“He’s quite handsome, that Alistair, isn’t he?” Sarah sighed.
Lydia didn’t feel like being prickly for once. “He is. Quite.”
“Why don’t you ask him out?”
Lydia swam a bit then stood up again, loving the feel of the soft wet sand between her toes. “We did have a bit of a hand-hold, if you must know.”
“Really? Lucky you.” Sarah looked at Alistair’s strong back and legs as he walked away, up the beach path.
The two blond women looked like a pair of wide-eyed schoolgirls. Lydia nodded. “He’s really sweet, actually. Initially, I’d hoped he’d let me tag along to some local den of iniquity, packed with pot smoke and a bunch of reggae locals hanging out and getting high.” Lydia shrugged. “But we ended up holding hands on the beach like a couple of twelve-year-olds.” Then Lydia frowned. “But what can ever come of it, really? Now I just have to satisfy my lust by looking at him and making him bring me things on a silver tray.”
Sarah started laughing. “You do not!”
“I do.” Lydia was still watching his retreating form as he wove his way through the dunes, the bright white of his uniform creating a lovely silhouette against the tropical greens and blues of the grass and sky. “Just this morning, I called the lobby and specifically asked for Alistair to bring me eye drops. On a silver tray.” She didn’t bother mentioning that they’d kissed behind the hibiscus hedge. Alistair seemed to fancy her calls to room service as much as she did.
“You didn’t!” Sarah was still laughing. “That is so genius. Does he know?” Her laughter was settling down.
Lydia turned to look at her. “Does he know what?”
“That you
fancy
him, of course.”
“Hmmm.”
“What do you mean,
hmmm
?”
“Oh, nothing.” Lydia turned her attention back to Sarah. “Just…well…never mind about Alistair. Which shop of yours were you thinking you’d like me to work in? I’d go wherever you need me, of course. But…”
“Yes?” Sarah asked.
“Well, New York would be lovely. I think my mother and I are finally reaching some sort of rapprochement, and I’d love to be with her, you know. But I’m trying to be a little less…brittle.” She smiled in a self-deprecating way. “So if you’d prefer me to be in Chicago or London, I would totally do that.”
“Who is this new Lydia? I love her. So accommodating.”
“Don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves. I’m still a bitch, and you know it. But I’m also feeling the press of Twenty-One with a capital
T
and a capital
O
, and I don’t need to be tossing up my accounts on my twenty-first birthday on some beach in Ibiza or some sidewalk near Oxford Street.”
“Oh, Lydia. You are so much funnier than I ever realized.”
Lydia’s face pinched. “I think I’m completely offended, but I’m trying to see the compliment in that somewhere.”
Sarah laughed again. “Okay. New York it is. And I want you to use my apartment. Devon and I can always use his ridiculous apartment at the St. Regis—”
“I’m happy to live at the St. Regis if you’d rather be in your own apartment—” Lydia tried.
“Yeah, no. Thanks, Lydia, but I think you living at the St. Regis is right up there with you puking in Ibiza. As my father would say, let’s try to avoid the occasions of sin, shall we?”
“Oh, fine.” But Lydia’s capitulation was nearer a happy resolve than her typical sulk.
Sarah stared at the young woman who seemed to be transforming before her eyes.
They swam out a bit farther, then Lydia turned on her back again. “Wouldn’t it be grand if a few days in the Bahamas could set my life on a course that might not be entirely rubbish?”
Sarah didn’t know if Lydia was being her snarky, sarcastic self or actually hoping that her life might be taking a turn for the better. A bit of both, probably. She decided to let it slide.
The two of them floated quietly for a while longer then started to swim back toward shore.
“So.” Sarah dunked under one last time and stood in the shallow water, dragging her hands over her long blond hair to squeeze out the excess water. “New York then.”
“Yes. New York. Wow. That’s actually really exciting. Thank you.”
Sarah stared at her. “Did you just say
thank you
?”
“I think I did.” Lydia smiled. “No need to point out how rusty I sound. But I’m really grateful for the offer. Thank you, Sarah.”
“Oh,” Sarah said, waving a hand in front of her face. “I’m happy to do it. It’s great, actually. At least I know you won’t steal from me.”
