly had no idea how many people must ask Birta Hoffman to read their book every week!
“I’d be pleased to do so,” Birta said, shocking Lola to her core. “It does sound interesting, Lily.”
“Lola,” Harry said.
“Pardon, Lola. I’ll tell you what,” she said, smiling at Harry. “I’m having a dinner party a week from Sunday. Why don’t you two come? It’s a small group, just a few of my close friends and colleagues coming up from the city. Several of them are here tonight, but it’s so crowded that I should like to have them back for something a little more intimate.”
“We wouldn’t dream of imposing—” Lola started, feeling sick at the mention of a dinner party with Birta.
“But we will,” Harry said, as if agreeing to something as mundane as wanting whipped cream on his coffee drink. Lola shot him a desperate look, hoping he could read the serious shut up signals in her eyes. But Harry wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Birta in a sexy, devilish way that confused Lola. What the hell was happening? Was he attracted to Birta? She might be an exotic creature, but she had to be twenty years his senior.
“Then it’s a date,” Birta said, smiling back at him. “Oh, and you too, Mallory, if you’re available.”
“Sure,” Mallory said, and Lola remembered that her friend who had arranged this meeting was still standing beside her.
“And Bob,” Birta said with a much thinner smile, “you know I’d invite you as well, but you’re going back to the city, aren’t you?”
Bob looked around everyone assembled under that tree. “I could change my plans—”
“But you shouldn’t,” Birta said. “It’s a small affair, and I’ve just enough seats at the table as it is.” She turned her smile back to Harry, ignoring the look of stunned dejection on Bob’s face. “Mallory can tell you where I live. Sunday at eight o’clock. Is that convenient?”
“Absolutely,” Harry said. “Thank you. We’ll be there.”
“Yes, thank you,” Lola added.
Not that Birta noticed; she had locked her sultry gaze on Harry. “I’m looking forward to it very much,” she purred. “Now you must excuse me, I see the editor from the Hudson River Valley Review is here, and I have a bit of a bone to pick with him.”
She sailed out of their midst, Bob hopping along behind her.
Lola slowly turned her gaze to Harry. He was smiling like a fat-ass cat, obviously pleased with himself.
