A lot had changed since then.
“Arden.” Meg smiled over her glass of iced tea. “So do I.”
Jenny shifted uneasily in her chair. She bore the largest burden of guilt because it was
her
mother, Justine, the third and longest-lasting wife, who had instigated The Exile, banning Arden and Meg from the Nantucket house. “The front bedroom has an en suite bathroom,” Jenny reminded the others.
Before she could enumerate its qualities, Arden cast a hooded-eye glance her way. “Yes, and it’s where
my
father slept with
your
mother.” She shuddered.
Jenny’s breath caught in her throat. So they were going to continue to punish her for their father’s behavior.… Well, and Jenny’s mother’s, too. They did have a point.
Meg leaned past Jenny. “So you want
me
to sleep there? Thanks, Ard.”
Arden glared at Meg.
Meg glared, chin lifted defiantly, back at Arden.
“Fine.” Arden capitulated. “I’ll take the mermaid bedroom.”
“Oh, Arden,” Jenny protested. “That’s so much smaller than the front bedroom.”
Arden relented, softening her tone. “Enough. I can’t sleep in their bed. It’s just too grisly to think about. I’ll take the mermaid bedroom, but I’ve got work to do, too, so I’ll use the front bedroom to work in. I’m sure there’s some table I can use for a desk.”
“Good. That’s settled, then.” Jenny relaxed, but only for a moment. “Now. About food. I thought we might make a plan about meals. I bought a ton of food to get us started, all the staples and some wine, too, but I don’t know what you all like to eat—”
“I’ll eat out mostly,” Arden said. “I hate to cook. I never cook at home. I’m too busy, and I go out a lot to meet people for work.”
“I told her I’d take care of myself, too,” Meg agreed, nodding. “I’m going to diet.”
“Oh, come on.” Jenny shook her head. “Don’t tell me you want to live like grad students with food divided into different shelves of the refrigerator. That’s ridiculous. Plus, we need to talk about keeping the kitchen clean. I’m not going to do it all.”
“I thought Justine had a housekeeper,” Arden countered.
“She does. Clementine Gordon. She’ll come once a week for the heavy stuff, but we have to do our own dishes. For heaven’s sake,” Jenny continued, “let’s be adults about this. Do we have to buy three coffeemakers and each make our own coffee in the morning? That’s just silly.”
Arden studied Jenny for a long moment. Jenny the Enemy. Jenny who stole their father’s love and ripped away all the Nantucket summers just when Arden would have enjoyed them most.
Although, to be fair, it had been Jenny’s mother, Justine, who had banned Arden and Meg from the house.
“I can understand,” Arden said in her soft, calm-the-client-down voice, “why you feel as if this house is yours and that you have the right to tell me and Meg what to do, and how to live our lives here. But this house was left to the three of us equally. Isn’t that right?” When Jenny didn’t answer immediately, she persisted: “Don’t you agree?”
Jenny flushed, which made her look like Snow White, with her dramatic dark hair and eyes and her pale skin. “I certainly wasn’t trying to tell anyone what to do.” She blinked several times—was she blinking back tears? “I apologize if that’s what you think. I was only offering to devise some organization for the three of us.”
Arden wasn’t surprised when softhearted Meg chimed in.
“Jenny, I’m not sure I know what kind of work you do. Do you work on the island? I mean, will you have to keep to a schedule, like nine to five or something?”
Jenny smiled gratefully at Meg. “I own a computer tech company. My clients are both on- and off-island, but I usually work from home, troubleshooting on my computer. My workstation is in my bedroom. I’ve got three screens up and going all the time. May Alcott would probably faint.”
Meg and Jenny laughed.
Arden thought:
Huh?
What were they laughing about? Who was May Alcott? Some neighbor who’d stopped by before Arden arrived? It unnerved her that Meg and Jenny were allies.
“So, food,” Arden said, bringing them back to the topic. “I suppose Jenny’s idea has merit. It sounds like we’re all going to be working here, and it’s not like I’ll be able to send my assistant for some takeout—”
“You have an assistant?” Meg was impressed. “How glamorous, Arden.”
“Yes, well, a lot of it is glamorous,” Arden agreed casually. “And a lot of it is boring, repetitive slog. Anyway, here we’re a good two or three blocks from the nearest café or restaurant, and in the summer everything’s jammed. So, yeah, I think it would be more efficient to organize some kind of food buying and meal cooking.”