Lydia tilted her head and widened her eyes as if she were considering the possibility. “Well…now that you mention it…”
“Don’t even joke about that.” Sarah’s face turned serious. “One of my closest employees—I thought she was my friend—stole from me. Devon helped figure the whole thing out.”
“Devon did?”
Sarah’s smile was sort of secretive and knowing. “Yeah. He’s not the silly rake he’d have us all think.”
“Interesting.”
“Anyway,” Sarah continued as they started to walk up onto the beach. “New York offers so many…possibilities…” They reached the lounge chairs and Sarah wrapped herself in one of the large towels.
“What kind of possibilities?” Lydia asked, flopping onto her towel without bothering to dry off. “You sound like you have more in mind than getting me to sell a few shoes while I’m out and about hobnobbing.”
Sarah’s eyes lit up at the idea. “Oh, I hadn’t even thought about using you in that way!”
“You’re hilarious. Go on.”
“Just think, you can be a party girl with purpose at last.”
“The
at last
wasn’t entirely necessary.”
“Sorry. You know what I mean. You can wear my shoes out to all the hottest parties and get lots of press. All of us working
en famille
and all that. Everyone will love it. Bronte will get you on all the invite lists.” Sarah’s face lost some of its perennial animation.
“What?”
“No falling out of nightclubs drunk and half-dressed if you’re there representing Sarah James Shoes, okay?”
“So you saw that, huh?” Lydia tried to act as if the pictures on the
ToffsGoneWild
website were never seen by anyone…even though they got ten thousand hits a day. Her tumble out of Loulou’s earlier in the month had been a howler.
Sarah tilted her head to one side. “Everybody sees everything, Lydia. Best to remember that if you’re serious about coming to work for me.”
Just then, Alistair appeared. He stood a bit too close to Lydia’s lounger and she loved how he was sort of playing along with her flirtatious impertinence. “Oh there you are!” Lydia sang. “Perfect timing. I’d like a pitcher of water and a planter’s punch.”
He nodded and stared down at her nearly naked body, still wet from the sea and prickling a bit across her bare stomach.
“Oh, and maybe a bowl of cashews.” She also loved how his eyes trailed across her mouth when she spoke.
“Anything else?”
She stared at him then, right in the eyes. She’d been looking slightly away from his face while she was listing all of her bossy demands. His eyes were a lovely amber, with bits of copper and gold and chocolate sparking from the pupil, with those insanely long eyelashes. He was disarmingly gorgeous. He somehow managed to smile without moving his lips. But his eyes smiled.
“No,” she snapped. “That’s all for now.”
Sarah was watching the whole interchange, eyes narrowed behind her sunglasses.
“Would you like anything, Lady Devon?” he asked politely.
“No, thanks, Alistair,” Sarah said. “I’m all set.”
He nodded professionally and walked back up the beach.
“He totally fancies you,” Sarah whispered as she began to flip through the pages of French
Vogue
.
“No he doesn’t. He thinks I’m a stuck-up bitch,” Lydia said. “Because he’s right.”
“You’re not that stuck-up.” Sarah’s face was hidden beneath the enormous floppy hat she wore to protect her fair skin and the big black sunglasses she always had on these days. “You just got into the habit of being stuck-up.”
“Habits. Very true. It’s just harder to break something inside.”
“Mm-hmm,” Sarah agreed.
“It’s not like I can quit being me like I could quit taking diet pills.”
Sarah looked up from the magazine. “I know what you mean. It’s all so tedious, like me trying to manage this body.” She gestured down the length of her full figure. “You and Bronte and Abby and even your mother, you’re all a bunch of skinny bitches.”
Lydia burst out laughing. “I love when you swear. It’s so out of context. It’s like driving down a quiet country lane and all of a sudden Pussy Riot jumps out of the hedgerow.”
“Oh my gosh. What the heck is Pussy Riot?”
“Never mind. It’s just a great band from Russia. Anyway, I’ll try to keep my head screwed on when I move to New York. Maybe just a soupçon of bitchiness to keep things lively? Would that do?”
Sarah nodded and went back to flipping through the magazine. “A soupçon of your cynicism sounds just about right.”
Alistair came back a few minutes later and set the water, punch, and bowl of nuts on the little table next to Lydia’s lounge chair. “Thank you, Alistair,” she said softly.
