The Perfect Match
The Perfect Match
Kristan Higgins
What if the perfect match is a perfect surprise?Honor Holland has just been unceremoniously rejected by her lifelong crush. And now–a mere three weeks later–Mr. Perfect is engaged to her best friend. But resilient, reliable Honor is going to pick herself up, dust herself off and get back out there…or she would if dating in Manningsport, New York, population 715, wasn't easier said than done.Charming, handsome British professor Tom Barlow just wants to do right by his unofficial stepson, Charlie, but his visa is about to expire. Now Tom must either get a green card or leave the States–and leave Charlie behind.In a moment of impulsiveness, Honor agrees to help Tom with a marriage of convenience–and make her ex jealous in the process. But juggling a fiancé, hiding out from her former best friend and managing her job at the family vineyard isn't easy. And as sparks start to fly between Honor and Tom, they might discover that their pretend relationship is far too perfect to be anything but true love….
What if the perfect match is a perfect surprise?
Honor Holland has just been unceremoniously rejected by her lifelong crush. And now—a mere three weeks later—Mr. Perfect is engaged to her best friend. But resilient, reliable Honor is going to pick herself up, dust herself off and get back out there…or she would if dating in Manningsport, New York, population 715, wasn’t easier said than done.
Charming, handsome British professor Tom Barlow just wants to do right by his unofficial stepson, Charlie, but his visa is about to expire. Now Tom must either get a green card or leave the States—and leave Charlie behind.
In a moment of impulsiveness, Honor agrees to help Tom with a marriage of convenience—and make her ex jealous in the process. But juggling a fiancé, hiding out from her former best friend and managing her job at the family vineyard isn’t easy. And as sparks start to fly between Honor and Tom, they might discover that their pretend relationship is far too perfect to be anything but true love….
Praise for New York Times bestselling author Kristan Higgins (#ulink_e7522f35-1ee0-5e21-8760-34ee7a79054b)
“Higgins [offers] strong storytelling and a refreshing, sarcastic wit…thoroughly entertaining.”
—People magazine
“Well-placed flashbacks; snarky, snappy dialogue; and conflict both tender and traumatic will shove you into love with a perfectly irresistible array of imperfect characters. You’ll adore every bit of this story… Higgins’ latest is sexy, screwy, funny and fulfilling—a simply radiant read.”
—USA TODAY on The Best Man
“The result is a deliriously funny story…The Best Man is Kristan Higgins’s best book—and that’s saying a lot.”
—Eloisa James
“Romance fans and lovers of women’s fiction will devour this witty and tender novel. Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal, starred review, on Somebody to Love
“Both gut-wrenchingly emotional and hysterically funny at the same time…Kristan Higgins writes the books you don’t want to end.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Robyn Carr
“Kristan Higgins specializes in the kind of prose that makes you laugh out loud…hilarious on the surface, but with a bittersweet subtext.”
—National Public Radio
“A funny, poignant romance.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on My One and Only
“Cheeky, cute and satisfying, Higgins’s romance is perfect entertainment for a girl’s night in.”
—Booklist on Too Good to Be True
Winner—2010 Romance Writers of America RITA® Award
The Perfect Match
Kristan Higgins
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to Maria Carvainis, my wonderful friend and agent.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Madame.
Contents
Cover (#u89eee52b-3382-55c4-aeb1-57e557e8f9c3)
Back Cover Text (#ude20bf99-52a7-57b7-9115-3667382cbe80)
Praise (#ud21de51e-a8a0-53a7-a50e-ef6fc993f760)
Title Page (#ubf9e358b-e077-51c9-9f22-e8de7ff4dde5)
Dedication (#u0f3198c9-c517-58dc-925a-de82a2e8c73f)
PROLOGUE (#u3a08ef1a-11bc-57ce-9e12-1fbd8ae25af9)
CHAPTER ONE (#ufde38534-c67a-50d8-a700-995e205c0fbc)
CHAPTER TWO (#u05207867-e8ae-5103-9376-3fe42a378838)
CHAPTER THREE (#ud7ca6b51-e606-54c8-9981-c72703d4a0b7)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u5c85964d-61b8-5155-a94c-9545dab4ff4a)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ub9a30768-54d8-5ab3-a7fb-6855dc1bcdfc)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_7f4b03ae-7f2d-5409-8c43-d17c35c1bbb3)
THE DAY Honor Grace Holland turned thirty-five, she did what she always did on her birthday.
She got a Pap smear.
Sure, sure, Honor was aware that gynecology was pretty low on the totem pole of celebrations. It was just easier to schedule the dreaded appointment if it was on a memorable date. Practical, that was all, and she was nothing if not practical. Faith and Prudence, her sisters, and Dana Hoffman, her closest friend, had planned to take her out, but there’d been a snowstorm last weekend, and they’d had to cancel. The family would gather this weekend for cake, so it wasn’t like the Pap smear was the only celebration she’d be having.
She assumed the position on the exam table while her doctor kindly averted his eyes, and practiced the deep breathing the irritatingly flexible yoga instructor had demonstrated with such vigor until she and Dana had giggled like two little kids in church. Didn’t work then, didn’t work now. She stared at the Jackson Pollock print on the ceiling and tried to think happy thoughts. She really needed to update the website. Design a label for the new pinot gris Blue Heron Vineyard was launching. Check the month’s orders.
It occurred to her that work should not be her happy thoughts. She tried to think of something not work-related. She had some Lindt truffles at home. That was good.
“So how are things, Honor?” Jeremy asked from between her legs.
“Working a lot. You know me.” And he did. Jeremy Lyon was an old family friend as well as her sister’s ex-fiancé. He was also gay, which didn’t seem to make his palpation of her ovaries any less yucky.
Jeremy snapped off his gloves and smiled. “All done,” he said.
Honor sat up fast, despite the fact that Jeremy was terribly nice and had famously gentle hands. The good doctor handed her a prewarmed blanket—he was thoughtful that way. He never made eye contact during the breast exam, and the speculum was always placed on a heating pad. Small wonder half the women in Manningsport were in love with him, no matter that he liked men.
“How’s Patrick?” she asked, crossing her arms.
“He’s great,” Jeremy said. “Thanks for asking. Speaking of that, are you seeing anyone, Honor?”
The question made her blush, not just because Jeremy’s famous hands had been Down Under, but also because...well. She was private. “Why do you ask?” Did he want to fix her up? Should she say yes? Maybe she should. Brogan was never—
“Just need to ask a few questions about your, um, certain personal aspects of your life.”
Honor smiled. Jeremy, despite being a doctor, was still the cute boy who’d dated Faith all through college, and couldn’t quite forget that Honor was a few years older. “If it’s covered by HIPPA, then the answer is—” Yes, indeed, what was the answer? “The answer is yes. Sort of. And if you tell anyone in my family, I will kill you.”
“No, no, of course not,” he said, smiling back at her. “But I’m glad to hear it. Because, um...”
She sat up a little straighter. “Because why, Jer?”
He gave a half smile, half grimace. “It’s just...you’re thirty-five now.”
“Yes, I know. What does that have to do with—oh.” Her stomach sank abruptly, as if she was in a fast-moving elevator.
“Nothing to worry about, of course,” he said, blushing again. “But the years are precious. Egg-wise.”
“What? What are you talking about?” She pulled her hairband out and shoved it back on her head. Nervous habit. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no. It’s just that thirty-five is considered advanced maternal age.”
She frowned, then tried to stop. The mirror had shown a permanent line between her eyebrows just this morning (damn you, natural light!). She’d have sworn it wasn’t there last week. “Really? Already?”
“Right.” Jeremy winced. “I’m sorry. It’s just the quality of your eggs starts to decline about now. Medically speaking, the best time to have a kid is around twenty-two, twenty-four. That’s the sweet spot.”
“Twenty-four?” That was more than a decade earlier. All of a sudden, Honor felt ancient. She had a wrinkle between her eyes, and her eggs were aging! She shifted on the examination table. Her hip creaked. God, she was ancient! “Should I be worried?”
“Oh, no! No. But it might be time to think about these things.” Jeremy paused. “What I mean is, I’m sure it won’t be an issue. But yes, the chances of birth defects and infertility do start to increase about now. They’re still small, and infertility treatments are amazing these days. This doctor in New Hampshire just had success with a fifty-four-year-old woman—”
“I’m not planning to have a baby in my fifties, Jer!”
Jeremy took her limp hand and patted it. “I’m sure it won’t come to that. I’m required to tell you as your doctor, that’s all. Same as telling you to eat right. Your BP is just a tiny bit high, but that’s probably white-coat anxiety.”
She wasn’t anxious. At least, she hadn’t been when she’d first come in. Fungus. So now she had high blood pressure, in addition to leathery skin and hardening ovaries.
“You look fantastic,” Jeremy went on, “so there’s probably no cause for worry—” Probably? It was never good when a doctor said probably! “—but if you’re seeing someone, it might be time to start thinking about the future. I mean, not that you need a man. There’s a really good sperm bank—”
She yanked her hand back. “Okay, Jeremy, you can stop now.”
He smiled. “Sorry.”
Another attempt at a calming breath. “So think about babies sooner rather than later, is that what you’re saying?”
“Exactly,” Jeremy said. “And I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Except birth defects and infertility.”
“Right.” He smiled. “Any questions for me?”
* * *
SHE CALLED DANA from Jeremy’s parking lot, safe within the womb of her Prius. Small wonder that everything was taking on obstetrical overtones.
“House of Hair,” Dana answered, which made Honor mentally flinch every time.
“It’s me,” she said.
“Thank God. I just got done giving Phyllis Nebbins her monthly perm and blue rinse and I was this close to screaming. Like, do I really want to hear about her new hip? Anyway, what’s up?”
“I just got out of Jeremy’s. I’m old and need to have babies, quick.”
“Do you?” Dana said. “I don’t know if I can stand losing another friend to motherhood. All those stories of screaming and colic and precious, precious angels.”
Honor laughed. Dana didn’t want children—she said it was the main cause of her divorce—and often called to describe the brattiest behavior she saw at House of Hair in curdling detail.
But Honor loved kids. Even teenagers. Well, she loved her seventeen-year-old niece, Abby, and she loved her nephew, Ned, who still had the mental age of fourteen, even though he was twenty-two now.
“Other than that, what’s up?” Dana asked. “Wanna go out tonight, grab a few drinks in honor of you being an old hag?”
Honor was quiet for a minute. Her heart started thudding. “I’m thinking that, given the news, maybe I should have a talk with Brogan.”
“What talk?”
“The talk.”
There was silence. “Really.”
“Well...yeah.”
Another pause. “Sure, I guess I can see your rationale. Aging ovaries, shriveling uterus.”
“For the record, there was no mention of a shriveling uterus. But what do you think?”
“Um, yeah, go for it,” Dana said with a decided lack of enthusiasm.
Honor adjusted her hairband. “You don’t sound sure.”
“Are you sure, Honor? I mean, if you’re asking me, maybe you’re not, even if you’ve been sleeping with the guy for the past however many years.”
“Quietly, quietly, okay?” It’s not like there were a dozen people named Honor in Manningsport, New York, population seven hundred and fifteen, and Dana and she had very different views on what could be talked about in public.
“Whatever. He’s rich, he’s gorgeous, you’re hung up on him. Besides, you have everything already. Why not Brogan, too?”
There was a familiar edge to her voice. Honor knew her friend had a very rose-colored view of Honor’s life, and yes, certain aspects of it were quite wonderful. But like everyone, Honor had her issues. Spinsterhood, for example. Aging eggs, for another.
Honor sighed, then saw her reflection in the mirror. There was that frown again. “I guess I’m just worried he’ll say no,” she admitted. “We’ve been friends for a long time. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize that.”
“Then don’t ask.”
The years are precious, egg-wise. She was going to have to talk to Jeremy about his delivery. Still, if there was a sign from God, it was probably those words. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I guess?” she suggested, hoping for some reinforcement.
Dana sighed, and Honor sensed her patience was coming to an end. Couldn’t really blame her. “Honor, if you want to pop the question, do it. Just lay it on the line and he’ll probably say, ‘Hells yeah, I’ll marry you! You’re Honor Freakin’ Holland!’ And then you can go to Harts Jeweler’s and pick out that rock you’ve been eyeing for the past year.”
Okay. That was a nice thought. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she said. But yes. There was a ring in the window of the jewelry store on the green, and Honor had admitted—only to Dana—that if she ever did get engaged, that would be the ring she wanted. Just a simple, stunning, emerald-cut diamond set in platinum. Honor didn’t think of herself as the type who loved jewelry (she only wore her mom’s pearls) or clothes (gray or blue suits from Ann Taylor, tailored white shirt—sometimes pink, if she was feeling sentimental), but that ring did things to her.
“I gotta go,” Dana said. “Laura Boothby’s coming for a rinse. Rock his world, pop the question, see what he says. Or don’t. Just don’t be wishy-washy. Okay? Talk to you soon.” She hung up.
Honor sat another minute. She could call one of her sisters, but...well, neither one knew about Brogan. They knew he and Honor were friends, of course, but they didn’t know about the romantic part. The sex part. Prudence, the oldest of the Holland clan, would be all for it, having recently become a sex kitten as some weird by-product of menopause or whatnot. But Pru didn’t have much in the way of filters and tended to announce inappropriate things at family dinners or at O’Rourke’s, the local pub.
Faith, the youngest of the three Holland sisters...maybe. She and Honor had always scrapped a little, though things had been better since Faith had moved back from San Francisco (the only Holland to live out of New York State in eight generations). She’d love the idea...she loved anything romantic, being a newlywed and kind of a mushy, emotional person in general.
And then there was Jack, their brother. But he was a guy and hated nothing more than hearing stories that confirmed the suspicion that his sisters were indeed female and, worse still, had sex lives.
So no sympathetic ear other than Dana’s. That was fine. It was time to get back to work, anyway. She started the car and headed through town.
Manningsport was the jewel of the Finger Lakes region of western New York, a famed wine-making area. The winter months were the quiet time of year here—the holidays were over, and the tourist season wouldn’t kick in until April. The grapevines had been pruned, and snow blanketed the fields. Keuka Lake glittered black in the distance, too deep to ice over completely.
Blue Heron Vineyard was the oldest farm around, and the sight of their sign—a gold-painted heron against a blue background—never failed to cause a surge of pride. Set at the top of the area known as the Hill, the Hollands’ land encompassed more than two hundred acres of field and forest.
Honor drove past the Old House, a saltbox colonial built in 1781, where her grandparents (almost as old) lived and fought, past the New House (1873), a big white Federal where she lived with dear old Dad and Mrs. Johnson, the longtime housekeeper and supreme ruler of the Holland family, and pulled into the vineyard parking lot. The only other car here belonged to Ned. Pru, who handled the farming end of the vineyard, was either in one of the equipment storage barns or out in the fields; Dad and Jack, and possibly Pops, would be checking the huge steel casks of wine or playing poker. Honor was the only one who came to work in the office every day, though Ned was part-time.
Which was fine. She liked being in charge of the business end of the vineyard. And besides, given Jeremy’s little bombshell, she needed to think. She needed to make lists. She needed to color-code.
She needed a plan, given that the years were precious.
Into the main building she went, through the beautiful tasting room, past the gift shop and into the suite of offices. Ned’s door was open, but he wasn’t here. That was good; she did her best thinking when she was alone.
Sitting behind her large, tidy desk, Honor opened a new document on her computer.
Men were a field in which Honor didn’t have a lot of...panache. She did business with dozens of men, as the wine industry was still heavily skewed toward males. If they were talking distribution or media coverage or crop projections, she had no problem.
But on the romantic front, she didn’t really have the knack. Faith, who was built like Marilyn Monroe and had red hair and blue eyes and a slightly Bambi-esque, innocent air about her, practically caused a stampede just by getting out of her car. Pru, despite her lifelong tomboy ways and propensity for wearing men’s clothing, had had no trouble getting married; Carl was her high school sweetheart. The two were still quite (if far too publicly) happy in their marriage. Even Dana, who was extremely picky when it came to men, always had some date lined up who would inevitably irritate her.
But Honor didn’t have the touch. She knew she wasn’t bad-looking; average height, average figure, maybe a little on the unendowed side. Brown eyes. Her hair was long and straight and blond, her one great beauty, she thought. She had dimples, like her mom. Hers was a pleasant face. But all in all...average.
Unlike Brogan Cain, who was essentially a Greek god come to life. Turquoise-blue eyes (really). Curling chestnut hair. Six foot two, lean and strong and graceful.
He’d been her friend since fourth grade, when they were put into the Mathlete program, the only two chosen by their teacher. At the time, the other kids had made fun of them a little, the two class brains, but it had been nice, too.
All through school, they’d had an easy friendship. They sat together at assemblies, said hi to each other in the halls, maintained a friendly competition with grades. They went trick-or-treating together until they got too old; after that, they stayed at the New House and watched scary movies.
It was on prom night that things had changed. Brogan asked her to be his date, said they’d have more fun than the actual couples, who placed so much importance on the event. A sound plan. But when she saw him standing there in his tuxedo, corsage box in hand, something happened. From that moment on, she felt shaky and slightly ill, and she flushed when he looked at her.
At the high school, they danced amiably, and when the DJ played a slow song, Brogan looped his arms around her. Kissed her forehead and smiled and said, “This is fun, isn’t it?”
And boom, she was in love.
And that love grew—like a virus, Honor sometimes thought. Because Brogan didn’t feel the same way.
Oh, he liked her plenty. He even loved her, sort of. But not the same way Honor loved him...not that he knew how she felt. Honor wasn’t that dumb.
The first time they’d slept together was when they were home on spring break their freshmen year of college, and Brogan suggested they lose their virginities together “because it’ll be better with a friend than with someone you love.” Sort of the prom theory, but with higher stakes.
Granted, she hadn’t quite believed he was a virgin, and he was someone she loved, and if it was a line to get her into bed, she wasn’t about to bring it up. The very fact that he wanted to sleep with her was somewhat miraculous, given that he could’ve chosen just about anyone. So they’d done the deed, and as losses of virginity went, it was pretty great. A few nights later, they’d gone to the movies, and it had been the same as always—friendly and fun, though a blade of uncertainty kept slicing through her. Were they together? Together together?
No, apparently not. He kissed her on the cheek when he dropped her off, emailed her when they both went back to their respective colleges.
The second time they slept together was their sophomore year, when she visited him at NYU. He hugged her and said how much he missed her, and she felt herself melting from the inside out. Pizza, a few beers, a walk around the city, back to his place, sex. She went home in a glow of love and hope...but the next time he called, it was just to catch up. No mention of love or even sex.
Four times in college. Twice in grad school. Definitely a friends-with-benefits situation...but the benefits only happened once in a while.
And the friend part stayed constant.
Once she started working at Blue Heron as the director of operations, she’d occasionally call him if she were going to be in Manhattan for a meeting...or a pretend meeting, as the case might be, though her conscience always cringed at the lie. “Hey, I have a late lunch in SoHo,” she might say, her stomach twisting, helpless to just come clean and say, Hi, Brogan, I miss you, I’m dying to see you. “Want to meet for a drink or dinner?” And he was always more than happy to shift his schedule around if he could, meet her and, maybe, sleep with her. Or not.
Honor would lecture herself. Remind herself that he wasn’t the only one out there. That if she was hung up on Brogan, she’d be closed off to other possibilities. But very few could compare to Brogan Cain, and it wasn’t like they were standing in line for the privilege of a date with her.
He became a photographer with Sports Illustrated, basically the wet dream job of all American men who couldn’t be professional athletes or Hugh Hefner. He was like that: incredibly lucky, übercharming, the kind of person who’d go out for a beer, comment on a baseball game to the guy next to him, strike up an easy friendship and only half an hour later realize he was talking to Steven Spielberg (who would then invite him to a party in L.A.). Sports photography with SI? Perfect.
Brogan met the mighty Jeter, photographed the Manning brothers, who had roots right here in Manningsport (or so the town liked to claim). He had drinks with Kobe Bryant and Picabo Street and went on the Harry Potter ride with the gold-medal gymnasts at Universal Studios.
But somehow, he was unaffected by it all, which was probably why he could claim people like Tom Brady and David Beckham as friends. He flew all over the world, went to the Olympic Games, the Stanley Cup, the Super Bowl. He even invited her—just her, no other friends—to come to Yankee Stadium and sit in the SI box and watch the World Series with him.
And that was the thing. Brogan Cain was an awfully nice guy. He came home to visit his parents, hung out at O’Rourke’s, bought the family house when his parents retired to Florida. He asked after her family, and if he blew her off the night of her grandparents’ sixty-fifth anniversary party because he plumb forgot, well...those things happened.
Every time she saw him, she blushed. Every time he kissed her, she felt like she was floating. Every time his name popped up in her email or on her phone, her uterus quivered. And recently, he’d told her he was hoping to cut back on his travel, be around more.
Maybe the time really was right. Her eggs, his settling down...marriage might be just the thing.
Yes. She needed a list. She opened her Mac and started typing.
Shock and awe to get him to see you in different light (think of something memorable).
Make marriage seem like a logical step in the friendship.
Do it soon so you don’t chicken out.
THREE HOURS LATER, Honor got out of her car, tightened the sash on her beige raincoat, swallowed and went up the steps to Brogan’s house. Her mouth was dry, her hands clammy. If this didn’t work...
The years are precious, egg-wise.
Sigh.
No. Not sigh. Go, team! That was more like it. We want company! she imagined her tiny, aging eggs demanding. In her mind, they were starting to thicken around the middle, wore reading glasses and were developing an affinity for pinochle. Don’t age, she warned them. Mommy’s got company coming.
For one quick second, she let herself indulge in a mental picture of the future. The New House once again filled with children (or at least one or two). Kids who would romp through the fields and woods with her dad; they’d be able to tell a Riesling grape from a Chablis before they started kindergarten. Children who’d have Brogan’s amazing eyes and her own blond hair. Or maybe Brogan’s thick, curly chestnut hair. Yeah. His was better.
With that picture firmly in mind, she knocked on Brogan’s door. The smell of garlic was thick in the air, and her stomach rumbled all of a sudden. On top of everything else, Brogan was a good cook.
“Hey, On!”
Okay, so he did have a flaw (see? no rose-colored glasses for her), and that was to shorten her five-letter, two-syllable name. She always pictured it spelled On, because Hon would’ve been short for honey, and he never called her that.
“This is a nice surprise!” he said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “Come on in.”
She went in, heart thudding. Remembered to smile. “How are you?” she asked, her voice sounding tight to her own ears.
“I’m great! Let me just stir this so it doesn’t burn. I hope you can stay for dinner.” He turned to the stove.
Now or never. Honor untied her sash, closed her eyes and opened the coat, and let it slide to the floor. Oh, crap, she was standing in front of the table, so his view would be blocked. Stepping around it, she waited. Buck naked. Shock and awe, shock and awe... It was chilly in here. She swallowed and waited some more.
Brogan’s father poked his head into the kitchen. “Smells good—oh. Hello, Honor, dear.”
Brogan’s father.
Brogan’s father.
Oh, fungus.
Honor dove under the table, knocking over a chair with a crash, crawled a few paces and grappled for the damn coat. Held it in front of her. Noticed the floor could use cleaning.
“Dear? Are you all right?” Mr. Cain asked.
“Did you say Honor’s here?” Mrs. Cain.
God, please kill me, Honor thought, jerking the coat around her shoulders. “Um, one second,” she said, her voice higher than usual.
Brogan bent down, his face puzzled. “On? What are you doing under—oh, man!”
“Hi,” she said, trying to get an arm in her sleeve.
“Dad, Mom, get out for a sec, okay?” He was already wheezing with laughter.
Where was the damn sleeve? Brogan squatted next to her. “Come on out,” he managed, wiping his eyes. “You’re safe for the moment.”
She crawled out, then stood, wrapping the coat around her. Tightly. “Surprise,” she said, her face on fire. “Sorry. I’ll try never to be spontaneous again.”
He tipped her chin up, and there it was, that mischievous, slightly lecherous smile, dancing eyes. Her skin tightened, lust mingling with mortification. “Are you kidding? My father will like you even more than he already does.”
The words gave her hope. Honor smiled—it wasn’t too easy, but she did—and readjusted her hairband. Dang, she’d meant to leave that at home. Hairbands with a Scotty dog pattern and nudity didn’t really go together. “So. Hello.”
He laughed and gave her a one-armed hug, then turned toward the living room. “It’s safe to come back, parents!” he called.
And back they came, Mrs. Cain’s face in lines of disapproval, Mr. Cain grinning.
Bite the bullet, Honor. “Sorry about that,” she said.
“Absolutely no need to apologize,” Mr. Cain said, his breath leaving in an ooph as Mrs. Cain elbowed him in the ribs.
“My parents are visiting,” Brogan said, his eyes dancing with laughter.
“So I see,” Honor murmured. “How’s Florida?”
“It’s wonderful,” Mr. Cain said warmly. “Stay for dinner, dear.”
“Oh, no. You... I can’t. But thanks.”
Brogan gave her another squeeze. “Yes, you can. Just because they saw you naked is no reason to feel awkward. Right, Mom?”
“Laugh it up,” Honor muttered.
Mrs. Cain was still in lemon-sucking mode. “I didn’t realize you two were...together.” She never had liked Honor. Or any female interested in her son, one imagined.
“Please stay, Honor,” Brogan said. “We’ll just talk about you if you leave.” He winked, utterly unfazed by her little show.
He got her a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, and she changed in the downstairs bathroom, avoiding looking at her face in the mirror. Okay, one quick glance. Yes, she looked utterly humiliated. But if she was going to be his wife, she’d just have to get over this little debacle. It would become part of the Cain family lore. They could laugh at it. A lot, no doubt.
Brogan covered the awkwardness over dinner with shop talk, telling them about the upcoming baseball season and spring training, who was out with what injury, and Honor tried to forget that Mr. Cain had seen her naked.
The elder Cains were only here en route to Buffalo to see Mr. Cain’s sister, thankfully. Maybe the night wouldn’t be a total wash, after all.
Finally, they left. The second their car pulled out of the garage, Brogan turned to her.
“That was maybe the best moment of my life,” he said.
“Yes. You’re welcome,” she said, blushing again. But smiling, too, because there it was, that nervous, tingling feeling. The—she hated to think it, but it was true—gratitude. Brogan Cain, the hottie sports photographer, had just complimented her.
“So let’s pretend the night is just starting, shall we?” he said, pulling back to smile at her. “You go outside, I hear a faint knock, and who is it but the beautiful Honor Holland!” He led her to the door and gently pushed her outside, though the rain had turned to sleet.
And so Honor did it again, and this time, things went a little more according to plan. Except the kitchen table was covered in dishes, so they went to Brogan’s bedroom instead.
And when they were done, and when Honor’s heart was racing, not just from exertion, but from terror, let’s be honest, she tried to draw in a calming breath. Settle down, she told herself. He’s your friend.
Yes. He was. Honor raised herself slowly—Brogan seemed to be sleeping. That was okay. This way, she could just look at him. He was so handsome. Black lashes worthy of a mascara commercial, straight nose, perfectly shaped mouth. A hint of five-o’clock shadow gave his almost-beautiful face just the right amount of machismo. Hard to believe she was in bed with him, even after all these...encounters.
She knew he’d had a few girlfriends here and there. During those times, they didn’t sleep together, of course, and Honor would try to be neutral on the rare occasions that Brogan did talk about these other women. Inevitably, he’d break up with them (which was a great sign, she thought).
As for other men, well...there’d been four other relationships, lasting between five and twenty-three days. She’d only ever slept with one other guy, and let’s face it. It hadn’t compared with this.
Now or never, Honor.
“You asleep?” she whispered.
“Nope. Just letting you ogle me,” he said, opening his eyes with a grin.
She smiled back. “And I appreciate it.” She licked her lips, knees tingling with adrenaline. “So.”
“So.” He reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. It was all the encouragement she needed.
“You know what I thought the other day?” she asked. Her toes curled, but she kept her voice casual.
“What?”
“I was thinking we should get married.”
There. She said it. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe normally.
“Yeah, right.” Brogan snorted. He stretched, yawning. “Man, that flight is catching up with me.” Then he looked back at her. “Oh. Uh, are you serious?”
Play it easy here, her brain advised. “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s a thought.”
He stared at her, then his eyebrows jumped in bewilderment. “Really?”
His voice did not indicate that he’d just heard a wonderful idea. It indicated...bafflement.
“It’s just, you know, we’re good friends. Good, good friends. Really good friends.” Oh, youch. Stop talking. You sound like an idiot. “You know, we’ve been friends for ages now. Long time.” Her tongue felt like a piece of old leather, and wasn’t that an attractive image! Would you like to kiss my shriveled, dry, leathery mouth, Brogan? Because the years are precious, you know. Egg-wise.
She forced out an awkward laugh, then wished she hadn’t. “Just putting that out there. It’s been, what? Seventeen years that we’ve been together?”
“Together?” he said, sitting up abruptly.
“Uh, sort of. We always, um, fall back on each other.” She sat up, too, leaning against the leather-upholstered headboard. Tears stung her eyes, and she immediately ordered them back. She cleared her throat. “I mean, we’re such good friends. And then there’s this. Sex.”
“Yeah! Right. No, we’re great friends. Definitely. I think of you as my best friend, really. But, um...” Brogan took a deep breath. “I never really saw us as together per se.” He swallowed and, to his credit, looked at her.
Calm, calm. “No, you’re right. I just thought, we’re getting to a certain age, and you said you were cutting back on traveling.” She paused. “And neither one of us has ever found someone...permanent. Maybe that says something.”
Please say you agree. Please realize what a great idea this is.
He didn’t answer, but his eyes were kind. Horribly so, and that was answer enough. Her heart stuttered, then shriveled like burned paper. To avoid looking at him, she traced the stitching in the comforter. Now that the initial rejection was done, she could keep it together. She was a rational, calm person. Except she might be having a heart attack. She kind of hoped she was.
Brogan was quiet for a minute. “You know how I think about you, On?” He turned to see her face. “I think of you like an old baseball glove.”
She blinked. Was he kidding? A sports analogy? Granted, he was full of them, but now?
He nodded. “Like an old friend, something you turn to when you need it.”
“A baseball glove.” Could she smother him with the pillow, maybe, or did that only work in the movies? How about panty hose strangulation? Too bad she hadn’t worn any.
He took her hand and squeezed it, and she let it lie there like a dead fish. “It’s like Jeter once said. Or maybe it was Pujols. Yeah, because this was back when he played in Saint Louis. Wait, was it Joe Maurer? No, because he’s a catcher, so that’d be a mitt. Anyway, whoever it was, he was talking about how when he’s in a slump, or when he doesn’t feel right about an upcoming game, he puts on his old glove. He’s had it for years, right? And when he puts it on, it’s like an old friend, and he knows he’ll have a better day because of it.” He turned to her, tipping her chin up, and she blinked, her eyes feeling like two hot, hard stones. “But you don’t need that glove every day.”
Surely this was the worst breakup speech in history.
He winced. “Okay, that was the worst comparison ever,” he said, and she had to laugh then, because it was that or burst into tears. “What I’m trying to say, On, is—”
“You know what?” she said, and her voice was normal, thank you, God. “Forget it. I don’t know where the idea came from. Maybe it was because your parents saw me naked.”
He grinned.
“But you’re right,” she said more firmly. “Why ruin a good thing?”
“Exactly,” he said. “Because we are a good thing. Don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. No, no, getting married was just...just a thought. Never mind.”
He kissed her then, and it nearly tore her heart in half. An old baseball glove? Holy fungus. Yet her head was cupped between his hands, and she was letting him kiss her, like nothing had changed at all.
“Feel up for round two?” he whispered.
Are you kidding? You just compared me to an old baseball glove. I’m leaving.
“Sure,” she said. Because nothing had changed. She was the same old glove she’d always been.
