This time the sigh was one of pure relief. “Then it’s settled. Mrs. Olivia Bower Quinley. I like the sound of that.”
“Me, too. Jeff?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can we get back to sleep now? I love you dearly, I really do. But I have to leave for the office in four hours.”
Chapter Seven
“Hey, Mom! Got any more of those peanut butter cookies?”
Olivia turned from the oven, where she was in the process of removing a last aluminum sheet of ooey-gooey sugar confections, to survey the tousled, pink-cheeked, panting boy who had just burst through the kitchen’s back door, and the dog panting alongside him. “What, you guys went through that last whole dozen already?”
“Hey, Mom! Baseball practice is hard work!” This was Jeff, right behind, grinning like a mackerel with pure simple joy. Bypassing the traffic jam at the counter, he swooped down on his wife with a hard hug and a smack on the lips.
“Jeff!” She was outraged. Or maybe not. “That will leave a mark.”
“Huh.” His voice sounded smug. “Going out in public, are you, to worry about it?”
“Not today.” Being Saturday. “Or tomorrow.” Being Sunday. “But soon, certainly. And then people will wonder.”
He pushed past to begin washing his hands at the sink. “Naw, they won’t. They’ll be jealous. Or, better yet, just pull one of those hats down, nobody will notice. Right, Champ?”
“Right-O, Dad. Mom, about those cookies…”
Eight months of turmoil, at times jubilant, at other times gut-wrenchingly disruptive, had passed. That interval had included the introduction to, and gradual acceptance of, Nicholas and his father. In fact, the acceptance had grown into mutual love and respect, despite a few expected bumps in the road. Holidays had come and gone, with Jeff now a permanent part of the Westhalen household. A place that felt so much like home to him that he had immediately settled in.
Olivia’s business kept right on growing, due to marketing this newfound demand for hats. With Jeff’s guidance, she had purchased the building where Just Livvie was located, enlarged the facilities, and hired more employees. Especially a couple more assistants to take over some of her own work load.
Jeff, too, was doing well. His discussion with superiors at Thomas Yates had resulted in moving the office much nearer his new digs, and more convenient. It was an easy decision for his own boss to make: either go along with it, or he would lose the guy.
As for Annajane, she was currently being cared for in a psychiatric hospital catering specifically to those who could afford its exorbitant fees. There had been no trial after her attack on Jeff and responding officers; there had been few headlines and little scandal. Terms agreed upon by the People of New York and her defending attorney had resulted in a lengthy time determined for “rehabilitation.” What happened after that would depend upon her own slender golden shoulders and the state of her mind.
At least Jeff’s divorce had been granted without contest, without a hitch. He had even, through his very able lawyer, been awarded a substantial sum—not from the marital estate, mind you, since the pre-nup arrangement had been unbreakable. No. The money had come from his former father-in-law, who was happy to see the last of this upstart and willing to pay a hefty price for the privilege.
The wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson Quinley had taken place on Valentines’ Day, at a lovely venue with a small-town atmosphere. Of course Olivia’s sprawling family from the distant environs of Wisconsin had arrived, en masse, to celebrate in style; as had every one of her employees and several, including Patty, from Jeff’s new office setup.
And every female guest had shown up wearing a hat.
Here in the kitchen on this mild April day, with spring sunshine coaxing forth yellow forsythia blossoms and drying up patches of mud, Jeff interrupted his scrounging for more cookies to entwine his wife in a hungry embrace.
“Oh, Dad,” protested Nicholas. He was at the table, supposedly absorbed with snack time, a glass of milk, and the newest baseball schedule. “Puh-leeze. No mushy stuff.”
Jeff grinned over at him, this boy he was so proud of. Seeing them together reminded Olivia of how often she had seen Nicholas by himself, over the years, only to yearn over many of the traits that marked him indubitably as Jeff’s son.
“Hey, kid, take it outside. I think Bruno is looking to retrieve a few more balls.”
“Huh. Okay. C’mon, Bruno!” At the doorway, he paused. “You’re comin’ out soon, aren’tcha, Dad?”
