Open Invitation?

by Karen Kendall

  Mama…calling from England. He took a deep breath and cracked his neck, his gaze resting again on the stoop-shouldered figure of his father.

  “Daniel, really. What kind of greeting is that?” Her voice was peppered with disapproval.

  It never ceased to amuse him that the former Louella Granger had trained her West Texas drawl, like some hardy vine, to climb a worldly trellis until it flowered into a British accent.

  “It’s a functional greetin’,” he told her. “Brief, to the point, states who I am. No bullshit about it, Mama.”

  “Mummy. Please, call me Mummy, dear boy. And don’t curse.”

  Dan grimaced. Dear boy? Christ. Oh, I say, old chaps. Are y’all fixin’ to watch the telly? “Apologies, Mama. How are you?”

  “Splendid! And you?”

  “Can’t complain. Dad’s fine, too, by the way.”

  She expelled an audible breath.

  He added, “Salutations to dear Nigel, of course.”

  “Daniel, your sarcasm is not appreciated.”

  “Sarcasm?”

  “Nigel is a lovely man. I’m very lucky.”

  Uh-huh. Nigel-the-Lovely had broken up Dan’s parents’ marriage without a qualm and whisked Louella off to Merry Olde England without her fourteen-year-old son.

  Nigel, being a real peach, hadn’t wanted a sullen teenager weighing down the bliss of his new marriage. And Louella had preferred the guilt of leaving her son behind to the realities of raising him. She was very sorry for the way things had turned out, but young Dan had been a little wild and needed the firm guidance that only his father could give him. He was to visit for a month out of every summer though. Wasn’t that just divine?

  Nope. Dan couldn’t stomach tea and crumpets and Lovely Nigel. He’d lasted for exactly ten days on his first visit before announcing that he hated Nigel’s stuffy mausoleum, he couldn’t stand British food and there was no way in hell he’d ever call Mama “Mummy.” He’d taken the first available flight to Dallas. Hard to believe that was twenty-two years ago. Even harder to believe that little Claire, his twenty-one-year-old half sister, was now getting married in just three short weeks. Claire had been the only bright spot in his visits.

  Mama waxed poetic and floral about the upcoming wedding, while all he could think about was how he’d adored his little barefoot hellion of a sister. In an odd arrangement, she’d come to visit a few times with Mama.

  Claire the sweet, funny tomboy with the sunny personality and Nigel’s snooty accent. Dan had taught her to appreciate the value of a good peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich on Wonder bread instead of those vile crumpets. And as for tea—the only way to drink the stuff, as far as Dan was concerned, was cold and sweet, with a healthy dose of lemon. No fussy porcelain with curlicue handles. No silver sugar tongs. No milk.

  “So, darling,” his mother said, her voice holding a note of determination. “I said you’d call her. You understand it’s only for Claire that I ask.”

  Huh? He’d obviously missed something. “Mama, I’m sorry—my mind was wandering. Who am I supposed to call?”

  “Lilia London, Daniel. Of Finesse.”

  “And why am I supposed to call this woman?”

  “Daniel! I may as well have been talking to a stump. Now listen to me this time.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “As I told you, Claire’s fiancé is a gentleman of impeccable lineage, and the family is very prominent. His father has a seat in the House of Lords. He’s a viscount.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Well, the thing is, Claire wants to be sure the wedding and reception go smoothly. And she doesn’t want to…” his mother trailed off delicately. “She would like to avoid embarrassment. Not to mention that she’d like you to be comfortable—”

  “I’ll be fine. I couldn’t care less about rubbing shoulders with the snoots. I’ll hang out with the common folk. The, uh, hoi polloi, I believe you call them.”

  “Yes, well. I’m afraid that there won’t be any common folk at the festivities, Daniel. That’s rather the issue here, darling.”

  Dan felt irritation spark somewhere in the region of his liver. Now what? “Would you like me to just stay in the kitchen, then, Mama? Wash the pots and pans?”

  “Of course not, silly goose! What a mad idea.” She trilled with laughter. “It would never do for the bride’s brother to be working in the kitchen.”

  Of course not. Bad for the family image.