If she left, he might realize she’d been dead serious, and if he knew that, then she wouldn’t have any pride left. And since her heart had just been poleaxed, pride was suddenly very important.
* * *
SHE APPEARED AT Dana’s door an hour later, and the second she knocked, tears made a rare appearance, sliding down her face in hot streaks.
Dana opened the door, took one look and blinked. An odd expression—half surprise, half something else—came over her face. “Well, I guess I can see how that turned out,” she said after a beat. “I’m sorry, babe.”
She got a clean pair of pajamas, and Honor changed, then washed her face in the sloppy, comforting bathroom.
“At least you know where you stand,” Dana said, leaning against the doorway. “I think drinks are called for, don’t you?”
She made very strong martinis and handed Honor a box of Kleenex. Shark Week, a shared passion of theirs, played in the background. Somehow, it was the perfect backdrop to spill everything.
“I feel like such an ass,” Honor said when she’d finished recounting the wretched evening. “And the thing is, I didn’t know how much I loved him till it was out there, you know? Does that make sense?”
“Sure, sure it does.” Dana drained her drink. “Listen, I hate to be insensitive here, but tell me the part about the parents one more time, okay?” she said with a wicked grin, and Honor snorted and complied, making Dana swear she’d never tell anyone, because as a hairdresser, Dana saw everyone, and knew everyone’s business, and was pretty liberal with sharing it.
“Comparing your vajay-jay to an old baseball glove...that’s going a little far, isn’t it?”
“It wasn’t my... Never mind. Let’s talk about something else. Oh, look at that guy’s stitches. I’m never swimming again.” She sat back, leaning against her raincoat. Stupid raincoat. Where was the shock and awe now, huh? Wadding it up, she tossed it on the floor.
“Hey, it’s not the coat’s fault. And that’s Burberry,” Dana said, retrieving it. “But no, I see your point. You hate it now, so I’m going to make the ultimate sacrifice and take it from you. I promise never to wear it in your presence.” She opened a closet, shoved the coat in and slammed the door.
Dana could be prickly, but she certainly had her moments. “So what now?” she asked as the guy on TV described what it was like to see his severed arm in a great white shark’s teeth.
Honor swallowed the sharp lump in her throat. “I don’t know. But I guess I can’t sleep with him anymore. I have a little pride, glove or no glove.”
“Good. It’s high time,” Dana said. “Now sit there and watch this next attack, and I’ll make us another round.”
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_ff6ed1ef-1fc9-56c6-a63d-babfaf0e8824)
FOR A GUY who taught mechanical engineering at a fourth-rate college in the middle of nowhere, Tom Barlow was packing them in.
At the university where he’d last taught, there’d been an actual engineering school, and his students were genuinely interested in the subject matter. Here, though, at tiny Wickham College, four of the original six attendees had stumbled into class, having left registration until too late, only taking mechanical engineering because it still had open slots. Two had seemed genuinely interested, until one, the girl, transferred to Carnegie Mellon.
But then, by the end of the second week, he suddenly had thirty-six students jammed into the little classroom. Each one of these new students was female, ranging in age from eighteen to possibly fifty-five. Suddenly, an astonishing array of girls and women had decided that mechanical engineering (whatever that was) had become their new passion in life.
The clothes were a bit of a problem. Tight, trashy, low-cut, low-riding, inappropriate. Tom tended to teach to the wall in the back of the room, not wanting to make eye contact with the hungry gazes of seventy-eight percent of his class.
He tried not to leave time for questions, as the Barbarian Horde, as he thought of them, tended to be inappropriate. Are you single? How old are you? Where’d you come from? Do you like foreign films/sushi/girls?
Then again, he needed this job. “Any questions?” he asked. Dozens of hands shot up. “Yes, Mr. Kearns,” he said gratefully to the one student in the class who was there out of interest in the subject.
According to his file, Jacob Kearns had been kicked out of MIT for doing drugs. He seemed on the straight and narrow now, at least, but Wickham College was a hundred steps down academically. Then again, Tom knew all about shooting himself in the foot, career-wise.
“Dr. Barlow, with the hovercraft project, I was wondering how you’d calculate the escape velocity?”
“Good question. The escape velocity is the speed at which the kinetic energy of your object, along with its gravitational potential energy, is zero. Make sense?” The Barbarian Horde (those who were listening) looked confused.
“Definitely,” Jacob said. “Thanks.”
Thirty seconds to the bell. “Listen up,” he said. “Your homework is to read chapters six and seven in your texts and answer all the study questions at the end of both as well as pass in your term project proposals. Those of you who flunked the hovercraft estimates have to do them again.” Hopefully, he could break the Horde with a ridiculous workload. “Anything else?”
A hand went up. One of the Barbarians, of course. “Yes?” he said briskly.
“Are you British?” she asked, getting a ripple of giggles from a third of the class, whose mental age appeared to be twelve.
“I’ve answered that in a previous class. Any other questions that pertain to mechanical engineering, then? No? Great. Cheerio.”
“Oh, my God, he said ‘Cheerio,’” said a blonde dressed like a Cockney prostitute.
The bell rang, and the Barbarian Horde surged toward his desk. “Mr. Kearns, please stay a minute,” Tom said.
Seven female students clustered around him. “So do you think I could, like, work for an architect or something?” one asked.
“I’ve no idea,” he answered.
“I mean, after this class.” She lowered her gaze to his mouth. Crikey. Made him want to shower.
“Pass the class first, then apply and see,” he said.
“Do you want to hang out at the pub, Tom?” asked another of the BH. “I’d love to buy you a drink.”
“That’d be inappropriate,” he answered.
“I’m totally legal,” she said with a leer.
“If you don’t have any questions related to the lesson today, get out, please.” He smiled to soften the words, and with a lot of pouty lips and hair tossing, the Barbarian Horde departed.
Tom waited till the other kids were out of earshot. “Jacob, would you be interested in interning for me?”
“Yeah! Sure! Um, doing what?”
“I customize airplanes here and there. Got a project coming up. It might be good on your CV.”
“What’s a CV?”
“A résumé.”
“Sure!” Jacob said again. “That’d be great.”
“You can’t be using, of course. Will that be a problem?”
The kid flushed. “No. I’m in NA and all that. Clean for thirteen months.” He pushed his hands into his pockets. “I have to pee in a cup every month to come here. The health office has my records.”
“Good. I’ll give you a shout when I need you.”
“Thanks, Dr. Barlow. Thanks a lot.”
Tom nodded. The head of his department was standing in the doorway, frowning down the hallway, where a cacophony of giggles was coming from the twits. When Jacob left, the man came in and closed the door behind him.
This wouldn’t be good news, Tom thought. Droog Dragul (not a shock that he was called Dracula, was it?) had the face of a medieval monk—tortured, pale and severe. He looked even more depressed than usual.
“Dee cheeldren of dis school,” Droog said in his thick accent. He sighed. “Dey are so...” Tom winced, fearing the next phrase would be well fed or iron-rich. “Dey are so unfocused.” Phew.
“Most of them, anyway,” Tom said. “I’ve got one or two good students.”
“Yes.” His boss sighed. “And you heff such a vay vith the ladies, Tom. Perhaps we can heff beer and you can give pointers.”
“It’s the accent, mate,” Tom said.
“Mine does not seem to heff same effect, for some reason. Eh heh heh heh heh!”
Tom winced, then smiled. Droog was a good guy. Strange, but nice enough. In the month since Tom had been teaching here, they’d had dinner once, gone out for beer and pool twice, and if the experience had been odd, it seemed that Droog had a good heart.
His boss sighed and sat down, tapping his long fingers on the desk. “Tom, I am afraid I heff bad news. Vee von’t be able to renew your vork visa.”
Tom inhaled sharply. The only reason he’d taken this job was for the work visa. “That was a condition of my employment.”
“I em aware. But dee budget...it is too overtaxed for dee court fees.”
“I thought you said it’d be no problem.”
“I vas wrong. They heff reconsidered.”
Tom felt his jaw locking. “I see.”
“Vee value your teaching abilities and experience, Tom. Perhaps you vill find another way. Vee can give you till end of semester.” He paused. “I em sorry. Very much so.”
Tom nodded. “Thanks, mate.” It wasn’t Droog’s fault. But shit.
Dr. Dragul left, and Tom sat at his desk another few minutes. Finding another job in February was unlikely. Wickham College had been the only place in western New York looking for an engineering professor, and Tom had been lucky to get the job as fast as he did. It wasn’t a prestigious place, not by a long shot, but that wasn’t really the point. This time around, it was all about location.
He couldn’t keep his job without a work visa, though it wasn’t like Immigration would be breathing down his neck; an employed professor was less of a concern than most of their cases. Still, the college wasn’t going to keep him on illegally.
If he was going to stay, he needed a green card.
Fast.
But first to the rather shabby house he’d just rented, and then to the much better bar down the street. A drink was definitely required.
* * *
A FEW NIGHTS later, Tom sat in the kitchen of his great-aunt Candace’s kitchen, drinking tea. Only Brits could make decent tea, and though Candace had lived in the States for at least six decades, she hadn’t lost the touch.
“That Melissa,” Aunt Candace said darkly. “She messed everything up, didn’t she?”
“Well. Let’s not speak ill of the dead.”
“But I’ll miss you! And what about Charlie? How old is he now? Twelve?”
“Fourteen.” His unofficial stepson had been ten when Tom met him. Hard to reconcile that talkative, happy little boy with the sullen teenager who barely spoke these days.
A fleeting pain lanced through his chest. Charlie wouldn’t miss him, that seemed certain. One of those situations where Tom wasn’t sure if he was doing any good whatsoever, or if, in fact, his presence made things worse. Melissa, Charlie’s mother, was dead, and her brief engagement to Tom qualified him as nothing in the boy’s life today, even though Charlie had been just a few months away from becoming Tom’s stepson.
Whatever the case, Tom didn’t have much choice about whether or not he was staying in the States. He’d emailed his old department head in England, who wrote right back saying they’d take Tom back in a heartbeat. There weren’t any other colleges in western New York looking for someone with his credentials. And teaching was what he loved (when the students were actually interested in the subject matter, that was).
And so, Tom had decided to drive to Pennsylvania, visit the only relative he had in this country and start the goodbye process. He’d been in the States for four years now, and Aunt Candace had been good to him. Not to mention delirious with joy when he called after his last class to see if she was free for dinner. He even took her to the mall so she could buy a coat, proving a fact Tom firmly believed—he was a bloody saint.
“Here. Have more pie, darling.” She pushed the dish across the table toward him, and Tom helped himself.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Lovely town, Manningsport,” she said. “I lived near there as a child, did you know that?”
“So you told me,” Tom said. His lovely old aunt could bake, that was certain.
“Finish that pie, you might as well. I’m prediabetic or some such nonsense. Then again, I’m also eighty-two years old. Life without dessert is too horrible to contemplate. I’ll just overdose on caramel corn and die with a smile on my face. What was I saying again?”
“You used to live near Manningsport.”
“Yes, that’s right! Just for a few years. My mother was a widow, you see. My father died of pneumonia, and so she packed my brother and me up and came to America. Elsbeth, your grandmother, was already married, so she stayed in Manchester with her husband, of course. Your grandfather. But I remember the crossing, seeing the Statue of Liberty. I was seven years old. Oh, it was thrilling!” She smiled and took a sip of tea.
“So that’s how you became a Yank?” Tom asked.
She nodded. “We lived in Corning, and she met my stepfather, and he adopted Peter and me.”
“I never knew that,” Tom said.
“He was a lovely man. A farmer. Sometimes I’d go with him to deliver milk.” Candace smiled. “Anyway, we moved after my brother died in the war. I was fifteen then. But I still have a friend there. More of a pen pal, do you know what that is?”
Tom smiled. “I do.”
“A pity you have to leave. It’s beautiful there.” Candy’s gaze suddenly sharpened. “Tom, dear...if you really want to stay in the States, you can always marry an American.”
“That’s illegal, Auntie.”
“Oh, pooh.”
He laughed. “I can’t see myself going that far,” he said. “It might be different if—well. It’s not an option.”
It might be if Charlie actually wanted him to stay. Needed him. If Tom were anything but a thorn in Charlie’s side, he might give it a whirl.
He had two thin job prospects with manufacturing firms, both requiring experience he didn’t have. If those didn’t work out (and he was almost positive they wouldn’t), he’d be heading back to jolly old England, which wouldn’t be awful. He’d be near his dad. Probably meet some nice girl someday. Charlie would barely remember him.
The pie suddenly tasted like ash. He pushed back his plate. “I’d better be off,” he said. “Thanks for the visit.”
She stood up and hugged him, her cheek soft against his. “Thank you for coming to see an old lady,” she said. “I’m going to brag about this for days. My grandnephew adores me.”
“You’re right. Ta, Auntie. I’ll call you and let you know what’s happening.”
“If I happen to know someone who might be interested, can I give her your number, dear?”
“Interested in what, Auntie?”
“In marrying you.”
Tom laughed. The old lady’s face was so hopeful, though. “Sure,” he said, giving her another kiss on the cheek. Let the old bird feel useful, and that way, maybe she wouldn’t feel so bad when he went back to England.
There was that pain in his chest again.
It took four hours to drive back to Manningsport. Four hours of wretched, icy rain and windshield wipers that smeared, rather than cleared. The weather thickened as he approached the Finger Lakes. Perhaps he wouldn’t get in too late to grab a bite (and a whiskey) at the pub he was becoming too fond of. Chat up the pretty bartender and try not to think about the future.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_b99b7c26-2e6c-58dc-b8e7-dee989ce8c10)
SIX WEEKS AFTER her failed marriage proposal, Honor was starting to panic.
Online dating sites had offered her all of four matches: her brother Jack (pass); Carl, her brother-in-law (he and Pru had registered to see if eCommitment would say that they were compatible, then planned to meet and pretend to be strangers as part of their ongoing quest to keep things fresh; he was also a pass, obviously); Bobby McIntosh, who lived in his grandmother’s basement and had strange, reptilian eyes; and a guy she didn’t know who listed “reincarnation” under his hobbies.
So. Here she was again, staring down the weekend with only Spike, her recently acquired little mutt, for company, and while Spike was indeed excellent company, Honor had sort of hoped for the human variety. Ryan Gosling would’ve been preferred, but he had plans, apparently. Dana was busy, and had been busy a lot lately, which was getting a little frustrating, as winter in the Finger Lakes meant there already wasn’t much to do. Take the best girlfriend out of the equation, and there was even less.
Faith was busy being a newlywed. Pru was busy pretending to be a newlywed. Jack had come over to watch the gruesome medical documentaries they both loved on Honor’s fabulous new TV, and she had the feeling she’d tapped him out on the social front. Abby was a popular kid, and Honor couldn’t bring herself to beg the teenager to hang out and watch movies. Ditto Ned, who already spent enough time with Honor at work.
This left Goggy and Pops, who were always happy to see her but fought constantly, and Dad, who was acting a little weird lately. Jumpy. Secretive.
Would Mrs. Johnson be up for something? Sometimes she’d go to a movie with Honor, though she clucked about the unsanitary nature of theaters, theater staff and humans in general. Hmm. Mrs. Johnson was probably her best bet. They could bring Spike, who loved movies as well as popcorn.
At that moment, her phone rang, startling her so much that she sloshed her coffee. Spike barked from her little doggy bed and began leaping up against Honor’s leg, tearing her panty hose. Though she’d only had Spike for a month, the dog was very protective.
“I’ll get it!” Honor yelled to Ned, the only other employee here at this hour.
“Of course you will,” he yelled back from his office, where the sounds of Angry Birds could be heard.
“Blue Heron Vineyard, Honor Holland speaking,” she said smoothly into the phone, scooping up her doggy.
“Hey, On, it’s Brogan.”
A burst of heat raced up her legs. “Hey! Hi! How are you? How’s it going?” Down, girl, said the eggs. He rejected us, remember?
True. But they’d only emailed a few times since then, and damn if she didn’t miss him.
“I’m really good,” he said. “How are you?”
“I’m good! I’m great! I’m great, too, I mean.” The eggs sighed.
“So listen,” he continued, “I’m in town, and I was hoping you could find some time to see me.”
Honor paused. The words old baseball glove leaped to mind. Then again, they’d always been friends. Still were. “What did you have in mind?”
I’m really sorry about saying no, Honor. These past few weeks have given me time to think and I love you and I want to marry you. Now.
“Drinks at O’Rourke’s?” he asked.
“Sure! You bet.”
“Fantastic,” he said, and his voice was warm. There was a pause. “I have something important to tell you, and I want to do it in person. I think—I hope—it’ll make you really happy.”
The eggs sat up straighter. So did Honor.
“Okay,” she said, pressing her fingers against her hot cheeks. “That sounds great.”
“Seven o’clock?”
Seven! That was in ninety-two minutes. “That works. I’ll see you then.”
She sat there another minute, then sucked in an enormous breath, having forgotten how to breathe normally. Spike licked her chin in concern, and Honor patted her out of reflex. Turned to her computer and typed in Brogan’s words. Studied them. Read them aloud, very softly so her nephew wouldn’t hear.
“Hey,” the same nephew said from her doorway, causing Honor to slap her laptop closed. Ned gave her a strange look. “Chill, Honor.”
“What is it, Neddie dear?”
“You okay? You look all blotchy.”
“Shush, child. What do you want?”
“I’m leaving. I have a date. And a life. You should try it some time.”
“Very funny, Ned. Have fun. Drive carefully.”
She waited till his footsteps had faded away, then opened her laptop and looked at those words again. I have something important to tell you, and I think—I hope—it’ll make you really happy.
Could it be?
Could this be exactly what she wished for?
For one second, the scene flashed in front of her eyes. Herself, sitting at a little table at O’Rourke’s. Brogan on bended knee, the ring shining from a black velvet box. His question, her answer, the applause of the pub patrons, and then, finally, the feeling of his arms around her as he kissed her in public for the first time ever.
Her heart was thudding. Could this really be about to happen to her? The most unsurprising of the Holland girls, the one who was steady as a rock, about to be the subject of such a romantic proposal, finally claimed by Brogan Cain?
It was almost hard to believe. Yeah, about that, said the eggs. The years are precious, sure, but don’t jump the gun.
She ignored them. Adjusted her hairband (pink-and-green plaid). Read the words again.
It sure sounded like what she wanted it to sound like. Oh, yes, indeedy.
Legs trembling slightly, Honor settled Spike in her purse (why have a five-pound dog if you couldn’t take her everywhere?), gave her an absentminded kiss on the head and walked across the lawn to the New House, where Mrs. Johnson was banging pots and pans in the kitchen. Dad was there as well, his face red, stuffing his hands into his faded jeans, a tear in the elbow of his flannel shirt.
“Hi, guys,” Honor said.
“Hello, Petunia,” Dad answered, taking off his baseball cap and running a hand through his hair. Mrs. Johnson growled, which was not uncommon.
“Everyone good here?” Honor asked.
“Of course! Why would you even ask such a question, Honor Grace Holland?” Mrs. J. demanded in her lilting accent. She slammed a pot on the stove. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. How’s your brother? Is he hungry, do you think?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. J. Give him a call. And I, uh, I have plans,” she said.
“Good,” Dad said, his face flushing all the more. “I mean, good that you’ll get out with friends, sweetheart.”
“Yes. Mrs. J., will you watch Spike tonight?” I may be getting a marriage proposal.
The housekeeper’s face melted into a smile. “Of course I will! Come here, you precious angel! Your fur is almost all grown back, isn’t it? Oh, my beautiful princess, give us a kiss!”
Honor floated up to her little suite. Since she was the only Holland kid left at home, she’d appropriated Faith’s old room last year and made it into a sitting room. She did a lot of work there, and also watched TV, most often with her laptop open, doing all the things that she hadn’t gotten to during the workday.
Going into her bedroom, she opened her closet and frowned at the sea of navy blue and gray. Hmm. Her clothes were either neat-as-a-pin business attire, or jeans and a Blue Heron sweatshirt, and she didn’t want to be wearing either if Brogan was about to...you know.
Her hands were sweating.
I have something important to tell you, and I want to do it in person. I hope—I think—it’ll make you really happy.
What else could it be?
From the bookcase, her mother’s image smiled out at her.
Twenty years gone, and Honor still missed her. They’d been so close, and so alike, both practical with a healthy dose of yearning thrown in: Honor for a family, which Mom had had right out of college; Mom for travel and possibly a career, which Honor had in spades. Funny, that. They both wanted what the other had.
Mom would’ve liked Brogan, Honor thought. Yes. She definitely would’ve.
She showered, shaved her legs, moisturized. If she went back to Brogan’s house, she’d have to call, or Dad would call the chief of police, Levi Cooper, who happened to be married to Faith.
She’d cross that bridge later on. Put on a pink dress she’d worn to a wedding a few years ago, added a gray cardigan so she didn’t look quite so dressed up, but still suitably feminine. Honor looked at her shoe options. Flats and a couple of pairs of basic pumps. She didn’t own slutty shoes. Too much to swing by Faith’s and borrow some? Probably.
Calling a goodbye to Dad and Mrs. J., Honor got into her car, shivering at the cold. Drove down the Hill into the tiny village. Tonight, it looked more beautiful than ever, a coating of snow on the ground, lights in the windows of the houses and storefronts that ringed the town green, Crooked Lake dark and vast behind. The sky was a swirl of stars. O’Rourke’s was typically full, as the little pub was open year-round, the only place in town that was, and she could hear laughter and music from inside.
So...romantic. There was no other word for it, though romantic didn’t figure a lot into Honor’s life.
Tonight would be different.
Brogan’s Porsche was already in the parking lot.
This is it, she told herself, wishing abruptly she’d told her sisters to come tonight. But maybe it was better this way. Or...maybe...Brogan had asked them to come tonight, so they could see him popping the question live and in person. That would be just like him. The guy had flare.
Proposing to him had been a bad move. Men liked to do the work, according to the nine books she’d read recently on understanding the male psyche.
She touched her pearls for luck, then opened the door to O’Rourke’s. “Hey, Honor,” said Colleen from behind the bar. “Wow, you look nice!”
“Check you out,” said Connor at the same time.
“Thanks,” she murmured, not really seeing the O’Rourke twins, who ran the bar.
Brogan was waiting for her, that knowing, incredibly sexy half smile on his face.
Oh, Lordy. Could it be true? That in just a few minutes, she’d be engaged to marry this guy? She smiled back, heart galloping. “Great to see you,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek. He took her coat and hung it up, ever the gentleman, and, oh, man, she loved him more than ever, and that was saying a lot.
Somewhere far in the back reaches of her psyche, the eggs were saying something about assumptions and whatever, sort of like an irritating storm warning running along the bottom of the television screen when you’re watching a really good show. Whatever. It was hard to form rational thought at the moment, which was odd, since her trademark was being the sensible one, the dependable, calm member of the Holland family.
Not this night. This night, she was just a woman in love.
The thoughts came in disjointed flashes, the only thing registering solidly was Brogan’s hand on her back, warm through her sweater.
When she saw Dana sitting alone at a table, her heart did a strange flop, and for a second, Honor felt a little surge of sympathy—Dana, who had no problem finding a guy, but had huge problems keeping one, would now have to see her and Brogan together. Dana often mocked happy couples. But Dana was her best friend, and she’d be happy for Honor. She would set aside her own issues.
In fact, maybe Brogan had invited her here for just that reason, to see the whole thing. You know what? That would explain why Dana had been a little hard to reach, a little distant lately. She’d been afraid to blow the surprise.
Then Brogan held a chair at the same table where Dana was sitting, and Dana looked up at Honor and gave her a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
Okay, that was...huh. That little warning that scrolled across the screen was now accompanied by the loud beeping of the emergency signal.
She sat down. So did Brogan.
Later, Honor would wish she’d brought her dog, who could have attacked either Brogan or Dana, hopefully both, biting them with her tiny, needlelike teeth. She might have even peed on someone.
What happened next was a bit foggy. A poison, industrial-waste, evacuate-the-area kind of fog. Honor could hear her heartbeat crashing in her ears, caught Dana looking her up and down, immediately making her regret her choice of outfit. Dana herself wore a yellow wraparound shirt that showed her tiny waist and great boobage, making Honor feel overdressed and prim at the same time. Dana’s dark hair was a little different than the last time she’d seen her—gosh, two weeks ago? Three? Well, Dana was a hairdresser. Her hair changed all the time. Not like Honor, who’d had hers all one length for years. Alice in Wonderland hair, Dana called it. She was always urging Honor to let her cut it.
Honor cleared her throat. Probably should be thinking about something other than hair. The other thought, the big one, was trying to shoulder its way in, but Honor wouldn’t let it. Where was the happy, rosy glow? She missed it. Damn that glow! Come back! “Hi,” she said, forcing a smile.
One of the O’Rourke cousins brought Honor a glass of wine she didn’t remember ordering. Red. Pinot noir, Californian, a little too much pepper for her taste, better at first sip than upon finish, when it left a burning sensation in the back of her throat.
Over at the bar, Lorena Creech bellowed something about beddy-bye time. She heard Colleen O’Rourke’s belly laugh. Someone said, “Thanks, mate,” in an accent not usually heard around here, and all the while, Dana’s dark eyes held a gleam of something, and she kept wrinkling her nose when she laughed. Brogan talked, shrugging, smiling. Little scraps of their words came to her, and Honor was aware that she’d tipped her head and was smiling. Or, at least her mouth was stretched so that her cheeks bunched. It might’ve been a grimace. She wasn’t sure.
Then Dana held out her left hand, and on her fourth finger was Honor’s engagement ring. An emerald-cut three-carat diamond set in platinum. And then the words, all those words she hadn’t quite been hearing, slammed into Honor’s heart, Dana’s voice bright and sharp as a razor, slicing through the fog.
“So obviously, we didn’t plan on it. In fact, it was so crazy! We didn’t want to say anything to anyone until we were sure it was real, right, honey? But you know that saying. When it’s right, it’s right, and you don’t have to spend years wondering about it.”
Oh. That was meant for her. Gotcha.
Dana paused, squeezing Brogan’s hand. “Anyway, Honor, I know it’s a little weird, since you guys hooked up once in a while...” She smiled at Honor, a bright, movie-star smile. “But as you told me, that was done, and we hope you’ll be happy for us.”
All this first-person plural. Us. We. Our. What the hell was that about? No, seriously. What the ffffff—no, no, Honor wasn’t the type to swear, but really, what the ffff-ungus was that about?
“Excuse me?” Honor said, and her heart beat so fast that she honestly felt like she might faint. “You’re getting married?”
Brogan stopped talking. His face began to register something was off. “Uh, yeah.”
Dana reached over and squeezed her hand. “Maid of honor? What do you say?”
Right. Because if she asked Honor to be in the wedding, then clearly Dana was a wonderful friend. Clearly it wasn’t a case of swooping in and stealing—okay, not stealing, but definitely swooping—and taking Brogan. Brogan, of all people!
And why not? Brogan was handsome and nice and wealthy and glamorous, and Dana was a shark. Honor had seen it before, little flashes of those lethal rows of teeth, but man-oh-man-alive, she never thought Dana would turn on her.
Breathing. Right. Had to do that to stay alive. Honor sucked in a fast, hard breath, then another.
Brogan was now looking downright concerned. “On?”
She dragged her gaze from Dana’s face to his. “It’s Honor.”
He blinked those ridiculous (now that she thought of it) turquoise eyes. “Uh, Honor, you’re okay with this, right? I mean, we were never...” He winced. “I thought...”
“Honor? You’re not upset, are you?” Dana asked. “I mean, you and Brogan were never more than a friendly fu—”
That was when the wine appeared on Dana’s yellow shirt, right splat on her chest, some beads of red rolling into her exposed cleavage. Dana’s mouth opened and closed like a trout pulled out of the water, and Honor realized her glass was empty.
“Holy crap, Honor!” Dana shrieked, jolting backward in her chair. “What the hell?”
Honor stood up, her legs shaking with shock and—and—and something she wasn’t used to feeling, but it seemed to be fury.
Dana stood, too, mouth hanging open in outrage as she stared down at her shirt. She looked up. “You bitch!” she said.
Honor shoved her. Not hard, but still. She wasn’t proud of it, didn’t plan it, but there wasn’t really much time to think, because Dana shoved back, much harder, and Honor staggered a little, bumping into her chair, and then Dana shoved her again, and she could smell the wine and “Sweet Home Alabama” was playing on the jukebox, and then they were falling, and there was some grappling, and Honor’s head jerked and a sudden pain lanced through her scalp—for the love of God, Dana was pulling her hair and it hurt, and she grabbed some of Dana’s adorable, silky hair (which smelled like coconut, very nice) and gave that a tug, and a chair fell on top of them, and time was weird, it was so slow and so fast at the same time, and then Brogan was hauling Dana off her. “Honor, what are you doing?” Brogan asked, and Honor scrabbled up, too (hopefully not flashing anyone), then there was a crack and Honor’s face stung.
Her best friend had just slapped her.
Honor’s breath came in short gasps. A cocktail napkin was stuck to her left breast. She pulled it off and set it on the table.
Oh, God.
The bar was silent.
“Honor.” Jack, her big brother, and who said they were never around when you needed them? “Are you okay?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Peachy.” Her face hurt. The spot Dana slapped throbbed.
Brogan looked absolutely bewildered. “Honor,” he said. “I—I thought...I didn’t realize...”
“No? Well, then, you’re stupider than I thought.” Her voice was cool, despite the fact that she was shaking violently.
“Let’s get out of here,” her brother said, and she loved him so much right then.
“I can’t believe it!” someone barked from the bar, breaking the silence. Lorena Creech, the biggest mouth in town. “Honor Holland in a catfight! Wowzers!”
“Come on,” Jack muttered. “I’ll drive you home.”
But Honor just stood there another minute, unable to take her eyes off of Dana. Her friend. The one who watched movies with her on Saturday nights when neither of them had a date, who confided in her, laughed with her, didn’t seem to mind that she was maybe a little quiet, a little predictable. The one who’d told her to go for it, propose to Brogan...the one who’d handed her tissues after he said no.
The one who’d had a strange look on her face when she answered the door that night, and now Honor recognized what that expression had been: triumph.
The one who was wearing the same engagement ring Honor had admired.
In Dana’s eyes was a dark gleam of satisfaction.
“I’ll drive myself,” Honor said, finally looking at her brother. “Thanks, anyway, Jack.” She straightened her sweater, took her purse from the back of the chair.
Over the back of Dana’s chair, she noted, was a Burberry raincoat. Honor’s raincoat.
She turned and headed through the still-silent bar. It was an awfully long way.
A man she didn’t know slid off a bar stool and went to the door ahead of her, weaving a bit, she noted distantly. “Thanks for that,” he said, the origin of the British accent she’d heard earlier. “You don’t get to see enough girl fights these days.”
“Shut up,” she muttered, not looking him in the eye.
He toasted her with his glass and held the door open, and the cool, damp air soothed her burning face.
* * *
TWO HOURS LATER, with Spike curled under her chin and snoring slightly, Honor made a resolution (and a list).
No more catfights in bars.
No more letting the old imagination fly away like a rabid bat, inventing scenarios that clearly weren’t going to play out.
Work less and play more (find ways to play ASAP; maybe hire someone?).
A relationship, and pronto.
A baby. Soon.
Time to get a life, in other words.
Time to take action.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_99bf8822-2528-51e4-90d3-e16e1ee9fe5c)
THERE WAS LITTLE Honor dreaded more than Family Meetings. In the past, subjects covered included Jack’s divorce, the care and feeding of Goggy and Pops, Faith’s wedding(s) and Dad’s terrifying girlfriend of last year.
Tonight, for the first time ever, the Family Meeting was about her.
