“Did you mean to sculpt a radish?” Chloe asked.
“I’m not very good, am I?” Jacqueline tossed the sheers aside and brushed her hands off. “I always hated caring for plants anyway. Did your mother just drop you off?”
The girl shook her head, her mouth turning down. “Rowdy did. She had to go sign the papers.”
The divorce papers. She felt relief and pride for Viola, complicated by jealousy that her daughter had managed to do something Jacqueline had dreamt about nearly every day for the last twenty-five years. She touched Chloe’s arm. “I know it must be difficult for you—”
“It’s not,” Chloe interrupted bitterly, shaking off Jacqueline’s hand. “Charles is a wanker.”
Secretly, she completely agreed, but she felt it was right to say, “You shouldn’t speak about him that way. Despite his relationship with your mother, he’s still your father.”
Chloe’s lips pressed tight, and she clutched the book in her hands to her chest. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
She nodded. “Did you come in here to read?”
The girl shook her head, her shoulders easing at the subject change. She held out a letter. “Franny wanted me to give you this.”
Jacqueline took the proffered envelope. It was handwritten, addressed to her. A real letter. Intrigued, unable to remember the last time she received a letter from someone, she turned it over. It was from New York, no less. “I wonder what it is.”
“Maybe you should open it.”
She smiled. “Good idea,” she said as she slid a finger under the flap.
Dear Jacqueline,
I know I’m late in this, but please accept my condolences for your husband’s unfortunate death.
I’m sure you have no desire to hear from me—you don’t know me from Adam—and I’m sure you can’t be happy that I’ve inherited your family title. But I’m going to be in London on business and would love to meet you.
Regards,
Sebastian Tate (a.k.a. the tenth Earl of Amberlin)
She stared at the letter in her hand, not sure how to feel. The handwriting was as direct as the vocabulary. She turned it around, looking for more and finding nothing.
“Who is it from?” Chloe asked.
“The American.”
Chloe’s mouth fell open. “The one who inherited Grandfather Reginald’s title?”
“Yes.” She held the letter out for the girl to read.
“Uh-oh.” The teenager took it and scanned over her, her eyes widening. “Are you going to let him visit?”
“What do you think I should do?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. You have an opinion, I’m sure.”
The girl straightened, her shoulders lifting. “I think he wants something, because why come here otherwise?”
“I think you’re a smart girl.” Jacqueline frowned at the letter. At least it wasn’t the old days when the heir came and took everything. If she’d lived in Jane Austen’s time, she and her daughters would have been destitute. Or
she
would have been; her daughters were too wonderful and beautiful not to be snatched up as wives.
And they almost all were, except for Viola and Bea, who was a confirmed bachelorette.
And then there was Summer, her surrogate daughter.
But maybe Summer was on her way to being matched, too. Which meant her daughters were almost all set.
That only left her.
“What are you going to do?” Chloe asked.
“I’m going to think about it.” She smiled at her granddaughter. “And I think you should see if Franny has any treats.”
“Franny always has treats, and I get it. This conversation is closed.” Chloe rolled her eyes as she shuffled out of the orangery.
Jacqueline smiled after her. Teenage years were excruciating, but Chloe managed to be charming nonetheless.
“Did Chloe give you the letter?” Fran asked, bustling into the room a moment later, carrying two large water cans.
“Let me help you with that.” Jacqueline took one, her body dipping forward with the weight of it. “Should you be carrying such heavy things?”
Fran stopped, her free hand on her hip. “Are you implying I’m old?”
“As old as I am.” Jacqueline raised her brow, daring her friend to deny it.
“Aren’t getting any younger, are we?” Fran gave her an arched look. “And don’t think I was distracted enough to forget about the letter.”
“Of course not.” She smiled. “It was from Reginald’s heir.”
Her friend stopped pouring water and looked up with a frown. “The American? What could he want?”
“He’s going to be in London and wants to stop by for a visit.”
“I’ll lock up the silverware.”
Chuckling, Jacqueline watered one of the potted trees. “I’m sure he’s not interested in the silverware.”
“Then why is he coming?”
“Chloe asked the same question.”