He looked at her and winked, then mouthed the words
you’re welcome
.
Holy hell
. Lydia watched his lips wrap around those unspoken words and felt exactly as if he was pressed up against her and kissing her.
Sarah pretended she was still reading. “So, Alistair, what’s this I hear about your new job?”
He tore his attention away from Lydia and stood up a tiny bit straighter to answer Sarah. “As I mentioned last night, I’ve just been accepted into the management training program at Small Luxury Hotels of the World.”
“Tell us more. I don’t think Lydia was there when you were explaining the details.”
Pretending not to care, Lydia took a deep pull on her planter’s punch and tried not to feel so naked. She lay there in her teeny bikini, and Alistair stood over her in that immaculate white uniform that needed to be ripped off. Obviously.
“Oh.” He looked at Lydia for a split second then back at Sarah. “They’ve offered me an assistant manager position at the Lowell in New York City. So, that’s where I’ll be.”
Lydia began coughing uncontrollably, while Sarah smirked and flipped to the next page in the magazine. “Watch out, Lyd, those drinks are strong.” Then to Alistair, “I love the Lowell. It’s just around the corner from my shop on Madison Avenue. Perfect location. Right near my apartment. Close to everything.”
The last thing Claire had anticipated was spending any part of her Christmas and New Year holiday in a stuffy bank office in Nassau. But there she was, feeling underdressed in white trousers and a pale blue tunic and surrounded by oil portraits of British and Bahamian bankers who’d been doing business since the eighteenth century. Devon, Max, and Ben had accompanied her on the mysterious errand, all four of them sitting at the mahogany table, meeting with Julian Stembridge.
“Thank you for coming today, Lady Wick. Gentlemen. I am hoping this is perhaps a slight mishap, but I must confess, I fear the worst.” Stembridge sat at the head of the table, with a stack of folders piled neatly in front of him. “These are the records of your investments here at the Grand Bahama Private Bank.”
Claire stared at the paperwork and clasped her hands tighter in her lap. She’d never had any accounts at Grand Bahama Private Bank. “You mean my husband’s investments?” she tried.
Stembridge looked at the top folder then rested both hands flat on the olive green surface. “These are all your
joint
investments, Lady Wick.”
“I have no joint investments in the Bahamas, Mr. Stembridge.”
“Please, call me Julian.”
“I have no investments in the Bahamas. Julian.” Claire felt Ben’s hand come to rest on hers, beneath the table, and she relaxed.
“May I?” Max asked, pointing to the pile of papers.
“Of course.” Stembridge passed all the documents to Max, who was sitting to his right. “Why don’t you take a look while I give a brief history of the accounts to Lady Wick.”
Claire had never been particularly focused on her finances. She was very careful, as her mother and father had taught her to be, but never tightfisted. The fact of the matter was that she had inherited so much money and it was held in trust at Coutts, and she never really gave it much thought. She gave generously to charities and always chose the finest fabrics and wall coverings for her projects at the castle. About ten years ago, Freddy had begun to comment that her spending on the castle was bordering on excessive. She tried to economize, not wanting to be foolish, and also began keeping very careful records of her domestic spending. Even so, her Coutts account was draining faster than her interest dividends.
When she had finally worked up the courage to leave Freddy, she had sent Max the records, for what little they were worth. Freddy had claimed that Claire had been spending massive sums, depleting their joint resources, and forcing him to invest in wilder and wilder schemes in the hopes of recovering some of their losses.
Stembridge explained that Claire and Freddy had been making monthly transfers, and occasionally additional transfers of much larger sums at infrequent intervals, into the shelter trusts they’d set up many years ago. “I have all the signed documents, Lady Wick. This past year, however, we’ve been trying to tighten up all of our security measures, meeting with clients in person whenever possible, especially long-term, loyal customers like yourself.”
Claire kept shaking her head as the potential implications of the details began to sift into a clearer picture of Freddy’s treachery.
“When we spoke on the phone last week—”
“We did not speak last week!” Claire cried.
Ben patted her hand again. “It’s okay,” he whispered.
“I know that now,” Julian agreed. “It’s not usable in a court of law, but I took the liberty of recording my conversation with the woman I thought was you. Perhaps there’s some way you can use it in a civil case, but these things tend to go on and on. Very public, you know.”