In the three days since the catfight, Honor had done a lot of thinking. She’d always been the good one, not that her siblings were bad people. No, they were just more colorful. She was like that other kid in the story of the Prodigal Son. The one who never screwed up, who did his job.
And look where that had gotten her. Thirty-five, aging eggs, no man in her life, totally gobsmacked by her best friend, not to mention completely idiotic where Brogan was concerned. She lived with her father in her childhood home and worked a bazillion hours a week. For fun, she watched shows about tumor removal or the guy who had a foot growing out of his rib cage, courtesy of a malformed twin.
Her entire family had heard about the fight. She’d told her dad and Mrs. Johnson the morning after, not wanting them to hear it from anywhere else, and Dad had looked like someone had just eaten a live kitten while Mrs. J. muttered darkly and slammed the fridge. Faith came over and had been quite sympathetic, reminding Honor of her own public scene a few years ago, and leaving two cartons of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer.
The family meeting would be more of the same.
Her in-box chimed.
To: Honor@BlueHeronVineyard.com
From: BroganCain@gmail.com
Subject: Hey
Hi, Honor. Don’t know if you got my call the other day.
Oh, she had. She’d just opted not to return it.
You might be avoiding me.
Why, the man was a genius!
So here’s the thing. I’m so, so sorry, Honor. I really never meant for you to feel bad in any way, honest to God. When we talked a couple of months ago about getting married, I was sure you were cool with that. And then this thing with Dana... We both weren’t sure how to tell you about it, exactly, but we figured once you heard, you’d be happy about it.
She heard an unpleasant sound. Ah. Her teeth, grinding. Brogan. Was. Sostupid.
And obviously, that was really stupid.
Her jaw unlocked. Whatever else, Brogan always did have a way of reading her mind.
I feel like utter crap that I misread the situation so completely. Your friendship is incredibly important to me. You’re the only one I’ve kept in touch with since elementary school, you know? I’d kill to know that you and I can still be friends. If not, I understand. I’d be really sad, but I’d understand.
Hope you’re okay. Miss you.
Brogan
“Yeah, you should miss me,” she said, but her voice was shaking. Because let’s not fool ourselves here. She was going to forgive him. Even now, her heart felt floppy and huge in her chest.
Ah, dang it. That was the thing with Brogan. He never meant any harm. He wasn’t the type. With a sigh that made Spike yawn in sympathy, she started typing. May as well get it over.
To: BroganCain@gmail.com
From: Honor@BlueHeronVineyard.com
Subject: Re: Hey
Hey, you! Of course we’re still friends. Don’t be silly. I’m really embarrassed at how I acted, that’s all. But I’m fine. It was surprising, that’s all, and I guess
—here her typing slowed—
I had more invested in the idea of us than I realized.
A horrible thought occurred to her. That since the catfight, Dana had told Brogan about how wretched she’d been after the failed proposal. That he knew how much she loved him. But no. Dana wouldn’t do that. It would make Dana look bad if she admitted she knew how Honor felt.
But I do realize that “us” was just an idea and not anything more than two old friends hooking up once in a while.
Oh, hell, that wasn’t true. It felt horrible to be throwing her heart under the bus this way.
Anyway, I’m mostly just embarrassed. Not sure if you know this about me, but I generally don’t fight in bars. :)
Reduced to emoticons. She sighed, feeling her throat tighten.
You’re special to me, too, Brogan, and I’m glad you’re happy.
The eggs rolled their cataract-riddled eyes.
Please don’t give my girls-gone-wild moment another thought. In fact, I’d really appreciate it if we never talked about it again. :) I’ve got a crammed schedule for the next two weeks
—lying—
but maybe we can get together after that, okay? Take care.
Honor
It was better than the truth. I love you. I’ve spent two months trying to talk myself out of loving you. How could you not know? Even if you really didn’t see how I felt, Brogan, because you’re an obtuse male, Dana did, so now my best friend has stabbed me in the heart, and you’re marrying her.
Last night, Honor had stayed up till 3:00 a.m., looking up the term toxic friendship on Google and reading every article she could find on it.
Dana had a whole lotta ex–best friends. Honor had been treated to many a story about them, from Dana’s sister to her neighbor to her high school BFF. And while Honor recognized that Dana was temperamental and tended to see things in black-and-white, she always thought she could handle it. In the five years that they’d been friends, a few people had said something to Honor about Dana—Gerard Chartier from the firehouse commented once that he thought Honor could do better in the friend department than Dana, and Mrs. Johnson had said she didn’t trust her (but then again, Mrs. J. didn’t trust too many people).
Nope, Honor thought she could handle Dana’s big personality. And why would Dana fall out with her, after all? She was a great friend—available, sympathetic, a great listener. Their friendship was different. Honor would be exempt from the dramatics Dana described with such gusto.
Stupid. Apparently, she had no clue about women. Or men, for that matter.
But you know what? The days of ignoring red flags and waiting around for stuff to happen...those days were over.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Dad said at her door at six o’clock sharp. His gentle eyes were worried. “Everyone’s here.”
“Your father and I don’t want you to feel self-conscious,” Mrs. Johnson said, worming past Dad to administer simultaneous pats and scowls. “It’s just that we’re all very concerned about you, child. Very concerned. Deeply concerned.”
“Thanks.” Honor forced a smile and followed them to the tasting room. It was really the only comfortable place on the vineyard where everyone could sit. Downstairs, a long, U-shaped bar dominated the room, but upstairs, there was a private tasting room for special events—one of Honor’s ideas. That area was like a giant living room, complete with leather couches, a stone fireplace and a smaller bar along one wall. The post-and-beam ceiling was exposed; an old Oriental carpet covered much of the wide-planked floor.
Everyone was there, and heck, there were just too many people in this family. There were times when being an orphan held great appeal. David Copperfield never had to go to a family meeting, did he? Nor did Oliver Twist.
“Thanks for coming,” Honor said to the room at large.
“A catfight?” Goggy blurted. “In a bar? Over a man?”
“I just wish I’d been there,” Pops said, winking at Honor. “You won, I hope.”
“It’s not funny!” huffed Goggy. “Since when do my grandchildren fight in bars? I mean, I’d expect that of you, Prudence, but Honor?”
“Why would you expect that of me?” Pru said. “Have I ever been in a fight? No. I haven’t.”
“Well, I could picture it,” Goggy said. “Though with Carl, not another woman.”
Honor suppressed a sigh. Pru was colorful, Faith had the looks, Jack was the perfect son...Honor was what, then?
The boring one.
Which was going to change. Yes.
“Honor definitely won,” Jack said. “You’d all be proud.”
“I never really warmed up to that woman,” Pru said. “Though she does have great hair.”
“Pass me the cheese,” Pops ordered.
“No more cheese for you!” Goggy said. “You know what it does to your stomach.”
“Okay, shut up, everyone,” Honor said mildly. Not that she didn’t love her family. But with four generations present, two brothers-in-law, Faith, Pru, a teenage niece, a nephew who couldn’t make eye contact without laughing, her bickering grandparents, Dad and Mrs. Johnson exchanging worried looks...well, it was feeling a wee bit overwhelming. “Dad, get this over with, okay? I’d like to make a few changes around here.”
“I have an announcement,” Dad said. “We’re making a few changes around here.” He seemed to realize he’d just echoed Honor, because he looked at her in surprise.
“Go ahead,” she said, pouring herself a hefty glass of wine. It would only help, and besides that, it had a lovely nose of fresh-cut grass, grapefruit and a hint of limestone.
Dad looked at Honor and put his leathery, grape-stained hand over hers. “For a long time, I think we’ve all taken Honor for granted.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“She puts in way too many hours, travels all the time, takes care of a hundred different things,” Dad went on. “Which is why I hired you an assistant today.”
She blinked. “You did what? Don’t I get a say in who works for me?”
“Great idea, Dad,” Jack said.
“You can’t just—” Honor began.
“No, sweetie,” Dad went on, his voice quiet but firm. “Mrs. Johnson and I talked it over—” Uh-oh. If Mrs. Johnson was in on it, she was doomed. “And it’s done. Also, I think it’s appropriate that Ned—” Dad nodded at his grandson “—take over half of the sales calls.”
“Half? Not half!” Okay, sure, she’d wanted a little change. Just not this much. “Look, just because—”
“Finally,” Ned said. “Wish I’d known all I had to do was to get Honor to punch someone in a barroom brawl—”
“Shut up, son,” Dad continued. “Honor, he’s been tagging along with you for a year. Time to let him step up.”
“Um, that’s okay, sure. Neddie, you’re great. But we don’t need to reorganize the vineyard because I had one bad moment.”
“Sweetheart, you were punching your best friend in O’Rourke’s the other night.”
Honor paused. “I didn’t actually punch her.”
“I heard in school that you tackled her,” Abby said.
“I didn’t.”
“And threw wine in her face.”
“Um, I did do that, yes. More on her chest, but...” She glanced at Levi, who was still in uniform. He raised an eyebrow but remained silent.
“What kind of wine?” Jack asked.
“A pinot noir from California. Flat body, too much pepper, high acidity.”
“It’ll be cool, Honor,” Ned said. “You can be my boss.”
“I’m already your boss,” she pointed out.
“I’ll just be more useful. It’ll be good for me. I can mend my sinful ways.”
“You’d better not be sinning, sonny,” Pru said. “But yeah, Honor, he can help.”
“Sure. Fine.”
“I hired Jessica Dunn to be your assistant,” Dad added.
“What?” Jessica Dunn? The waitress? “That’s fine, Dad. No. Ned is more than enough. He’s very helpful.”
“She has a marketing degree and wants to get some experience. Figured she could do some of the media and whatnot.”
“Dad, do you even know what media is?”
“No, not really, but she said she could handle it.”
“Well, so can I! I don’t need her. No offense, Levi.” He and Jessica were childhood friends. Everyone knew that.
“None taken,” he said, stroking Faith’s neck.
“She starts tomorrow,” Dad said.
“Dad—” Honor’s jaw was locked again. She loved that aspect of her job—the press releases, articles, updating the website, running Twitter and the vineyard’s Facebook page, schmoozing with the tourism bureaus, wooing reporters, travel writers and wine reviewers. “I don’t need an assistant. Ned is more than enough.”
“I don’t mind,” Ned said. “Jessica’s wicked pretty.”
“Not to you she’s not,” Pru said. “She’s way too old for you. Got it?”
“Maybe she’s a cougar,” Ned said.
“Ned, you’re so disgusting,” Abby said, raising her head from her textbook to glare at her brother.
“Honor, child,” said Mrs. Johnson, “whatever this media is, you do too much of it. You work constantly, you eat at your desk, you have no children for me to spoil, and it’s a shameful and terrible way to live.”
“No one was complaining last week,” she protested.
“No one was rolling on a filthy tavern floor last week, either.” Mrs. J. gave her an arch look.
“You have an assistant now, sweetheart,” Dad said. “Enjoy it.”
“But media is about half my job, and sales is the other half. What am I supposed to do?” Honor asked, not liking that edge of hysteria in her voice.
“Live a little,” Dad said. “Get some hobbies.”
“Watching World’s Biggest Tumor doesn’t count,” Jack said.
“You’re the one who called me last week to make sure I TiVoed Cottage Cheese Man, you hypocrite!”
“The Black and White Ball is coming pretty soon,” Faith pointed out soothingly. “You’re chairman this year. That’ll be a lot of work.”
“Jessica starts tomorrow,” Dad said. “Family meeting adjourned. Who’s hungry?”
“I’m starving,” Prudence said.
“I made ham,” Goggy announced, beating Mrs. Johnson to the punch. “If you feel like coming down, not that any of you visit anymore, but there’s also a Walnut Glory cake if you do decide to drop by.”
“We’ll meet you there in a few minutes,” Dad said. “Honor, stay here, honey.”
They waited till everyone had tromped out. “About Ned and Jessica, sweetheart. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you first, but I felt like I had to do something definitive. And I didn’t want it to take forever, so I did it.” He paused, taking off his old baseball cap and running a hand through his thinning hair. “Mrs. Johnson and I are worried about you, Petunia.”
Yes, she’d heard them talking late last night, which was a shock in itself, as Mrs. J. usually retired to her apartment above the garage by eight, and Dad was usually in bed by nine-thirty. Farmer’s hours and all that.
She folded her hands in front of her. “Dad, I’m embarrassed enough as it is. I don’t need people thinking I had some kind of breakdown at O’Rourke’s and have to hire all these people.”
Dad was quiet for a minute. “Well, you did have a little breakdown, Petunia.”
“I just lost my cool. It wasn’t as big a deal as it sounds.”
“And when have you ever lost your cool?” he asked.
Dang. She didn’t answer.
“Honey, I know it doesn’t seem like I pay too much attention,” Dad said. “But I know a few things. When your mother died, you...” His voice grew soft. “You grew up fast. You did everything you were supposed to, and you never needed much from the rest of us. Cornell, Wharton, and then you came home and looked after me.”
She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “I really wanted to, Daddy. I love my life.”
“I believe that.” He paused. “But I also know you’ve loved Brogan a long time.”
It was so mortifying, hearing the words said aloud like that. She shrugged, not trusting her voice.
“And I always did hope things would work out for you two,” he said. “I can only imagine how you must feel, hearing that your best friend is marrying him instead of you.”
“It was just a surprise,” she said, and her voice shook.
He covered her hand with his own. “So this is a turning point. Time for you to devote some thought to what you want in life, rather than just waiting around for that bozo to call you.”
Well, hell. Dad did pay attention, after all.
“I’m not asking,” Dad said. “I’m ordering. As your father and as the legal owner of Blue Heron.”
“So bossy. You can’t tie your shoes without me.”
“I’ve actually gotten pretty good at that,” Dad said, smiling so that his kind eyes crinkled in the corners. “Mrs. J.’s been teaching me. So here’s the deal. Your hours have been cut. You start at nine, you leave at five, or I’m dragging you out myself.”
“Right,” Honor said. “Like anyone can get a full day’s work done in that time.”
“That’s the magic of my plan,” Dad said. “You won’t get it done. You and Ned and Jessica will get it done. Now I’m going to the Old House before Mrs. J. and your grandmother get into a fight over how long to cook the potatoes, and you have to come, too.”
Honor sighed. “All right. Give me a few minutes, okay?”
Dad kissed the top of her head and left. After a minute, she went outside. It was already dark, and the stars spread across the sky in an endless, creamy sweep. The air smelled like wood smoke.
She loved Blue Heron with all her heart. It was home, and it was her pride and joy, too. In the eleven years since grad school, a lot had changed around here. When she came on board as director of sales, the vineyard was a cute, family-run business. Rather than rest on those laurels, she came up with a business plan that enhanced everything good about the place and added ten times more—prestige, visibility, recognition—all without losing the homeyness of eight generations of the Holland family farm. She’d proposed the construction of the post-and-beam tasting room and gift shop ten years ago, overhauled the labeling and brand, created a marketing campaign that brought Blue Heron’s name to the attention of every outlet that mattered, from the New York Times to Wine Spectator. Blue Heron was practically a required stop on any tour of the Finger Lakes wine region. Honor knew she had a lot to be proud of. She loved working with her family, loved—to be honest—being the one in charge of the business end. Delegating had never been her strong suit.
But she never thought she’d have to worry about aging eggs. Never really pictured living in the New House with her dad and Mrs. J. forever.
There was supposed to be more. A husband. A family of her own.
She wanted to be special to someone. She wanted a man’s face to light up when he saw her. She wanted a man to kiss her like his heart would stop if he didn’t.
Somehow, Dana had wrangled what Honor never had—Brogan’s love. In just a few weeks, no less.
How the hell had she done that?
Suddenly it seemed like the sky was pressing her down with the same paralyzing loneliness felt when her mother died, leaving her alone.
And God, she was tired of being alone. She didn’t know if the words were a prayer or an admission of defeat. She pulled her hair from the clip and ran her fingers through it, sighing in the cool night air.
You know what? She wasn’t going to Goggy’s. Instead, she went home, went up to her bathroom and took out a pair of scissors.
All her life, her hair had been the same, thick and long, hanging to the middle of her back, a dark blond with lighter streaks from the sunshine...when she was out in the sunshine, that was. It had been a while. She wore it up about half of the time, down and with a hairband at others. In fact, her hairband collection was a little ridiculous. How many did she own? Twenty? Thirty? Until now, she liked her hair, liked the old-fashioned beauty of it.
Not anymore. It was time for a change.
The snick of the scissors was oddly satisfying.
* * *
ON THE FOURTH Thursday of every month, in an effort to earn her heavenly reward, Honor volunteered at Rushing Creek, the assisted living facility at the edge of Manningsport. This Thursday, Goggy had come with her.
In the past year, Goggy and Pops had aged a little, as one would expect with people in their eighties. They were both still strong as oxen, but Goggy seemed more forgetful these days, and Honor could swear Pops limped on rainy days. Any day now, she worried, one of them might tumble down the steep, narrow staircases of the Old House, which was something of a death trap, full of the twists and turns characteristic of colonials. They didn’t use two-thirds of the rooms, and the house would never pass inspection, not with Pops having nailed the front door closed last winter “to help with the drafts.”
It was Honor’s hope that they’d willingly move to a brighter, smaller place before one of them had an accident.
“I’ll kill myself before I come to a place like this,” Goggy pronounced dramatically when she came through the doors. A resident in a wheelchair glared before zipping down the hall in speedy moral outrage. Rushing Creek was comparable to the nicest luxury apartments in Manhattan, but Goggy viewed it like a Dickensian asylum.
“Let’s try to use our inside voices, okay?” Honor said. “I love it here. I’m counting the years before I can move in.”
“I’d kill myself. Oh, hello, Mildred! How are you?”
“Hello, Elizabeth!” Mildred said. “And Honor! You cut your hair! Oh, no! Why, honey, why?”
“Thank you,” Honor said. Okay, so the haircut was a bit radical. But that had been the point. And yes, she’d gone to Corning, to a stylish, somewhat frightening place where a professional had stared in horror before shaping up her cropped hair.
Now it was no longer than the nape of her neck. Relieved of its weight, little wisps sprang up here and there, and if it was a shock, Honor told herself she’d like it eventually. Dad pretended to after his initial chest-clutching; Mrs. Johnson growled; Goggy wept; Pops, Pru and Jack had yet to notice. Faith, at least, had seemed genuinely enthusiastic, clapping her hands. “It’s so chic, Honor! And look at your cheekbones! You’re gorgeous!” Which, of course, she wasn’t, but she appreciated the support.
“So...different!” Mildred said. “Anyway, dear, congratulations on your sister getting married.”
“Thanks. Levi’s a great guy.”
“I bet they’ll have babies any day.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Mildred gave her a conspiratorial look. “And you, dear? Anyone special for you?”
“No, not at the moment.”
“Such a shame. Why are you here, then, darling? Elizabeth, are you and John thinking of moving here?”
Goggy jerked back. “Oh, my heavens, no! We’re just fine in our house. I hope to God I never have to resort to this.”
“Goggy.” Honor sighed, then smiled at Mildred “We’re showing A Walk in the Clouds today. Have you seen it? Very romantic.”
“I haven’t,” Mildred said with a dirty look at Goggy. “The last time I saw a movie with these old people, half were gabbing through the whole thing and the other half couldn’t hear. Good luck!”
Between Goggy and Mildred, Honor noted, it did seem to be a habit to want to distance oneself from the capriciousness of aging. Look at Ellington, he still pretends he doesn’t need glasses. Walked into a post last week. Or, Did you hear about Leona? Alzheimer’s. Thank God I’m still as sharp as a...what was I saying again?
Sort of like single women, Honor thought. Rather than admit they were all desperately seeking someone—like the cannibals chasing Viggo Mortensen in that dreadful movie she watched last night—there were all sorts of excuses. I’m getting over a long-term relationship was a good one. I wish I had time for a relationship! was another. And then the ultimate lie, If the right guy came along, maybe. But I’m happy on my own. Sure. Which was why those dating sites had half the planet registered.
No, honesty seemed frowned upon in Dating Life. Honor wondered what would happen if she said, I really thought I’d have a family by now. I’m lonely. Also a little horny, and since the man I love is marrying my former best friend, I may have to invest in a superdeluxe vibrator.
“Come on,” Goggy said. “Let’s get this movie over with before someone comes to lock me up. They use restraints, I hear.”
“Honor! How are you?” asked Cathy Kennedy, who didn’t live here but came in for the movies. “Honey, Louise and I happened to be at O’Rourke’s the other night. Such a surprise.”
Honor’s face heated in a rush. “Well, you know. It’s a little quiet in the winter here. I was just trying to liven things up.” Mercifully, it was time for her to get the film going.
Honor had started the Watch and Wine club a couple of years ago: show a movie that had even a little bit of wine in it and pair it with a themed tasting. For Uncorked, they’d of course had the Chateau Montelena chardonnay. Pinot noir for Sideways. A full-bodied cab for Twilight, though the combination of wine and Taylor Lautner’s torso had proved too much for some, and 9-1-1 had to be called when Mrs. Griggs fainted.
The monthly gathering had almost immediately been renamed Watch and Whine, given the propensity of the viewers to discuss their most recent health issues, peppering Honor with questions, which she (and her iPad) did their best to answer. Hey. It was a hobby, and one she’d listed on Match.com. Visits the sick and imprisoned.
As Honor set up the film in the projector in the gorgeous auditorium, Goggy sat on one of the plush seats, sighing dramatically. “Just put a pillow over my face if it ever comes to this,” she said.
“Goggy, you told Faith you wouldn’t mind a new place,” Honor said. “Remember? When she was moving into the Opera House?”
“Oh, I meant a place without your grandfather. But the old fool wouldn’t last a week without me. He’d starve to death. I honestly don’t know if he could find the refrigerator on his own.” She paused. “It’s a thought.” Goggy suddenly sat bolt upright. “Speaking of miserable marriages, I found someone for you!”
Honor gave her a wary look. “Uh, that’s okay, Goggy.” Goggy had recently suggested she marry Bobby McIntosh “before he ended up a serial killer.”
“No, he’s wonderful! You should meet him. Plus, it would help you get over you-know-who. And then you could get married and give me some more great-grandchildren.”
The projector’s lightbulb was out. Was there another one? She opened the drawer of the AV cart. Bingo. “Just for the sake of conversation, who is this future husband of mine?”
“You remember Candace, my old friend? She moved to Philadelphia in 1955? They drove that enormous Packard?”
Honor gave her grandmother a quizzical look. “I wasn’t born then, Goggy. So no, I don’t remember.”
“Well, before I married your idiot grandfather—”
“You make it sound so romantic.”
“Hush up and listen. Before I married your idiot grandfather, I was engaged to Candace’s brother. He died in the war.” She gave Honor a regal, suffering look, perfected from years of practice.
“I know, Goggy. It’s such a sweet, sad story.”
Goggy’s face softened. “Thank you. Anyway, Candace also had a sister, but she was older and stayed in England.”
“Uh-huh.” What this had to do with matchmaking was anyone’s guess, but such was the mind of Goggy. Honor unscrewed the burned-out lightbulb with some difficulty.
“So this sister had a son, and then that son had a son, and Candace just adores him, and anyway, the boy’s been living here for a few years and he needs a green card.”
Honor squinted, trying to filter through the bundle of facts.
“So you should marry him. Nothing wrong with an arranged marriage.”
“As in, you and Pops worked out so well?” She opened the drawer on the cart and took out a replacement bulb.
The old lady chuffed. “Please. You want to be married, or you want to be happy?”
“Both?”
Goggy snorted. “You young people. So spoiled. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with this boy. He’s very nice and extremely good-looking.”
Honor screwed in the new lightbulb. “Have you ever met him?”
“No. But he is.”
“Seen a picture?”
“No. Charming, too.”
“So you’ve talked to him on the phone?”
“No.”
“Facebook? Email?”
“No, Honor. You know I don’t believe in computers.”
“Hi there, Honor,” called Mr. Christian from the back of the auditorium. “Heard you were in a girl fight the other day.”
“Thanks for bringing it up,” Honor said. “Anyway, Goggy, it sounds like you really don’t know this person at all.”
“What’s to know? He’s British.”
“That may or may not help his case. If he sounds like Prince Charles, there’s no way in hell I’ll marry him. Does he have those big teeth?”
“Don’t be so superficial, honey! He’s a professor,” Goggy added. “Electrical engineering or math or something.”
An image of Honor’s own math teacher in college, a damp man with onion breath, came to mind.
“So he needs a green card,” Goggy said, “you’re single, and you two should get married.”
“Okay, first of all, sure, I’d love to get married if I met someone great and fell in love, but if that doesn’t happen, I’m fine on my own.” Oh, the lies. “Secondly, I don’t want to get married just to check it off a list. And thirdly, I’m pretty sure marrying for a green card is illegal.” She paused. “Why doesn’t he just go back to England?”
“There was a tragedy.” Another triumphant look from Goggy.
“What kind?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter, Honor? You’re thirty-five. That’s when the eggs start spoiling. That’s when I started menopause.” Oh, snap. “Besides, if I can stay married to your grandfather for sixty-five years and not have murdered him yet, why can’t you do the same with this boy?”
“How old is this person? You keep calling him a boy.”
“I don’t know. Anyone under sixty is a boy to me.”
“So he’s a math teacher and distantly related to an old friend of yours, and that’s all you’ve got on him?”
Goggy waved to Mrs. Lunqvist. “Young people,” she called. “They’re so fussy!” Mrs. Lunqvist, who used to terrorize the kids in Bible study with tales of fiery devastation of Biblical cities, nodded in agreement. “So you’ll meet him?”
What have you got to lose? the eggs asked, looking up from their quilting. Didn’t you hear what she said about menopause?
Honor sighed. “Sure,” she said.
“I just thought it’d be nice,” Goggy said. “I have a soft spot for his family, that’s all. You’d be surprised at how many times I think of Peter and what my life would be like if he hadn’t died in World War II. Protecting freedom and saving the world. So when I heard his grandnephew was in town, all by himself, lonely, depressed, British—”
Such a prize. “You can stop now, Goggy, I just said I’ll meet the guy.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
Goggy smiled triumphantly.
“Don’t go planning any weddings,” Honor warned. “I’m just doing it to be polite.” An image of a balding man with large, horselike teeth and a love of sharing math theorems popped into her head. “What’s his name?”
“Tom Barlow.” A completely ordinary name. Not like Brogan Cain, for example. “I told him you’d meet him tonight at O’Rourke’s.”
“What?”
“And put on lipstick, for heaven’s sake. You’re such a pretty girl. And be nice! It wouldn’t kill you to smile. Oh, there’s Henrietta Blanchette. I heard she got food poisoning from that slop they serve here. I’ll go say hi.”
Honor’s mood was soft after the movie. First, the wine had been fantastic, this lovely Tempranillo with hints of strawberries, cherry jam and leather. Then the Rushing Creek residents, who loved Watch and Wine and always had something nice to say (once they’d gotten their kicks out of mentioning her catfight, that was). But in general, whatever barriers seemed to exist between Honor and her peers evaporated with old people, who called her honey and dear and told her about their kidney stones and varicose veins. Also, one couldn’t rule out the movie itself. Keanu Reeves, amen, sister. The kiss in that movie—the kiss, the babymaker—had she ever been kissed like that?
Er, no.
Nope, no man had ever been desperate to kiss her. No man had ever kissed her like he’d die if he didn’t. No sirree. Didn’t happen. Didn’t seem like it was going to happen, either, not when a middle-aged British math teacher was her only prospect.
That could change. She’d update her dating website profiles. Ask Faith to help her out with things like push-up bras and flirting. Maybe some of the men she did business with were single, and maybe they’d notice her. It could happen.
It’s just that no one was like Brogan.
Nope, nope. No more thoughts like that. So over him. Almost. Well, getting there. Okay, not at all, really.
As she walked through Rushing Creek, she heard a familiar laugh.
Right. Dana cut hair every other Thursday at Rushing Creek’s salon. Honor had recommended her for the gig, actually.
The sound made Honor stop in her tracks, her stomach suddenly flooded with a cold rush of emotion. Anger, embarrassment, jealousy, loneliness...
Yeah. Loneliness.
Don’t let her see you.
Dana looked up and saw. “Honor!” she called. “Do you have a second?”
Fungus. Feeling her face flush, Honor nodded. She went into the salon, which, though small, was a lot nicer than House of Hair.
“Mrs. Jenkins, I just need to take out your hearing aid, okay?” Dana asked, slipping it out. “There,” she said to Honor. “Now we can talk. The old bat’s deaf as dirt.”
An unexpected yearning swooped through Honor’s chest. For five years, since Dana moved to Manningsport, they’d been friends, the type of friend Honor hadn’t had since college. Hanging out, calling for no reason, commiserating over work, family, men. They’d had a lot of good times together. A lot of laughs.
Honor didn’t say anything. Then again, she didn’t leave, either.
“That’s some haircut,” Dana said. “Not bad. Where’d you get it done? Parisian’s?”
Still, Honor didn’t answer. They were not going to talk about hairstyles (but yes, it was Parisian’s).
“Look, you gave it your best shot, Honor. Okay?” Dana went on. “He didn’t love you. You’re the one who said you were done with him, and he and I just ran into each other one night at O’Rourke’s, and one thing led to another. It was a complete shock to us both.”
“I’m actually surprised you had waited as long as you did, Dana.”
Bitter Betty, table for one. But it had only been six weeks since she’d been...betrayed. No other word would do.
“Honor, I’m sorry, I really am. I know you wanted Brogan to love you, but it’s not my fault he didn’t.”
“Could you lower your voice, please?” Honor said, her face burning.
“Oh, please. She hasn’t heard anything since Clinton was president.” Dana cut her a glance, her face softening. “How many times have you and I talked about just this exact thing? The guy you least expect to fall for and then boom, you’ve fallen. And he happened to fall for me, too. We were just chatting at the bar.” She gave Honor a small, smug smile. “And all of a sudden, there was this charge in the air.”
Dana was gloating. Brogan and she knew each other, of course. Sometimes, the three of them had gone out together. If there’d been any charge in the air, Honor hadn’t noticed.
Dana was quiet for a minute. “I know you had a crush on him since the dawn of time.”
“It was more than a crush, Dana. Don’t minimize my feelings to make yourself feel less guilty.”
“I don’t feel guilty,” she said, turning back to Mrs. Jenkins, her scissors flying in a sinister hiss. She got paid sixty-five dollars a haircut, Honor knew. Sixty-five bucks for taking a millimeter off someone’s hair. “Look, I know you were surprised. But I still think you owe me an apology.”
The noise that came out of Honor’s mouth was somewhere between a sputter, a choke and a laugh. “An apology?”
“Just a little trim around the ears,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “Not too short, dear.”
“Got it, Mrs. Jenkins,” Dana barked. “Not too short.” Her voice lowered, and she looked at Honor. “Yeah, an apology. I don’t appreciate having wine thrown in my face, not to mention being shoved in a restaurant in front of the guy I love.”
Honor’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Listen. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you, but does that mean that both Brogan and I are supposed to ignore what we feel for each other?” Her words might’ve had more impact if her tone hadn’t been as sharp as her scissors. The horrible, beautiful engagement ring flashed as her hands moved over Mrs. Jenkins’s head. “Seriously, we didn’t plan it. It just happened.”
Oh, that infuriating phrase! Nothing just happened. Vaginas didn’t just happen to fall on penises. Unspoken words bubbled up like lava. Do I look that stupid? You were supposed to be my friend. You made me a martini that night. I cried on your couch! We watched Shark Week! And a few weeks later, you were sleeping with the guy who broke my heart. For crying out loud, you told me in a bar. Two against one, in a bar.
Yes, she could say those things, and denigrate her pride even further. Remind Dana just how pathetic she’d been...and give Dana more chance to gloat. Because wasn’t that what she was doing?
“I guess we have different ideas of what it means to be friends,” she said tightly.
“Yeah. Friends don’t throw wine in their friends’ faces.”