  “But you have to admit that you’re rather rough around the edges, and this will be a challenging social situation. Five forks at the sit-down dinner, you know. Ballroom dancing with a live orchestra. And a Sunday morning mini-steeplechase—it should have been a hunt, but the horrid government put an end to that—followed by a champagne luncheon.”

  Dan tried to imagine what in the hell anybody did with five forks at one meal, besides use them to stab obnoxious dinner companions whose politics you didn’t agree with.

  “…so I want you to call Lilia, dearest. She’ll work with you for the next two weeks. Teach you conversation, table etiquette and dancing. She’s going to outfit you with proper clothes, too.”

  The irritation in Dan’s liver flamed into full-fledged annoyance, not to mention hurt. “You have got to be kiddin’ me. You want to train me like a chimp just for this blasted, stupid, redcoat wedding?”

  “It’s not blasted and stupid! It’s the most important day—weekend—of your sister’s life. This is a very small favor to ask.”

  “Uh-huh. And how much will this small favor cost? Is Lovely Nigel footing the bill?”

  Silence. “Daniel, you’ve done very well for yourself with the ranching and the oil leases. There is no reason Nigel should be asked to…to…pay for your civilization.”

  Dan stuck a finger in his ear and jiggled it, hard. “My what? Did I hear you right? Did you just say my civilization?”

  Louella sighed. “It’s only a figure of speech.”

  “It’s a figure of speech that implies you think I’m a savage!”

  “Daniel, on my last visit I distinctly remember you eating some sort of vile pasta product direct from the can with a plastic spoon. You also slept in your clothes.”

  “I was twenty-two years old! That’s how long it’s been since you’ve visited.”

  “Well, I don’t have a great deal of confidence that things have improved much. You may now eat your food from the pot with a fork, that’s all.”

  Dan hated to admit it, but she was right.

  “You need some guidance.”

  “This is insulting. And I gotta point out that you are the one who brought me up until you left. We never used five forks at our dinner table, Mama. One was good enough for you then. Dad and I were good enough for you then. So was Amarillo. But I guess all that has changed.”

  An awkward silence ensued, and Dan was human enough to savor it. She felt guilty. Well, she should.

  Her Southern accent came through more than a little as she said, “Danny, I’m sorry. But I don’t know how to fix it now.”

  There is no fixing it now. But he didn’t say it aloud. He stared out at the sparse, dry Amarillo landscape, watching the sun set over the parched grass, scrub and mesquite. Unforgiving, this land was. But so beautiful in a rough, raw way. You couldn’t force somebody to appreciate it. They just had to feel it in their bones. And if their bones belonged elsewhere…

  Dan sighed. How she could prefer cold and fog and miserable drizzle to the baked heat of Texas, he didn’t know. But he supposed she’d done what she had to do: escape. He’d have to forgive her one day.

  “Just do it for Claire. Please, Daniel,” she said. “Her wedding is very important to her.”

  “Why didn’t she ask me herself?”

  “She was too embarrassed. She was afraid to hurt your feelings.”

  Oh, I see. But you have no worries about that…

  “Will you do it, Daniel?” His mother’s voice was insistent. She wasn’t going to
take no for an answer. She’d just keep calling and badger him to death.

  Dan sighed. “Who is this woman again?”

  “She’s the etiquette consultant for a Connecticut-based company called Finesse. They’re excellent and come highly recommended. Now write this down.”

  Dan’s mind returned to the present.

  For Claire. Not for Mama. It’s for Claire that I’m doing this. He was damned if he’d embarrass her at her own wedding. And he didn’t know how to fix himself to her satisfaction.

  Dan rubbed a weary hand across the slight fur of his chest when he hung up. He stared at the name and number he’d scrawled. Lilia London. What a priss-pot, pretentious name. He’d bet it was made up, like a stage name, to fit her profession.

  He imagined himself calling her. Well, Martha Stewart was in jail, so I contacted you…

  Claire’s request hurt. He’d never ask her to change one bit…but all the indicators pointed to the fact that she had. She’d become the sort of person who cared about forks and steeplechases and image. Well, tally friggin’ ho. He was off to Farmington, Connecticut.