“What if we took turns?” Jenny suggested. “Each of us take a day to be in charge of buying groceries and preparing dinner and cleaning the kitchen.”
“Only dinner,” Meg put in. “I think we can handle breakfast and lunch ourselves.”
“As long as someone makes a big pot of coffee,” Arden added.
“Great!” Jenny clapped her hands, pleased with herself. Arden thought Jenny looked like a damned Girl Scout; she might as well have a kerchief around her neck and badges on her shirt.
“Look, Jenny,” Arden said, “most of the time I’ll probably take my food up to my room to eat while I work.”
Jenny tossed her head. “Fine with me. I’ll probably be out most nights myself, at cocktail parties.”
Arden’s eyes widened. “Cocktail parties? What kinds of cocktail parties?”
Sensing Arden’s interest, Jenny was arch. “Oh, you know, the kind where people drink cosmopolitans and martinis and the caterers pass munchies.”
Arden leaned forward. “Jenny, you know I have a TV show.
Simplify This
.” No point mentioning the dreadful Zoey. “I want to do a Nantucket version. I need to meet people with fabulous homes who might like to be on the show.”
Jenny nodded thoughtfully. “A lot of the richest people wouldn’t dream of having their intimate space broadcast all over the air,” she said, and then, realizing too late that she’d insulted
Arden, she hurried to add, “But I’m sure some of them would glory in the publicity.”
“Well, I’m not going to get right in their faces first thing,” Arden began defensively. “I’ll talk to them, get to know them, see what they’re like.…”
Jenny’s smile was very cat/canary. “I get that. Hey, I’m going to a party tonight, Arden, a fund-raiser for a local artists’ coalition. Do you want to come with me?”
“Yes,” Arden replied. After a moment, she added, “Please.”
The Nantucket parties Arden remembered from when she was fourteen, and for a while when she was fifteen, when her hormones were on red alert, had been beach parties. In shorts and a bikini top, she’d danced barefoot in the sand with girlfriends giggling idiotically and stealing sips from abandoned beer bottles. Princess Diana had still been alive, and Arden had been young.
The party Jenny took her to tonight was different. Well, of course, it would be; they were all grown-up now, even if the salty ocean breeze made her feel fresh, sassy, and eager for all that summer could bring. It was held at a house on the cliff. Bars were set up both inside the house and out on the lawn overlooking Nantucket Sound. Waiters passed trays of canapés and a bluegrass band played.
Jenny wore a simple red dress that set off her striking dark hair and eyes. She wore a sleek pair of red sandals, too, with stones glittering across the straps as she easily crossed the lawn,
not
making divots in the grass. In the car on the way over, Jenny told
Arden she’d broken up recently with a hunk named Bjorn. Jenny was ready for a new romance. When they arrived at the party, Jenny spotted someone and, with a careless “I’ll be right back” to Arden, hurried away through the crowd, leaving Arden alone.
Arden had only her basic everyday beige sandals—she had brought all her four-inch heels for parties, but had decided not to wear them tonight because Jenny told her they’d be mostly outside. She wore a simple sea-green shift that accentuated the green of her eyes. Not many people had true green eyes; Arden did. She knew she looked good, and she was comfortable in large groups, not afraid to be alone. Anyway, it was the house itself she was interested in.
She took a glass of wine off a tray and wandered through the open French doors to the living room. It was a true old summer house with wide-board floors slanting unevenly and faded curtains and sofas that had apparently been there forever. Framed photographs cluttered the bookshelves, crammed in with golf and tennis trophies and dozens of ordinary shells, no doubt treasures discovered by grandchildren. She peeked into the kitchen, where the caterers were working hard and fast, and grinned. Ah, what a find. An original kitchen, no doubt a horror to work in, the only new appliances a microwave set on an antique walnut table and a roll-away dishwasher with an adapter at the end of its electric plug. Fire hazard waiting.
“I know who you are, and I bet I know just what you’re thinking.” The voice was low, sensual, deeply masculine.
Arden turned. Early thirties, tall and elegant in an expensive pink Brooks Brothers shirt and a Rolex watch.
Arden asked, “We’ve met?”
“No, we haven’t met, but I’ve seen you plenty of times on your TV show.