“Fine. I was very surprised, and I reacted badly. But I seem to remember you reacting just as badly in return.”
“Someone throws wine into my face, yeah, I do react badly.” She gave Honor a little smile. “So. Are we good?”
In the mirror, Honor saw her own mouth fall open. She closed it. “I don’t know that we’re ever going to be good, Dana.”
“Why? Water under the bridge, right? It was dramatic, you feel embarrassed, so do I, a little.” She shrugged, still smiling. “Let’s get past it. I mean, what else are we gonna do? Hate each other forever? Okay. I have to put this hearing aid back in or the old bag will start to suspect something.” Unexpectedly, she gave Honor a quick hug. “I’m glad we talked. I mean, yeah, things’ll be weird for a while, but we’re still best friends, right? And hell’s bells, girl, I have a wedding to plan!”
“Oh, I love weddings,” Mrs. Jenkins said, adjusting her hearing aid.
“Come by the salon, and I’ll shape up your bangs,” Dana said. “See you soon!”
And, because she didn’t know what else to say, and really, really wanted to get out of there, Honor left.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_d25091da-2bed-5c87-a708-fb0f2a4ac6be)
HAVING TWO GLASSES of whiskey probably wasn’t the most brilliant idea before a fix-up, Tom thought. But he wasn’t driving. And also, though he hated to point out the obvious, even to himself, it was too late. One could not undrink whiskey, unless one vomited, which Tom was not going to do.
“Off to meet the future Mrs. Barlow,” he told his reflection. “Excited, mate?”
This did not have a good feeling to it. First of all, the whole criminal aspect of the night cast a bit of a pall, didn’t it? And secondly, his great-aunt was fixing him up. He still had a tiny shred of pride left after Melissa, but this would probably kill it. But for whatever reason, when Candace had called, clucking in excitement, he’d said he’d love to meet her pen pal’s granddaughter.
He walked the three blocks to the town green. There was another thing. If he did manage to stay in this godforsaken town, he’d have to stay in this godforsaken town, and bloody hell! The weather! Made England look like paradise, and that was saying a lot.
But Charlie was here. Not that the boy wanted Tom around. Yesterday, Tom had gone the tried and true route and attempted to bribe his way into Charlie’s affection with an iPhone. When Tom tried to show him a few of the new features, the boy went limp with disgust, rolled his eyes and then stared straight ahead, arms crossed, silently counting the seconds till Tom left.
So marrying just to stay here...it felt a bit like buying a house on Isle of the Damned. Not that he’d actually do it. But for some reason, here he was, trudging through the slush to meet some middle-aged woman Aunt Candy had said could keep her mouth shut. Someone who was desperate enough to consider marrying a stranger. Someone whose “clock is ticking.” Fantastic. He could only imagine what she looked like. Dame Judi Dench came to mind. Talented, sure. Did he want to bang Dame Judi Dench? No, he did not.
Then again, he hadn’t done so well on his own, had he? Melissa, though quite the looker, hadn’t turned out to be such a prize.
The warmth of the pub was welcome. At least the little town had this, a little tavern at which to drown one’s sorrows.
“Hello, Colleen,” he said, because yeah, befriending the bartender was never a bad idea.
“Hallo, Tom,” she said in a fair imitation of his accent. “Bass ale tonight?”
“I’ll have a whiskey, love,” he said.
“Not your first, I’m guessing.”
“You’re astute and beautiful. A bit terrifying.”
“You driving?”
“No, miss.” He smiled. She cocked an eyebrow and poured him his drink.
“I’m meeting Honor Holland,” he said. “Do you know her?”
“I know everyone,” Colleen answered. “I’ll send her over when she gets here.”
Tom made his way to a booth at the back of the bar where they could talk about illegal matters privately. There was a uniformed policeman there, but he was occupied with a pretty redhead, so the fact that Tom was perhaps a bit drunk already might go unnoticed. And let’s not forget. He was also planning to commit a crime.
He took a sip of whiskey and tried to relax. Yesterday after Candace called, he’d looked up green card fraud on dear old Google. Not encouraging. Jail time. Whopping fines. Deportation with no possibility of ever living in the States again.
He could go back to England. Visit Charlie once or twice a year. And then—Tom could see it already—the visits would become less frequent. He’d get weary of trying to carve out a friendship with some kid who bloody well hated him. Charlie would turn to drugs and terrible music—or even worse music, as the case might be. Tom would marry some nice English girl who’d resent the time and money it took to cross the Pond, and the memory of that small, lovely boy who’d once flown kites with him would fade into obscurity.
Fuck-all.
“Are you Tom?”
He looked up and there was Catfight Woman Number One standing right in front of him. “Hello! It’s you!”
“Um, have we met?”
“Not officially,” he said. “Though I have fond memories of you.”
He could do worse, he noted. She was...all right. She was sort of pretty. Also, she was here, which was nice of her. Unfortunately, he seemed a bit knackered. This would be a case of subliminally shooting himself in the foot, he might say, if he were an aficionado of Dr. Freud. Yep. Pissed. His vocabulary and accent tended to mushroom exponentially when under the influence.
She frowned. “I’m Honor Holland.”
Something moved in her handbag, and Tom jumped. “Shit, darling, I hate to tell you this, but there seems to be a rat in your bag.”
“Very funny. It’s my dog.”
“Is it? If you say so. Well, Honor Holland. Lovely to meet you.”
“You, too.” Her expression contradicted that statement, but she sat down. The rat peeked out of the bag and bared its teeth. Ah. It was a dog, he was almost positive.
“So.” She folded her hands—pretty hands, very tidy with clear polish on her short nails—and looked at him. “I gather you’re the Brit who was in the bar the night of my little...meltdown.”
“Darling, that wasn’t little,” he said warmly. “It was bloody magnificent.”
“Can we skip over that?”
“Absolutely! Though if you’d like to reminisce, I’m all ears. Your hair’s quite different, isn’t it? Looks better. That sister-wife thing was a bit off-putting. Also, there’s less for people to grab if you get into another fight. Very practical of you. So. Shall we get married?”
His charm seemed to be lost on her. “Okay, I’m leaving. I don’t think we need to waste any more time here, do you?”
“Oh, come now, darling. Give us a chance, won’t you? I’m a bit nervous.” He smiled. When he smiled in class, most of the females (and a couple of the lads as well) got a bit swoony.
She blushed. Brilliant. She covered by looking into her purse, where the little rat dog was still baring its teeth at him. Tom tried smiling at the dog. Didn’t have quite the same effect as it had on the wee beastie’s owner.
The server appeared. “Hi, Monica,” Honor said. “Got anything special tonight?”
“We’ve got two bottles of the McGregor Black Russian Red.”
“I’ll have a glass of that, then.”
So Miss Holland wasn’t leaving yet. “And I’ll have another of these,” Tom said, holding up his empty glass.
“No, he won’t,” Honor said.
“Taking care of me already, love?” he asked.
“You got it,” the serving wench said, giving Tom the eye. He winked at her, and off she went.
“Are you drunk?” Honor asked.
“Please,” he said. “I’m British. The proper word is pissed.”
“Great,” she muttered.
“So, Miss Holland. Thanks for coming to meet me.”
She didn’t answer. Just looked at him, expressionless.
She wasn’t bad. Nothing wrong with her. Blondish hair. Brown eyes. Normal build, though he wished the shirt was a bit more revealing so he could take a look. Those pearls weren’t doing much for her sex appeal.
Take them off, and yeah, he could imagine her in bed. Quite vividly, in fact. On second thought, leave the pearls on and take off everything else.
Oh, shit. He rubbed the back of his neck. The server brought Honor her wine and Tom’s whiskey.
His date didn’t touch her glass.
“Right,” he said. “Why don’t I summarize what I know about you, and you can fill in the gaps—how’s that?”
“Fine,” she said.
“As I understand it, you were in love with a bloke who was clearly using you for sex and is now marrying your best mate.”
She closed her eyes.
“Don’t forget, darling, I had a front-row seat that night. So now you’ve realized your knight in shining armor is, in fact, a faithless whore of a man—”
“You know what? It wasn’t like that. So shut up.”
Tom leaned back in his seat and squinted at her. “Funny, that. How women always rush to defend the men who’ve scraped them off their shoes. Interesting.” Now was the time he should stop talking. “Anyway, you backed the wrong pony and now you’re a bit desperate. Want to get married, prove you’re over the wanker, pop out a couple kids while there’s still time.”
She sputtered. His mouth kept doing its thing. “That’s all fine. As for me, I need a green card. Not sure about kids just yet, but I say let’s get married and figure that out later. You’re female, you’re not old, you’re not ugly. Sold.”
God. He was such a bunghole.
She stared him down. Had to give her credit for that. “I’ll let you get the check,” she said.
The relief he felt was mixed with regret. “Cheerio, then. Lovely to meet you.”
“Wish I could say the same,” she said, sliding out of the booth.
“Don’t forget the vermin,” he said, nodding to her bag. She grabbed it and left without looking back.
“Well done, mate,” he said to himself, a familiar feeling of disgust in his stomach. He pressed his fingers against his forehead for a second, resisting the urge to follow Miss Holland and apologize for being such a prick.
It was just that using someone was easier in theory than in reality. Even for Charlie’s sake.
Besides, he’d been with a woman who was in love with someone else. Been there, done that, had those scars.
And realizing she was the woman who’d been so...passionate that night...he rather liked that wine-tossing, hair-pulling woman. Someone like her deserved better than a marriage of convenience, whatever her reasons for coming here tonight.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_c8ae57fb-6a7d-5954-a214-fbae5be3c0cb)
“I DON’T KNOW if I’m the red-lipstick type,” Honor said two nights later. “I feel a little like Pennywise the Clown.”
“God, remember Jack made us watch that?” Faith exclaimed from where she was smooching Spike on the bed. “I practically wet myself, I was so scared. Not that you look like him, Honor,” she added. “Not even close.”
Colleen O’Rourke, self-proclaimed expert on all things male, squinted critically at Honor. “Yeah, okay,” she said. “A little like Pennywise. We had to try. But we’re on the right path, don’t worry.” She plucked a pink-and-green hairband from the basket where they still resided. “And can I just say how glad I am to see that those hairbands have gone the way of the dinosaur?” She tossed it on the floor, where Spike immediately pounced and began gnawing. Blue, Faith’s gargantuan Golden retriever, whined from his hiding place under the bed, as he was a big baby where Spike the Ferocious was concerned.
Honor frowned, then remembered not to (time for Botox?). She still wasn’t used to her hair, kept trying to swoop it off her shoulders, only to realize it was gone. That, combined with more makeup than she’d worn in the past twenty years, made her reflection quite unfamiliar.
“You look great,” Faith, the bringer of all this stuff, said reassuringly. Until her sister had arrived a half hour ago, Honor’s dressing table had only contained a hairbrush and a jar of Oil of Olay moisturizer (the same brand Goggy used, Faith pointed out). Now, the table surface was awash in girlie stuff—blush, eye shadow, seven different types of moisturizer, brushes and wands and tubes and pots.
Yes. Honor had agreed to a makeover. Things were feeling a little desperate. Could new eye shadow change her life? She was about to find out at the ripe old age of the years are precious, egg-wise.
But doing things differently...that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Even if she did look slutty. Then again, slutty might be good.
“I hear there’s a makeover,” came a voice, and Prudence banged into the room, clad in work boots and flannel and holding a glass of wine. “Why wasn’t I invited?”
“You can be next,” Colleen said. “I’ve been dying to get my hands on you for years.”
“To tell you the truth, I have been wearing some makeup lately,” Pru said. “Carl and I did a little Avatar the other night, and I’m still washing blue off the sheets.”
“Thanks for sharing,” Faith said. “Another movie dead to me.”
“Why? What else have I ruined?”
“Last of the Mohicans, Les Mis, Star Wars,” Faith began.
“Don’t forget Lincoln,” Honor added.
“And The Big Bang Theory,” Colleen said.
“Hey, we didn’t know that wasn’t porn,” Pru said, grinning. “And go ahead, make fun of me. I’ve been happily married for almost twenty-five years.” She took another sip of wine. “Honor, you look a little like Pennywise the Clown. Go easy on that foundation.”
Honor gave Colleen a significant look, and Coll sighed and handed her a tissue.
“Is the mascara supposed to look this clumpy?” Honor said, leaning forward. “It’s getting hard to open my eyes.”
“Put on another coat. It’ll smooth out,” Colleen ordered.
Blue whined again from under the bed. “Man-up, Blue,” Faith said. “Little Spike here only weighs four pounds.”
“She’s up to five. And she has the heart of a lion,” Honor said. Blue remained where he was.
“So why were you meeting Tom Barlow the other night, Honor?” Colleen asked.
Honor looked away from her reflection and pulled on her earlobe, then made herself stop. Cartilage started to break down when you were over thirty-five, she’d just read. Didn’t want droopy earlobes to match her AARP eggs. “He’s the nephew of a friend of Goggy’s or something. I was just being polite.”
“He’s cute, don’t you think?”
“I did until he opened his mouth.” She rubbed her lips with the tissue. Still more red. This stuff never came off, apparently.
“Really? He seems nice enough. Single. Keeps to himself most of the time. Too bad he’s not older, or I’d totally go for him. It’s the accent. I practically come when he orders a beer.”
“You should hear Carl speak German,” Pru said. “Très sexy.”
Honor flinched at the image, and Colleen handed her another tube. “Here, try this shade.”
She obeyed as Faith and Colleen doled out tips. Press your lips together. Keep your lips apart. Blot. Rub. Dot. Smear. Who knew lipstick was so hard? Now on to blush and bronzer, both women chattering away like blackbirds. They were being awfully nice, Honor thought, helping her become more appealing to men.
The only trouble was that men were hard to find in a town of seven hundred and fifteen.
You know, it was funny. When Honor had seen Goggy’s friend’s nephew in the bar the other night, she...felt something. Her heart did this weird twist, and hope rose so quickly and so hard that she literally stopped in her tracks.
Tom Barlow wasn’t middle-aged or odd-looking. He was...he was...well, not quite handsome. Straight brown hair cut very short. Normal enough features. But there was something about him—maybe it was just the surprise that he was actually age-appropriate and not a balding, big-toothed math teacher who smelled like mothballs—but no, even past that, Honor liked that face. It wasn’t a perfect, beautiful face, like Brogan’s, but she had the feeling she could look at that face for a long, long time and not get bored.
His eyes were dark, though she couldn’t exactly tell the color, and a scar cut through one eyebrow, and even though she realized she shouldn’t be aroused by the mark of some past injury, she kinda was. His mouth was full and—holy ChapStick, Batman, suddenly, she could see things happening between the two of them; she could feel a strong squeeze not just in her chest, but also from Down Under, the killer combination, and suddenly the eggs were primping in front of a mirror.
In a flash, Honor had imagined laughing with Tom Barlow about their fix-up and strange circumstances, and he’d be so grateful she came to meet him, and heck, what was this? A spark. A connection. He’d walk her to her car, then lean in and kiss her, and she’d bet both thumbs and a forefinger it’d be fantastic.
Tom Barlow had looked up. Smiled. His front tooth was just slightly crooked. For some reason, it made her knees go soft and weak, and those bridge-playing eggs of hers made a rush for the door.
And then he spoke, and thus died the fantasy.
Colleen leaned over her with what had to be the seventeenth makeup item.
“Okay, no sparkles,” Honor said. “I think we’re good, don’t you? I feel like I could write my name in this.”
“You look gorgeous,” Faith said. “Years younger.”
Ouch.
“Not that you need to, of course,” Faith added with a grimace. “Thirty-five is the new, uh, eighteen.”
“So a date, this is exciting,” Pru said, rubbing her hands together. “What’s his name again?”
“Um, it’s Slavic. Droog.”
“Oh, dear,” Colleen said. “Can you imagine calling that out at the big moment? ‘Droog, Droog, don’t stop!’”
Honor grimaced. “It’s something to overcome, I’ll admit.”
“What’s in a name, though?” Faith said. “If he’s cute, the name won’t matter. You’ll probably love it after ten minutes.”
“I hate dating,” Honor admitted. “I’m so bad with men.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Prudence said thoughtfully at the same instant Faith said, “No, you’re not!”
“Oh, sure I am,” she said. “But I’m really good at accounting. We all have our gifts.”
“Girls!” Dad bellowed up from downstairs. “Levi and Connor are here!”
“John Holland!” yelled Mrs. J. “Stop yelling like your daughters are a team of mules!”
The bedroom door opened. “Ladies,” Levi said. His eyes stopped on Faith, and Honor suppressed the familiar envy. Her sister and Levi had known each other for ages, but only recently started getting along. As in, the air was thick with pheromones of the newlyweds.
“Blick. Young love. I’m so over them, aren’t you?” Colleen asked Honor.
“Nah. I like them. Hi, Connor.”
“Hello, Holland women, hello, twin sister,” Connor O’Rourke said. “Wow, your hair, Honor. I keep forgetting.”
“I found him wandering the streets,” Levi said. “Figured we’d come see what you girls were up to.”
“Go have a drink with my dad,” Faith said. “This is a girl thing.”
“No, you know what?” Colleen said. “This is great. Boys, what do you think? How hot is Honor? Not historically, but right here and now.”
“Please don’t answer,” Honor said.
The two men exchanged a relieved glance.
Hang on. Why wouldn’t they want to talk about how hot she was, huh? “Actually, do answer. How hot am I, guys?”
“I’ll go see about that drink,” Levi said. “Connor?”
“Don’t you move,” Honor ordered. “You owe me, Levi Cooper. Okay, I realize this is awkward, you being my brother-in-law and all, but Colleen’s right. I could use a male opinion.”
“Is invoking my right to the Fifth Amendment a good enough answer?” Levi asked.
“No,” said Faith. “You have to answer.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then I’m cutting you off,” she said.
Levi gave her a sleepy look. “You’d climb me like a tree after one day.”
“I would, too,” Pru said. “You’re a good-looking guy, Levi.”
Honor turned away from the mirror and trapped both men with her gaze. because yeah, she was good at that. Authoritative. “Boys, you don’t want to be on my bad side, do you?”
“I know I don’t,” Connor said.
“Smart of you. Relax. I’m just looking for some insight.” Hey, why not? She’d already lost all dignity with the catfight. Plus, these guys knew her. “Why don’t men think dirty thoughts about me?”
“We do,” Connor said. “Not to worry.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, we do. We’re guys. We automatically assess any woman for sex. Right, Levi?”
Levi scowled in response.
“Is that true?” Honor asked. Men were such aliens. “Really? You look at a woman, every woman, and imagine having sex with her?”
“I don’t,” Levi said.
“He’s lying,” Connor answered. “We’re guys. We think about sex with every woman.”
“Really. Every woman?” she asked. Connor nodded. “So someone like Lorena Creech,” she continued, naming the scariest woman she could think of. Lorena, age sixtysomething, fifty pounds overweight, a penchant for see-through animal-print clothing. “You’ve thought about having sex with her?”
“Well, yeah, same as you think about being eaten by a shark or getting your testicles caught in a bear trap,” Connor said. “If you’re a guy and a woman walks past, you look at her, imagine sex, then you either shudder in horror or make a play.”
Honor pursed her lips. “So I got the shudder of horror?”
Connor looked stricken.
“Busted, jerk,” his twin said.
“Um, no. I... You’re not horrifying, Honor. You’re quite...”
“Quite what? That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Connor appeared to be sweating. “Um, it’s hard to put a finger on it. You’re very, uh, attractive.”
“You’re an idiot, Connor,” Prudence said.
Honor sighed. “Levi? Got anything? I’m your sister-in-law. Help me. As a man, what do you think when you look at me?”
“My wife’s sister.”
“Before you married her, dummy.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “See, there you go. You’re a little...”
“Be careful,” Faith warned. “I’ll have to kill you if you hurt her feelings. Is your life insurance paid up? If I have to be a widow, I want to be rich.”
“No, just be honest, Levi. Go ahead.” Honor folded her arms and waited.
Levi paused. Sighed. “I guess Connor’s right. It probably crossed my mind once or twice.” He glanced at his wife. “But just as a fleeting thought, and way before we hooked up, babe.”
“Because I’m not pretty enough?” Honor guessed. It was to be expected. Faith got the looks.
“You’re pretty enough.”
“Don’t blow smoke.”
“Okay, you’re not pretty. I thought you were, but you must be right.”
Huh. That was kind of nice, and Levi was rather known for being blunt. “Sorry. And thanks. But if I’m pretty, why didn’t you ever want to sleep with me?”
“This is very uncomfortable.”
“Just theoretically.”
“Yes, Levi. Theoretically,” Faith said.
“Better you than me, pal,” Connor muttered.
Levi closed his eyes briefly. “It’s not your looks. You’re a little...unapproachable.”
Honor’s mouth dropped open. “What?” She was not! She was very pleasant! Very approachable. Extremely polite. Like...finishing-school polite. First Lady’s social secretary polite and pleasant. That was basically her life, being nice to people all the livelong day, no matter how much she occasionally wanted to strangle them.
“Exactly,” Connor agreed. “You’re—what do you girls call it? Walled off. Shut down. You have armor.”
“I don’t have armor!” Honor barked. “I don’t! What armor? There’s no armor!” Spike barked in agreement.
“You want to go out for dinner?” Levi asked Faith.
“Maybe you’re just unaware of the vibe you give off,” Colleen said. “The hairbands, for example. Do they scream sex? No.”
“I’m not unapproachable,” Honor said to her brother-in-law.
“Okay, you’re not. I apologize. Faith, save me.”
“I have an idea,” Faith said. “Honor, pretend you’re meeting Connor for the first time. Like you guys are on a first date, you’ve been chatting online, but this is the first time you’ve laid eyes on each other.”
“Great idea,” Honor said. “Sit, Connor.”
Unapproachable. Armor. Please. Spike came over and whined to be picked up. She obliged, kissing the dog on the head. So approachable. Even animals thought so.
“That dog will have to go,” Colleen said. “It’s worse than a cat.”
“How dare you,” Honor murmured, giving Colleen a look. “Come on, Connor. Get in character.”
“Yeah, Conn, get to it,” said Colleen. “We have a bar to run. Who’s opening tonight, anyway?”
“Monica.” Connor sighed and sat obediently across from Honor at the foot of the bed. “Hi, are you Honor? I’m Connor.”
“Oh, Connor and Honor! That rhymes!” Colleen said. “Sorry. Back to you two.”
“Hi, Connor. Nice to meet you.” Totally approachable. She shot Levi an icy glare. He was busy giving Faith a steamy, let’s-get-it-on look.
“You’re even prettier than your picture,” Connor said.
“Thanks.” She smiled brightly.
“Eesh, you look like a wolverine when you smile like that,” Colleen said. “Easy, girl.”
Honor sighed, then tried again, baring only a few teeth this time.
“Now you look feeble. Don’t worry about it, we’ll work on that later. Just keep going.”
Connor was Faith’s age. A nice guy. Good-looking. An excellent bartender. Otherwise, she didn’t know him too well. “So tell me about yourself,” she said.
“Good line,” Faith murmured, swatting at Levi’s hand.
“I’m a bartender who likes the smell of crisp autumn leaves and Johnson’s baby shampoo.”
Honor paused. “That’s kind of creepy.”
“See? You’re gutting me already. I feel emasculated.”
“Well, then, you need to sac up a little, don’t you?”
“And we’re done,” Connor said. “Levi, how about that beer, pal?”
* * *
PRU WENT OFF with the guys, but Faith and Colleen spent another half hour giving her advice on how to talk to men, which was not something Honor would’ve suspected she needed to be taught. With Brogan, she’d just been herself.
Okay, not a great example. Thinking his name still made her brain cringe.
The troops finally left, and Honor got dressed in the outfit Faith had picked out. Jeans (Colleen’s, and they stopped a good four inches below the belly button and felt freakishly uncomfortable), purple suede ankle boots with three-inch heels (Faith’s, obviously), a pale green shirt (Colleen’s), pearls (Mom’s), four silver bracelets (Faith’s) and long, dangling silver earrings (Faith’s again).
Clearly, Honor had no idea how to dress herself. Then again, that was the point. Short hair, better clothes, makeup. She’d be married in no time.
“Droog. This is my husband, Droog.” Okay, it lacked a certain élan.
Spike was sleeping on Honor’s pillow, worn out from emasculating Blue, who wanted very much to love Spike but which Spike wouldn’t allow. Her doggy had been a rescue, so Honor wasn’t sure what her history was with other dogs. Bossy, obviously, which Honor admired.
At any rate, Mrs. J. would take her into her apartment for the night and watch whatever violent TV show she was into this week. The housekeeper loved Spike more than she loved most humans.
She tiptoed down the stairs, terrified of falling in the high-heeled boots and breaking a femur or rupturing her spleen, and went into the kitchen.
“Oh, God!” she blurted. She leaped back into the hallway, pressing her back against the wall. Holy. Fungus. “Sorry, sorry!”
“We weren’t doing anything!” her dad yelled as a kitchen chair crashed to the floor. “It’s not what you think!”
“Honor Grace Holland, why are you sneaking around this house, creeping up on people?” Mrs. Johnson said.
“We were just kissing!” Dad said.
“Is it safe to come back in?” she asked, feeling a laugh start to wriggle around in her stomach.
“Yes! We weren’t...we were just... Oh, jeesh. Is that the phone?”
“Don’t you move, John Holland. We were not kissing, Honor,” Mrs. Johnson said darkly. “Your father, the ridiculous man, asked if he could kiss me just the one time. And just the one time it will be, John Holland, if you can’t keep track of which of your many children is skulking around corners.”
“Okay, okay,” Honor said, going back into the kitchen. Dad’s face was bright red, and Mrs. Johnson looked like she was about to kick a baby dolphin, she was so mad. “I’m sorry I didn’t make more noise. I didn’t know there was a romance unfolding here. I’ll tie a bell around my neck next time.”
“There are no bells required! There is no romance!” Mrs. J. thundered. “It was an experiment only, and one of complete failure, given your intrusion, Honor. We thought you had left with the others. Your father said we were alone.”
“Mrs. J., I’m sorry, okay? Don’t murder my dad.” He sent her a grateful look.
The clock ticked on the wall.
“So,” she said. “Dad and Mrs. J. I like it.”
“There’s nothing to like, you wretched child,” the housekeeper muttered.
“Oh, stop. Your guilty secret is safe with me. But let me tell you, if I’d been Faith, you’d be packed into the back of her car, on your way to a justice of the peace this very minute. And Jack would be dead on the floor of a heart attack.”
“My poor Jackie,” Mrs. J. said. Honor rolled her eyes.
“Anyway, more power to you,” she said. “I’m going on a date. Mrs. J., would you watch Spike?”
“Of course. Where is the little baby now? And why did you name her Spike? She should have a delicate name. A girl’s name. Princess or Sugar-Paws.”
“Or Hyacinth,” Dad said. It was Mrs. Johnson’s first name, and he was gazing at the housekeeper with a dopey smile.
Well, well, well. Honor said good-night and walked out to her car.
Last fall, Dad had decided to start dating...sort of...but after a few failed attempts, he seemed to give up. Mrs. Johnson was single (they all thought; she was a mystery wrapped in an enigma), and she’d been with the family since Mom died.
But a romance between the two of them, huh? If there’d been handwriting on that wall, Honor had missed it completely.
It could work, though. Certainly, Mrs. Johnson was a wonderful (if terrifying) person. She took good care of Dad and all his kids. Certainly, she knew all of them inside out and out.
It was nice to picture her father with someone. Not so alone anymore. He’d always had her, of course, which was a little pathetic when she put it like that. But still. They’d always been two single people alone together.
A surprisingly strong band of loneliness tightened around Honor’s chest. If Dad and Mrs. Johnson became a couple, where would that leave her? She’d have to move. She couldn’t be the spinster daughter, living with the newlyweds, sneaking Bugles into her room and misery-eating as she watched I Didn’t Know I Had a Parasite.
All the more reason to put the pedal to the metal and get going, the eggs said. We want to be fertilized.
“You have a point,” Honor muttered, starting her car. If Dad could find a honey, surely she could, too. eCommitment had recently come up with two matches for her. One was married, a Google search had revealed (thank you, Faith). So Droog it was.
See? She was trying. Really hard. She did need to get a life, and not just because Dad might beat her to the altar.
Three days ago, Dana emailed, asking if she was ready to hang out. Honor had been out of town on a sales trip to Poughkeepsie and had only responded to say so. Then yesterday, Brogan left a message, saying he was back from Tampa and would love to see her for dinner.
And last night, Honor had a panic attack, abruptly terrified that she’d die in this bed where she’d slept most of her life, and Dad, not the most observant man in the world, would think she was traveling, and Spike would chew off the tip of her nose for food, which would mean closed casket, definitely. This pleasant little fantasy had led her to visiting OnYourOwn.com and cruising through profiles of sperm donors, and then panicking a little further. She’d soothed herself by making a list of things she needed to do for the Black and White Ball, which was only a month and a half away, and ended up working until 3:00 a.m.
“Mom?” she said as she drove out of town. “I could use a little help finding a man. Okay? Be my wingman.”
Please God, Droog Dragul would be nice.
* * *
“HONOR?”
Honor’s head snapped around. Oh. Oh, dear. “Droog?”
“Yes. How luffly you look,” he said. He grabbed her by the shoulders and leaned in to kiss her (eep!). She leaned back as far as possible, which caused his lips fall on her chin, where they stayed for a horribly long moment before she wrenched away.
“Um, hi. Hi, Droog. Nice to meet you.”
Don’t judge on first impressions had been the advice from Faith and Colleen. Droog was lucky, in other words.
They were in the middle of the student center at Wickham College, where Droog headed up the Science and Engineering department. The Droog in front of her bore little resemblance to the Droog in the eCommitment photo (she should really stop thinking his name, which was not improving with repetition). No, his photo had apparently involved Glamour Shots, a spray tan and many dedicated hours with Photoshop. The actual live Droog (there it was again) looked ten years older and was considerably whiter. Also, he carried a purse. Not a cool, battered leather satchel, but a purse that Honor had been eyeing last week at Macy’s.
“Come. Vee vill go in my car. I heff Dodge Omni. It is old, but very good gas mileage.”
“You know, I think I’ll drive myself,” she said, wiping sweat from her forehead. “It’s, uh...it’ll be easier for me to get home.”
“As you vish.”
It was possible, Honor thought as she followed him outside, that Droog Dragul’s accent would grow on her. After all, hadn’t she loved the Count on Sesame Street? Perhaps his narrow face would be more attractive in a softer light. And she herself was no supermodel.
She wondered if he could see himself in a mirror. If he sparkled. Stop judging, she told herself. He couldn’t help being Transylvanian or Romanian or Hungarian or whatever it was.
She smiled firmly (though hopefully not like a wolverine) as he led the way to the parking lot. If nothing else, this date would be practice. It had been several years since she’d been on a first date. Years.
The sound of feminine laughter, and lots of it, made her turn her head. A gaggle of girls clustered around a man. He turned her way.
Oh, fungus. It was Tom Barlow.
Without thinking, she ducked, pretending she dropped her keys. Hey, why not actually drop them for authenticity purposes? She did. Kicked them under the car a little so she could have more time. Hopefully, Tom and the gaggle would move on.
“Heff you lost something?” Droog asked, bending to help. He was very tall.
“Um, no, no. I just dropped my keys.” Right. So she should pick them up and not just stand here, hunched over like Quasimodo. She squatted down and reached under the car, feeling only gritty pavement. Took a peek. Great. She’d effectively kicked them out of reach.
“I vould help you, but dee cartilage in my knees has torn and shredded, and I can no longer kneel. Eh heh heh heh.”
One! One beeg mistake! Two! Two bad knees!
“Hallo, Droog. Hallo, woman on the pavement.”
She sighed. Busted.
