He grins and leans in conspiratorially to say, “That wasn’t a joke. I hate parties like this.”
“Then why are you having it?”
“Good question.” He’s willing to bet there’s very little that this woman does on other people’s terms.
Lucky, lucky her.
“Nice meeting you,” he says, stretching out his hand.
“You, too.” She looks taken aback.
He can feel the curious stares of other workers on them as he shakes her hand, careful not to let his fingers linger as long as he wants to. Her hand is warm, her grip firm.
Again, he finds himself comparing her touch to Joyce’s lackluster grasp.
Ironic, isn’t it, that this is the first woman toward whom he’s felt the slightest spark of attraction in ages?
Looking down into Anne’s wide-set, celery-colored eyes, he curses the fates that make it inappropriate for him to say anything other than, “Well, good night” before slipping back to his party.
Joyce is waiting patiently for him, of course.
He has the feeling that she’ll wait patiently for him for as long as he lets her.
He could probably string her along for years, feigning a relationship that has a future.
Tomorrow, he tells himself again. Tomorrow, he’ll set himself free.
“Well, Annie?” Merlin asks, as they walk through the darkness toward their cars parked in a secluded lot a short distance from the Brannock estate. “What did you think?”
“About what?”
“The job. It wasn’t as bad as you expected it to be, was it.” It isn’t a question. She caught him watching her a few times tonight, wearing a little smile as if he were pleasantly surprised to see that she wasn’t downright miserable.
“No,” she admits, patting her pocketful of cash. “It wasn’t that bad.”
The snooty people weren’t rudely cold, as she expected. They were merely coolly detached, which was fine with her. They treated her as though she were invisible.
Everyone, that is, but the evening’s host, Thom-with-an-‘h’-Brannock. He was different. Perhaps just because he was the host. Or perhaps because they literally bumped into each other head-on, while her interaction with the others involved politely passing hors d’oeuvres and champagne.
In any case, Thom Brannock wasn’t cold. He was, in fact, almost . . . well, warm.
In addition to being warm, he also happened to be pretty hot. Not that she had any interest in noticing that the man had more than his share of sex appeal.
But it was a hard thing to miss. Especially since all the women in the kitchen were chattering about how “hot” he was. Hotter than hot, one waitress called him. Another kept referring to him—behind his back, of course—as Big Blue, a reference to his eyes and not, as Annie initially assumed, to an affiliation with the tech industry.
Never before has she seen eyes that unusual shade, a deep, dusky navy that reminds Annie of ripe blueberries.
Still, more than Thom’s eyes or his overall good looks, Annie was taken aback by his casual friendliness.
When she found out who he was, she was all set to resent him. But for some reason, she didn’t.
No, she almost liked the guy. And when he said good-bye in the kitchen on his way back to his party, she almost found herself feeling sorry for him.
Which was odd. Why would she, a destitute widow with two young children, pity a millionaire or billionaire or whatever he is?
Because there was an odd aura of isolation about him, that’s why. He was surrounded by the trappings of wealth and the fabulous people who are drawn to the trappings of wealth, yet he seemed utterly alone.
And loneliness is something to which Annie can reluctantly relate now that Andre is gone.
Thom Brannock isn’t married.
She’s fairly certain of that. If he were married, he wouldn’t seem so alone.
Or maybe he would. Maybe he and his wife lead separate lives. Lots of couples do. Her brothers and their wives, for example.
But if Thom were married, his wife would have more likely been the one working with Merlin on the party arrangements. That’s the way it works with Annie’s sisters-in-law.
Then again, you never know. Maybe Thom Brannock and his wife, if he has one, are the exception to the rule among the socially elite Hamptonites.
So is he married, or isn’t he?
There’s only one way to find out . . . and find out, Annie must. She doesn’t know why, but she has to know.
“Is he married?”
Merlin looks around at the dark seascape, as though expecting to spot the “he” in question lurking in the dunes. “Is who married?”
“Sorry . . . I meant the guy who hosted the party.”
Somehow, she can’t bring herself to say his name, though she’ll never forget it. Thom with an “h.”
But saying it aloud, especially to Merlin, might make it seem as though she’s interested in the man. Which she isn’t.
She’s just curious about his marital status because . . . well, who the hell knows why she’s curious? She’s curious about a lot of things. Like . . . like . . .
Well, right now, she can only think of one thing in particular, but that’s because it’s well after midnight and it’s almost the longest day of the year.
“His name is Thom, and no, he’s not married.”
“Oh.”
For a moment, there isn’t a sound but the waves crashing in the distance and their footsteps on the grassy path. Just when Annie is convinced the subject has been dropped, Merlin asks, “Why did you want to know, Annie?”
“I just wondered.”
“Because you’re—”
“No, not because I’m interested in him. So don’t get any ideas,” Annie warns.
It’s a dark night; she can’t see the look in Merlin’s eyes but she can feel him watching her, just the way she could feel Thom watching her earlier when she feigned fascination with the Renoir.
