Love on a Dime

by Cara Lynn James

  She gave his hand a reassuring pat. “I’m glad to hear that.” The ticking of the mantel clock measured several seconds of silence.

  Harlan tweaked the corners of his sparse blond mustache. “This is awkward.” He cleared his throat. “It’s Mr. Grail. He seems to be unusually—devoted—to you.”

  She gave a shrill laugh. “I hardly think so.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  She’d never seen Harlan’s jealous side before and she didn’t like the change.

  “I’ve known Mr. Grail since he and my brother were students at St. Luke ’s. Of course, he was mainly George ’s friend, not mine.” Another misleading denial that speared guilt into her heart. But she couldn’t admit her past with Jack without creating a melodramatic scene too distasteful to even contemplate. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

  Harlan’s face relaxed. “Mr. Grail’s attentions disturb me. However, if it’s only interest on his part and not yours, then I’m satisfied.”

  Lilly smiled. “Please don’t be concerned about him.”

  Harlan’s lips curled upward. “Then I shan’t worry.”

  “Good.”

  She couldn’t forget how her family’s long-time friend had brought her contentment when she believed only her writing could provide satisfaction. When he began to court her and suggest they might share a future together, her pipe dream of Jack returning to claim her as his bride finally faded. She needed Harlan’s affection and enjoyed it—until today. She pushed that thought away.

  He rubbed his hands together. “Now, I have something for you. It’s only a trifle, but I think you’ll like it.”

  “Thank you, but there ’s no need to shower me with gifts.”

  “But I like to spoil you.”

  Harlan strode out of the drawing room. Lilly collapsed into one of the antique chairs, newly upholstered in white brocade threaded with gold. A pool of sunshine flooded through the wide windows facing the front lawn. It cast a glow throughout the loveliest room in the house, but it certainly didn’t reflect her darkening mood.

  How could she reassure Harlan of her love and loyalty? And how could she reassure herself? She ’d begin by staying far away from Jack and close to Harlan. Such a simple solution might work if she stayed in her bedroom and wrote her dime novels.

  Harlan returned, followed by Irene. As usual, her sister-in-law’s eyes glinted with secret amusement.

  He thrust a book at Lilly, red-faced. “It’s merely a small token of my esteem.”

  Irene snickered at his discomfort. “Don’t fret, Mr. Santerre. We women adore gifts, large and small.”

  Lilly accepted the volume. “Thank you so much. Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I’ll treasure it.”

  “Perhaps we can read it together.” His voice held a note of vulnerability and hope that touched her heart.

  “Yes, if you’d like.” Lilly feared she might choke on the intimacies of sentimental poetry, but if he insisted, she ’d try her best. She ’d never admit his kind gesture had failed to quicken her romantic feelings. That was her failure, not his.

  Irene murmured, “She’d also enjoy any one of Fannie Cole ’s stories. Perhaps next time . . .”

  Harlan glowered. “You don’t mean those trashy dime novels, do you?”

  “I do, indeed. What’s trash to some is treasure to others.” Irene turned on her heel and sauntered out the door with a smug smile Lilly found tiresome.

  “That woman is insufferable. I can’t imagine why your brother ever married her.” Harlan sniffed, shaking his head.

  Lilly silently agreed.

  FOUR

  Jack climbed the staircase two steps at a time to catch up with Lilly. “What book are you holding? One of Jones and Jarman’s dime novels?” He hoped his light tone of voice would bring on a genuine smile. Or at least relax her squared shoulders or the clench of her jaw.

  When she halted and flashed a grimace, he knew he ’d made a mistake by mentioning the stories she disdained. Like so many in her set, she probably disapproved of popular fiction with minimal literary value—although Fannie Cole’s books did have a moral and spiritual dimension most in society refused to acknowledge publicly.

  Her hand trembled as she held up Sonnets from the Portuguese.

  Jack’s heart flipped over. “I gave you that book on your eighteenth birthday, didn’t I?” They’d spent a glorious spring afternoon reading it together beneath the shade of a chestnut tree. He’d read one verse, she the next until the sun began to slide into evening.

