by Lisa Cach
“I don’t know whether to keep reassuring you or to kick you in the butt.”
“Butt kicking is probably quicker,” Grace grumbled.
“Then consider yourself kicked. Come on, let’s go meet Bette.”
Grace took a deep breath and got out. How bad could it be, anyway? Aunt Sophia’s letter had made it sound like she would be a guest more than an employee. She would be a valuable member of the household, introduced to visitors as the brilliant grandniece, admired for the generous spirit that had brought her here to tend to an elderly woman in need.
Or maybe she’d be more like a Brontë heroine: plain, impoverished, and relegated to the shadows, pining for the manly hero who was forever inaccessible.
She’d be pressing a cool cloth to Sophia’s fevered brow, a brooding hero telling her what a brave young woman she was—
The front door opened and a middle-aged brunette poked her head out. “Is one of you Grace Cavanaugh?”
Grace waved her hand, gathering her courage as she walked over to the woman. “Hullo! Yes, that’s me.”
The woman had a thick, blocky torso that was not helped by her brown silk blouse and tweed skirt. Her hair was bobbed at her chin, a line of gray showing where her roots had started to grow out. Her mascara had smeared under her small, dark eyes, and her gold-rimmed glasses looked strangely old-fashioned. Her whole outfit looked old-fashioned, as if she was dressed as a no-nonsense secretary from a 1930s film.
The woman looked Grace up and down, then chuckled. “Well, of course you are.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean? “And this is my friend Catherine Ruggieri. She gave me a lift.”
The woman spared Catherine a glance and a nod. “Darlene,” the woman said, holding her hand out to Grace. “I’m your aunt’s personal assistant.”
“I didn’t know she had one. I thought she’d retired a long time ago.”
“Oh, she doesn’t work anymore, but Sophia won’t sit still until she’s dead.”
“I hope that’s not anytime soon.”
“It won’t be. She’s got too much of the ornery bitch in her to die off quickly.”
Grace blinked in shock. “Uh, er, uh …”
Darlene raised an eyebrow. “I hope you’re not the sensitive type; you won’t last long around here if you are.”
Grace squeaked a laugh. “Me? Oh no, I’m thick-skinned!”
“Mm,” Darlene grunted, unimpressed. “Your aunt is being attended by her doctor at the moment, so get your things and I’ll show you to your room. You can clean up before you meet her.”
“Sure. Thanks. Um, and would it be all right if Catherine stays the night? She still has to drive down to San Diego, and it’s too much to take on today after how far we’ve come … ,” Grace trailed off as Darlene stared at her without expression.
“It’s not my house,” Darlene said into the silence.
“I guess I’ll check with Aunt Sophia, then?”
“I guess you will.”
Grace turned and rolled her eyes at Cat, who was smothering a grin. Together they dragged Grace’s possessions out of the back of the Volvo, the car rising on its springs as it was freed of the weight. Loaded down with backpacks, book bags, and suitcases, they could barely stagger to the front door and into the foyer.
Darlene’s brown leather pumps clicked on the checkerboard marble floor as she quickly led the way to a curved stone staircase.
“What is her problem?” Catherine whispered.
“Shhh,” Grace hissed, “she’ll hear you.”
“So what?”
“I’ve got to get along with her for the next three months, that’s what!” Grace set her old wheeled suitcases on the floor and dragged them, the things as heavy as rocks. A horrid screech came from one of the suitcases, and after a few hard tugs it fell over. Grace looked back in annoyance and saw an empty metal bracket where a wheel had once been. A gray gouge cut across a black marble tile, ending at the dead suitcase.
Grace’s stomach sank to the cold stone floor. “Oh, crap.”
Darlene stopped and turned, her eyes sharp, then click-clacked back across the floor. She looked at the gouge, then at Grace.
“I’m so sorry!”
“It’s not my house.”
“I’ll tell my aunt—”
Darlene shook her head, a sharp denial. “This isn’t the type of thing to bother her with. I’ll take care of it,” she bit out. She turned on her heel and once again set out for the stairs, moving up them without a backward glance.