“Tom, Tom, how are you, my friend?” Droog asked. “I vould like you to meet my date, Mees Honor Holland.”
She looked up. Tom raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing around that mouth. “Oh,” she said flatly. “Hi.”
“Lovely to see you again,” he said.
“Heff you met before?” Droog’s eyebrows rose way, way up on his giant forehead.
Tom just kept looking down at her. “We both live in Manningsport,” he said after a beat, and his accent was so much more appealing than the Count’s. “Met at the pub one night, had a bit of a chat. Small town and all. Have you dropped something, Honor?”
“Um, my car keys,” she said.
He knelt down next to her, and she caught a whiff of his soap. He hadn’t shaved recently, and his jaw was bristly with stubble. Or maybe it wasn’t bristly. Maybe it was soft. Those lips would be soft, that was for sure.
Give us five minutes and we can be ready, the eggs said.
Tom leaned over, and something surged inside her. For one nanosecond, she thought he was going to kiss her, and yes! That would fine! Her eyes fluttered; the left one got stuck, thanks to the clumpy mascara. But no. Of course he wasn’t going to kiss her here on the pavement (or ever). He was reaching for her keys.
Which put his head very close to her, um, special places. Her uterus wobbled, and she pictured the eggs taking up a battering ram.
“Everything all right with your eye?” Tom asked with a knowing grin.
“Everything’s fine.”
She could probably hate this guy, if they spent much more time together. With superhuman eyelid effort, Honor managed to unstick her lashes as Tom groped under the car, then straightened up and handed her the keys. “There you are,” he said, his eyes filled with laughter. Gray eyes.
Kind of a gorgeous color, really. The lake in November, dark and deep.
“So you’re on a date with Droog, are you?” he asked. “Great guy.”
“Yes,” she said briskly. She’d almost forgotten about the Count. “Droog, sorry about that. Let’s get going, shall we?”
“Have fun,” Tom said.
“Tom, I veel see you tomorrow,” Droog said, opening the door of his rusting, maroon-colored Dodge Omni.
“Thank you,” she said to Tom. He smiled over his shoulder as he headed for his car, and damn. That was a Mack truck of a smile. And by the way, he was not built like Ye Typical Math Teacher, no sir. Broad shoulders. Rather perfect ass.
Then he glanced back again, and Honor was abruptly aware that she was still staring after him. He cocked his eyebrow as if knowing she was ogling him. He was probably used to it, she thought as a young (and beautiful) woman cantered to his side. Why didn’t he marry that one, huh? Why meet Honor if women were throwing themselves at him?
The man was not particularly likable. Droog, on the other hand, thought she was luffly. It didn’t make sense to let Down Under start getting all tingly and warm when the man causing those feelings had been such a boor.
* * *
“DO YOU LIKE bowling?” Droog asked a half hour later as they sat in the little restaurant. “I luff eet. Dee crash of dee pins, dee joy on the dee faces of dee cheeldren.” He smiled. “Perhaps we may try it sometime.”
There would be no bowling.
Honor had definitely ruled out marriage and children with Droog Dragul. In addition to the faint fear that he was going to throw his head back and start howling, or start counting things. (One...one pointy knife! Two! Two major blood vessels in dee neck!) Droog had wiped down everything at their table with antibacterial wipes he produced from his purse, including their chairs and the floor around them. “Now I heff created clean space,” he said, smiling.
Dexter the serial killer leaped to mind.
Then Droog ordered water and took a sandwich from his purse. Baloney on white bread.
It was a long eighty-three minutes.
To his credit, when he asked her for a second date, Droog took her rejection well. “Ah, yes, I understand,” he said. “Vee don’t have the cleek.”
“The cleek?” she asked.
He snapped his fingers. “The cleek.”
“Oh. Right. The click.” Honor forced a smile. “But it was very nice meeting you, Droog.”
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Kristan Higgins
What if the perfect match is a perfect surprise?Honor Holland has just been unceremoniously rejected by her lifelong crush. And now–a mere three weeks later–Mr. Perfect is engaged to her best friend. But resilient, reliable Honor is going to pick herself up, dust herself off and get back out there…or she would if dating in Manningsport, New York, population 715, wasn't easier said than done.Charming, handsome British professor Tom Barlow just wants to do right by his unofficial stepson, Charlie, but his visa is about to expire. Now Tom must either get a green card or leave the States–and leave Charlie behind.In a moment of impulsiveness, Honor agrees to help Tom with a marriage of convenience–and make her ex jealous in the process. But juggling a fiancé, hiding out from her former best friend and managing her job at the family vineyard isn't easy. And as sparks start to fly between Honor and Tom, they might discover that their pretend relationship is far too perfect to be anything but true love….
What if the perfect match is a perfect surprise?
Honor Holland has just been unceremoniously rejected by her lifelong crush. And now—a mere three weeks later—Mr. Perfect is engaged to her best friend. But resilient, reliable Honor is going to pick herself up, dust herself off and get back out there…or she would if dating in Manningsport, New York, population 715, wasn’t easier said than done.
Charming, handsome British professor Tom Barlow just wants to do right by his unofficial stepson, Charlie, but his visa is about to expire. Now Tom must either get a green card or leave the States—and leave Charlie behind.
In a moment of impulsiveness, Honor agrees to help Tom with a marriage of convenience—and make her ex jealous in the process. But juggling a fiancé, hiding out from her former best friend and managing her job at the family vineyard isn’t easy. And as sparks start to fly between Honor and Tom, they might discover that their pretend relationship is far too perfect to be anything but true love….
Praise for New York Times bestselling author Kristan Higgins (#ulink_e7522f35-1ee0-5e21-8760-34ee7a79054b)
“Higgins [offers] strong storytelling and a refreshing, sarcastic wit…thoroughly entertaining.”
—People magazine
“Well-placed flashbacks; snarky, snappy dialogue; and conflict both tender and traumatic will shove you into love with a perfectly irresistible array of imperfect characters. You’ll adore every bit of this story… Higgins’ latest is sexy, screwy, funny and fulfilling—a simply radiant read.”
—USA TODAY on The Best Man
“The result is a deliriously funny story…The Best Man is Kristan Higgins’s best book—and that’s saying a lot.”
—Eloisa James
“Romance fans and lovers of women’s fiction will devour this witty and tender novel. Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal, starred review, on Somebody to Love
“Both gut-wrenchingly emotional and hysterically funny at the same time…Kristan Higgins writes the books you don’t want to end.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Robyn Carr
“Kristan Higgins specializes in the kind of prose that makes you laugh out loud…hilarious on the surface, but with a bittersweet subtext.”
—National Public Radio
“A funny, poignant romance.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on My One and Only
“Cheeky, cute and satisfying, Higgins’s romance is perfect entertainment for a girl’s night in.”
—Booklist on Too Good to Be True
Winner—2010 Romance Writers of America RITA® Award
The Perfect Match
Kristan Higgins
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to Maria Carvainis, my wonderful friend and agent.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Madame.
Contents
Cover (#u89eee52b-3382-55c4-aeb1-57e557e8f9c3)
Back Cover Text (#ude20bf99-52a7-57b7-9115-3667382cbe80)
Praise (#ud21de51e-a8a0-53a7-a50e-ef6fc993f760)
Title Page (#ubf9e358b-e077-51c9-9f22-e8de7ff4dde5)
Dedication (#u0f3198c9-c517-58dc-925a-de82a2e8c73f)
PROLOGUE (#u3a08ef1a-11bc-57ce-9e12-1fbd8ae25af9)
CHAPTER ONE (#ufde38534-c67a-50d8-a700-995e205c0fbc)
CHAPTER TWO (#u05207867-e8ae-5103-9376-3fe42a378838)
CHAPTER THREE (#ud7ca6b51-e606-54c8-9981-c72703d4a0b7)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u5c85964d-61b8-5155-a94c-9545dab4ff4a)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ub9a30768-54d8-5ab3-a7fb-6855dc1bcdfc)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_7f4b03ae-7f2d-5409-8c43-d17c35c1bbb3)
THE DAY Honor Grace Holland turned thirty-five, she did what she always did on her birthday.
She got a Pap smear.
Sure, sure, Honor was aware that gynecology was pretty low on the totem pole of celebrations. It was just easier to schedule the dreaded appointment if it was on a memorable date. Practical, that was all, and she was nothing if not practical. Faith and Prudence, her sisters, and Dana Hoffman, her closest friend, had planned to take her out, but there’d been a snowstorm last weekend, and they’d had to cancel. The family would gather this weekend for cake, so it wasn’t like the Pap smear was the only celebration she’d be having.
She assumed the position on the exam table while her doctor kindly averted his eyes, and practiced the deep breathing the irritatingly flexible yoga instructor had demonstrated with such vigor until she and Dana had giggled like two little kids in church. Didn’t work then, didn’t work now. She stared at the Jackson Pollock print on the ceiling and tried to think happy thoughts. She really needed to update the website. Design a label for the new pinot gris Blue Heron Vineyard was launching. Check the month’s orders.
It occurred to her that work should not be her happy thoughts. She tried to think of something not work-related. She had some Lindt truffles at home. That was good.
“So how are things, Honor?” Jeremy asked from between her legs.
“Working a lot. You know me.” And he did. Jeremy Lyon was an old family friend as well as her sister’s ex-fiancé. He was also gay, which didn’t seem to make his palpation of her ovaries any less yucky.
Jeremy snapped off his gloves and smiled. “All done,” he said.
Honor sat up fast, despite the fact that Jeremy was terribly nice and had famously gentle hands. The good doctor handed her a prewarmed blanket—he was thoughtful that way. He never made eye contact during the breast exam, and the speculum was always placed on a heating pad. Small wonder half the women in Manningsport were in love with him, no matter that he liked men.
“How’s Patrick?” she asked, crossing her arms.
“He’s great,” Jeremy said. “Thanks for asking. Speaking of that, are you seeing anyone, Honor?”
The question made her blush, not just because Jeremy’s famous hands had been Down Under, but also because...well. She was private. “Why do you ask?” Did he want to fix her up? Should she say yes? Maybe she should. Brogan was never—
“Just need to ask a few questions about your, um, certain personal aspects of your life.”
Honor smiled. Jeremy, despite being a doctor, was still the cute boy who’d dated Faith all through college, and couldn’t quite forget that Honor was a few years older. “If it’s covered by HIPPA, then the answer is—” Yes, indeed, what was the answer? “The answer is yes. Sort of. And if you tell anyone in my family, I will kill you.”
“No, no, of course not,” he said, smiling back at her. “But I’m glad to hear it. Because, um...”
She sat up a little straighter. “Because why, Jer?”
He gave a half smile, half grimace. “It’s just...you’re thirty-five now.”
“Yes, I know. What does that have to do with—oh.” Her stomach sank abruptly, as if she was in a fast-moving elevator.
“Nothing to worry about, of course,” he said, blushing again. “But the years are precious. Egg-wise.”
“What? What are you talking about?” She pulled her hairband out and shoved it back on her head. Nervous habit. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no. It’s just that thirty-five is considered advanced maternal age.”
She frowned, then tried to stop. The mirror had shown a permanent line between her eyebrows just this morning (damn you, natural light!). She’d have sworn it wasn’t there last week. “Really? Already?”
“Right.” Jeremy winced. “I’m sorry. It’s just the quality of your eggs starts to decline about now. Medically speaking, the best time to have a kid is around twenty-two, twenty-four. That’s the sweet spot.”
“Twenty-four?” That was more than a decade earlier. All of a sudden, Honor felt ancient. She had a wrinkle between her eyes, and her eggs were aging! She shifted on the examination table. Her hip creaked. God, she was ancient! “Should I be worried?”
“Oh, no! No. But it might be time to think about these things.” Jeremy paused. “What I mean is, I’m sure it won’t be an issue. But yes, the chances of birth defects and infertility do start to increase about now. They’re still small, and infertility treatments are amazing these days. This doctor in New Hampshire just had success with a fifty-four-year-old woman—”
“I’m not planning to have a baby in my fifties, Jer!”
Jeremy took her limp hand and patted it. “I’m sure it won’t come to that. I’m required to tell you as your doctor, that’s all. Same as telling you to eat right. Your BP is just a tiny bit high, but that’s probably white-coat anxiety.”
She wasn’t anxious. At least, she hadn’t been when she’d first come in. Fungus. So now she had high blood pressure, in addition to leathery skin and hardening ovaries.
“You look fantastic,” Jeremy went on, “so there’s probably no cause for worry—” Probably? It was never good when a doctor said probably! “—but if you’re seeing someone, it might be time to start thinking about the future. I mean, not that you need a man. There’s a really good sperm bank—”
She yanked her hand back. “Okay, Jeremy, you can stop now.”
He smiled. “Sorry.”
Another attempt at a calming breath. “So think about babies sooner rather than later, is that what you’re saying?”
“Exactly,” Jeremy said. “And I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Except birth defects and infertility.”
“Right.” He smiled. “Any questions for me?”
* * *
SHE CALLED DANA from Jeremy’s parking lot, safe within the womb of her Prius. Small wonder that everything was taking on obstetrical overtones.
“House of Hair,” Dana answered, which made Honor mentally flinch every time.
“It’s me,” she said.
“Thank God. I just got done giving Phyllis Nebbins her monthly perm and blue rinse and I was this close to screaming. Like, do I really want to hear about her new hip? Anyway, what’s up?”
“I just got out of Jeremy’s. I’m old and need to have babies, quick.”
“Do you?” Dana said. “I don’t know if I can stand losing another friend to motherhood. All those stories of screaming and colic and precious, precious angels.”
Honor laughed. Dana didn’t want children—she said it was the main cause of her divorce—and often called to describe the brattiest behavior she saw at House of Hair in curdling detail.
But Honor loved kids. Even teenagers. Well, she loved her seventeen-year-old niece, Abby, and she loved her nephew, Ned, who still had the mental age of fourteen, even though he was twenty-two now.
“Other than that, what’s up?” Dana asked. “Wanna go out tonight, grab a few drinks in honor of you being an old hag?”
Honor was quiet for a minute. Her heart started thudding. “I’m thinking that, given the news, maybe I should have a talk with Brogan.”
“What talk?”
“The talk.”
There was silence. “Really.”
“Well...yeah.”
Another pause. “Sure, I guess I can see your rationale. Aging ovaries, shriveling uterus.”
“For the record, there was no mention of a shriveling uterus. But what do you think?”
“Um, yeah, go for it,” Dana said with a decided lack of enthusiasm.
Honor adjusted her hairband. “You don’t sound sure.”
“Are you sure, Honor? I mean, if you’re asking me, maybe you’re not, even if you’ve been sleeping with the guy for the past however many years.”
“Quietly, quietly, okay?” It’s not like there were a dozen people named Honor in Manningsport, New York, population seven hundred and fifteen, and Dana and she had very different views on what could be talked about in public.
“Whatever. He’s rich, he’s gorgeous, you’re hung up on him. Besides, you have everything already. Why not Brogan, too?”
There was a familiar edge to her voice. Honor knew her friend had a very rose-colored view of Honor’s life, and yes, certain aspects of it were quite wonderful. But like everyone, Honor had her issues. Spinsterhood, for example. Aging eggs, for another.
Honor sighed, then saw her reflection in the mirror. There was that frown again. “I guess I’m just worried he’ll say no,” she admitted. “We’ve been friends for a long time. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize that.”
“Then don’t ask.”
The years are precious, egg-wise. She was going to have to talk to Jeremy about his delivery. Still, if there was a sign from God, it was probably those words. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I guess?” she suggested, hoping for some reinforcement.
Dana sighed, and Honor sensed her patience was coming to an end. Couldn’t really blame her. “Honor, if you want to pop the question, do it. Just lay it on the line and he’ll probably say, ‘Hells yeah, I’ll marry you! You’re Honor Freakin’ Holland!’ And then you can go to Harts Jeweler’s and pick out that rock you’ve been eyeing for the past year.”
Okay. That was a nice thought. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she said. But yes. There was a ring in the window of the jewelry store on the green, and Honor had admitted—only to Dana—that if she ever did get engaged, that would be the ring she wanted. Just a simple, stunning, emerald-cut diamond set in platinum. Honor didn’t think of herself as the type who loved jewelry (she only wore her mom’s pearls) or clothes (gray or blue suits from Ann Taylor, tailored white shirt—sometimes pink, if she was feeling sentimental), but that ring did things to her.
“I gotta go,” Dana said. “Laura Boothby’s coming for a rinse. Rock his world, pop the question, see what he says. Or don’t. Just don’t be wishy-washy. Okay? Talk to you soon.” She hung up.
Honor sat another minute. She could call one of her sisters, but...well, neither one knew about Brogan. They knew he and Honor were friends, of course, but they didn’t know about the romantic part. The sex part. Prudence, the oldest of the Holland clan, would be all for it, having recently become a sex kitten as some weird by-product of menopause or whatnot. But Pru didn’t have much in the way of filters and tended to announce inappropriate things at family dinners or at O’Rourke’s, the local pub.
Faith, the youngest of the three Holland sisters...maybe. She and Honor had always scrapped a little, though things had been better since Faith had moved back from San Francisco (the only Holland to live out of New York State in eight generations). She’d love the idea...she loved anything romantic, being a newlywed and kind of a mushy, emotional person in general.
And then there was Jack, their brother. But he was a guy and hated nothing more than hearing stories that confirmed the suspicion that his sisters were indeed female and, worse still, had sex lives.
So no sympathetic ear other than Dana’s. That was fine. It was time to get back to work, anyway. She started the car and headed through town.
Manningsport was the jewel of the Finger Lakes region of western New York, a famed wine-making area. The winter months were the quiet time of year here—the holidays were over, and the tourist season wouldn’t kick in until April. The grapevines had been pruned, and snow blanketed the fields. Keuka Lake glittered black in the distance, too deep to ice over completely.
Blue Heron Vineyard was the oldest farm around, and the sight of their sign—a gold-painted heron against a blue background—never failed to cause a surge of pride. Set at the top of the area known as the Hill, the Hollands’ land encompassed more than two hundred acres of field and forest.
Honor drove past the Old House, a saltbox colonial built in 1781, where her grandparents (almost as old) lived and fought, past the New House (1873), a big white Federal where she lived with dear old Dad and Mrs. Johnson, the longtime housekeeper and supreme ruler of the Holland family, and pulled into the vineyard parking lot. The only other car here belonged to Ned. Pru, who handled the farming end of the vineyard, was either in one of the equipment storage barns or out in the fields; Dad and Jack, and possibly Pops, would be checking the huge steel casks of wine or playing poker. Honor was the only one who came to work in the office every day, though Ned was part-time.
Which was fine. She liked being in charge of the business end of the vineyard. And besides, given Jeremy’s little bombshell, she needed to think. She needed to make lists. She needed to color-code.
She needed a plan, given that the years were precious.
Into the main building she went, through the beautiful tasting room, past the gift shop and into the suite of offices. Ned’s door was open, but he wasn’t here. That was good; she did her best thinking when she was alone.
Sitting behind her large, tidy desk, Honor opened a new document on her computer.
Men were a field in which Honor didn’t have a lot of...panache. She did business with dozens of men, as the wine industry was still heavily skewed toward males. If they were talking distribution or media coverage or crop projections, she had no problem.
But on the romantic front, she didn’t really have the knack. Faith, who was built like Marilyn Monroe and had red hair and blue eyes and a slightly Bambi-esque, innocent air about her, practically caused a stampede just by getting out of her car. Pru, despite her lifelong tomboy ways and propensity for wearing men’s clothing, had had no trouble getting married; Carl was her high school sweetheart. The two were still quite (if far too publicly) happy in their marriage. Even Dana, who was extremely picky when it came to men, always had some date lined up who would inevitably irritate her.
But Honor didn’t have the touch. She knew she wasn’t bad-looking; average height, average figure, maybe a little on the unendowed side. Brown eyes. Her hair was long and straight and blond, her one great beauty, she thought. She had dimples, like her mom. Hers was a pleasant face. But all in all...average.
Unlike Brogan Cain, who was essentially a Greek god come to life. Turquoise-blue eyes (really). Curling chestnut hair. Six foot two, lean and strong and graceful.
He’d been her friend since fourth grade, when they were put into the Mathlete program, the only two chosen by their teacher. At the time, the other kids had made fun of them a little, the two class brains, but it had been nice, too.
All through school, they’d had an easy friendship. They sat together at assemblies, said hi to each other in the halls, maintained a friendly competition with grades. They went trick-or-treating together until they got too old; after that, they stayed at the New House and watched scary movies.
It was on prom night that things had changed. Brogan asked her to be his date, said they’d have more fun than the actual couples, who placed so much importance on the event. A sound plan. But when she saw him standing there in his tuxedo, corsage box in hand, something happened. From that moment on, she felt shaky and slightly ill, and she flushed when he looked at her.
At the high school, they danced amiably, and when the DJ played a slow song, Brogan looped his arms around her. Kissed her forehead and smiled and said, “This is fun, isn’t it?”
And boom, she was in love.
And that love grew—like a virus, Honor sometimes thought. Because Brogan didn’t feel the same way.
Oh, he liked her plenty. He even loved her, sort of. But not the same way Honor loved him...not that he knew how she felt. Honor wasn’t that dumb.
The first time they’d slept together was when they were home on spring break their freshmen year of college, and Brogan suggested they lose their virginities together “because it’ll be better with a friend than with someone you love.” Sort of the prom theory, but with higher stakes.
Granted, she hadn’t quite believed he was a virgin, and he was someone she loved, and if it was a line to get her into bed, she wasn’t about to bring it up. The very fact that he wanted to sleep with her was somewhat miraculous, given that he could’ve chosen just about anyone. So they’d done the deed, and as losses of virginity went, it was pretty great. A few nights later, they’d gone to the movies, and it had been the same as always—friendly and fun, though a blade of uncertainty kept slicing through her. Were they together? Together together?
No, apparently not. He kissed her on the cheek when he dropped her off, emailed her when they both went back to their respective colleges.
The second time they slept together was their sophomore year, when she visited him at NYU. He hugged her and said how much he missed her, and she felt herself melting from the inside out. Pizza, a few beers, a walk around the city, back to his place, sex. She went home in a glow of love and hope...but the next time he called, it was just to catch up. No mention of love or even sex.
Four times in college. Twice in grad school. Definitely a friends-with-benefits situation...but the benefits only happened once in a while.
And the friend part stayed constant.
Once she started working at Blue Heron as the director of operations, she’d occasionally call him if she were going to be in Manhattan for a meeting...or a pretend meeting, as the case might be, though her conscience always cringed at the lie. “Hey, I have a late lunch in SoHo,” she might say, her stomach twisting, helpless to just come clean and say, Hi, Brogan, I miss you, I’m dying to see you. “Want to meet for a drink or dinner?” And he was always more than happy to shift his schedule around if he could, meet her and, maybe, sleep with her. Or not.
Honor would lecture herself. Remind herself that he wasn’t the only one out there. That if she was hung up on Brogan, she’d be closed off to other possibilities. But very few could compare to Brogan Cain, and it wasn’t like they were standing in line for the privilege of a date with her.
He became a photographer with Sports Illustrated, basically the wet dream job of all American men who couldn’t be professional athletes or Hugh Hefner. He was like that: incredibly lucky, übercharming, the kind of person who’d go out for a beer, comment on a baseball game to the guy next to him, strike up an easy friendship and only half an hour later realize he was talking to Steven Spielberg (who would then invite him to a party in L.A.). Sports photography with SI? Perfect.
Brogan met the mighty Jeter, photographed the Manning brothers, who had roots right here in Manningsport (or so the town liked to claim). He had drinks with Kobe Bryant and Picabo Street and went on the Harry Potter ride with the gold-medal gymnasts at Universal Studios.
But somehow, he was unaffected by it all, which was probably why he could claim people like Tom Brady and David Beckham as friends. He flew all over the world, went to the Olympic Games, the Stanley Cup, the Super Bowl. He even invited her—just her, no other friends—to come to Yankee Stadium and sit in the SI box and watch the World Series with him.
And that was the thing. Brogan Cain was an awfully nice guy. He came home to visit his parents, hung out at O’Rourke’s, bought the family house when his parents retired to Florida. He asked after her family, and if he blew her off the night of her grandparents’ sixty-fifth anniversary party because he plumb forgot, well...those things happened.
Every time she saw him, she blushed. Every time he kissed her, she felt like she was floating. Every time his name popped up in her email or on her phone, her uterus quivered. And recently, he’d told her he was hoping to cut back on his travel, be around more.
Maybe the time really was right. Her eggs, his settling down...marriage might be just the thing.
Yes. She needed a list. She opened her Mac and started typing.
Shock and awe to get him to see you in different light (think of something memorable).
Make marriage seem like a logical step in the friendship.
Do it soon so you don’t chicken out.
THREE HOURS LATER, Honor got out of her car, tightened the sash on her beige raincoat, swallowed and went up the steps to Brogan’s house. Her mouth was dry, her hands clammy. If this didn’t work...
The years are precious, egg-wise.
Sigh.
No. Not sigh. Go, team! That was more like it. We want company! she imagined her tiny, aging eggs demanding. In her mind, they were starting to thicken around the middle, wore reading glasses and were developing an affinity for pinochle. Don’t age, she warned them. Mommy’s got company coming.
For one quick second, she let herself indulge in a mental picture of the future. The New House once again filled with children (or at least one or two). Kids who would romp through the fields and woods with her dad; they’d be able to tell a Riesling grape from a Chablis before they started kindergarten. Children who’d have Brogan’s amazing eyes and her own blond hair. Or maybe Brogan’s thick, curly chestnut hair. Yeah. His was better.
With that picture firmly in mind, she knocked on Brogan’s door. The smell of garlic was thick in the air, and her stomach rumbled all of a sudden. On top of everything else, Brogan was a good cook.
“Hey, On!”
Okay, so he did have a flaw (see? no rose-colored glasses for her), and that was to shorten her five-letter, two-syllable name. She always pictured it spelled On, because Hon would’ve been short for honey, and he never called her that.
“This is a nice surprise!” he said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “Come on in.”
She went in, heart thudding. Remembered to smile. “How are you?” she asked, her voice sounding tight to her own ears.
“I’m great! Let me just stir this so it doesn’t burn. I hope you can stay for dinner.” He turned to the stove.
Now or never. Honor untied her sash, closed her eyes and opened the coat, and let it slide to the floor. Oh, crap, she was standing in front of the table, so his view would be blocked. Stepping around it, she waited. Buck naked. Shock and awe, shock and awe... It was chilly in here. She swallowed and waited some more.
Brogan’s father poked his head into the kitchen. “Smells good—oh. Hello, Honor, dear.”
Brogan’s father.
Brogan’s father.
Oh, fungus.
Honor dove under the table, knocking over a chair with a crash, crawled a few paces and grappled for the damn coat. Held it in front of her. Noticed the floor could use cleaning.
“Dear? Are you all right?” Mr. Cain asked.
“Did you say Honor’s here?” Mrs. Cain.
God, please kill me, Honor thought, jerking the coat around her shoulders. “Um, one second,” she said, her voice higher than usual.
Brogan bent down, his face puzzled. “On? What are you doing under—oh, man!”
“Hi,” she said, trying to get an arm in her sleeve.
“Dad, Mom, get out for a sec, okay?” He was already wheezing with laughter.
Where was the damn sleeve? Brogan squatted next to her. “Come on out,” he managed, wiping his eyes. “You’re safe for the moment.”
She crawled out, then stood, wrapping the coat around her. Tightly. “Surprise,” she said, her face on fire. “Sorry. I’ll try never to be spontaneous again.”
He tipped her chin up, and there it was, that mischievous, slightly lecherous smile, dancing eyes. Her skin tightened, lust mingling with mortification. “Are you kidding? My father will like you even more than he already does.”
The words gave her hope. Honor smiled—it wasn’t too easy, but she did—and readjusted her hairband. Dang, she’d meant to leave that at home. Hairbands with a Scotty dog pattern and nudity didn’t really go together. “So. Hello.”
He laughed and gave her a one-armed hug, then turned toward the living room. “It’s safe to come back, parents!” he called.
And back they came, Mrs. Cain’s face in lines of disapproval, Mr. Cain grinning.
Bite the bullet, Honor. “Sorry about that,” she said.
“Absolutely no need to apologize,” Mr. Cain said, his breath leaving in an ooph as Mrs. Cain elbowed him in the ribs.
“My parents are visiting,” Brogan said, his eyes dancing with laughter.
“So I see,” Honor murmured. “How’s Florida?”
“It’s wonderful,” Mr. Cain said warmly. “Stay for dinner, dear.”
“Oh, no. You... I can’t. But thanks.”
Brogan gave her another squeeze. “Yes, you can. Just because they saw you naked is no reason to feel awkward. Right, Mom?”
“Laugh it up,” Honor muttered.
Mrs. Cain was still in lemon-sucking mode. “I didn’t realize you two were...together.” She never had liked Honor. Or any female interested in her son, one imagined.
“Please stay, Honor,” Brogan said. “We’ll just talk about you if you leave.” He winked, utterly unfazed by her little show.
He got her a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, and she changed in the downstairs bathroom, avoiding looking at her face in the mirror. Okay, one quick glance. Yes, she looked utterly humiliated. But if she was going to be his wife, she’d just have to get over this little debacle. It would become part of the Cain family lore. They could laugh at it. A lot, no doubt.
Brogan covered the awkwardness over dinner with shop talk, telling them about the upcoming baseball season and spring training, who was out with what injury, and Honor tried to forget that Mr. Cain had seen her naked.
The elder Cains were only here en route to Buffalo to see Mr. Cain’s sister, thankfully. Maybe the night wouldn’t be a total wash, after all.
Finally, they left. The second their car pulled out of the garage, Brogan turned to her.
“That was maybe the best moment of my life,” he said.
“Yes. You’re welcome,” she said, blushing again. But smiling, too, because there it was, that nervous, tingling feeling. The—she hated to think it, but it was true—gratitude. Brogan Cain, the hottie sports photographer, had just complimented her.
“So let’s pretend the night is just starting, shall we?” he said, pulling back to smile at her. “You go outside, I hear a faint knock, and who is it but the beautiful Honor Holland!” He led her to the door and gently pushed her outside, though the rain had turned to sleet.
And so Honor did it again, and this time, things went a little more according to plan. Except the kitchen table was covered in dishes, so they went to Brogan’s bedroom instead.
And when they were done, and when Honor’s heart was racing, not just from exertion, but from terror, let’s be honest, she tried to draw in a calming breath. Settle down, she told herself. He’s your friend.
Yes. He was. Honor raised herself slowly—Brogan seemed to be sleeping. That was okay. This way, she could just look at him. He was so handsome. Black lashes worthy of a mascara commercial, straight nose, perfectly shaped mouth. A hint of five-o’clock shadow gave his almost-beautiful face just the right amount of machismo. Hard to believe she was in bed with him, even after all these...encounters.
She knew he’d had a few girlfriends here and there. During those times, they didn’t sleep together, of course, and Honor would try to be neutral on the rare occasions that Brogan did talk about these other women. Inevitably, he’d break up with them (which was a great sign, she thought).
As for other men, well...there’d been four other relationships, lasting between five and twenty-three days. She’d only ever slept with one other guy, and let’s face it. It hadn’t compared with this.
Now or never, Honor.
“You asleep?” she whispered.
“Nope. Just letting you ogle me,” he said, opening his eyes with a grin.
She smiled back. “And I appreciate it.” She licked her lips, knees tingling with adrenaline. “So.”
“So.” He reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. It was all the encouragement she needed.
“You know what I thought the other day?” she asked. Her toes curled, but she kept her voice casual.
“What?”
“I was thinking we should get married.”
There. She said it. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe normally.
“Yeah, right.” Brogan snorted. He stretched, yawning. “Man, that flight is catching up with me.” Then he looked back at her. “Oh. Uh, are you serious?”