Not that she isn’t a fan of the late French Impressionist. She studied his work in college, comprehensively enough to recognize the obscure painting in Thom Brannock’s possession.
Thank goodness for that; art history was a welcome distraction from her unexpected, unwelcome, and inappropriate attraction to the master of the house.
“Did you meet Mr. Brannock?” Merlin asks.
“Just for a second. I ran into him when I got lost. He helped me find my way back to the kitchen.”
“Can you imagine having a house so enormous people could get lost in it?”
“I can’t imagine having a house big enough that you can sneeze without everyone in it immediately saying gesundheit,” Annie tells Merlin wistfully.
“Maybe you should sell it and move.”
“No.”
“But Annie, you can find something bigger and in better shape and more affordable someplace else.”
“I can’t sell the house, Merlin. It’s my home. Andre and I planned on living there forever.”
She waits for Merlin to point out that Andre is no longer living, period.
But he’s silent.
Again, Annie thinks about the strange telephone call earlier, and the odd feeling that came over her in the car on the way here.
She opens her mouth to tell Merlin about it, but she’s too late. He’s already speaking, telling her about another catering job he has lined up for late next week, a golf luncheon in Bridgehampton.
“Do you think you can line up a sitter for a few hours and help me out, Annie?”
She shrugs, feeling the weight of the cash in her pocket. “Maybe. I’ll let you know. But don’t think this is going to be a regular thing, Merlin. I still have my business.”
“I know you do.” He pauses. “Has your stuff been selling any better now that the summer people are trickling back?”
“Dribs and drabs. I’m sure it’ll pick up,” she adds without much conviction.
Back when Annie wasn’t the head of h
er household, it was a hell of a lot easier to ignore the fact it takes more than a hot glue gun and a whimsical flair to make a living. Yes, she earned a nice supplemental income and the enthusiasm of local shop and gallery owners. But that’s no longer enough.
“I’ll see if I can get a sitter for next Thursday,” she reluctantly tells Merlin, as they cover the last few steps toward their cars.
“Good. Let me know.”
They jangle their keys, aim their remotes, simultaneously unlock their doors.
Annie yawns. “Good night. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. And thanks.”
Merlin’s hand rests briefly on her arm. “You’re doing great, Annie.”
“Waitressing?”
“Surviving.”
Emotion swells her throat so that she doesn’t dare respond.
She sinks into the driver’s seat, closes the door, and resists the urge to rest her head against the steering wheel. She can feel Merlin watching her; she doesn’t want him to see how damned weary she is, or how close to tears.
Survival? Is that what this is? Funny, it doesn’t feel like survival. Just the opposite, in fact. It feels to her as though a little more of the old Annie dies every day.
Merlin waves at her.
She forces a smile and waves back, pretending everything is just terrific. “See you,” she calls.
“See you,” he mouths back, before getting into his car and driving off, heading home to Jonathan.
She reaches down to turn the key in the ignition, remembering how comforted she felt earlier, when she was so certain Andre was here with her.
She tells herself that if that was real, that if he’s truly out there, somewhere, he’ll send her another message.
A song.
When the radio comes on, she’ll hear that song again. “Hello, It’s Me.”
Or is that asking too much?
Is she being too specific?
Do ghosts take requests?
A choked little laugh escapes Annie, seeming to echo in the decidedly empty car.
All right, it doesn’t have to be that particular song again. It can be any song. Any song with meaning will do.
She’ll hear it, and she’ll know that he’s there. She won’t be alone anymore.
She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for disappointment, even as she acknowledges that she’s not asking too much now.
Just send me a song with meaning, Andre. That’s all. Then I’ll know you’re really with me.
But will she?
Odds are, when you turn on the radio, a song is going to be playing, and if you search hard enough, you’re going to be able to find meaning in it somehow.
So maybe she just wants so desperately to believe . . .
What, Annie? What do you want to believe? In ghosts? Is that it?
Yes. And that she didn’t imagine the phone call earlier today. That the Todd Rundgren song confirmed that it was real. That Andre was still with her, is with her now, will always be with her.
Here goes.
She turns the key.
In the fleeting instant before the engine turns over, she knows. She knows it isn’t going to happen. Not now. She doesn’t feel him now.
“. . . another hot one tomorrow, with temperatures in the low nineties inland and ten degrees cooler at the shore. And now, here’s an old one from Long Island’s own Billy Joel.”
Annie reaches for the radio knob and turns it abruptly to the left, cutting off the opening strains of “Uptown Girl.”
Grim-faced, the Widow Harlowe drives home in solitary silence.
Chapter 4
Thom had every intention of breaking up with Joyce first thing that sunny Sunday morning.
Or at least, first thing after he’s read the Sunday Times while enjoying his usual two cups of black coffee and a couple of leftover cookies from last night’s party.
Sitting on the terrace, the warm breeze rustling his newspaper and the leafy boughs overhead, listening to the surf and the distant hum of a seaplane, Thom contentedly nibbles the crumbly, red-frosting-piped corner of another cookie. The opening line of a poem Mother used to recite floats into his head as lazily as the single billowing white cloud that drifts against this morning’s dazzling cerulean sky.