  Her cheeks reddened. “This copy is a gift from Harlan.” She continued up the stairs and glanced over her shoulder.

  The thought of Lilly with Harlan made Jack’s throat tighten. He hadn’t expected to encounter a rival, but of course he should have known many gentlemen would wish to court her.

  “Don’t look so crestfallen. I still have yours. I can’t bear to part with a book.” She gave him a sad smile, turned abruptly, and disappeared into her bedroom.

  Jack wondered if she ever read it and thought of him with fondness. Or did she picture him and hurl the book across the room? He winced at the thought. How could he capture her love once again? How could he earn her forgiveness?

  He pondered their past relationship, growing less and less hopeful for reconciliation. Yet a few discouraging words wouldn’t halt his pursuit. All he needed was a large dose of tact and patience, both difficult for him to come by. But he didn’t wish to scare her away and right into the open arms of Harlan Santerre.

  Left alone, Jack wandered into the library. He skimmed through several articles he ’d brought from New York as the rest of the household scattered for their afternoon activities. The ladies followed their normal routine of paying calls upon neighbors along Ocean Drive and Bellevue Avenue while Mr. Westbrook dozed nearby in a corner of the library, a mystery novel resting on his lap. His asthmatic wheeze ended the quiet but didn’t disrupt Jack’s concentration. They’d both declined George ’s invitation to gather at the Reading Room, Newport’s male bastion where women weren’t allowed but cigars and whiskey were.

  After several hours of studying financial reports Mr. Lewis Jarman had given him, Jack borrowed a golf club and several balls from the game room storage closet and stepped outside into the bright afternoon. On the side lawn, he located the putting green beside the vacant tennis court. He took a few practice swings and relaxed.

  “Grail, may I join you?” Harlan appeared at Jack’s side a few minutes later, a club in one bony hand and bucket of balls in the other. “I thought I’d practice awhile before my round this afternoon at the golf club.”

  Jack tapped the ball too hard and it rolled down the hill onto the rocks.

  A smirk lifted one corner of Harlan’s mouth. “So sorry, old boy. You can’t expect to become proficient overnight. Golf ’s new to you, I see.”

  Jack clenched the handle of his club. Lord, give me patience. Don’t let me swing at this supercilious fool. Jack answered through gritted teeth, aware he must look like a gargoyle, but unwilling to soften his expression. “I learned how to play at St. Luke ’s. But you’re right, I’m a bit rusty.” Golf was a gentleman’s game of leisure, but he noticed other men mixed business with pleasure at the golf links. He had little time for hobbies and only a modicum of patience for such a slow, plodding pursuit.

  Harlan squinted as he gauged the distance to the hole. “That should be an easy putt. I enjoy playing in Newport, but my favorite course is St. Andrews.” He paused. “In Scotland.”

  Jack bit back a smart retort. There was no point in taking umbrage or bickering with Santerre. He watched Harlan’s ball roll right into the hole. After years of practice, Harlan played well and, Jack suspected, he played to win.

  “I believe I’m finished for the day,” Jack said. He gathered a few stray balls, hiding a scowl beneath his cap pulled low over his forehead.

  “With practice you’re bound to improve,” Harlan said.

&nb
sp; Jack tried not to react, but his body stiffened. He remembered Harlan’s barbs all too well, as if they were back in school, one the son of privilege, the other the son of poverty. Jack tossed several balls into his bucket.

  “Do you have a chance to coach?” Harlan continued.

  Coaching, indeed. A favorite sport of the rich, racing coaches required an expensive equipage and fine horses, plus time to learn how to drive the thing. Jack shook his head.

  Harlan tapped his ball into the hole. “Miss Westbrook adores coaching. It’s very exciting for a young lady.”

  Jack stifled a chuckle. He couldn’t imagine Lilly finding enjoyment perched high atop a vehicle with only a thin rail to keep her from plunging to the ground. He could picture her. With knuckles and face white with fear, she ’d hold onto her hat and pray for physical deliverance.

  “Well, Harlan, I’m shocked. It seems I don’t know Miss Westbrook as well as I thought.” And you don’t know her at all. Jack smiled to himself.