Grace’s shoulders slumped. It had taken her only minutes to screw up. She was nervous and embarrassed, and she avoided Catherine’s eyes as tears stung her own, afraid that any sympathy would undo her. She set her jaw against her tears, righted her bag, and hoisted it off the floor.
She was a few steps up the staircase, deep in a silent monologue of self-chastisement, when the sound of quick, solid footsteps behind her penetrated her inner storm cloud. Catherine made a startled noise, and a moment later Grace felt the heavier of her suitcases being pulled from her grip. She instinctively tightened her hold and jerked it back toward her.
“Here now, beautiful young women shouldn’t be carrying their own bags,” a deep male voice said.
Grace looked down at the broad, strong hand pressed against hers on the handle of the bag, then raised her gaze to meet startling turquoise eyes fringed with black lashes.
“I promise I won’t steal it.” He winked.
Grace opened her mouth, but all that emerged was a gurgling sound. A flood of heat rose to her cheeks. He was the most ruggedly handsome man she’d ever seen, tall and broad and with a square jaw and heavy brow that had testosterone written all over them. Sex appeal wafted off him like cologne off a hot lightbulb. He steamed with it.
Grace’s grip loosened, and he took the bag, slinging it under one arm as if it were a loaf of bread. He grinned and reached for her other bag, his arm brushing against the small of her back. A shiver stroked over her body, and her breasts tingled. She dropped her eyes.
And then he had her bag and had pulled away. “Which way, my darling Darlene?” he asked, and with their three suitcases ran easily up the stairs.
“The Garden Room. Don’t go barging in on Sophia; she’s with Dr. Andrew.”
“When do I barge? I’m meek as a maid.”
“And chickens dance the cha-cha,” Darlene said sourly, leading them all down the hall and opening a door.
“I taught them myself,” the man said. “Wonderful sense of rhythm, chickens.”
Darlene shook her head, a hint of a smile softening her mouth, and waited in the hall while he deposited the bags inside. Grace followed him in, her book bag bumping Darlene as she passed.
“Sorry,” Grace muttered.
Darlene exhaled through her nose, her lips tightening again.
The Garden Room was full of light, one wall composed of French doors that showed the tops of cypress trees and the blues of the sky and ocean beyond. Grace was only vaguely aware of yellow-flowered wallpaper and a canopy bed; the man setting down the suitcases sucked up her attention, even as she pretended to look at everything but him.
“Excuse me,” Catherine said, dropping her own things and disappearing into the bathroom.
When Grace sneaked a peek at the man’s face she found him staring at her, looking puzzled.
“Declan O’Brien,” he said, and put out his hand.
“Grace Cavanaugh.” She shook his hand, but he didn’t release it. He sandwiched her hand between both of his, his thumb rubbing the back of it, his fingertips pressing gently against the inside of her wrist. Each stroke of his thumb sent shivers up her arm.
“Do I know you?” he asked. “Where do I know you from?”
She pulled her hand out of his grip. “Nowhere. I’ve just arrived from Seattle. Sophia is my great-aunt.”
She could see comprehension work its way across his face. After a stunned moment he laughed. “Well, of course you a
re!”
“Yes, of course I am,” she repeated, bewildered again. “Are you a friend of Aunt Sophia’s?”
“Financial adviser. And friend, too.”
Suspicion snaked into her mind. He seemed too young and good-looking to be a financial adviser, and too charming. She hoped he wasn’t taking advantage of her aunt. He seemed like a salesman/womanizer/fast-talker type. She’d bet he owned a speedboat, or some other noisy, motor-powered, penis substitute.
Catherine emerged from the bathroom and Grace introduced her, noticing how Declan quickly scanned her friend’s lithe, compact body and high, small breasts. Catherine was a natural beauty, her olive complexion smooth, her curly black hair luxuriant in its loose ponytail. Grace always felt like pale boiled haggis in comparison.
“How long are you visiting?” Declan asked Grace, turning back to her.
“All summer. I’ll be watching over my aunt,” Grace said, crossing her arms. Yes, that’s right, Slicky McSlickerson, I’ll be watching if you try any schemes on a relative of mine.