“All my lambs are bright ones.” Fran pointed the watering pot at her, splashing a little onto the floor. “You listen to her and don’t be taken in by him.”
“I’d like to think I know better by now,” she said, not sure it was actually true.
“You do know better. You were a late bloomer, weren’t you? But you’re coming into your own now.”
She was definitely trying. She thought about her manuscript and frowned. “I’ve been writing a story.”
Fran nodded. “Yes.”
“You knew?”
Fran gave her an incredulous look.
“You’re right.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“It’s good for you,” Fran declared, bustling to the next plant. “You’ve always had an artistic side. The girls get it from you.”
She hoped that was the only thing they got from her, because she hadn’t done a very good job with her life.
“You enjoy writing,” Fran added.
“Yes.” Looking back, she realized she always had. She used to write Declan letters like a demented Victorian. But after she’d left Declan to marry Reginald, she’d stopped expressing herself in that way.
She’d stopped expressing herself, period.
The pot threatened to overflow with the water that wasn’t being absorbed. She quickly lifted the canister, water sloshing onto the floor. “I’m having trouble.”
“I see that.”
Jacqueline arched her brow. “With my story. I’m not sure how to end it.”
“Then you should ask for help,” Fran said with her usual pragmatic attitude.
“Are you offering?”
“Good Lord, no! I can’t write a proper shopping list. You should find someone who knows how to do what you want and ask that person to help.” Fran glanced at her. “Do you know what you want?”
To finish her book and publish it. “Yes.”
“Then find someone to help you get it.”
“You make it sound so easy,” she murmured, watching the water dribble to nothing.
“Isn’t it?” Fran took the empty can from her and bustled from the room.
No, it wasn’t because she only knew one person who was qualified to help her, and he was the last person in the world who’d want to hear from her.
Declan Maxwell.
He was an international bestseller now, his books even turned into movies. She’d followed his career from afar, a little guiltily, feeling proud though she knew she had no right. If anyone could direct her, it’d be him.
He’d never talk to her. It’d been so long, and they hadn’t parted on good terms.
Quite frankly, they’d seen their purpose in life distinctly different. He’d had idealistic dreams of writing, and she’d thought she had to live up to her duty. He’d become one of the most successful British writers of the age; she was a failure.
The irony wasn’t lost on her.
She’d been pragmatic—she’d known that love didn’t last, especially the kind of love that burned you from the inside out, the way she’d loved Declan.
She still remembered the look on his face when she told him she’d chosen Reginald. That look was a knife to her heart, jagged and dull. He’d never take her call.
She looked at the letter from the American. He obviously wanted something from her, and he had nothing to lose by sending a request to see her.
She had nothing to lose by asking Declan for help, either. If she didn’t try, she’d regret it forever. And wasn’t it time to stop living her life wondering
what if
?
Chapter Four
Summer strode into the Red Witch, which wasn’t actually the Red Witch any longer. A few months ago it’d been bought out and remodeled. The new owner had made it more upscale and renamed it
Goddess of the Night
. The new name made it sound like an underground fetish club, though maybe a lawyer wasn’t the best judge for how to name a bar.
She and her sisters still came here every Tuesday evening for drinks, despite the dodgy name. Summer was particularly looking forward to tonight, because she needed to enlist their help.
Viola was already sitting at their usual red velvet booth. She faced the wall, touching the white-and-black flocked wallpaper.
“What are you doing, Vi?” Summer slid into the booth, setting her notecards on the table.
The second oldest Summerhill sister turned, her lips in a thoughtful moue. “How do you think this will look in my bedroom?”
“I think it’d make your bedroom look like a bordello,” Summer replied as she unwrapped her scarf and set it on her bag.
“Really?” Viola perked up, looking at the wall with renewed interest. “That hadn’t occurred to me.”
Summer pointed at the half-full margarita in front of her sister. “How many of those have you had?”
“This is my first, but I’m about to get another,” Viola said gleefully. “And we all know that Brittany’s margaritas get progressively stronger as the evening goes on.”