  DESPITE HER SNOTTY NAME, Dan entertained himself on the long flight by trying to imagine what Lilia London looked like.

  Her voice was cool, elegant and pure. Like the finest vodka poured neat—straight from the freezer. It was the voice of a 1950’s movie star: an untouchable, impeccable but oh-so-sexy Audrey Hepburn. Audrey in sterling silver garters.

  Dan couldn’t get Lilia’s crisp enunciation and continental accent out of his baked Texas brain. Truth to tell, her voice did strange and embarrassing things to him. His soldier had come right to attention; a missile at the ready, locking on target. The soldier eagerly anticipated five farks, but not the kind you set next to a dinner plate.

  Dan told him to stand down. And at ease. Because though Lilia London’s voice still echoed in his head, she was over a thousand miles away and he didn’t even know what she looked like. She could be the size of a redwood tree, with a beard and manly hands. But somehow he didn’t think so. He had a feeling that her voice was bigger than she was. She’d be petite and porcelain, the kind of girl who got caught in a dapper hero’s fierce embrace by the end of an old film. The closed-mouth kiss was passionate enough to rattle her pearls, but Metro Goldwyn Meyer soon faded her to black, fully clothed.

  The Audreys of the world wouldn’t know what to do in contemporary Hollywood. Dan tried and failed to imagine her in current love scenes. They would ruin her mystique. Tarnish the whole concept of a lady.

  Dan closed his eyes and drifted off into a light, fitful sleep. He kept seeing a ten-year-old Claire walking down the aisle of a church, wearing jeans with holes in the knees. She got to the end and took the hand of a pompous ass in tails and a top hat. The kind of guy the English would refer to as a real “prat.” Ugh.

  Dan awoke as the jet landed with a bump. The roar of brakes filled his ears while the flight attendants commanded everyone to stay seated until the captain had turned off the seat belt sign. They hoped he’d enjoyed his flight, had a pleasant stay at his final destination and would think of their airline again next time he traveled.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. Dan pulled his overnight bag out of the overhead compartment, helped an older woman with hers and waited with the rest of the herd to get off the plane.

  A walk through the terminal and a rental car later, he emerged from Bradley Airport’s roundabout and onto the highway. He was a forty minute drive from his destination of Farmington, Connecticut, home of the legendary Miss Porter’s preparatory school for young women. Maybe Farmington was chock full of Audrey Hepburns. It wasn’t such a horrible vista to contemplate, since she was a hot little babe.

  If only he could meet the Audreys without taking classes in some friggin’ charm school.

  LILIA LOOKED UP from her computer as the glass door of Finesse opened with a bit of a crash and something dropped to the floor with a thud. She left her delicate reading glasses on her nose as she got up and walked to the door of her office.

  “Howdy!” said a tall, tanned, younger version of the Marlboro Man. He wore Western boots. He sported a belt buckle the size of a satellite dish, affixed to a hand-tooled leather belt that she was terribly afraid had his name etched into the back—the distressing equivalent of a dog collar, as far as she was concerned. And worse, far worse, he actually wore a Stetson on his head. The two-day stubble she could live with, since it was in vogue and somewhat George Clooneyish. The scarred, weathered hands might be a problem in his transformation. But his posture was good—excellent for such a tall man.

  And the bulge in his pants was quite impressive…. Shocked at herself for even letting her eyes wander there, Lilia blushed. She ended her quick inventory with a gracious hello.

  “Are you Miz London?”

  “I am. And you must be Mr. Granger. How are you?” Lil extended her hand.

  He stuck out a big paw and shook it. “Cain’t complain.”

  He had the warmest, firmest handshake she’d ever encountered. It almost dislodged her arm from the socket, though. He was roughly twice her size. “Pleasant flight?”

  “The usual. Microscopic packets o’ trail mix and a weak soft drink over too much ice. Lots of orders to fasten my seat belt and enjoy the ride.” Granger grinned down at her, seeming unwilling to relinquish her hand. He looked deeply and frankly into her eyes and she felt something inside her melting.