“Watching over her?” He laughed. “Is that a joke?”
“No joke.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy your time here. You’re very fortunate to have an aunt like Sophia.” He nodded to them both and then was gone, taking all the energy in the room with him.
“I’ll send someone to fetch you when Sophia is ready to receive guests,” Darlene said. “Don’t bother her on your own.” She pulled the door shut with a slam.
Grace blinked, then went to the bed and plopped down on the edge. She felt like her stuffing had been knocked out. With a groan she collapsed backward and then covered her eyes with her forearm. Fifteen minutes ago she’d been laughing with joy at the prospect of her summer here in Pebble Beach. It really had been too good to be true. “Oh God. This is going to be a very long summer.”
The bed shifted as Catherine lay down beside her. “So you have an ocean-view room in a mansion filled with vipers. It just goes to show: there’s nothing good in this world without the bad to go with it.”
“Then let me hope Great-aunt Sophia is a perfectly average old woman.”
“Somehow, Gracie … I just don’t think that’s what you’re going to get.”
CHAPTER
2
Half an hour later someone knocked on the door, and at Grace’s call of admittance a pretty Hispanic girl came in. She looked about sixteen and was wearing a pale gray maid’s dress, white sneakers, and a white headband to hold back her long glossy hair. Like Darlene, she appeared to be wearing a costume from an old movie. “Hi!” she said, with an uncertain smile.
“Hello!”
The girl’s eyes went back and forth between Grace and Catherine, then rested on Grace. “You’re the niece?”
“That’s me. Grace. And this is my friend Catherine.”
“Lali. Short for Eulalie.” She came farther into the room. “Can you believe my mother had the nerve to name me that? What, was I, like, born in 1890? I’m so glad you’re going to be spending the summer with us. Last year I was bored out of my mind working here, with no one near my age to talk to all day. No girls, anyway, just the guys working in the garden and on the pool, and occasionally some repairmen. Not that I don’t like seeing guys around without their shirts on, but you can’t exactly gossip with them, you know what I mean? They’re always staring at your boobs.” She grinned. “Bet you get that a lot.”
“Er, not really.”
“Then you just don’t notice. Believe me, they’re looking.”
“I hope not.”
“Really?” Lali shrugged off the imponderable. “Anyway, I’m supposed to tell you that tea is being served on the terrace. Mama made me say that, ‘Tea is being served.’” She rolled her eyes. “As if! It’s as pretentious as these silly uniforms. What is this, the nineteenth century?”
“Your mother works here?”
“She’s the housekeeper and cook. Has been since before I was, like, even born. Ever since she took that Cordon Bleu course, though, she’s had pretensions. Says she’s a chef, not a cook. C’mon, I’ll show you the way.”
They followed her out, barely keeping track of her stream of chatter. Boys, her junior prom a few weeks earlier, more boys, girlfriends, clothes … “Good Lord,” Catherine whispered, “is she ever going to shut up?”
“At least she’s friendly,” Grace whispered back. She was grateful for a friendly face, grateful, too, for the distracting monologue. She’d been feeling uneasy for the last half hour, waiting to meet her aunt and imagining how horrible it was going to be. All indications hinted that Sophia had not gotten softer with age.
Lali led them through a plush, pale Louis Quatorze living room and pushed open a French door. “Ta-da! The terrace. And tea. Ooh, and Declan. Hi, Declan!” she called out the door. They heard the murmur of a response. “He’s so cute,” Lali said sotto voce to Grace and Cat, and sighed. “He’s way too old for me, but a girl can dream, can’t she? Can you imagine what it would be like to have him be your first?” Lali widened her eyes at them. “Can you?”
“I’m trying not to,” Grace said, as visions of a naked Declan rose in her mind.
“At least you’re closer to the right age for him. He calls me ‘jail bait.’” Lali grinned, then giggled. “Jail bait. See ya later, ’gators!”
“While, crocodile,” Grace called after her.
Catherine stared at Grace.
“What?”