Play it easy here, her brain advised. “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s a thought.”
He stared at her, then his eyebrows jumped in bewilderment. “Really?”
His voice did not indicate that he’d just heard a wonderful idea. It indicated...bafflement.
“It’s just, you know, we’re good friends. Good, good friends. Really good friends.” Oh, youch. Stop talking. You sound like an idiot. “You know, we’ve been friends for ages now. Long time.” Her tongue felt like a piece of old leather, and wasn’t that an attractive image! Would you like to kiss my shriveled, dry, leathery mouth, Brogan? Because the years are precious, you know. Egg-wise.
She forced out an awkward laugh, then wished she hadn’t. “Just putting that out there. It’s been, what? Seventeen years that we’ve been together?”
“Together?” he said, sitting up abruptly.
“Uh, sort of. We always, um, fall back on each other.” She sat up, too, leaning against the leather-upholstered headboard. Tears stung her eyes, and she immediately ordered them back. She cleared her throat. “I mean, we’re such good friends. And then there’s this. Sex.”
“Yeah! Right. No, we’re great friends. Definitely. I think of you as my best friend, really. But, um...” Brogan took a deep breath. “I never really saw us as together per se.” He swallowed and, to his credit, looked at her.
Calm, calm. “No, you’re right. I just thought, we’re getting to a certain age, and you said you were cutting back on traveling.” She paused. “And neither one of us has ever found someone...permanent. Maybe that says something.”
Please say you agree. Please realize what a great idea this is.
He didn’t answer, but his eyes were kind. Horribly so, and that was answer enough. Her heart stuttered, then shriveled like burned paper. To avoid looking at him, she traced the stitching in the comforter. Now that the initial rejection was done, she could keep it together. She was a rational, calm person. Except she might be having a heart attack. She kind of hoped she was.
Brogan was quiet for a minute. “You know how I think about you, On?” He turned to see her face. “I think of you like an old baseball glove.”
She blinked. Was he kidding? A sports analogy? Granted, he was full of them, but now?
He nodded. “Like an old friend, something you turn to when you need it.”
“A baseball glove.” Could she smother him with the pillow, maybe, or did that only work in the movies? How about panty hose strangulation? Too bad she hadn’t worn any.
He took her hand and squeezed it, and she let it lie there like a dead fish. “It’s like Jeter once said. Or maybe it was Pujols. Yeah, because this was back when he played in Saint Louis. Wait, was it Joe Maurer? No, because he’s a catcher, so that’d be a mitt. Anyway, whoever it was, he was talking about how when he’s in a slump, or when he doesn’t feel right about an upcoming game, he puts on his old glove. He’s had it for years, right? And when he puts it on, it’s like an old friend, and he knows he’ll have a better day because of it.” He turned to her, tipping her chin up, and she blinked, her eyes feeling like two hot, hard stones. “But you don’t need that glove every day.”
Surely this was the worst breakup speech in history.
He winced. “Okay, that was the worst comparison ever,” he said, and she had to laugh then, because it was that or burst into tears. “What I’m trying to say, On, is—”
“You know what?” she said, and her voice was normal, thank you, God. “Forget it. I don’t know where the idea came from. Maybe it was because your parents saw me naked.”
He grinned.
“But you’re right,” she said more firmly. “Why ruin a good thing?”
“Exactly,” he said. “Because we are a good thing. Don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. No, no, getting married was just...just a thought. Never mind.”
He kissed her then, and it nearly tore her heart in half. An old baseball glove? Holy fungus. Yet her head was cupped between his hands, and she was letting him kiss her, like nothing had changed at all.
“Feel up for round two?” he whispered.
Are you kidding? You just compared me to an old baseball glove. I’m leaving.
“Sure,” she said. Because nothing had changed. She was the same old glove she’d always been.
If she left, he might realize she’d been dead serious, and if he knew that, then she wouldn’t have any pride left. And since her heart had just been poleaxed, pride was suddenly very important.
* * *
SHE APPEARED AT Dana’s door an hour later, and the second she knocked, tears made a rare appearance, sliding down her face in hot streaks.
Dana opened the door, took one look and blinked. An odd expression—half surprise, half something else—came over her face. “Well, I guess I can see how that turned out,” she said after a beat. “I’m sorry, babe.”
She got a clean pair of pajamas, and Honor changed, then washed her face in the sloppy, comforting bathroom.
“At least you know where you stand,” Dana said, leaning against the doorway. “I think drinks are called for, don’t you?”
She made very strong martinis and handed Honor a box of Kleenex. Shark Week, a shared passion of theirs, played in the background. Somehow, it was the perfect backdrop to spill everything.
“I feel like such an ass,” Honor said when she’d finished recounting the wretched evening. “And the thing is, I didn’t know how much I loved him till it was out there, you know? Does that make sense?”
“Sure, sure it does.” Dana drained her drink. “Listen, I hate to be insensitive here, but tell me the part about the parents one more time, okay?” she said with a wicked grin, and Honor snorted and complied, making Dana swear she’d never tell anyone, because as a hairdresser, Dana saw everyone, and knew everyone’s business, and was pretty liberal with sharing it.
“Comparing your vajay-jay to an old baseball glove...that’s going a little far, isn’t it?”
“It wasn’t my... Never mind. Let’s talk about something else. Oh, look at that guy’s stitches. I’m never swimming again.” She sat back, leaning against her raincoat. Stupid raincoat. Where was the shock and awe now, huh? Wadding it up, she tossed it on the floor.
“Hey, it’s not the coat’s fault. And that’s Burberry,” Dana said, retrieving it. “But no, I see your point. You hate it now, so I’m going to make the ultimate sacrifice and take it from you. I promise never to wear it in your presence.” She opened a closet, shoved the coat in and slammed the door.
Dana could be prickly, but she certainly had her moments. “So what now?” she asked as the guy on TV described what it was like to see his severed arm in a great white shark’s teeth.
Honor swallowed the sharp lump in her throat. “I don’t know. But I guess I can’t sleep with him anymore. I have a little pride, glove or no glove.”
“Good. It’s high time,” Dana said. “Now sit there and watch this next attack, and I’ll make us another round.”
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_ff6ed1ef-1fc9-56c6-a63d-babfaf0e8824)
FOR A GUY who taught mechanical engineering at a fourth-rate college in the middle of nowhere, Tom Barlow was packing them in.
At the university where he’d last taught, there’d been an actual engineering school, and his students were genuinely interested in the subject matter. Here, though, at tiny Wickham College, four of the original six attendees had stumbled into class, having left registration until too late, only taking mechanical engineering because it still had open slots. Two had seemed genuinely interested, until one, the girl, transferred to Carnegie Mellon.
But then, by the end of the second week, he suddenly had thirty-six students jammed into the little classroom. Each one of these new students was female, ranging in age from eighteen to possibly fifty-five. Suddenly, an astonishing array of girls and women had decided that mechanical engineering (whatever that was) had become their new passion in life.
The clothes were a bit of a problem. Tight, trashy, low-cut, low-riding, inappropriate. Tom tended to teach to the wall in the back of the room, not wanting to make eye contact with the hungry gazes of seventy-eight percent of his class.
He tried not to leave time for questions, as the Barbarian Horde, as he thought of them, tended to be inappropriate. Are you single? How old are you? Where’d you come from? Do you like foreign films/sushi/girls?
Then again, he needed this job. “Any questions?” he asked. Dozens of hands shot up. “Yes, Mr. Kearns,” he said gratefully to the one student in the class who was there out of interest in the subject.
According to his file, Jacob Kearns had been kicked out of MIT for doing drugs. He seemed on the straight and narrow now, at least, but Wickham College was a hundred steps down academically. Then again, Tom knew all about shooting himself in the foot, career-wise.
“Dr. Barlow, with the hovercraft project, I was wondering how you’d calculate the escape velocity?”
“Good question. The escape velocity is the speed at which the kinetic energy of your object, along with its gravitational potential energy, is zero. Make sense?” The Barbarian Horde (those who were listening) looked confused.
“Definitely,” Jacob said. “Thanks.”
Thirty seconds to the bell. “Listen up,” he said. “Your homework is to read chapters six and seven in your texts and answer all the study questions at the end of both as well as pass in your term project proposals. Those of you who flunked the hovercraft estimates have to do them again.” Hopefully, he could break the Horde with a ridiculous workload. “Anything else?”
A hand went up. One of the Barbarians, of course. “Yes?” he said briskly.
“Are you British?” she asked, getting a ripple of giggles from a third of the class, whose mental age appeared to be twelve.
“I’ve answered that in a previous class. Any other questions that pertain to mechanical engineering, then? No? Great. Cheerio.”
“Oh, my God, he said ‘Cheerio,’” said a blonde dressed like a Cockney prostitute.
The bell rang, and the Barbarian Horde surged toward his desk. “Mr. Kearns, please stay a minute,” Tom said.
Seven female students clustered around him. “So do you think I could, like, work for an architect or something?” one asked.
“I’ve no idea,” he answered.
“I mean, after this class.” She lowered her gaze to his mouth. Crikey. Made him want to shower.
“Pass the class first, then apply and see,” he said.
“Do you want to hang out at the pub, Tom?” asked another of the BH. “I’d love to buy you a drink.”
“That’d be inappropriate,” he answered.
“I’m totally legal,” she said with a leer.
“If you don’t have any questions related to the lesson today, get out, please.” He smiled to soften the words, and with a lot of pouty lips and hair tossing, the Barbarian Horde departed.
Tom waited till the other kids were out of earshot. “Jacob, would you be interested in interning for me?”
“Yeah! Sure! Um, doing what?”
“I customize airplanes here and there. Got a project coming up. It might be good on your CV.”
“What’s a CV?”
“A résumé.”
“Sure!” Jacob said again. “That’d be great.”
“You can’t be using, of course. Will that be a problem?”
The kid flushed. “No. I’m in NA and all that. Clean for thirteen months.” He pushed his hands into his pockets. “I have to pee in a cup every month to come here. The health office has my records.”
“Good. I’ll give you a shout when I need you.”
“Thanks, Dr. Barlow. Thanks a lot.”
Tom nodded. The head of his department was standing in the doorway, frowning down the hallway, where a cacophony of giggles was coming from the twits. When Jacob left, the man came in and closed the door behind him.
This wouldn’t be good news, Tom thought. Droog Dragul (not a shock that he was called Dracula, was it?) had the face of a medieval monk—tortured, pale and severe. He looked even more depressed than usual.
“Dee cheeldren of dis school,” Droog said in his thick accent. He sighed. “Dey are so...” Tom winced, fearing the next phrase would be well fed or iron-rich. “Dey are so unfocused.” Phew.
“Most of them, anyway,” Tom said. “I’ve got one or two good students.”
“Yes.” His boss sighed. “And you heff such a vay vith the ladies, Tom. Perhaps we can heff beer and you can give pointers.”
“It’s the accent, mate,” Tom said.
“Mine does not seem to heff same effect, for some reason. Eh heh heh heh heh!”
Tom winced, then smiled. Droog was a good guy. Strange, but nice enough. In the month since Tom had been teaching here, they’d had dinner once, gone out for beer and pool twice, and if the experience had been odd, it seemed that Droog had a good heart.
His boss sighed and sat down, tapping his long fingers on the desk. “Tom, I am afraid I heff bad news. Vee von’t be able to renew your vork visa.”
Tom inhaled sharply. The only reason he’d taken this job was for the work visa. “That was a condition of my employment.”
“I em aware. But dee budget...it is too overtaxed for dee court fees.”
“I thought you said it’d be no problem.”
“I vas wrong. They heff reconsidered.”
Tom felt his jaw locking. “I see.”
“Vee value your teaching abilities and experience, Tom. Perhaps you vill find another way. Vee can give you till end of semester.” He paused. “I em sorry. Very much so.”
Tom nodded. “Thanks, mate.” It wasn’t Droog’s fault. But shit.
Dr. Dragul left, and Tom sat at his desk another few minutes. Finding another job in February was unlikely. Wickham College had been the only place in western New York looking for an engineering professor, and Tom had been lucky to get the job as fast as he did. It wasn’t a prestigious place, not by a long shot, but that wasn’t really the point. This time around, it was all about location.
He couldn’t keep his job without a work visa, though it wasn’t like Immigration would be breathing down his neck; an employed professor was less of a concern than most of their cases. Still, the college wasn’t going to keep him on illegally.
If he was going to stay, he needed a green card.
Fast.
But first to the rather shabby house he’d just rented, and then to the much better bar down the street. A drink was definitely required.
* * *
A FEW NIGHTS later, Tom sat in the kitchen of his great-aunt Candace’s kitchen, drinking tea. Only Brits could make decent tea, and though Candace had lived in the States for at least six decades, she hadn’t lost the touch.
“That Melissa,” Aunt Candace said darkly. “She messed everything up, didn’t she?”
“Well. Let’s not speak ill of the dead.”
“But I’ll miss you! And what about Charlie? How old is he now? Twelve?”
“Fourteen.” His unofficial stepson had been ten when Tom met him. Hard to reconcile that talkative, happy little boy with the sullen teenager who barely spoke these days.
A fleeting pain lanced through his chest. Charlie wouldn’t miss him, that seemed certain. One of those situations where Tom wasn’t sure if he was doing any good whatsoever, or if, in fact, his presence made things worse. Melissa, Charlie’s mother, was dead, and her brief engagement to Tom qualified him as nothing in the boy’s life today, even though Charlie had been just a few months away from becoming Tom’s stepson.
Whatever the case, Tom didn’t have much choice about whether or not he was staying in the States. He’d emailed his old department head in England, who wrote right back saying they’d take Tom back in a heartbeat. There weren’t any other colleges in western New York looking for someone with his credentials. And teaching was what he loved (when the students were actually interested in the subject matter, that was).
And so, Tom had decided to drive to Pennsylvania, visit the only relative he had in this country and start the goodbye process. He’d been in the States for four years now, and Aunt Candace had been good to him. Not to mention delirious with joy when he called after his last class to see if she was free for dinner. He even took her to the mall so she could buy a coat, proving a fact Tom firmly believed—he was a bloody saint.
“Here. Have more pie, darling.” She pushed the dish across the table toward him, and Tom helped himself.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Lovely town, Manningsport,” she said. “I lived near there as a child, did you know that?”
“So you told me,” Tom said. His lovely old aunt could bake, that was certain.
“Finish that pie, you might as well. I’m prediabetic or some such nonsense. Then again, I’m also eighty-two years old. Life without dessert is too horrible to contemplate. I’ll just overdose on caramel corn and die with a smile on my face. What was I saying again?”
“You used to live near Manningsport.”
“Yes, that’s right! Just for a few years. My mother was a widow, you see. My father died of pneumonia, and so she packed my brother and me up and came to America. Elsbeth, your grandmother, was already married, so she stayed in Manchester with her husband, of course. Your grandfather. But I remember the crossing, seeing the Statue of Liberty. I was seven years old. Oh, it was thrilling!” She smiled and took a sip of tea.
“So that’s how you became a Yank?” Tom asked.
She nodded. “We lived in Corning, and she met my stepfather, and he adopted Peter and me.”
“I never knew that,” Tom said.
“He was a lovely man. A farmer. Sometimes I’d go with him to deliver milk.” Candace smiled. “Anyway, we moved after my brother died in the war. I was fifteen then. But I still have a friend there. More of a pen pal, do you know what that is?”
Tom smiled. “I do.”
“A pity you have to leave. It’s beautiful there.” Candy’s gaze suddenly sharpened. “Tom, dear...if you really want to stay in the States, you can always marry an American.”
“That’s illegal, Auntie.”
“Oh, pooh.”
He laughed. “I can’t see myself going that far,” he said. “It might be different if—well. It’s not an option.”
It might be if Charlie actually wanted him to stay. Needed him. If Tom were anything but a thorn in Charlie’s side, he might give it a whirl.
He had two thin job prospects with manufacturing firms, both requiring experience he didn’t have. If those didn’t work out (and he was almost positive they wouldn’t), he’d be heading back to jolly old England, which wouldn’t be awful. He’d be near his dad. Probably meet some nice girl someday. Charlie would barely remember him.
The pie suddenly tasted like ash. He pushed back his plate. “I’d better be off,” he said. “Thanks for the visit.”
She stood up and hugged him, her cheek soft against his. “Thank you for coming to see an old lady,” she said. “I’m going to brag about this for days. My grandnephew adores me.”
“You’re right. Ta, Auntie. I’ll call you and let you know what’s happening.”
“If I happen to know someone who might be interested, can I give her your number, dear?”
“Interested in what, Auntie?”
“In marrying you.”
Tom laughed. The old lady’s face was so hopeful, though. “Sure,” he said, giving her another kiss on the cheek. Let the old bird feel useful, and that way, maybe she wouldn’t feel so bad when he went back to England.
There was that pain in his chest again.
It took four hours to drive back to Manningsport. Four hours of wretched, icy rain and windshield wipers that smeared, rather than cleared. The weather thickened as he approached the Finger Lakes. Perhaps he wouldn’t get in too late to grab a bite (and a whiskey) at the pub he was becoming too fond of. Chat up the pretty bartender and try not to think about the future.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_b99b7c26-2e6c-58dc-b8e7-dee989ce8c10)
SIX WEEKS AFTER her failed marriage proposal, Honor was starting to panic.
Online dating sites had offered her all of four matches: her brother Jack (pass); Carl, her brother-in-law (he and Pru had registered to see if eCommitment would say that they were compatible, then planned to meet and pretend to be strangers as part of their ongoing quest to keep things fresh; he was also a pass, obviously); Bobby McIntosh, who lived in his grandmother’s basement and had strange, reptilian eyes; and a guy she didn’t know who listed “reincarnation” under his hobbies.
So. Here she was again, staring down the weekend with only Spike, her recently acquired little mutt, for company, and while Spike was indeed excellent company, Honor had sort of hoped for the human variety. Ryan Gosling would’ve been preferred, but he had plans, apparently. Dana was busy, and had been busy a lot lately, which was getting a little frustrating, as winter in the Finger Lakes meant there already wasn’t much to do. Take the best girlfriend out of the equation, and there was even less.
Faith was busy being a newlywed. Pru was busy pretending to be a newlywed. Jack had come over to watch the gruesome medical documentaries they both loved on Honor’s fabulous new TV, and she had the feeling she’d tapped him out on the social front. Abby was a popular kid, and Honor couldn’t bring herself to beg the teenager to hang out and watch movies. Ditto Ned, who already spent enough time with Honor at work.
This left Goggy and Pops, who were always happy to see her but fought constantly, and Dad, who was acting a little weird lately. Jumpy. Secretive.
Would Mrs. Johnson be up for something? Sometimes she’d go to a movie with Honor, though she clucked about the unsanitary nature of theaters, theater staff and humans in general. Hmm. Mrs. Johnson was probably her best bet. They could bring Spike, who loved movies as well as popcorn.
At that moment, her phone rang, startling her so much that she sloshed her coffee. Spike barked from her little doggy bed and began leaping up against Honor’s leg, tearing her panty hose. Though she’d only had Spike for a month, the dog was very protective.
“I’ll get it!” Honor yelled to Ned, the only other employee here at this hour.
“Of course you will,” he yelled back from his office, where the sounds of Angry Birds could be heard.
“Blue Heron Vineyard, Honor Holland speaking,” she said smoothly into the phone, scooping up her doggy.
“Hey, On, it’s Brogan.”
A burst of heat raced up her legs. “Hey! Hi! How are you? How’s it going?” Down, girl, said the eggs. He rejected us, remember?
True. But they’d only emailed a few times since then, and damn if she didn’t miss him.
“I’m really good,” he said. “How are you?”
“I’m good! I’m great! I’m great, too, I mean.” The eggs sighed.
“So listen,” he continued, “I’m in town, and I was hoping you could find some time to see me.”
Honor paused. The words old baseball glove leaped to mind. Then again, they’d always been friends. Still were. “What did you have in mind?”
I’m really sorry about saying no, Honor. These past few weeks have given me time to think and I love you and I want to marry you. Now.
“Drinks at O’Rourke’s?” he asked.
“Sure! You bet.”
“Fantastic,” he said, and his voice was warm. There was a pause. “I have something important to tell you, and I want to do it in person. I think—I hope—it’ll make you really happy.”
The eggs sat up straighter. So did Honor.
“Okay,” she said, pressing her fingers against her hot cheeks. “That sounds great.”
“Seven o’clock?”
Seven! That was in ninety-two minutes. “That works. I’ll see you then.”
She sat there another minute, then sucked in an enormous breath, having forgotten how to breathe normally. Spike licked her chin in concern, and Honor patted her out of reflex. Turned to her computer and typed in Brogan’s words. Studied them. Read them aloud, very softly so her nephew wouldn’t hear.
“Hey,” the same nephew said from her doorway, causing Honor to slap her laptop closed. Ned gave her a strange look. “Chill, Honor.”
“What is it, Neddie dear?”
“You okay? You look all blotchy.”
“Shush, child. What do you want?”
“I’m leaving. I have a date. And a life. You should try it some time.”
“Very funny, Ned. Have fun. Drive carefully.”
She waited till his footsteps had faded away, then opened her laptop and looked at those words again. I have something important to tell you, and I think—I hope—it’ll make you really happy.
Could it be?
Could this be exactly what she wished for?
For one second, the scene flashed in front of her eyes. Herself, sitting at a little table at O’Rourke’s. Brogan on bended knee, the ring shining from a black velvet box. His question, her answer, the applause of the pub patrons, and then, finally, the feeling of his arms around her as he kissed her in public for the first time ever.
Her heart was thudding. Could this really be about to happen to her? The most unsurprising of the Holland girls, the one who was steady as a rock, about to be the subject of such a romantic proposal, finally claimed by Brogan Cain?
It was almost hard to believe. Yeah, about that, said the eggs. The years are precious, sure, but don’t jump the gun.
She ignored them. Adjusted her hairband (pink-and-green plaid). Read the words again.
It sure sounded like what she wanted it to sound like. Oh, yes, indeedy.
Legs trembling slightly, Honor settled Spike in her purse (why have a five-pound dog if you couldn’t take her everywhere?), gave her an absentminded kiss on the head and walked across the lawn to the New House, where Mrs. Johnson was banging pots and pans in the kitchen. Dad was there as well, his face red, stuffing his hands into his faded jeans, a tear in the elbow of his flannel shirt.
“Hi, guys,” Honor said.
“Hello, Petunia,” Dad answered, taking off his baseball cap and running a hand through his hair. Mrs. Johnson growled, which was not uncommon.
“Everyone good here?” Honor asked.
“Of course! Why would you even ask such a question, Honor Grace Holland?” Mrs. J. demanded in her lilting accent. She slammed a pot on the stove. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. How’s your brother? Is he hungry, do you think?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. J. Give him a call. And I, uh, I have plans,” she said.
“Good,” Dad said, his face flushing all the more. “I mean, good that you’ll get out with friends, sweetheart.”
“Yes. Mrs. J., will you watch Spike tonight?” I may be getting a marriage proposal.
The housekeeper’s face melted into a smile. “Of course I will! Come here, you precious angel! Your fur is almost all grown back, isn’t it? Oh, my beautiful princess, give us a kiss!”
Honor floated up to her little suite. Since she was the only Holland kid left at home, she’d appropriated Faith’s old room last year and made it into a sitting room. She did a lot of work there, and also watched TV, most often with her laptop open, doing all the things that she hadn’t gotten to during the workday.
Going into her bedroom, she opened her closet and frowned at the sea of navy blue and gray. Hmm. Her clothes were either neat-as-a-pin business attire, or jeans and a Blue Heron sweatshirt, and she didn’t want to be wearing either if Brogan was about to...you know.
Her hands were sweating.
I have something important to tell you, and I want to do it in person. I hope—I think—it’ll make you really happy.
What else could it be?
From the bookcase, her mother’s image smiled out at her.
Twenty years gone, and Honor still missed her. They’d been so close, and so alike, both practical with a healthy dose of yearning thrown in: Honor for a family, which Mom had had right out of college; Mom for travel and possibly a career, which Honor had in spades. Funny, that. They both wanted what the other had.
Mom would’ve liked Brogan, Honor thought. Yes. She definitely would’ve.
She showered, shaved her legs, moisturized. If she went back to Brogan’s house, she’d have to call, or Dad would call the chief of police, Levi Cooper, who happened to be married to Faith.
She’d cross that bridge later on. Put on a pink dress she’d worn to a wedding a few years ago, added a gray cardigan so she didn’t look quite so dressed up, but still suitably feminine. Honor looked at her shoe options. Flats and a couple of pairs of basic pumps. She didn’t own slutty shoes. Too much to swing by Faith’s and borrow some? Probably.
Calling a goodbye to Dad and Mrs. J., Honor got into her car, shivering at the cold. Drove down the Hill into the tiny village. Tonight, it looked more beautiful than ever, a coating of snow on the ground, lights in the windows of the houses and storefronts that ringed the town green, Crooked Lake dark and vast behind. The sky was a swirl of stars. O’Rourke’s was typically full, as the little pub was open year-round, the only place in town that was, and she could hear laughter and music from inside.
So...romantic. There was no other word for it, though romantic didn’t figure a lot into Honor’s life.
Tonight would be different.
Brogan’s Porsche was already in the parking lot.
This is it, she told herself, wishing abruptly she’d told her sisters to come tonight. But maybe it was better this way. Or...maybe...Brogan had asked them to come tonight, so they could see him popping the question live and in person. That would be just like him. The guy had flare.
Proposing to him had been a bad move. Men liked to do the work, according to the nine books she’d read recently on understanding the male psyche.
She touched her pearls for luck, then opened the door to O’Rourke’s. “Hey, Honor,” said Colleen from behind the bar. “Wow, you look nice!”
“Check you out,” said Connor at the same time.
“Thanks,” she murmured, not really seeing the O’Rourke twins, who ran the bar.
Brogan was waiting for her, that knowing, incredibly sexy half smile on his face.
Oh, Lordy. Could it be true? That in just a few minutes, she’d be engaged to marry this guy? She smiled back, heart galloping. “Great to see you,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek. He took her coat and hung it up, ever the gentleman, and, oh, man, she loved him more than ever, and that was saying a lot.
Somewhere far in the back reaches of her psyche, the eggs were saying something about assumptions and whatever, sort of like an irritating storm warning running along the bottom of the television screen when you’re watching a really good show. Whatever. It was hard to form rational thought at the moment, which was odd, since her trademark was being the sensible one, the dependable, calm member of the Holland family.
Not this night. This night, she was just a woman in love.
The thoughts came in disjointed flashes, the only thing registering solidly was Brogan’s hand on her back, warm through her sweater.
When she saw Dana sitting alone at a table, her heart did a strange flop, and for a second, Honor felt a little surge of sympathy—Dana, who had no problem finding a guy, but had huge problems keeping one, would now have to see her and Brogan together. Dana often mocked happy couples. But Dana was her best friend, and she’d be happy for Honor. She would set aside her own issues.
In fact, maybe Brogan had invited her here for just that reason, to see the whole thing. You know what? That would explain why Dana had been a little hard to reach, a little distant lately. She’d been afraid to blow the surprise.
Then Brogan held a chair at the same table where Dana was sitting, and Dana looked up at Honor and gave her a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
Okay, that was...huh. That little warning that scrolled across the screen was now accompanied by the loud beeping of the emergency signal.
She sat down. So did Brogan.
Later, Honor would wish she’d brought her dog, who could have attacked either Brogan or Dana, hopefully both, biting them with her tiny, needlelike teeth. She might have even peed on someone.
What happened next was a bit foggy. A poison, industrial-waste, evacuate-the-area kind of fog. Honor could hear her heartbeat crashing in her ears, caught Dana looking her up and down, immediately making her regret her choice of outfit. Dana herself wore a yellow wraparound shirt that showed her tiny waist and great boobage, making Honor feel overdressed and prim at the same time. Dana’s dark hair was a little different than the last time she’d seen her—gosh, two weeks ago? Three? Well, Dana was a hairdresser. Her hair changed all the time. Not like Honor, who’d had hers all one length for years. Alice in Wonderland hair, Dana called it. She was always urging Honor to let her cut it.
Honor cleared her throat. Probably should be thinking about something other than hair. The other thought, the big one, was trying to shoulder its way in, but Honor wouldn’t let it. Where was the happy, rosy glow? She missed it. Damn that glow! Come back! “Hi,” she said, forcing a smile.
One of the O’Rourke cousins brought Honor a glass of wine she didn’t remember ordering. Red. Pinot noir, Californian, a little too much pepper for her taste, better at first sip than upon finish, when it left a burning sensation in the back of her throat.
Over at the bar, Lorena Creech bellowed something about beddy-bye time. She heard Colleen O’Rourke’s belly laugh. Someone said, “Thanks, mate,” in an accent not usually heard around here, and all the while, Dana’s dark eyes held a gleam of something, and she kept wrinkling her nose when she laughed. Brogan talked, shrugging, smiling. Little scraps of their words came to her, and Honor was aware that she’d tipped her head and was smiling. Or, at least her mouth was stretched so that her cheeks bunched. It might’ve been a grimace. She wasn’t sure.
Then Dana held out her left hand, and on her fourth finger was Honor’s engagement ring. An emerald-cut three-carat diamond set in platinum. And then the words, all those words she hadn’t quite been hearing, slammed into Honor’s heart, Dana’s voice bright and sharp as a razor, slicing through the fog.
“So obviously, we didn’t plan on it. In fact, it was so crazy! We didn’t want to say anything to anyone until we were sure it was real, right, honey? But you know that saying. When it’s right, it’s right, and you don’t have to spend years wondering about it.”
Oh. That was meant for her. Gotcha.
Dana paused, squeezing Brogan’s hand. “Anyway, Honor, I know it’s a little weird, since you guys hooked up once in a while...” She smiled at Honor, a bright, movie-star smile. “But as you told me, that was done, and we hope you’ll be happy for us.”
All this first-person plural. Us. We. Our. What the hell was that about? No, seriously. What the ffffff—no, no, Honor wasn’t the type to swear, but really, what the ffff-ungus was that about?
“Excuse me?” Honor said, and her heart beat so fast that she honestly felt like she might faint. “You’re getting married?”
Brogan stopped talking. His face began to register something was off. “Uh, yeah.”
Dana reached over and squeezed her hand. “Maid of honor? What do you say?”
Right. Because if she asked Honor to be in the wedding, then clearly Dana was a wonderful friend. Clearly it wasn’t a case of swooping in and stealing—okay, not stealing, but definitely swooping—and taking Brogan. Brogan, of all people!
And why not? Brogan was handsome and nice and wealthy and glamorous, and Dana was a shark. Honor had seen it before, little flashes of those lethal rows of teeth, but man-oh-man-alive, she never thought Dana would turn on her.
Breathing. Right. Had to do that to stay alive. Honor sucked in a fast, hard breath, then another.
Brogan was now looking downright concerned. “On?”
She dragged her gaze from Dana’s face to his. “It’s Honor.”
He blinked those ridiculous (now that she thought of it) turquoise eyes. “Uh, Honor, you’re okay with this, right? I mean, we were never...” He winced. “I thought...”
“Honor? You’re not upset, are you?” Dana asked. “I mean, you and Brogan were never more than a friendly fu—”
That was when the wine appeared on Dana’s yellow shirt, right splat on her chest, some beads of red rolling into her exposed cleavage. Dana’s mouth opened and closed like a trout pulled out of the water, and Honor realized her glass was empty.
“Holy crap, Honor!” Dana shrieked, jolting backward in her chair. “What the hell?”
Honor stood up, her legs shaking with shock and—and—and something she wasn’t used to feeling, but it seemed to be fury.
Dana stood, too, mouth hanging open in outrage as she stared down at her shirt. She looked up. “You bitch!” she said.