“Yup. Just a couple minutes.”
“Super.”
As the door slammed shut behind him, Olivia winced.
“Your son,” she murmured.
“Yup. My son.” Leaning forward, with a nip and a nuzzle to her exposed ear, he placed the palm of his hand over the warmth of her belly, already showing, at three months, a second pregnancy’s slight bulge. “And how’s the other one doing?” he purred.
“Much better, thanks, now that the morning sickness is pretty well past. Want to sit down for a few minutes, and have some coffee with me, Jeff?”
“My love, I’d just about break my own leg to sit down with you. But that slave driver named Nick is in the back yard, counting the seconds until I get back out there with him. Later, okay?” He whirled her around to snatch a quick kiss, and then another not so quick.
She smiled up at him as he lightly swatted her behind and headed away. “Tonight, by all means. Special circumstances.”
That stopped him momentarily on the threshold, while his blue eyes glimmered with memory. Once he’d finally, fully recovered from the gunshot wound, with all the attendant paraphernalia removed, and the pain and stiffness of unused muscles gone, he’d come home to take her, as promised, straight to bed.
Only to find the first floor of the house empty. There was just a sticky note on the counter, stating that Nicky was off to a basketball game with friends and Bruno was visiting the Gibsons for the afternoon. On his way to the living room he’d come across a cream-colored blouse, tossed carelessly aside on the floor. Farther on, one high-heeled shoe. Then another. Across the bottom step lay a rumpled suit skirt.
Jeff, heart beginning to pound with anticipation, had grinned broadly.
Halfway up, sure enough, there was the bra, a tempting piece of lace and ribbon. At the top, the matching panties.
He had made his way into the bedroom, enormously prepared for whatever action he could incite.
There, waiting for him, stood Olivia, gloriously, splendidly nude, in the middle of the carpet.
On her head she was wearing an absolute stunner of a hat, its huge sheer orange brim dressed out with giant pink and yellow and coral-colored chiffon flowers.
He had tripped over his own feet in the rush of getting to her.
Now, his salacious gaze swept over this tempting morsel in the kitchen, from top to bottom and back up again. “Which one?” he managed to ask, despite a mouth dried out by pure lust.
Olivia had already turned back to the oven and her Saturday housewifely duties. She shrugged, as if the answer mattered not at all, though she knew very well that the mental image she conjured up would make him crazy for the rest of the afternoon.
“Oh, just a new design. All black net. And pearls. And feathers. Lots and lots and lots of feathers, Jeffie, boy.”
Then she laughed. Just Livvie. Hat Trick Lady.
Bonus Story 1: A Twist of Fate
* * *
Chapter One
“Give Sterns-Gold a call today, Barbara, and find out about plans for our Grand Opening in Santa Rosa. They seem to be lagging a little behind the target date they set for me, and I’d like to firm up details.”
“I’ll get right on it, Kate.”
Once upon a time, a steno pad and a pen full of Gregg hieroglyphics had ruled the secretarial world. Now, a small laptop was used to make notes, handle correspondence, and manage overcrowded calendars. In her plush green-cushioned chair of the beautiful
Cachet executive office, long-time administrative assistant Barbara Sutton had flipped open the case of her small computer and was busily clicking away on the appropriate page, entering data.
“Also, check with Henry in Legal and make sure he’s going over that lease for the property in San Jose. No offer until our questions are all cleared up.”
“Absolutely. Check with Henry.” More tick-ticking at the keyboard.
Katherine Waring had moved from her immaculate white lacquered desk to stand beside the soaring window which looked out upon San Francisco Bay. Her favorite view, she had once involuntarily confided to her subordinate.
And why wouldn’t it be, seen at this lavish, luxurious location?
The ever-changing colors of the water, that ranged from azure to emerald and all the fascinating shades in between; sea-going vessels of every shape and size coming in, going out; the sky with its myriad looks that encompassed brilliant clear blue and fog of drippy gray: this amazing vista beguiled and bewitched at any given hour of the day. Were she not so busy, the temptation to simply sit and enjoy what lay almost at her doorstep might prove to be too much, and the present and the future would just slip away into some never-never land. Along with, Kate knew, opportunity.