“Do not regress to that age. I don’t want to pick you up at the end of the summer and hear you punctuating your sentences with ‘like.’”
“Like, why would I do that?”
“Like, hell if I know. Hell if I know why anyone would want that sleazeball Declan to touch them, either.”
“We don’t know for sure that he’s a sleazeball.” They’d spent half their time in the bedroom discussing the possibility. Financial planners had a lousy reputation since the market crash.
“That type always is.” Catherine tilted her head, examining Grace. “You’re not attracted to him, are you?”
“God no!”
“He’d treat you like crap.”
“Cat, I’m not attracted to him. He wouldn’t be interested in someone like me anyway.”
“Wouldn’t he?” she asked cryptically.
Grace ignored her and stepped out into a world of sunlight and blue sky. The terra-cotta terrace ended thirty feet in front of her at a stone balustrade, beyond which the earth appeared to fall away into endless blue. To her right were broad stairs leading down into gardens. To her left a wooden pergola covered the terrace, sheer linen panels draped over its roof and down its posts. In the filtered shade beneath were a long table and several iron chairs strewn with flowered cushions. Declan O’Brien sprawled in one of them, while a tall, slender young man with light brown hair held a chair out for Sophia as she sat.
“Thank you, Andrew,” Sophia said. “I could wish that your gesture was inspired more by chivalry than by a conviction of my frailty, but it is appreciated nonetheless.”
“It will take more than osteoarthritis to make me ever think you’re frail.”
“Shh! Please don’t use that word to me. ‘Arthritis.’” She shuddered elegantly. “It’s an old person’s disease.”
“Miss Cavanaugh!” Declan said, standing. “What a pleasure to see you again. And Miss Ruggieri.”
All eyes turned to them, but it was Sophia’s face that Grace watched. The hair was the same as she’d remembered, still pure white, still parted on the side and falling in neat waves to her shoulders, now topped by a wide-brimmed, light green straw hat. Her pale skin was creased with age but her fine bone structure turned the wrinkles into flourishes for high cheekbones and a graceful brow. She wore blush and lipstick in a delicate rose pink, but had been more generous with the dark mascara and eyeliner, emphasizing eyes that were the same clear green as Grace’s own, albeit faded.
Sophia drew in a breath and placed her long-fingered hand to he
r heart, over a string of pearls and the floaty neckline of a retro silk tea gown that wouldn’t have been out of place at a garden party at Windsor Castle. “And there you are, child, all grown up. Come closer, darling, and let me look at you.” She held out her hand.
Grace came forward and took it, wary. “It’s very good to see you again, Aunt Sophia. Thank you so much for asking me to spend the summer with you.”
Sophia didn’t seem to hear her, her green eyes looking Grace up and down, then resting on Grace’s hair. Sophia touched a strand of it, then put her fingertips to her own lips. Tears filmed her eyes. “Just look at you. Such a beautiful face, such glorious hair.”
Grace shifted, unbalanced by the unexpected compliments and sentimental tears. Maybe Sophia was suffering some dementia. This was not the woman she remembered. “Um, thank you.”
Sophia released her hand and waved her away. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “My evil doctor has been giving me steroids, and they make me overemotional.”
The light-haired man made a noise.
Sophia nodded toward Catherine. “I see you’ve brought a friend?”
Introductions were made all round, and the tall young man was revealed as Dr. Andrew Pritchard. Lali appeared with a wheeled cart, and they made small talk about the drive from Seattle as the tea and cakes and sandwiches were served. Declan was given the equipment for a whiskey and water on ice, and served himself while the others took cookies and strawberries.
“How long are you staying in town, Grace?” Andrew asked.
“All summer. I’m here to help Aunt Sophia while she has her hip—er,” Grace cut herself off, remembering Sophia’s dislike of anything that made her sound old, and a hip replacement said nothing but “old.” “To help her with any, er … procedures she may undergo and need to recover from.”
Sophia laughed. “She makes it sound like I’m having liposuction. Perhaps that’s what I shall tell everyone. There’s less shame in a bit of fat removal than a complete replacement of failed body parts.”