Viola had been going through a nasty divorce, so they indulged her. Summer hadn’t known her sisters for very long, having grown up in a separate household, but underneath the obvious sadness and fatigue lining Viola’s eyes, she thought she saw relief.
Summer touched her hand, cursing Viola’s ex-husband, who deserved to be castrated for everything he’d been putting her through the past several months. “Did you have to see Charles today? Did he pick up Chloe?”
“He didn’t pick up Chloe. He called to say he was busy.” Vi gestured to the waitress. “Rowdy’s with Chloe, though Chloe was clear that she’s fifteen and doesn’t need a babysitter any longer.”
Rowdy was their youngest sister Titania’s friend, though he’d been spending a lot of time with Viola lately. Summer eyed her sister, wanting to ask if there was something going on between them. Only she still felt like she didn’t have the right, so she just said, “Rowdy’s a brave man to spend time with a teenage girl.”
“He’s good with her, and she likes him.” Vi gave her a flat look. “There’s nothing going on between me and Rowdy, if you’re thinking that.”
She widened her eyes. “I wasn’t.”
“It’s good you don’t go to court, because you’re a terrible actor.” Vi put her arm around Summer’s shoulder and squeezed her. “If you’re so concerned about me, take me to tea at your favorite teahouse.”
“Do you need sympathy?”
“No, I’m doing research.”
Summer was about to ask what sort of research when Rosalind and Beatrice joined them. “This is cozy,” Rosalind said with a smile.
“It’d be cozier with drinks,” Beatrice said, turning around and heading straight to the bar to talk to Brittany.
Rosalind unwound her scarf and slid in next to Summer, bumping her with her hip to get her to move over. She glanced at the notecards. “Are you working on a speech or something?”
“No, I need help with a project.” Summer glanced at Bea, who sauntered back toward them. “I’ll wait till we’re all here.”
“You know Jackson took Portia to his resort for a couple nights,” Rosalind said. “And Gigi’s with Merrick at some state dinner event.”
“Is Titania coming?” Viola asked.
Rosalind held her hands out. “You know how she is. You never know.”
Titania had been the missing sister for the longest time, elusive and mysterious, living her own life traveling and taking pictures of famous people. It was only in the past few months that Summer had gotten to know her and that Titania had accepted her.
“Our drinks will be here forthwith,” Bea said, setting her bag on the table. She slipped her coat off in one elegant, efficient shrug. Bea ran the world. It was in every move she made, even something so simple as taking off her coat. “Are you taking notes for a speech?” Bea asked, gesturing to the cards.
Rosalind chuckled. “Great minds.”
A waitress arrived with their drinks: another margarita for Vi, whiskey for Rosalind, a gin martini for Bea, and Summer’s usual glass of white wine, which was neither fancy nor complicated, just the way she liked it.
Rosalind faced her. “Now that we have drinks, tell us what you need help with.”
“A man.” She pictured Ryan Huber and her stomach clenched with nerves. Because she was on the verge of losing him, she assured herself.
“That’s our specialty,” Bea said with a feline smile. “Rosalind, Portia, and Titania. Gigi didn’t need our help as much, but Gigi’s always walked to her own drum.”
Vi leaned over the cards. “I’m curious what sort of help involves notes. Are we playing Cyrano?”
“No, although that might not be a bad thing.” She wrinkled her nose as she unclipped the cards, remembering the way she always froze when she faced Ryan. “I found the man I’m going to marry. I just have to show him that I’m the one for him.”
“Piece of cake,” Rosalind said. “You’re smart and beautiful. What man could resist you?”
“Ryan Huber.”
“How long have you known him?”
Summer cleared her throat. “Actually, we’ve never spoken.”
The silence at the table was deafening.
“But I know that if we kiss,” Summer added hurriedly, “he’d see that I’m the right woman for him.” She thought about him and sighed. “I can’t imagine anyone more perfect. He has a country home. He donates to charities, and he likes the opera.”
“You like opera?” Vi said. “How come I didn’t know that?”
“Well, I don’t know if I like opera or not,” she admitted. “I’m just saying he’s cultured and has varied interests.”
Rosalind wrinkled her nose. “He sounds like Father.”