No danger of that, however. Cachet had proven to be a demanding mistress, leaving no spare time for frivolity.
Her hand, upraised to pull back the sheer white curtain, relaxed against her side. With the movement, jewels flashed—a ring, a watch, a slender bracelet. Costly, yet understated, just as was Kate herself.
The woman is drop-dead gorgeous, thought Barbara, watching her employer with deep admiration, and just a touch of envy.
Tall, slender, regal in a raspberry cream silk suit, her lipstick colored to match, her complexion flawless as cream, her Nordic blonde hair combed smoothly back into a twist that allowed no straying, she might have been ageless; although Barbara, considering, guessed mid-thirties. No one amasses the sort of wealth that Kate had unless it is labored for, very long and hard, or is handed down through generations.
Certainly that was not true of Kate. She had made it on her own. During Barbara’s many years on the job, no family member had ever appeared to participate in any activity or function. Nor, for that matter, had friends. Kate Waring, driven to succeed through the work of building one exclusive spa after another into her single magnificent chain, was a loner.
“I’ve received notice that Sugar Glenn Hill is, unfortunately, having to go out of business,” Kate continued, still gazing out at the sun-spangled water that never failed to soothe.
“Oh, Kate, that’s troubling news. Sugar Glenn provides a wonderful line of our specialty bath products that are so popular. Any idea what happened?”
“Besides us, not enough demand, apparently. Or possibly a problem procuring the essential components they use. Anyway, I’d like you to do some research, Barbara—get the list of ingredients and see what you can do to find another manufacturer.”
“Certainly. I’ll put that at the top of my list.”
Efficiency, thy name is Barbara Sutton. Trim and tucked, nearer a comfortable forty than flirtatious thirty, she served as Katherine’s right-hand agent in all things official, sometimes more colleague than assistant. Intelligence and compassion shone from the gray eyes behind businesslike horn-rimmed glasses, and good humor radiated from the few facial lines she had already acquired. If you wanted something done, and done promptly and well, Barbara was the one you sought out; and everyone else on staff knew it.
“Also, kindly call and reschedule my Friday appointment with Nate Deering.”
Barbara glanced up, looking a question.
Turning slightly, Kate waved one negligible hand. “A sales rep for auditory equipment and meditation tapes. I’m perfectly satisfied with what we already have, so push him off for a week or so. Oh, and—last thing, Barbara: confirm that Ben Hadley will still be escorting me to the Chamber’s cocktail mixer on Saturday night.”
“Of course.” Rising, Barbara closed the laptop and smoothed her black pencil skirt, all in one motion, then paused for a sympathetic glance. “You’ve been putting in some long hours lately, Kate. Aren’t you about due for some time off?”
One shoulder lifted a little in an elegant shrug. “Too many irons in the fire at the moment. I have a ton of paperwork to get through if there’s to be any hope of opening the new spa.”
“I know. But you can’t keep going at this pace. Let someone else take over some of the responsibility for a while, and go away on vacation. I’ll bet it would be good for you; you’d come back refreshed, bringing a whole new perspective.”
With a smile, friendly but cool, Kate seated herself in the green leather desk chair. “You may be right, Barbara. And someday I’ll take your advice. But not right now.” She reached for her pen to signal that the interview was over. “Oh, and check with Mel about a projected balance sheet for the next quarter, will you?”
Barbara paused at the door to touch two fingers to her forehead in a mock salute before disappearing to tend to duty.
Which left Kate momentarily at loose ends.
One stack of folders lined up neatly on the white credenza pertained to possible acquisition of the property in San Jose. Another pertained to the Grand Opening tentatively scheduled for Cachet’s newest spa in Santa Rosa. Still a third smaller stack pertained to a new marketing program, complete with radio spots and print ads.
Leaning back in the chair she had hand-picked for comfort and luxury, Kate glanced around her office with a sense of deep satisfaction. She had never married. Never borne children. This, this place with all its farther reaches into the community, was her life. For many years, she had given it her all.