  “Yes, indeed. She thrives on entertainment only the best society can provide. Sailing, dancing—”

  “That’s odd,” Jack interrupted, the mockery of his frown barely contained. “I thought Miss Westbrook loved books and writing poetry. Perhaps I’m mistaken again. Until today I haven’t spoken to her in many years. Perhaps she ’s changed.” With a reserved, yet strong personality, Jack knew Lilly might adapt to new circumstances but never truly alter.

  “She was brought up in society, so naturally she appreciates its pleasures. Her books and writings are merely a quaint diversion. A hobby, at most.”

  “Of course you understand her quite well.” Jack bobbed his head in a nod.

  “I do, indeed. We spend quite a lot of time together. We ’re very close.”

  Every nerve in Jack’s body sparked. From the smug look on Harlan’s face, he ’d just delivered an important message. Lilly belonged to him.

  “I must be off. Good day, Harlan.”

  Jack strode back to the cottage, annoyed that he ’d allowed Santerre to sour his mood. The man obviously thought he had a lock on Lilly’s affections, but Jack refused to believe she had such bad taste. Only time would tell if he still had a chance to redeem himself.

  Before he ’d come to Summerhill he thought he could win back her love if she forgave him for his stupid and painful desertion. But now he realized he ’d also have to defeat Harlan, a formidable opponent.

  Climbing up the veranda steps two at a time, Jack found George seated on a rocker beside a pot of red geraniums. He dropped his newspaper to his lap. “Nothing much going on at the Reading Room, but I did get a tip about a sailboat. I heard she ’s a real gem. Shall we take a look?” George asked.

  “All right. Is she small and affordable?”

  George looked surprised. “I seem to remember you always wanted a boat big enough to require a crew, not something ‘small and affordable.’”

  Jack laughed. “I still do, but I won’t be able to make such a purchase for quite a while.”

  “You’ll have to judge this craft for yourself. Shall we go? It never hurts to see what’s available.”

  They rode in a horse and buggy for three or four miles into town and stopped at one of the long piers that jutted into Newport harbor. George found the captain of the Osprey, a sleek, two masted yawl, and altogether, they toured the vessel. Owning such a boat would bestow tremendous prestige, for among the ultra-rich it symbolized belonging and acceptance. But as much as Jack admired the shiny mahogany woodwork, solid brass fittings, and fair price, he knew he shouldn’t buy the craft.

  “What do you think, Jack? She ’s a beauty.” George appraised the boat from stem to stern with a yearning in his eyes that Jack recognized matched his own.

  Jack thanked the captain before they stepped onto the dock. “Definitely worth every dollar. I’m sorely tempted.”

  He could afford the sailboat, though prudence dictated he wait until his businesses grew into a force to be reckoned with. But he ’d never been able to indulge in rich men’s toys before and owning the Osprey would proclaim he ’d arrived.

  He remembered sailing with his uncle on a small boat cutting through the waves of Long Island Sound. The salt had permeated his veins forever. The force of wind raking through his hair, the smell of skin tanned by the sun, even the stench of seaweed drying on the rocky beach—he loved it all as a boy. And he wanted to feel those sensations again.

  Jack sighed. Realistically, when would he find the time to sail? Now was the time to put his talents to work building a publishing enterprise through his own skill and ingenuity. He couldn’t spend his days in idle play like Harlan Santerre or even George. They headed down the long dock toward the carriage. Jack hated to pass up the opportunity to own such a vessel. “It’s such a bargain, George, I’ll have to give it more thought. Unless you wish to make an offer.”

  As they stood at the end of the pier and admired the thirty-two-foot boat rolling gently at its mooring, George became quiet as if lost in his own worries. “I’d love to purchase the Osprey, but Irene comes first. As it is, I can barely pay for her ball gowns, let alone jewels. I’m afraid I’ve failed her. She expected a rich New Yorker, but she got me instead.” He stroked the point of his goatee.

  “She was lucky to snag you.”