  She slowly disentangled her hand, unable to look away from his sardonic and wildly sexy mouth. Rimmed by unshaven stubble, his lips sat cockily over a cleft chin set in a strong, angular jaw.

  “Aw, do I have to give that back, Miz London?” He was referring to her hand. “I thought maybe it was mine to keep.”

  Again, she fell into that smile, even though it was a cheesy line. This cowboy was something else. Her heart did a slow roll in her chest, and she blinked.

  The man may not have manners, but he does have magnetism—even if it’s all animal. “Nice compliment,” she said, by way of recovery. “Very good. We can work with that.” She nodded and smiled like a benevolent professor.

  Granger shoved his own hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels as he looked down at her. His mouth twisted. “Thank you, ma’am. If I had a tail, I’d wag it for ya, in hopes of gettin’ a Scooby snack.”

  Lilia tilted her head and evaluated him. Not stupid, in spite of the twang and the slang. He knew when he was being patronized. She’d have to be careful. “Why don’t we go into my office,” she suggested. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Just hot ‘n’ black.”

  She restrained herself from adding the words “please” and “thank you” for him, walked to the antique mahogany desk that had been her grandmother’s and retrieved a neatly prepared file. “While I get that for you, you may want to have a look at our contract.”

  “All right. Uh, d’you have somewhere I can put my hat?”

  “Of course,” Lilia said automatically, and found herself holding the Stetson without the faintest idea what to do with it. She cast a glance at the bronze bust of her grandfather Henry London, who had been knighted by the Queen of England for distinguished work in the sciences.

  Sir Henry sat on a pedestal in a corner of her office. He was terribly dignified and wore a bow tie. A wicked impulse took hold of her. For the next couple of hours, he could also wear a cowboy hat. She took it over to him and perched it on his head at a jaunty angle.

  Granger grinned. “Gives the old pompous ass a little personality, don’t it?”

  Lilia froze. With silent apologies to Grandfather Henry, she aimed a genteel smile in the cowpoke’s direction and said nothing. It would be rude to embarrass him, no matter how tempting. She handed him the file.

  Granger took the file and sprawled into her visitor’s chair, denim-covered knees spread wide. He began to whistle while reading. He cracked his knuckles.
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  Oh, dear. Lilia didn’t slap herself in the forehead for taking on this handsome yokel, but maybe she should have. Could she really transform him?

  She made a beeline for the kitchenette to get his coffee. She poured a cup for him and one for herself, using her grandmother’s Royal Doulton china: very thin, very old, hand-painted.

  She sang softly as she set a tray with the cups, saucers, cream, sugar and linen napkins. She added a plate of artistically arranged cookies and fresh strawberries and two silver spoons, also her grandmother’s. Nana Lisbeth’s third commandment was: Food should always look pretty. It tastes better that way.

  With perfect posture, Lilia lifted the tray and glided toward her office, ignoring Shannon who winked at her and lifted her Diet Coke can in a parody of English manners, waving her pinky finger in an exaggerated fashion. Shan’s hideous rendition of “God Save the Queen” did make Lil laugh, though.

  She swept into her office with a smile still on her face, though she felt it wobble when she beheld Dan Granger’s booted foot propped against the edge of her desk.

  “What exotic-looking boots you’re wearing, Mr. Granger!” she exclaimed, hoping he’d take the hint.

  “Elephant hide,” he nodded. “Check ’em out.” He slid the boot farther onto her desk for her perusal. “Cost me a damn arm and a leg, but well worth it.”

  She kept her smile fixed in place as she moved around the other side of the desk and placed the tray squarely in the middle of it. “I do hope the elephant agrees with you.”

  Dan guffawed and didn’t move his boot in spite of the proximity of the food.

  Lilia squinted meaningfully at it, but he must have been convinced that she was admiring the awful footwear. She slid the tray closer to the boot, and then closer, until she actually nudged it and he took the hint. “Your coffee, Mr. Granger.”

  He eyed the beautifully set tray uneasily. “The Sunday china, huh? I’m honored.”

  “No, no. I use this every day. Here you are,” she said as she handed him his cup and saucer. He needed to get comfortable with this sort of thing.