“What is so rare as a day in June?”
Finding a heap of iced sugar cookies on a platter on one’s polished granite countertop, that’s what.
Normally, Thom has fruit and yogurt for breakfast. But today, when he broke off a star-spangled edge of a buttery, cleverly frosted flag while waiting for the percolator to do its thing, he was a goner.
If James Russell Lowell had tasted these cookies, he’d have amended his famous poem to include them, Thom decides, flipping a page of the Sunday New York Times Magazine.
Cookies.
Yes, there’s another item he should add to his list of risky but worthwhile pleasures.
All cookies, but these in particular.
They’re so decadent and delicious that before one knows it, one has eaten two. Or six.
One might lose count.
If Thom woke to find these cookies in his kitchen every morning, it wouldn’t be long before he’d be struggling to button his chinos.
Hence, the potential for peril.
But this morning, Thom isn’t in the mood to think about peril.
Nor is he in the mood to think about Joyce, or breakups.
Not yet.
He turns another page, takes another bite, sips more of his coffee, and sets the mug on the edge of the paper so that it won’t blow away.
He’s wondering why his coffee tastes so darned bitter this morning when a shadow falls over the table.
“Mr. Brannock?”
He looks up to see Norma, his weekend housekeeper, towering above him. Big blond Norma towers above Thom even when he’s standing, but she’s particularly formidable from this vantage point, all but blocking out the sun.
“What’s the problem, Norma?” he asks, because taciturn Norma only interrupts him when she has one.
“I found this.”
Something glints in the palm of her outstretched hand. He takes it from her.
“It’s a wedding ring,” he informs her—which is, of course, quite obvious.
If she were Anne from last night, she might roll her eyes or volley a wise-ass comeback, but she’s Norma, so she merely nods and says, “Yes, it is.”
Anne from last night. Now there’s a woman more rare than a day in June. More rare than a snowstorm in June, Thom muses, nibbling another sugary crumb of cookie and turning the gold band over in his hand.
“Where did you find this?” he asks Norma, even as he busies himself coming up with a more suitable name for the green-eyed waitress he’ll never see again.
“Anne” is simply too staid. She doesn’t look like an Anne. And certainly not an Anne with an “e,” which is precisely how all the Southampton and Park Avenue Annes he’s ever known spell their names.
This particular Anne looks—all right, looked, since she isn’t here and he’ll never see her again—like someone whose name should be more upbeat and breezy.
Breezy as this day in June, for that matter, which leads him to wonder what she’s doing on this breezy June day.
It’s perfect weather for sailing.
He glances at the ubiquitous white triangles on the horizon and finds it all too easy to picture Anne on a boat, wind stirring her curls, sun kissing her cheeks . . .
“Mr. Brannock?”
Oh. Right. Norma.
Norma whose blond bun is as tight as her lips, which are growing more taut by the second as she waits for him to respond to whatever it is she’s waiting for him to respond to.
Oh. Right. The ring.
He weighs it in his open palm, noting that it’s fairly lightweight. Too lightweight to belong to him—if he owned a gold wedding band, which, thank goodness, he does not. Anyway, it’s too small to be a man’s ring.
“Where did you find it,
Norma?”
“On the floor in the butler’s pantry.”
If the ring’s lack of heft didn’t rule out the party guests as possible owners of the ring, the fact that it was found in the butler’s pantry would. The first floor powder room is as far off the domestic beaten path as any woman in his mother’s and sister’s social circle would venture.
Feeling a bit like Angela Lansbury in that old detective show Father liked to watch, Thom deduces that the wedding band must belong to a member of the household staff, or perhaps to the caterer’s waitstaff.
He tilts it to see whether anybody’s initials are inscribed. Something is written there, but it takes a few different angles to make out the scrolled engraving.
ONE LOVE, ONE LIFETIME.
Thom recognizes the lyrics, but can’t quite place them.
He slips the ring thoughtfully into the pocket of his chinos.
“I’ll take care of this, Norma,” he assures the hovering behemoth.
“All right.”
Thom is certain that she’s imagining him hocking the ring and treating himself to a round of golf with the profits. Little does she realize that the ring is virtually worthless in the grand scheme of things. Thom’s things, anyway.
But it means something to somebody, and he’s going to see that it’s returned to the former bride.
Again, Anne wafts into his thoughts.
She worked in the kitchen, and most likely in the butler’s pantry as well.
But she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
Maybe because this belongs to her, and it had already fallen off.
Thom’s heart beats a little faster at the thought of seeing her again . . .
To hand over her wedding ring?
His nostrils curl in disdain. What the heck is wrong with him today?
And why does his heart beat just as quickly when he tells himself that the ring most definitely does not belong to Anne because she most definitely isn’t married?
Her marital status is of no concern to him.
His only concern, this fine, rare June morning, is Joyce’s marital status.
More specifically, seeing that Joyce maintains her current single one.
But he’ll have to get to the breakup a little later.
For the moment, Thom is a man with a mission.
Hello, It's Me Page 6