  “Life ’s ironic, isn’t it? When my sister weds Harlan, she ’ll have endless means but no social ambition. Irene, on the other hand, has little money and a craving for the society that demands it. Life can get all mixed up.” George shook his head mournfully. His long jaw sagged into his flagpole neck.

  Jack’s heart slammed against his ribcage. “Is Lilly engaged to Harlan?”

  Despite Harlan’s not-so-subtle warning, Jack hadn’t realized they were considering marriage. During those hardscrabble years in the Klondike he ’d counted on winning Lilly back once he ’d made his fortune, though if he ’d been honest with himself, he ’d have known the odds were slim. How could he have been so arrogant? Of course she wouldn’t pine away while he struggled to become a gentleman of means. He hadn’t even written her one letter since his spineless departure.

  To show her he ’d turned opportunity into success, to gain her forgiveness, to win her affection once again—those were the primary reasons he ’d come to Summerhill. This news about Lilly and Harlan caught him by the throat, unaware.

  “They’re not officially engaged, but we ’re expecting Harlan to pop the question any day now. They’ve been courting since spring.” George cast a suspicious eye at Jack. “Are you surprised Lilly has a beau?”

  Jack glanced toward the harbor crowded with sailing ships underway in the brisk wind. “No. She ’s a lovely girl. I expected as much.”

  But he really hadn’t expected anything of the kind. Abruptly, he turned and boarded the buggy. Just talking about Lilly and Harlan in the same breath scorched his soul. Disappointed in her taste in men, he was shocked she ’d taken a liking to the haughty Santerre. But then again, he ’d assumed he still understood Lilly, even after a long separation. Apparently he didn’t know her at all anymore.

  George climbed into the leather seat next to Jack and took the reins. “I never thought anyone would fall in love with her. She ’s too standoffish. Not flirtatious like most of the ladies.”

  “No, she ’s certainly not like most of them,” Jack agreed.

  Porcelain skin, intelligent eyes reflecting an honest heart, a direct manner. Lilly possessed a womanly beauty Jack hadn’t found in anyone else. He couldn’t erase her image from his mind, not that he wanted to.

  “Harlan claims she ’s smart and sensible. She listens to him.” George snorted. “He ’s a solid, dependable man, but he prattles on and on about his railroads. I imagine Lilly is bored to tears. But she ’s polite, and Harlan, no doubt, mistakes good manners for a keen interest.”

  “Does she want to marry him?” Could she possibly love him? The words adhered on the roof of Jack’s mouth, impossible to dislodge.

  He still
couldn’t believe Lilly could fall for a smug, shallow fellow like Harlan Santerre with nothing more to recommend him than an inherited fortune. Though money was more than enough for most young women, he’d thought Lilly would rise above greed and social position. Ha! He ’d so hoped she ’d wait for him, a poor boy made good returning to her in triumph. He ’d certainly miscalculated.

  George yanked the sides of his fedora as the breeze threatened to lift it off. “If Lilly didn’t want to marry Harlan, she would have dropped him months ago. They’re a fine match, one that suits the entire family.”

  Did the match suit Lilly as well as it satisfied the rest of the Westbrooks? Jack thought she’d willingly sacrifice herself to benefit her brother and her parents.

  “How so?” Jack tried to keep the edge out of his voice.

  “Harlan has impressive connections in both the business and the social world. Irene adores her new friends who come from the richest families in New York and Newport. And Lilly seems to like all the entertainment as well, though I’m never sure what she really thinks.”

  “What about your father?”

  “He appreciates tips about real estate coming on the market.”

  “And you?”

  George’s face lit up. “Harlan has practically promised me a job.”

  “I can’t imagine you’d enjoy working in an office with Santerre.”

  George shrugged. “I’d prefer teaching at a preparatory school for boys, but Irene and I need the salary Harlan will provide. He hasn’t proposed to Lilly yet, but we ’re all quite sure he will.”

  Jack looked away and scowled. Should he step aside like a gentleman or try to win Lilly back? Wouldn’t it be wrong to disrupt her plans for an advantageous marriage? Yet he couldn’t imagine the self-centered Harlan bringing her one iota of joy.

  Like it or not, he ’d keep his feelings to himself—at least for now.