Honor shoved her. Not hard, but still. She wasn’t proud of it, didn’t plan it, but there wasn’t really much time to think, because Dana shoved back, much harder, and Honor staggered a little, bumping into her chair, and then Dana shoved her again, and she could smell the wine and “Sweet Home Alabama” was playing on the jukebox, and then they were falling, and there was some grappling, and Honor’s head jerked and a sudden pain lanced through her scalp—for the love of God, Dana was pulling her hair and it hurt, and she grabbed some of Dana’s adorable, silky hair (which smelled like coconut, very nice) and gave that a tug, and a chair fell on top of them, and time was weird, it was so slow and so fast at the same time, and then Brogan was hauling Dana off her. “Honor, what are you doing?” Brogan asked, and Honor scrabbled up, too (hopefully not flashing anyone), then there was a crack and Honor’s face stung.
Her best friend had just slapped her.
Honor’s breath came in short gasps. A cocktail napkin was stuck to her left breast. She pulled it off and set it on the table.
Oh, God.
The bar was silent.
“Honor.” Jack, her big brother, and who said they were never around when you needed them? “Are you okay?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Peachy.” Her face hurt. The spot Dana slapped throbbed.
Brogan looked absolutely bewildered. “Honor,” he said. “I—I thought...I didn’t realize...”
“No? Well, then, you’re stupider than I thought.” Her voice was cool, despite the fact that she was shaking violently.
“Let’s get out of here,” her brother said, and she loved him so much right then.
“I can’t believe it!” someone barked from the bar, breaking the silence. Lorena Creech, the biggest mouth in town. “Honor Holland in a catfight! Wowzers!”
“Come on,” Jack muttered. “I’ll drive you home.”
But Honor just stood there another minute, unable to take her eyes off of Dana. Her friend. The one who watched movies with her on Saturday nights when neither of them had a date, who confided in her, laughed with her, didn’t seem to mind that she was maybe a little quiet, a little predictable. The one who’d told her to go for it, propose to Brogan...the one who’d handed her tissues after he said no.
The one who’d had a strange look on her face when she answered the door that night, and now Honor recognized what that expression had been: triumph.
The one who was wearing the same engagement ring Honor had admired.
In Dana’s eyes was a dark gleam of satisfaction.
“I’ll drive myself,” Honor said, finally looking at her brother. “Thanks, anyway, Jack.” She straightened her sweater, took her purse from the back of the chair.
Over the back of Dana’s chair, she noted, was a Burberry raincoat. Honor’s raincoat.
She turned and headed through the still-silent bar. It was an awfully long way.
A man she didn’t know slid off a bar stool and went to the door ahead of her, weaving a bit, she noted distantly. “Thanks for that,” he said, the origin of the British accent she’d heard earlier. “You don’t get to see enough girl fights these days.”
“Shut up,” she muttered, not looking him in the eye.
He toasted her with his glass and held the door open, and the cool, damp air soothed her burning face.
* * *
TWO HOURS LATER, with Spike curled under her chin and snoring slightly, Honor made a resolution (and a list).
No more catfights in bars.
No more letting the old imagination fly away like a rabid bat, inventing scenarios that clearly weren’t going to play out.
Work less and play more (find ways to play ASAP; maybe hire someone?).
A relationship, and pronto.
A baby. Soon.
Time to get a life, in other words.
Time to take action.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_99bf8822-2528-51e4-90d3-e16e1ee9fe5c)
THERE WAS LITTLE Honor dreaded more than Family Meetings. In the past, subjects covered included Jack’s divorce, the care and feeding of Goggy and Pops, Faith’s wedding(s) and Dad’s terrifying girlfriend of last year.
Tonight, for the first time ever, the Family Meeting was about her.
In the three days since the catfight, Honor had done a lot of thinking. She’d always been the good one, not that her siblings were bad people. No, they were just more colorful. She was like that other kid in the story of the Prodigal Son. The one who never screwed up, who did his job.
And look where that had gotten her. Thirty-five, aging eggs, no man in her life, totally gobsmacked by her best friend, not to mention completely idiotic where Brogan was concerned. She lived with her father in her childhood home and worked a bazillion hours a week. For fun, she watched shows about tumor removal or the guy who had a foot growing out of his rib cage, courtesy of a malformed twin.
Her entire family had heard about the fight. She’d told her dad and Mrs. Johnson the morning after, not wanting them to hear it from anywhere else, and Dad had looked like someone had just eaten a live kitten while Mrs. J. muttered darkly and slammed the fridge. Faith came over and had been quite sympathetic, reminding Honor of her own public scene a few years ago, and leaving two cartons of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer.
The family meeting would be more of the same.
Her in-box chimed.
To: Honor@BlueHeronVineyard.com
From: BroganCain@gmail.com
Subject: Hey
Hi, Honor. Don’t know if you got my call the other day.
Oh, she had. She’d just opted not to return it.
You might be avoiding me.
Why, the man was a genius!
So here’s the thing. I’m so, so sorry, Honor. I really never meant for you to feel bad in any way, honest to God. When we talked a couple of months ago about getting married, I was sure you were cool with that. And then this thing with Dana... We both weren’t sure how to tell you about it, exactly, but we figured once you heard, you’d be happy about it.
She heard an unpleasant sound. Ah. Her teeth, grinding. Brogan. Was. Sostupid.
And obviously, that was really stupid.
Her jaw unlocked. Whatever else, Brogan always did have a way of reading her mind.
I feel like utter crap that I misread the situation so completely. Your friendship is incredibly important to me. You’re the only one I’ve kept in touch with since elementary school, you know? I’d kill to know that you and I can still be friends. If not, I understand. I’d be really sad, but I’d understand.
Hope you’re okay. Miss you.
Brogan
“Yeah, you should miss me,” she said, but her voice was shaking. Because let’s not fool ourselves here. She was going to forgive him. Even now, her heart felt floppy and huge in her chest.
Ah, dang it. That was the thing with Brogan. He never meant any harm. He wasn’t the type. With a sigh that made Spike yawn in sympathy, she started typing. May as well get it over.
To: BroganCain@gmail.com
From: Honor@BlueHeronVineyard.com
Subject: Re: Hey
Hey, you! Of course we’re still friends. Don’t be silly. I’m really embarrassed at how I acted, that’s all. But I’m fine. It was surprising, that’s all, and I guess
—here her typing slowed—
I had more invested in the idea of us than I realized.
A horrible thought occurred to her. That since the catfight, Dana had told Brogan about how wretched she’d been after the failed proposal. That he knew how much she loved him. But no. Dana wouldn’t do that. It would make Dana look bad if she admitted she knew how Honor felt.
But I do realize that “us” was just an idea and not anything more than two old friends hooking up once in a while.
Oh, hell, that wasn’t true. It felt horrible to be throwing her heart under the bus this way.
Anyway, I’m mostly just embarrassed. Not sure if you know this about me, but I generally don’t fight in bars. :)
Reduced to emoticons. She sighed, feeling her throat tighten.
You’re special to me, too, Brogan, and I’m glad you’re happy.
The eggs rolled their cataract-riddled eyes.
Please don’t give my girls-gone-wild moment another thought. In fact, I’d really appreciate it if we never talked about it again. :) I’ve got a crammed schedule for the next two weeks
—lying—
but maybe we can get together after that, okay? Take care.
Honor
It was better than the truth. I love you. I’ve spent two months trying to talk myself out of loving you. How could you not know? Even if you really didn’t see how I felt, Brogan, because you’re an obtuse male, Dana did, so now my best friend has stabbed me in the heart, and you’re marrying her.
Last night, Honor had stayed up till 3:00 a.m., looking up the term toxic friendship on Google and reading every article she could find on it.
Dana had a whole lotta ex–best friends. Honor had been treated to many a story about them, from Dana’s sister to her neighbor to her high school BFF. And while Honor recognized that Dana was temperamental and tended to see things in black-and-white, she always thought she could handle it. In the five years that they’d been friends, a few people had said something to Honor about Dana—Gerard Chartier from the firehouse commented once that he thought Honor could do better in the friend department than Dana, and Mrs. Johnson had said she didn’t trust her (but then again, Mrs. J. didn’t trust too many people).
Nope, Honor thought she could handle Dana’s big personality. And why would Dana fall out with her, after all? She was a great friend—available, sympathetic, a great listener. Their friendship was different. Honor would be exempt from the dramatics Dana described with such gusto.
Stupid. Apparently, she had no clue about women. Or men, for that matter.
But you know what? The days of ignoring red flags and waiting around for stuff to happen...those days were over.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Dad said at her door at six o’clock sharp. His gentle eyes were worried. “Everyone’s here.”
“Your father and I don’t want you to feel self-conscious,” Mrs. Johnson said, worming past Dad to administer simultaneous pats and scowls. “It’s just that we’re all very concerned about you, child. Very concerned. Deeply concerned.”
“Thanks.” Honor forced a smile and followed them to the tasting room. It was really the only comfortable place on the vineyard where everyone could sit. Downstairs, a long, U-shaped bar dominated the room, but upstairs, there was a private tasting room for special events—one of Honor’s ideas. That area was like a giant living room, complete with leather couches, a stone fireplace and a smaller bar along one wall. The post-and-beam ceiling was exposed; an old Oriental carpet covered much of the wide-planked floor.
Everyone was there, and heck, there were just too many people in this family. There were times when being an orphan held great appeal. David Copperfield never had to go to a family meeting, did he? Nor did Oliver Twist.
“Thanks for coming,” Honor said to the room at large.
“A catfight?” Goggy blurted. “In a bar? Over a man?”
“I just wish I’d been there,” Pops said, winking at Honor. “You won, I hope.”
“It’s not funny!” huffed Goggy. “Since when do my grandchildren fight in bars? I mean, I’d expect that of you, Prudence, but Honor?”
“Why would you expect that of me?” Pru said. “Have I ever been in a fight? No. I haven’t.”
“Well, I could picture it,” Goggy said. “Though with Carl, not another woman.”
Honor suppressed a sigh. Pru was colorful, Faith had the looks, Jack was the perfect son...Honor was what, then?
The boring one.
Which was going to change. Yes.
“Honor definitely won,” Jack said. “You’d all be proud.”
“I never really warmed up to that woman,” Pru said. “Though she does have great hair.”
“Pass me the cheese,” Pops ordered.
“No more cheese for you!” Goggy said. “You know what it does to your stomach.”
“Okay, shut up, everyone,” Honor said mildly. Not that she didn’t love her family. But with four generations present, two brothers-in-law, Faith, Pru, a teenage niece, a nephew who couldn’t make eye contact without laughing, her bickering grandparents, Dad and Mrs. Johnson exchanging worried looks...well, it was feeling a wee bit overwhelming. “Dad, get this over with, okay? I’d like to make a few changes around here.”
“I have an announcement,” Dad said. “We’re making a few changes around here.” He seemed to realize he’d just echoed Honor, because he looked at her in surprise.
“Go ahead,” she said, pouring herself a hefty glass of wine. It would only help, and besides that, it had a lovely nose of fresh-cut grass, grapefruit and a hint of limestone.
Dad looked at Honor and put his leathery, grape-stained hand over hers. “For a long time, I think we’ve all taken Honor for granted.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“She puts in way too many hours, travels all the time, takes care of a hundred different things,” Dad went on. “Which is why I hired you an assistant today.”
She blinked. “You did what? Don’t I get a say in who works for me?”
“Great idea, Dad,” Jack said.
“You can’t just—” Honor began.
“No, sweetie,” Dad went on, his voice quiet but firm. “Mrs. Johnson and I talked it over—” Uh-oh. If Mrs. Johnson was in on it, she was doomed. “And it’s done. Also, I think it’s appropriate that Ned—” Dad nodded at his grandson “—take over half of the sales calls.”
“Half? Not half!” Okay, sure, she’d wanted a little change. Just not this much. “Look, just because—”
“Finally,” Ned said. “Wish I’d known all I had to do was to get Honor to punch someone in a barroom brawl—”
“Shut up, son,” Dad continued. “Honor, he’s been tagging along with you for a year. Time to let him step up.”
“Um, that’s okay, sure. Neddie, you’re great. But we don’t need to reorganize the vineyard because I had one bad moment.”
“Sweetheart, you were punching your best friend in O’Rourke’s the other night.”
Honor paused. “I didn’t actually punch her.”
“I heard in school that you tackled her,” Abby said.
“I didn’t.”
“And threw wine in her face.”
“Um, I did do that, yes. More on her chest, but...” She glanced at Levi, who was still in uniform. He raised an eyebrow but remained silent.
“What kind of wine?” Jack asked.
“A pinot noir from California. Flat body, too much pepper, high acidity.”
“It’ll be cool, Honor,” Ned said. “You can be my boss.”
“I’m already your boss,” she pointed out.
“I’ll just be more useful. It’ll be good for me. I can mend my sinful ways.”
“You’d better not be sinning, sonny,” Pru said. “But yeah, Honor, he can help.”
“Sure. Fine.”
“I hired Jessica Dunn to be your assistant,” Dad added.
“What?” Jessica Dunn? The waitress? “That’s fine, Dad. No. Ned is more than enough. He’s very helpful.”
“She has a marketing degree and wants to get some experience. Figured she could do some of the media and whatnot.”
“Dad, do you even know what media is?”
“No, not really, but she said she could handle it.”
“Well, so can I! I don’t need her. No offense, Levi.” He and Jessica were childhood friends. Everyone knew that.
“None taken,” he said, stroking Faith’s neck.
“She starts tomorrow,” Dad said.
“Dad—” Honor’s jaw was locked again. She loved that aspect of her job—the press releases, articles, updating the website, running Twitter and the vineyard’s Facebook page, schmoozing with the tourism bureaus, wooing reporters, travel writers and wine reviewers. “I don’t need an assistant. Ned is more than enough.”
“I don’t mind,” Ned said. “Jessica’s wicked pretty.”
“Not to you she’s not,” Pru said. “She’s way too old for you. Got it?”
“Maybe she’s a cougar,” Ned said.
“Ned, you’re so disgusting,” Abby said, raising her head from her textbook to glare at her brother.
“Honor, child,” said Mrs. Johnson, “whatever this media is, you do too much of it. You work constantly, you eat at your desk, you have no children for me to spoil, and it’s a shameful and terrible way to live.”
“No one was complaining last week,” she protested.
“No one was rolling on a filthy tavern floor last week, either.” Mrs. J. gave her an arch look.
“You have an assistant now, sweetheart,” Dad said. “Enjoy it.”
“But media is about half my job, and sales is the other half. What am I supposed to do?” Honor asked, not liking that edge of hysteria in her voice.
“Live a little,” Dad said. “Get some hobbies.”
“Watching World’s Biggest Tumor doesn’t count,” Jack said.
“You’re the one who called me last week to make sure I TiVoed Cottage Cheese Man, you hypocrite!”
“The Black and White Ball is coming pretty soon,” Faith pointed out soothingly. “You’re chairman this year. That’ll be a lot of work.”
“Jessica starts tomorrow,” Dad said. “Family meeting adjourned. Who’s hungry?”
“I’m starving,” Prudence said.
“I made ham,” Goggy announced, beating Mrs. Johnson to the punch. “If you feel like coming down, not that any of you visit anymore, but there’s also a Walnut Glory cake if you do decide to drop by.”
“We’ll meet you there in a few minutes,” Dad said. “Honor, stay here, honey.”
They waited till everyone had tromped out. “About Ned and Jessica, sweetheart. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you first, but I felt like I had to do something definitive. And I didn’t want it to take forever, so I did it.” He paused, taking off his old baseball cap and running a hand through his thinning hair. “Mrs. Johnson and I are worried about you, Petunia.”
Yes, she’d heard them talking late last night, which was a shock in itself, as Mrs. J. usually retired to her apartment above the garage by eight, and Dad was usually in bed by nine-thirty. Farmer’s hours and all that.
She folded her hands in front of her. “Dad, I’m embarrassed enough as it is. I don’t need people thinking I had some kind of breakdown at O’Rourke’s and have to hire all these people.”
Dad was quiet for a minute. “Well, you did have a little breakdown, Petunia.”
“I just lost my cool. It wasn’t as big a deal as it sounds.”
“And when have you ever lost your cool?” he asked.
Dang. She didn’t answer.
“Honey, I know it doesn’t seem like I pay too much attention,” Dad said. “But I know a few things. When your mother died, you...” His voice grew soft. “You grew up fast. You did everything you were supposed to, and you never needed much from the rest of us. Cornell, Wharton, and then you came home and looked after me.”
She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “I really wanted to, Daddy. I love my life.”
“I believe that.” He paused. “But I also know you’ve loved Brogan a long time.”
It was so mortifying, hearing the words said aloud like that. She shrugged, not trusting her voice.
“And I always did hope things would work out for you two,” he said. “I can only imagine how you must feel, hearing that your best friend is marrying him instead of you.”
“It was just a surprise,” she said, and her voice shook.
He covered her hand with his own. “So this is a turning point. Time for you to devote some thought to what you want in life, rather than just waiting around for that bozo to call you.”
Well, hell. Dad did pay attention, after all.
“I’m not asking,” Dad said. “I’m ordering. As your father and as the legal owner of Blue Heron.”
“So bossy. You can’t tie your shoes without me.”
“I’ve actually gotten pretty good at that,” Dad said, smiling so that his kind eyes crinkled in the corners. “Mrs. J.’s been teaching me. So here’s the deal. Your hours have been cut. You start at nine, you leave at five, or I’m dragging you out myself.”
“Right,” Honor said. “Like anyone can get a full day’s work done in that time.”
“That’s the magic of my plan,” Dad said. “You won’t get it done. You and Ned and Jessica will get it done. Now I’m going to the Old House before Mrs. J. and your grandmother get into a fight over how long to cook the potatoes, and you have to come, too.”
Honor sighed. “All right. Give me a few minutes, okay?”
Dad kissed the top of her head and left. After a minute, she went outside. It was already dark, and the stars spread across the sky in an endless, creamy sweep. The air smelled like wood smoke.
She loved Blue Heron with all her heart. It was home, and it was her pride and joy, too. In the eleven years since grad school, a lot had changed around here. When she came on board as director of sales, the vineyard was a cute, family-run business. Rather than rest on those laurels, she came up with a business plan that enhanced everything good about the place and added ten times more—prestige, visibility, recognition—all without losing the homeyness of eight generations of the Holland family farm. She’d proposed the construction of the post-and-beam tasting room and gift shop ten years ago, overhauled the labeling and brand, created a marketing campaign that brought Blue Heron’s name to the attention of every outlet that mattered, from the New York Times to Wine Spectator. Blue Heron was practically a required stop on any tour of the Finger Lakes wine region. Honor knew she had a lot to be proud of. She loved working with her family, loved—to be honest—being the one in charge of the business end. Delegating had never been her strong suit.
But she never thought she’d have to worry about aging eggs. Never really pictured living in the New House with her dad and Mrs. J. forever.
There was supposed to be more. A husband. A family of her own.
She wanted to be special to someone. She wanted a man’s face to light up when he saw her. She wanted a man to kiss her like his heart would stop if he didn’t.
Somehow, Dana had wrangled what Honor never had—Brogan’s love. In just a few weeks, no less.
How the hell had she done that?
Suddenly it seemed like the sky was pressing her down with the same paralyzing loneliness felt when her mother died, leaving her alone.
And God, she was tired of being alone. She didn’t know if the words were a prayer or an admission of defeat. She pulled her hair from the clip and ran her fingers through it, sighing in the cool night air.
You know what? She wasn’t going to Goggy’s. Instead, she went home, went up to her bathroom and took out a pair of scissors.
All her life, her hair had been the same, thick and long, hanging to the middle of her back, a dark blond with lighter streaks from the sunshine...when she was out in the sunshine, that was. It had been a while. She wore it up about half of the time, down and with a hairband at others. In fact, her hairband collection was a little ridiculous. How many did she own? Twenty? Thirty? Until now, she liked her hair, liked the old-fashioned beauty of it.
Not anymore. It was time for a change.
The snick of the scissors was oddly satisfying.
* * *
ON THE FOURTH Thursday of every month, in an effort to earn her heavenly reward, Honor volunteered at Rushing Creek, the assisted living facility at the edge of Manningsport. This Thursday, Goggy had come with her.
In the past year, Goggy and Pops had aged a little, as one would expect with people in their eighties. They were both still strong as oxen, but Goggy seemed more forgetful these days, and Honor could swear Pops limped on rainy days. Any day now, she worried, one of them might tumble down the steep, narrow staircases of the Old House, which was something of a death trap, full of the twists and turns characteristic of colonials. They didn’t use two-thirds of the rooms, and the house would never pass inspection, not with Pops having nailed the front door closed last winter “to help with the drafts.”
It was Honor’s hope that they’d willingly move to a brighter, smaller place before one of them had an accident.
“I’ll kill myself before I come to a place like this,” Goggy pronounced dramatically when she came through the doors. A resident in a wheelchair glared before zipping down the hall in speedy moral outrage. Rushing Creek was comparable to the nicest luxury apartments in Manhattan, but Goggy viewed it like a Dickensian asylum.
“Let’s try to use our inside voices, okay?” Honor said. “I love it here. I’m counting the years before I can move in.”
“I’d kill myself. Oh, hello, Mildred! How are you?”
“Hello, Elizabeth!” Mildred said. “And Honor! You cut your hair! Oh, no! Why, honey, why?”
“Thank you,” Honor said. Okay, so the haircut was a bit radical. But that had been the point. And yes, she’d gone to Corning, to a stylish, somewhat frightening place where a professional had stared in horror before shaping up her cropped hair.
Now it was no longer than the nape of her neck. Relieved of its weight, little wisps sprang up here and there, and if it was a shock, Honor told herself she’d like it eventually. Dad pretended to after his initial chest-clutching; Mrs. Johnson growled; Goggy wept; Pops, Pru and Jack had yet to notice. Faith, at least, had seemed genuinely enthusiastic, clapping her hands. “It’s so chic, Honor! And look at your cheekbones! You’re gorgeous!” Which, of course, she wasn’t, but she appreciated the support.
“So...different!” Mildred said. “Anyway, dear, congratulations on your sister getting married.”
“Thanks. Levi’s a great guy.”
“I bet they’ll have babies any day.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Mildred gave her a conspiratorial look. “And you, dear? Anyone special for you?”
“No, not at the moment.”
“Such a shame. Why are you here, then, darling? Elizabeth, are you and John thinking of moving here?”
Goggy jerked back. “Oh, my heavens, no! We’re just fine in our house. I hope to God I never have to resort to this.”
“Goggy.” Honor sighed, then smiled at Mildred “We’re showing A Walk in the Clouds today. Have you seen it? Very romantic.”
“I haven’t,” Mildred said with a dirty look at Goggy. “The last time I saw a movie with these old people, half were gabbing through the whole thing and the other half couldn’t hear. Good luck!”
Between Goggy and Mildred, Honor noted, it did seem to be a habit to want to distance oneself from the capriciousness of aging. Look at Ellington, he still pretends he doesn’t need glasses. Walked into a post last week. Or, Did you hear about Leona? Alzheimer’s. Thank God I’m still as sharp as a...what was I saying again?
Sort of like single women, Honor thought. Rather than admit they were all desperately seeking someone—like the cannibals chasing Viggo Mortensen in that dreadful movie she watched last night—there were all sorts of excuses. I’m getting over a long-term relationship was a good one. I wish I had time for a relationship! was another. And then the ultimate lie, If the right guy came along, maybe. But I’m happy on my own. Sure. Which was why those dating sites had half the planet registered.
No, honesty seemed frowned upon in Dating Life. Honor wondered what would happen if she said, I really thought I’d have a family by now. I’m lonely. Also a little horny, and since the man I love is marrying my former best friend, I may have to invest in a superdeluxe vibrator.
“Come on,” Goggy said. “Let’s get this movie over with before someone comes to lock me up. They use restraints, I hear.”
“Honor! How are you?” asked Cathy Kennedy, who didn’t live here but came in for the movies. “Honey, Louise and I happened to be at O’Rourke’s the other night. Such a surprise.”
Honor’s face heated in a rush. “Well, you know. It’s a little quiet in the winter here. I was just trying to liven things up.” Mercifully, it was time for her to get the film going.
Honor had started the Watch and Wine club a couple of years ago: show a movie that had even a little bit of wine in it and pair it with a themed tasting. For Uncorked, they’d of course had the Chateau Montelena chardonnay. Pinot noir for Sideways. A full-bodied cab for Twilight, though the combination of wine and Taylor Lautner’s torso had proved too much for some, and 9-1-1 had to be called when Mrs. Griggs fainted.
The monthly gathering had almost immediately been renamed Watch and Whine, given the propensity of the viewers to discuss their most recent health issues, peppering Honor with questions, which she (and her iPad) did their best to answer. Hey. It was a hobby, and one she’d listed on Match.com. Visits the sick and imprisoned.
As Honor set up the film in the projector in the gorgeous auditorium, Goggy sat on one of the plush seats, sighing dramatically. “Just put a pillow over my face if it ever comes to this,” she said.
“Goggy, you told Faith you wouldn’t mind a new place,” Honor said. “Remember? When she was moving into the Opera House?”
“Oh, I meant a place without your grandfather. But the old fool wouldn’t last a week without me. He’d starve to death. I honestly don’t know if he could find the refrigerator on his own.” She paused. “It’s a thought.” Goggy suddenly sat bolt upright. “Speaking of miserable marriages, I found someone for you!”
Honor gave her a wary look. “Uh, that’s okay, Goggy.” Goggy had recently suggested she marry Bobby McIntosh “before he ended up a serial killer.”
“No, he’s wonderful! You should meet him. Plus, it would help you get over you-know-who. And then you could get married and give me some more great-grandchildren.”
The projector’s lightbulb was out. Was there another one? She opened the drawer of the AV cart. Bingo. “Just for the sake of conversation, who is this future husband of mine?”
“You remember Candace, my old friend? She moved to Philadelphia in 1955? They drove that enormous Packard?”
Honor gave her grandmother a quizzical look. “I wasn’t born then, Goggy. So no, I don’t remember.”
“Well, before I married your idiot grandfather—”
“You make it sound so romantic.”
“Hush up and listen. Before I married your idiot grandfather, I was engaged to Candace’s brother. He died in the war.” She gave Honor a regal, suffering look, perfected from years of practice.
“I know, Goggy. It’s such a sweet, sad story.”
Goggy’s face softened. “Thank you. Anyway, Candace also had a sister, but she was older and stayed in England.”
“Uh-huh.” What this had to do with matchmaking was anyone’s guess, but such was the mind of Goggy. Honor unscrewed the burned-out lightbulb with some difficulty.
“So this sister had a son, and then that son had a son, and Candace just adores him, and anyway, the boy’s been living here for a few years and he needs a green card.”
Honor squinted, trying to filter through the bundle of facts.
“So you should marry him. Nothing wrong with an arranged marriage.”
“As in, you and Pops worked out so well?” She opened the drawer on the cart and took out a replacement bulb.
The old lady chuffed. “Please. You want to be married, or you want to be happy?”
“Both?”
Goggy snorted. “You young people. So spoiled. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with this boy. He’s very nice and extremely good-looking.”
Honor screwed in the new lightbulb. “Have you ever met him?”
“No. But he is.”
“Seen a picture?”
“No. Charming, too.”
“So you’ve talked to him on the phone?”
“No.”
“Facebook? Email?”
“No, Honor. You know I don’t believe in computers.”
“Hi there, Honor,” called Mr. Christian from the back of the auditorium. “Heard you were in a girl fight the other day.”
“Thanks for bringing it up,” Honor said. “Anyway, Goggy, it sounds like you really don’t know this person at all.”
“What’s to know? He’s British.”
“That may or may not help his case. If he sounds like Prince Charles, there’s no way in hell I’ll marry him. Does he have those big teeth?”
“Don’t be so superficial, honey! He’s a professor,” Goggy added. “Electrical engineering or math or something.”
An image of Honor’s own math teacher in college, a damp man with onion breath, came to mind.
“So he needs a green card,” Goggy said, “you’re single, and you two should get married.”
“Okay, first of all, sure, I’d love to get married if I met someone great and fell in love, but if that doesn’t happen, I’m fine on my own.” Oh, the lies. “Secondly, I don’t want to get married just to check it off a list. And thirdly, I’m pretty sure marrying for a green card is illegal.” She paused. “Why doesn’t he just go back to England?”
“There was a tragedy.” Another triumphant look from Goggy.
“What kind?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter, Honor? You’re thirty-five. That’s when the eggs start spoiling. That’s when I started menopause.” Oh, snap. “Besides, if I can stay married to your grandfather for sixty-five years and not have murdered him yet, why can’t you do the same with this boy?”
“How old is this person? You keep calling him a boy.”
“I don’t know. Anyone under sixty is a boy to me.”
“So he’s a math teacher and distantly related to an old friend of yours, and that’s all you’ve got on him?”
Goggy waved to Mrs. Lunqvist. “Young people,” she called. “They’re so fussy!” Mrs. Lunqvist, who used to terrorize the kids in Bible study with tales of fiery devastation of Biblical cities, nodded in agreement. “So you’ll meet him?”
What have you got to lose? the eggs asked, looking up from their quilting. Didn’t you hear what she said about menopause?
Honor sighed. “Sure,” she said.
“I just thought it’d be nice,” Goggy said. “I have a soft spot for his family, that’s all. You’d be surprised at how many times I think of Peter and what my life would be like if he hadn’t died in World War II. Protecting freedom and saving the world. So when I heard his grandnephew was in town, all by himself, lonely, depressed, British—”
Such a prize. “You can stop now, Goggy, I just said I’ll meet the guy.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
Goggy smiled triumphantly.
“Don’t go planning any weddings,” Honor warned. “I’m just doing it to be polite.” An image of a balding man with large, horselike teeth and a love of sharing math theorems popped into her head. “What’s his name?”
“Tom Barlow.” A completely ordinary name. Not like Brogan Cain, for example. “I told him you’d meet him tonight at O’Rourke’s.”
“What?”
“And put on lipstick, for heaven’s sake. You’re such a pretty girl. And be nice! It wouldn’t kill you to smile. Oh, there’s Henrietta Blanchette. I heard she got food poisoning from that slop they serve here. I’ll go say hi.”
Honor’s mood was soft after the movie. First, the wine had been fantastic, this lovely Tempranillo with hints of strawberries, cherry jam and leather. Then the Rushing Creek residents, who loved Watch and Wine and always had something nice to say (once they’d gotten their kicks out of mentioning her catfight, that was). But in general, whatever barriers seemed to exist between Honor and her peers evaporated with old people, who called her honey and dear and told her about their kidney stones and varicose veins. Also, one couldn’t rule out the movie itself. Keanu Reeves, amen, sister. The kiss in that movie—the kiss, the babymaker—had she ever been kissed like that?
Er, no.
Nope, no man had ever been desperate to kiss her. No man had ever kissed her like he’d die if he didn’t. No sirree. Didn’t happen. Didn’t seem like it was going to happen, either, not when a middle-aged British math teacher was her only prospect.
That could change. She’d update her dating website profiles. Ask Faith to help her out with things like push-up bras and flirting. Maybe some of the men she did business with were single, and maybe they’d notice her. It could happen.
It’s just that no one was like Brogan.
Nope, nope. No more thoughts like that. So over him. Almost. Well, getting there. Okay, not at all, really.
As she walked through Rushing Creek, she heard a familiar laugh.
Right. Dana cut hair every other Thursday at Rushing Creek’s salon. Honor had recommended her for the gig, actually.
The sound made Honor stop in her tracks, her stomach suddenly flooded with a cold rush of emotion. Anger, embarrassment, jealousy, loneliness...
Yeah. Loneliness.
Don’t let her see you.
Dana looked up and saw. “Honor!” she called. “Do you have a second?”