And it showed.
From ceiling to walls, from windows to floor, the predominating color scheme included a harmony of misty underwater greens, backed by white. Crisp and clean, reminiscent of ocean depths, and infinitely relaxing to the eye and to the spirit. Arched columns of filigreed wedding-cake prettiness led to the outer conference area, where employees were greeted by rosy brick trim, white furnishings, and tasteful chandeliers.
The same sort of décor reigned in every one of her individual spas, of which she was understandably—and justifiably—proud, since the design was one of her own.
Even the name, Cachet, bore her personal imprint of flowing script and encompassing swirl. Where might she go from here? At some point her posh and privileged little consortium might become as famous as—well, the Nike Swoosh, for example; or the not-so-hidden white arrow of FedEx.
“Not bad, Kitty,” she murmured to herself, and picked up the slim gold-and-silver Waterman which affixed her signature to so many vital documents. “Not bad at all.”
“Kit! Kit! Damn it, can’t you hear the noise? Get your lazy behind in here and shut that kid up!”
“Comin’, Mona.” With unutterable weariness Kit put aside the dish cloth dripping with cold greasy water, dried her hands on a threadbare towel, and moved from the trailer’s narrow kitchen area to the cluttered living room. There she bent to pick up a squalling six-month-old who needed food, a fresh diaper, and a bath.
Even then she wasn’t quick enough. From the sagging rust-colored couch where she sprawled, her foster mother shoved out a broad bare foot that landed, with force, against Kit’s scrawny little bottom. “About damn time,” Mona snarled. “Try movin’ faster. And get outa the way, you’re blockin’ my TV, and I wanna see what’s next on Knots Landing.”
Knots Landing. As she picked up the tearful baby and made her way to the miniscule second bedroom, Kit glanced scornfully around. As if anyone mired in this backwater could ever make it out to life in some fake ritzy suburbia like that portrayed by Hollywood. To a normal life, anywhere, for that matter.
Heat enclosed her like a cocoon as she plopped little Amaryllis into the middle of an unmade bed and pulled off a soggy diaper. Mobile home, its brochure had once advertised, some thirty years ago, providing modern
conveniences in a compact space for the traditional family. Inadequate insulation to begin with had gradually given way to no insulation at all, so every blast of Arizona’s winter wind, every scourge of summer sun, beat down and folded over this place and its inhabitants.
“There you go, baby girl,” said Kit now, settling the naked baby with a splash of powder and fresh cotton wrap. “Now let’s get you a bottle.”
Amaryllis gurgled through her tears and gave a gummy smile. Trying to cut a tooth had shortened her normally easy-going temper and flushed her plump cheeks with fever. She squirmed on the rumpled quilt, trying to turn over, and gurgled again.
“Okay, okay.” With a sigh, Kit saddled the infant over her left hip and returned to the kitchen, sending a regretful glance toward the pile of neglected schoolbooks as she passed by the chipped and battered Formica table.
At the ripe old age of twelve, Kit couldn’t really be expected to harbor anything approaching maternal sensibilities. Especially when she had been run ragged by her foster family’s demands for the past two years. Still, as she watched the baby sucking hungrily at warmed formula, Kit’s heart twisted and tightened at the look of utter adoration in those big blue eyes shining up at her.
“Is that kid done eatin’ yet?” Mona called in her strident voice. The scratch of a wooden match against its metal box, the hiss of flame applied to tobacco, and the satisfied inhalation of cigarette smoke confirmed yet one more reason for her less-than-dulcet tones. Besides the routine yells that strained vocal chords, of course. “When she’s finished, go call in the other kids to get their homework done.”
Their typical supper of franks and beans finished earlier, Terry, aged fourteen, John, aged eleven, and the ten-year-old twins, Kenny and Kim, had charged outside to join the gang of young hoodlums that ranged the trailer park. Their prowlings took them on their usual haunt into nearby scrubby, cacti-strewn foothills at the edge of Phoenix, doing Lord knew what. They always returned eventually, covered in sweat and dust and smelling of mesquite.
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