Simplify This
.” Humor brightened his brown eyes, as if he knew exactly what her reaction was and found it amusing.
“Ah. So that explains why you know what I’m thinking.”
He leaned forward, ostensibly to survey the kitchen, touching her shoulder with his. “You want to get in there and modernize that kitchen. Am I right?”
A waiter swung toward them with a giant tray. Arden moved back into the dining room.
“You’re right,” she admitted reluctantly. He was arrogant, another self-satisfied conquistador. Yet she found him oddly compelling.
He held out his hand. “Palmer White.”
His name was familiar. She put her hand in his. “Arden Randall.”
He took his time about releasing her hand. “How do you know the Beaudreaus?”
“I don’t. My, um, sister Jenny does. She brought me along.” They slowly strolled through the house toward wide doors opening to the lawn. “How do you know them?”
“Oh, Ivan’s been a partner of mine in crime for a long time.” A glint of complacence edged his voice.
“What do you do?”
“I’m in television. I own air space and so on.”
Arden’s interest flared. “Do you own Channel Six?”
“I do now. Among others.” He slid his hand through her arm and bent close to her, whispering in her ear. “I’ll give you a hint. Don’t waste your time on the Beaudreaus. Genevieve Marie is emotionally attached to every dust bunny and paper clip in this house. Plus, they wouldn’t dream of having their home exposed to the public on a show like yours.”
Arden bridled at his insult and yanked her arm away. “A show like mine?”
“Aimed at the upper-middle section of the demographic span—and understandably so, that’s your audience. But people
like to dream. More than that, they like to see how the rich live. We all do. It’s human nature. Your ratings are beginning to fall—”
Insulted and frankly shocked that this stranger was so brash about what was intimate professional information, Arden took a step back. “Don’t bother worrying about my television show. I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” Palmer White inquired.
All Arden’s professional life, she’d been plagued with men who thought because she was good-looking and relatively young, they could tell her what to do. They were wrong. “Excuse me,” she said, and blindly strode away.
She wove through the crowd, jaw clenched. She didn’t see Jenny anywhere in the crowd. She thought she might just walk home. She didn’t know anyone here, she was tired from packing and making the trip to the island, and Palmer White had started her summer off with a blast of bad juju.
Somehow she managed to get stuck in the crowd. She turned sideways, trying to squeeze her way through.
Someone stepped, crushingly, on her foot.
“Ouch! Holy damn!” Instinctively, she hopped on her good foot, holding the injured one off the ground. Not the most elegant pose.
“Oh, excuse me,” a man said. “I stepped on your foot. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
She looked up. And up. The man had to be six four, his blue blazer marvelously delineating a slim, muscular torso while accentuating his blond hair and blue eyes. He wore a red tie with sailboats on it. She liked men in ties.
“I’m fine,” she replied politely. “If I could just get over to a bench …”
“Let me help.”
She allowed herself to be ushered gently, his hand on her
elbow, through the crowd to a wrought iron bench by the lily pond. She sank onto the seat. To her amazement, the man knelt down, taking her foot in his hand.
“I think it’s swelling,” he said. “You may even get a nasty bruise.”
His blond hair was thick. His hands were long and elegant. His Nantucket red trousers were faded from age in a way that would impress even Ralph Lauren.
He eased her sandal off and gently touched her toes.
In spite of herself, Arden flinched. “Ouch.”
“Yep,” the man said. “I did a thorough job.” He looked up at her ruefully. “I am awfully sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she babbled. “Happens all the time in mobs like this. Really, it’s fine.”
“I’ll get some ice.” Before she could object, he disappeared.
Arden inspected her foot. It
was
swelling. What a way to start the summer! Laughter and snippets of conversation drifted her way through the warm evening to where she sat, alone and in pain. She knocked back the rest of her wine—for medicinal purposes.
“Here we go.” Suddenly he’d returned, with ice wrapped in one of the caterer’s white napkins. “Can you hold it against your foot? That should keep the swelling down.”
She felt like an idiot, sitting in such an unalluring position, with one leg up, knee to her chin, as she held the ice on her foot, trying to keep her dress tucked tidily beneath her thigh.
He sat next to her. “I’m Tim Robinson, and my clumsy feet are the bane of my existence.”
She laughed. “Arden Randall.”