Fungus. Feeling her face flush, Honor nodded. She went into the salon, which, though small, was a lot nicer than House of Hair.
“Mrs. Jenkins, I just need to take out your hearing aid, okay?” Dana asked, slipping it out. “There,” she said to Honor. “Now we can talk. The old bat’s deaf as dirt.”
An unexpected yearning swooped through Honor’s chest. For five years, since Dana moved to Manningsport, they’d been friends, the type of friend Honor hadn’t had since college. Hanging out, calling for no reason, commiserating over work, family, men. They’d had a lot of good times together. A lot of laughs.
Honor didn’t say anything. Then again, she didn’t leave, either.
“That’s some haircut,” Dana said. “Not bad. Where’d you get it done? Parisian’s?”
Still, Honor didn’t answer. They were not going to talk about hairstyles (but yes, it was Parisian’s).
“Look, you gave it your best shot, Honor. Okay?” Dana went on. “He didn’t love you. You’re the one who said you were done with him, and he and I just ran into each other one night at O’Rourke’s, and one thing led to another. It was a complete shock to us both.”
“I’m actually surprised you had waited as long as you did, Dana.”
Bitter Betty, table for one. But it had only been six weeks since she’d been...betrayed. No other word would do.
“Honor, I’m sorry, I really am. I know you wanted Brogan to love you, but it’s not my fault he didn’t.”
“Could you lower your voice, please?” Honor said, her face burning.
“Oh, please. She hasn’t heard anything since Clinton was president.” Dana cut her a glance, her face softening. “How many times have you and I talked about just this exact thing? The guy you least expect to fall for and then boom, you’ve fallen. And he happened to fall for me, too. We were just chatting at the bar.” She gave Honor a small, smug smile. “And all of a sudden, there was this charge in the air.”
Dana was gloating. Brogan and she knew each other, of course. Sometimes, the three of them had gone out together. If there’d been any charge in the air, Honor hadn’t noticed.
Dana was quiet for a minute. “I know you had a crush on him since the dawn of time.”
“It was more than a crush, Dana. Don’t minimize my feelings to make yourself feel less guilty.”
“I don’t feel guilty,” she said, turning back to Mrs. Jenkins, her scissors flying in a sinister hiss. She got paid sixty-five dollars a haircut, Honor knew. Sixty-five bucks for taking a millimeter off someone’s hair. “Look, I know you were surprised. But I still think you owe me an apology.”
The noise that came out of Honor’s mouth was somewhere between a sputter, a choke and a laugh. “An apology?”
“Just a little trim around the ears,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “Not too short, dear.”
“Got it, Mrs. Jenkins,” Dana barked. “Not too short.” Her voice lowered, and she looked at Honor. “Yeah, an apology. I don’t appreciate having wine thrown in my face, not to mention being shoved in a restaurant in front of the guy I love.”
Honor’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Listen. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you, but does that mean that both Brogan and I are supposed to ignore what we feel for each other?” Her words might’ve had more impact if her tone hadn’t been as sharp as her scissors. The horrible, beautiful engagement ring flashed as her hands moved over Mrs. Jenkins’s head. “Seriously, we didn’t plan it. It just happened.”
Oh, that infuriating phrase! Nothing just happened. Vaginas didn’t just happen to fall on penises. Unspoken words bubbled up like lava. Do I look that stupid? You were supposed to be my friend. You made me a martini that night. I cried on your couch! We watched Shark Week! And a few weeks later, you were sleeping with the guy who broke my heart. For crying out loud, you told me in a bar. Two against one, in a bar.
Yes, she could say those things, and denigrate her pride even further. Remind Dana just how pathetic she’d been...and give Dana more chance to gloat. Because wasn’t that what she was doing?
“I guess we have different ideas of what it means to be friends,” she said tightly.
“Yeah. Friends don’t throw wine in their friends’ faces.”
“Fine. I was very surprised, and I reacted badly. But I seem to remember you reacting just as badly in return.”
“Someone throws wine into my face, yeah, I do react badly.” She gave Honor a little smile. “So. Are we good?”
In the mirror, Honor saw her own mouth fall open. She closed it. “I don’t know that we’re ever going to be good, Dana.”
“Why? Water under the bridge, right? It was dramatic, you feel embarrassed, so do I, a little.” She shrugged, still smiling. “Let’s get past it. I mean, what else are we gonna do? Hate each other forever? Okay. I have to put this hearing aid back in or the old bag will start to suspect something.” Unexpectedly, she gave Honor a quick hug. “I’m glad we talked. I mean, yeah, things’ll be weird for a while, but we’re still best friends, right? And hell’s bells, girl, I have a wedding to plan!”
“Oh, I love weddings,” Mrs. Jenkins said, adjusting her hearing aid.
“Come by the salon, and I’ll shape up your bangs,” Dana said. “See you soon!”
And, because she didn’t know what else to say, and really, really wanted to get out of there, Honor left.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_d25091da-2bed-5c87-a708-fb0f2a4ac6be)
HAVING TWO GLASSES of whiskey probably wasn’t the most brilliant idea before a fix-up, Tom thought. But he wasn’t driving. And also, though he hated to point out the obvious, even to himself, it was too late. One could not undrink whiskey, unless one vomited, which Tom was not going to do.
“Off to meet the future Mrs. Barlow,” he told his reflection. “Excited, mate?”
This did not have a good feeling to it. First of all, the whole criminal aspect of the night cast a bit of a pall, didn’t it? And secondly, his great-aunt was fixing him up. He still had a tiny shred of pride left after Melissa, but this would probably kill it. But for whatever reason, when Candace had called, clucking in excitement, he’d said he’d love to meet her pen pal’s granddaughter.
He walked the three blocks to the town green. There was another thing. If he did manage to stay in this godforsaken town, he’d have to stay in this godforsaken town, and bloody hell! The weather! Made England look like paradise, and that was saying a lot.
But Charlie was here. Not that the boy wanted Tom around. Yesterday, Tom had gone the tried and true route and attempted to bribe his way into Charlie’s affection with an iPhone. When Tom tried to show him a few of the new features, the boy went limp with disgust, rolled his eyes and then stared straight ahead, arms crossed, silently counting the seconds till Tom left.
So marrying just to stay here...it felt a bit like buying a house on Isle of the Damned. Not that he’d actually do it. But for some reason, here he was, trudging through the slush to meet some middle-aged woman Aunt Candy had said could keep her mouth shut. Someone who was desperate enough to consider marrying a stranger. Someone whose “clock is ticking.” Fantastic. He could only imagine what she looked like. Dame Judi Dench came to mind. Talented, sure. Did he want to bang Dame Judi Dench? No, he did not.
Then again, he hadn’t done so well on his own, had he? Melissa, though quite the looker, hadn’t turned out to be such a prize.
The warmth of the pub was welcome. At least the little town had this, a little tavern at which to drown one’s sorrows.
“Hello, Colleen,” he said, because yeah, befriending the bartender was never a bad idea.
“Hallo, Tom,” she said in a fair imitation of his accent. “Bass ale tonight?”
“I’ll have a whiskey, love,” he said.
“Not your first, I’m guessing.”
“You’re astute and beautiful. A bit terrifying.”
“You driving?”
“No, miss.” He smiled. She cocked an eyebrow and poured him his drink.
“I’m meeting Honor Holland,” he said. “Do you know her?”
“I know everyone,” Colleen answered. “I’ll send her over when she gets here.”
Tom made his way to a booth at the back of the bar where they could talk about illegal matters privately. There was a uniformed policeman there, but he was occupied with a pretty redhead, so the fact that Tom was perhaps a bit drunk already might go unnoticed. And let’s not forget. He was also planning to commit a crime.
He took a sip of whiskey and tried to relax. Yesterday after Candace called, he’d looked up green card fraud on dear old Google. Not encouraging. Jail time. Whopping fines. Deportation with no possibility of ever living in the States again.
He could go back to England. Visit Charlie once or twice a year. And then—Tom could see it already—the visits would become less frequent. He’d get weary of trying to carve out a friendship with some kid who bloody well hated him. Charlie would turn to drugs and terrible music—or even worse music, as the case might be. Tom would marry some nice English girl who’d resent the time and money it took to cross the Pond, and the memory of that small, lovely boy who’d once flown kites with him would fade into obscurity.
Fuck-all.
“Are you Tom?”
He looked up and there was Catfight Woman Number One standing right in front of him. “Hello! It’s you!”
“Um, have we met?”
“Not officially,” he said. “Though I have fond memories of you.”
He could do worse, he noted. She was...all right. She was sort of pretty. Also, she was here, which was nice of her. Unfortunately, he seemed a bit knackered. This would be a case of subliminally shooting himself in the foot, he might say, if he were an aficionado of Dr. Freud. Yep. Pissed. His vocabulary and accent tended to mushroom exponentially when under the influence.
She frowned. “I’m Honor Holland.”
Something moved in her handbag, and Tom jumped. “Shit, darling, I hate to tell you this, but there seems to be a rat in your bag.”
“Very funny. It’s my dog.”
“Is it? If you say so. Well, Honor Holland. Lovely to meet you.”
“You, too.” Her expression contradicted that statement, but she sat down. The rat peeked out of the bag and bared its teeth. Ah. It was a dog, he was almost positive.
“So.” She folded her hands—pretty hands, very tidy with clear polish on her short nails—and looked at him. “I gather you’re the Brit who was in the bar the night of my little...meltdown.”
“Darling, that wasn’t little,” he said warmly. “It was bloody magnificent.”
“Can we skip over that?”
“Absolutely! Though if you’d like to reminisce, I’m all ears. Your hair’s quite different, isn’t it? Looks better. That sister-wife thing was a bit off-putting. Also, there’s less for people to grab if you get into another fight. Very practical of you. So. Shall we get married?”
His charm seemed to be lost on her. “Okay, I’m leaving. I don’t think we need to waste any more time here, do you?”
“Oh, come now, darling. Give us a chance, won’t you? I’m a bit nervous.” He smiled. When he smiled in class, most of the females (and a couple of the lads as well) got a bit swoony.
She blushed. Brilliant. She covered by looking into her purse, where the little rat dog was still baring its teeth at him. Tom tried smiling at the dog. Didn’t have quite the same effect as it had on the wee beastie’s owner.
The server appeared. “Hi, Monica,” Honor said. “Got anything special tonight?”
“We’ve got two bottles of the McGregor Black Russian Red.”
“I’ll have a glass of that, then.”
So Miss Holland wasn’t leaving yet. “And I’ll have another of these,” Tom said, holding up his empty glass.
“No, he won’t,” Honor said.
“Taking care of me already, love?” he asked.
“You got it,” the serving wench said, giving Tom the eye. He winked at her, and off she went.
“Are you drunk?” Honor asked.
“Please,” he said. “I’m British. The proper word is pissed.”
“Great,” she muttered.
“So, Miss Holland. Thanks for coming to meet me.”
She didn’t answer. Just looked at him, expressionless.
She wasn’t bad. Nothing wrong with her. Blondish hair. Brown eyes. Normal build, though he wished the shirt was a bit more revealing so he could take a look. Those pearls weren’t doing much for her sex appeal.
Take them off, and yeah, he could imagine her in bed. Quite vividly, in fact. On second thought, leave the pearls on and take off everything else.
Oh, shit. He rubbed the back of his neck. The server brought Honor her wine and Tom’s whiskey.
His date didn’t touch her glass.
“Right,” he said. “Why don’t I summarize what I know about you, and you can fill in the gaps—how’s that?”
“Fine,” she said.
“As I understand it, you were in love with a bloke who was clearly using you for sex and is now marrying your best mate.”
She closed her eyes.
“Don’t forget, darling, I had a front-row seat that night. So now you’ve realized your knight in shining armor is, in fact, a faithless whore of a man—”
“You know what? It wasn’t like that. So shut up.”
Tom leaned back in his seat and squinted at her. “Funny, that. How women always rush to defend the men who’ve scraped them off their shoes. Interesting.” Now was the time he should stop talking. “Anyway, you backed the wrong pony and now you’re a bit desperate. Want to get married, prove you’re over the wanker, pop out a couple kids while there’s still time.”
She sputtered. His mouth kept doing its thing. “That’s all fine. As for me, I need a green card. Not sure about kids just yet, but I say let’s get married and figure that out later. You’re female, you’re not old, you’re not ugly. Sold.”
God. He was such a bunghole.
She stared him down. Had to give her credit for that. “I’ll let you get the check,” she said.
The relief he felt was mixed with regret. “Cheerio, then. Lovely to meet you.”
“Wish I could say the same,” she said, sliding out of the booth.
“Don’t forget the vermin,” he said, nodding to her bag. She grabbed it and left without looking back.
“Well done, mate,” he said to himself, a familiar feeling of disgust in his stomach. He pressed his fingers against his forehead for a second, resisting the urge to follow Miss Holland and apologize for being such a prick.
It was just that using someone was easier in theory than in reality. Even for Charlie’s sake.
Besides, he’d been with a woman who was in love with someone else. Been there, done that, had those scars.
And realizing she was the woman who’d been so...passionate that night...he rather liked that wine-tossing, hair-pulling woman. Someone like her deserved better than a marriage of convenience, whatever her reasons for coming here tonight.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_c8ae57fb-6a7d-5954-a214-fbae5be3c0cb)
“I DON’T KNOW if I’m the red-lipstick type,” Honor said two nights later. “I feel a little like Pennywise the Clown.”
“God, remember Jack made us watch that?” Faith exclaimed from where she was smooching Spike on the bed. “I practically wet myself, I was so scared. Not that you look like him, Honor,” she added. “Not even close.”
Colleen O’Rourke, self-proclaimed expert on all things male, squinted critically at Honor. “Yeah, okay,” she said. “A little like Pennywise. We had to try. But we’re on the right path, don’t worry.” She plucked a pink-and-green hairband from the basket where they still resided. “And can I just say how glad I am to see that those hairbands have gone the way of the dinosaur?” She tossed it on the floor, where Spike immediately pounced and began gnawing. Blue, Faith’s gargantuan Golden retriever, whined from his hiding place under the bed, as he was a big baby where Spike the Ferocious was concerned.
Honor frowned, then remembered not to (time for Botox?). She still wasn’t used to her hair, kept trying to swoop it off her shoulders, only to realize it was gone. That, combined with more makeup than she’d worn in the past twenty years, made her reflection quite unfamiliar.
“You look great,” Faith, the bringer of all this stuff, said reassuringly. Until her sister had arrived a half hour ago, Honor’s dressing table had only contained a hairbrush and a jar of Oil of Olay moisturizer (the same brand Goggy used, Faith pointed out). Now, the table surface was awash in girlie stuff—blush, eye shadow, seven different types of moisturizer, brushes and wands and tubes and pots.
Yes. Honor had agreed to a makeover. Things were feeling a little desperate. Could new eye shadow change her life? She was about to find out at the ripe old age of the years are precious, egg-wise.
But doing things differently...that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Even if she did look slutty. Then again, slutty might be good.
“I hear there’s a makeover,” came a voice, and Prudence banged into the room, clad in work boots and flannel and holding a glass of wine. “Why wasn’t I invited?”
“You can be next,” Colleen said. “I’ve been dying to get my hands on you for years.”
“To tell you the truth, I have been wearing some makeup lately,” Pru said. “Carl and I did a little Avatar the other night, and I’m still washing blue off the sheets.”
“Thanks for sharing,” Faith said. “Another movie dead to me.”
“Why? What else have I ruined?”
“Last of the Mohicans, Les Mis, Star Wars,” Faith began.
“Don’t forget Lincoln,” Honor added.
“And The Big Bang Theory,” Colleen said.
“Hey, we didn’t know that wasn’t porn,” Pru said, grinning. “And go ahead, make fun of me. I’ve been happily married for almost twenty-five years.” She took another sip of wine. “Honor, you look a little like Pennywise the Clown. Go easy on that foundation.”
Honor gave Colleen a significant look, and Coll sighed and handed her a tissue.
“Is the mascara supposed to look this clumpy?” Honor said, leaning forward. “It’s getting hard to open my eyes.”
“Put on another coat. It’ll smooth out,” Colleen ordered.
Blue whined again from under the bed. “Man-up, Blue,” Faith said. “Little Spike here only weighs four pounds.”
“She’s up to five. And she has the heart of a lion,” Honor said. Blue remained where he was.
“So why were you meeting Tom Barlow the other night, Honor?” Colleen asked.
Honor looked away from her reflection and pulled on her earlobe, then made herself stop. Cartilage started to break down when you were over thirty-five, she’d just read. Didn’t want droopy earlobes to match her AARP eggs. “He’s the nephew of a friend of Goggy’s or something. I was just being polite.”
“He’s cute, don’t you think?”
“I did until he opened his mouth.” She rubbed her lips with the tissue. Still more red. This stuff never came off, apparently.
“Really? He seems nice enough. Single. Keeps to himself most of the time. Too bad he’s not older, or I’d totally go for him. It’s the accent. I practically come when he orders a beer.”
“You should hear Carl speak German,” Pru said. “Très sexy.”
Honor flinched at the image, and Colleen handed her another tube. “Here, try this shade.”
She obeyed as Faith and Colleen doled out tips. Press your lips together. Keep your lips apart. Blot. Rub. Dot. Smear. Who knew lipstick was so hard? Now on to blush and bronzer, both women chattering away like blackbirds. They were being awfully nice, Honor thought, helping her become more appealing to men.
The only trouble was that men were hard to find in a town of seven hundred and fifteen.
You know, it was funny. When Honor had seen Goggy’s friend’s nephew in the bar the other night, she...felt something. Her heart did this weird twist, and hope rose so quickly and so hard that she literally stopped in her tracks.
Tom Barlow wasn’t middle-aged or odd-looking. He was...he was...well, not quite handsome. Straight brown hair cut very short. Normal enough features. But there was something about him—maybe it was just the surprise that he was actually age-appropriate and not a balding, big-toothed math teacher who smelled like mothballs—but no, even past that, Honor liked that face. It wasn’t a perfect, beautiful face, like Brogan’s, but she had the feeling she could look at that face for a long, long time and not get bored.
His eyes were dark, though she couldn’t exactly tell the color, and a scar cut through one eyebrow, and even though she realized she shouldn’t be aroused by the mark of some past injury, she kinda was. His mouth was full and—holy ChapStick, Batman, suddenly, she could see things happening between the two of them; she could feel a strong squeeze not just in her chest, but also from Down Under, the killer combination, and suddenly the eggs were primping in front of a mirror.
In a flash, Honor had imagined laughing with Tom Barlow about their fix-up and strange circumstances, and he’d be so grateful she came to meet him, and heck, what was this? A spark. A connection. He’d walk her to her car, then lean in and kiss her, and she’d bet both thumbs and a forefinger it’d be fantastic.
Tom Barlow had looked up. Smiled. His front tooth was just slightly crooked. For some reason, it made her knees go soft and weak, and those bridge-playing eggs of hers made a rush for the door.
And then he spoke, and thus died the fantasy.
Colleen leaned over her with what had to be the seventeenth makeup item.
“Okay, no sparkles,” Honor said. “I think we’re good, don’t you? I feel like I could write my name in this.”
“You look gorgeous,” Faith said. “Years younger.”
Ouch.
“Not that you need to, of course,” Faith added with a grimace. “Thirty-five is the new, uh, eighteen.”
“So a date, this is exciting,” Pru said, rubbing her hands together. “What’s his name again?”
“Um, it’s Slavic. Droog.”
“Oh, dear,” Colleen said. “Can you imagine calling that out at the big moment? ‘Droog, Droog, don’t stop!’”
Honor grimaced. “It’s something to overcome, I’ll admit.”
“What’s in a name, though?” Faith said. “If he’s cute, the name won’t matter. You’ll probably love it after ten minutes.”
“I hate dating,” Honor admitted. “I’m so bad with men.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Prudence said thoughtfully at the same instant Faith said, “No, you’re not!”
“Oh, sure I am,” she said. “But I’m really good at accounting. We all have our gifts.”
“Girls!” Dad bellowed up from downstairs. “Levi and Connor are here!”
“John Holland!” yelled Mrs. J. “Stop yelling like your daughters are a team of mules!”
The bedroom door opened. “Ladies,” Levi said. His eyes stopped on Faith, and Honor suppressed the familiar envy. Her sister and Levi had known each other for ages, but only recently started getting along. As in, the air was thick with pheromones of the newlyweds.
“Blick. Young love. I’m so over them, aren’t you?” Colleen asked Honor.
“Nah. I like them. Hi, Connor.”
“Hello, Holland women, hello, twin sister,” Connor O’Rourke said. “Wow, your hair, Honor. I keep forgetting.”
“I found him wandering the streets,” Levi said. “Figured we’d come see what you girls were up to.”
“Go have a drink with my dad,” Faith said. “This is a girl thing.”
“No, you know what?” Colleen said. “This is great. Boys, what do you think? How hot is Honor? Not historically, but right here and now.”
“Please don’t answer,” Honor said.
The two men exchanged a relieved glance.
Hang on. Why wouldn’t they want to talk about how hot she was, huh? “Actually, do answer. How hot am I, guys?”
“I’ll go see about that drink,” Levi said. “Connor?”
“Don’t you move,” Honor ordered. “You owe me, Levi Cooper. Okay, I realize this is awkward, you being my brother-in-law and all, but Colleen’s right. I could use a male opinion.”
“Is invoking my right to the Fifth Amendment a good enough answer?” Levi asked.
“No,” said Faith. “You have to answer.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then I’m cutting you off,” she said.
Levi gave her a sleepy look. “You’d climb me like a tree after one day.”
“I would, too,” Pru said. “You’re a good-looking guy, Levi.”
Honor turned away from the mirror and trapped both men with her gaze. because yeah, she was good at that. Authoritative. “Boys, you don’t want to be on my bad side, do you?”
“I know I don’t,” Connor said.
“Smart of you. Relax. I’m just looking for some insight.” Hey, why not? She’d already lost all dignity with the catfight. Plus, these guys knew her. “Why don’t men think dirty thoughts about me?”
“We do,” Connor said. “Not to worry.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, we do. We’re guys. We automatically assess any woman for sex. Right, Levi?”
Levi scowled in response.
“Is that true?” Honor asked. Men were such aliens. “Really? You look at a woman, every woman, and imagine having sex with her?”
“I don’t,” Levi said.
“He’s lying,” Connor answered. “We’re guys. We think about sex with every woman.”
“Really. Every woman?” she asked. Connor nodded. “So someone like Lorena Creech,” she continued, naming the scariest woman she could think of. Lorena, age sixtysomething, fifty pounds overweight, a penchant for see-through animal-print clothing. “You’ve thought about having sex with her?”
“Well, yeah, same as you think about being eaten by a shark or getting your testicles caught in a bear trap,” Connor said. “If you’re a guy and a woman walks past, you look at her, imagine sex, then you either shudder in horror or make a play.”
Honor pursed her lips. “So I got the shudder of horror?”
Connor looked stricken.
“Busted, jerk,” his twin said.
“Um, no. I... You’re not horrifying, Honor. You’re quite...”
“Quite what? That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Connor appeared to be sweating. “Um, it’s hard to put a finger on it. You’re very, uh, attractive.”
“You’re an idiot, Connor,” Prudence said.
Honor sighed. “Levi? Got anything? I’m your sister-in-law. Help me. As a man, what do you think when you look at me?”
“My wife’s sister.”
“Before you married her, dummy.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “See, there you go. You’re a little...”
“Be careful,” Faith warned. “I’ll have to kill you if you hurt her feelings. Is your life insurance paid up? If I have to be a widow, I want to be rich.”
“No, just be honest, Levi. Go ahead.” Honor folded her arms and waited.
Levi paused. Sighed. “I guess Connor’s right. It probably crossed my mind once or twice.” He glanced at his wife. “But just as a fleeting thought, and way before we hooked up, babe.”
“Because I’m not pretty enough?” Honor guessed. It was to be expected. Faith got the looks.
“You’re pretty enough.”
“Don’t blow smoke.”
“Okay, you’re not pretty. I thought you were, but you must be right.”
Huh. That was kind of nice, and Levi was rather known for being blunt. “Sorry. And thanks. But if I’m pretty, why didn’t you ever want to sleep with me?”
“This is very uncomfortable.”
“Just theoretically.”
“Yes, Levi. Theoretically,” Faith said.
“Better you than me, pal,” Connor muttered.
Levi closed his eyes briefly. “It’s not your looks. You’re a little...unapproachable.”
Honor’s mouth dropped open. “What?” She was not! She was very pleasant! Very approachable. Extremely polite. Like...finishing-school polite. First Lady’s social secretary polite and pleasant. That was basically her life, being nice to people all the livelong day, no matter how much she occasionally wanted to strangle them.
“Exactly,” Connor agreed. “You’re—what do you girls call it? Walled off. Shut down. You have armor.”
“I don’t have armor!” Honor barked. “I don’t! What armor? There’s no armor!” Spike barked in agreement.
“You want to go out for dinner?” Levi asked Faith.
“Maybe you’re just unaware of the vibe you give off,” Colleen said. “The hairbands, for example. Do they scream sex? No.”
“I’m not unapproachable,” Honor said to her brother-in-law.
“Okay, you’re not. I apologize. Faith, save me.”
“I have an idea,” Faith said. “Honor, pretend you’re meeting Connor for the first time. Like you guys are on a first date, you’ve been chatting online, but this is the first time you’ve laid eyes on each other.”
“Great idea,” Honor said. “Sit, Connor.”
Unapproachable. Armor. Please. Spike came over and whined to be picked up. She obliged, kissing the dog on the head. So approachable. Even animals thought so.
“That dog will have to go,” Colleen said. “It’s worse than a cat.”
“How dare you,” Honor murmured, giving Colleen a look. “Come on, Connor. Get in character.”
“Yeah, Conn, get to it,” said Colleen. “We have a bar to run. Who’s opening tonight, anyway?”
“Monica.” Connor sighed and sat obediently across from Honor at the foot of the bed. “Hi, are you Honor? I’m Connor.”
“Oh, Connor and Honor! That rhymes!” Colleen said. “Sorry. Back to you two.”
“Hi, Connor. Nice to meet you.” Totally approachable. She shot Levi an icy glare. He was busy giving Faith a steamy, let’s-get-it-on look.
“You’re even prettier than your picture,” Connor said.
“Thanks.” She smiled brightly.
“Eesh, you look like a wolverine when you smile like that,” Colleen said. “Easy, girl.”
Honor sighed, then tried again, baring only a few teeth this time.
“Now you look feeble. Don’t worry about it, we’ll work on that later. Just keep going.”
Connor was Faith’s age. A nice guy. Good-looking. An excellent bartender. Otherwise, she didn’t know him too well. “So tell me about yourself,” she said.
“Good line,” Faith murmured, swatting at Levi’s hand.
“I’m a bartender who likes the smell of crisp autumn leaves and Johnson’s baby shampoo.”
Honor paused. “That’s kind of creepy.”
“See? You’re gutting me already. I feel emasculated.”
“Well, then, you need to sac up a little, don’t you?”
“And we’re done,” Connor said. “Levi, how about that beer, pal?”
* * *
PRU WENT OFF with the guys, but Faith and Colleen spent another half hour giving her advice on how to talk to men, which was not something Honor would’ve suspected she needed to be taught. With Brogan, she’d just been herself.
Okay, not a great example. Thinking his name still made her brain cringe.
The troops finally left, and Honor got dressed in the outfit Faith had picked out. Jeans (Colleen’s, and they stopped a good four inches below the belly button and felt freakishly uncomfortable), purple suede ankle boots with three-inch heels (Faith’s, obviously), a pale green shirt (Colleen’s), pearls (Mom’s), four silver bracelets (Faith’s) and long, dangling silver earrings (Faith’s again).
Clearly, Honor had no idea how to dress herself. Then again, that was the point. Short hair, better clothes, makeup. She’d be married in no time.
“Droog. This is my husband, Droog.” Okay, it lacked a certain élan.
Spike was sleeping on Honor’s pillow, worn out from emasculating Blue, who wanted very much to love Spike but which Spike wouldn’t allow. Her doggy had been a rescue, so Honor wasn’t sure what her history was with other dogs. Bossy, obviously, which Honor admired.
At any rate, Mrs. J. would take her into her apartment for the night and watch whatever violent TV show she was into this week. The housekeeper loved Spike more than she loved most humans.
She tiptoed down the stairs, terrified of falling in the high-heeled boots and breaking a femur or rupturing her spleen, and went into the kitchen.
“Oh, God!” she blurted. She leaped back into the hallway, pressing her back against the wall. Holy. Fungus. “Sorry, sorry!”
“We weren’t doing anything!” her dad yelled as a kitchen chair crashed to the floor. “It’s not what you think!”
“Honor Grace Holland, why are you sneaking around this house, creeping up on people?” Mrs. Johnson said.
“We were just kissing!” Dad said.
“Is it safe to come back in?” she asked, feeling a laugh start to wriggle around in her stomach.
“Yes! We weren’t...we were just... Oh, jeesh. Is that the phone?”
“Don’t you move, John Holland. We were not kissing, Honor,” Mrs. Johnson said darkly. “Your father, the ridiculous man, asked if he could kiss me just the one time. And just the one time it will be, John Holland, if you can’t keep track of which of your many children is skulking around corners.”
“Okay, okay,” Honor said, going back into the kitchen. Dad’s face was bright red, and Mrs. Johnson looked like she was about to kick a baby dolphin, she was so mad. “I’m sorry I didn’t make more noise. I didn’t know there was a romance unfolding here. I’ll tie a bell around my neck next time.”
“There are no bells required! There is no romance!” Mrs. J. thundered. “It was an experiment only, and one of complete failure, given your intrusion, Honor. We thought you had left with the others. Your father said we were alone.”
“Mrs. J., I’m sorry, okay? Don’t murder my dad.” He sent her a grateful look.
The clock ticked on the wall.
“So,” she said. “Dad and Mrs. J. I like it.”
“There’s nothing to like, you wretched child,” the housekeeper muttered.
“Oh, stop. Your guilty secret is safe with me. But let me tell you, if I’d been Faith, you’d be packed into the back of her car, on your way to a justice of the peace this very minute. And Jack would be dead on the floor of a heart attack.”
“My poor Jackie,” Mrs. J. said. Honor rolled her eyes.
“Anyway, more power to you,” she said. “I’m going on a date. Mrs. J., would you watch Spike?”
“Of course. Where is the little baby now? And why did you name her Spike? She should have a delicate name. A girl’s name. Princess or Sugar-Paws.”
“Or Hyacinth,” Dad said. It was Mrs. Johnson’s first name, and he was gazing at the housekeeper with a dopey smile.
Well, well, well. Honor said good-night and walked out to her car.
Last fall, Dad had decided to start dating...sort of...but after a few failed attempts, he seemed to give up. Mrs. Johnson was single (they all thought; she was a mystery wrapped in an enigma), and she’d been with the family since Mom died.
But a romance between the two of them, huh? If there’d been handwriting on that wall, Honor had missed it completely.
It could work, though. Certainly, Mrs. Johnson was a wonderful (if terrifying) person. She took good care of Dad and all his kids. Certainly, she knew all of them inside out and out.
It was nice to picture her father with someone. Not so alone anymore. He’d always had her, of course, which was a little pathetic when she put it like that. But still. They’d always been two single people alone together.
A surprisingly strong band of loneliness tightened around Honor’s chest. If Dad and Mrs. Johnson became a couple, where would that leave her? She’d have to move. She couldn’t be the spinster daughter, living with the newlyweds, sneaking Bugles into her room and misery-eating as she watched I Didn’t Know I Had a Parasite.
All the more reason to put the pedal to the metal and get going, the eggs said. We want to be fertilized.
“You have a point,” Honor muttered, starting her car. If Dad could find a honey, surely she could, too. eCommitment had recently come up with two matches for her. One was married, a Google search had revealed (thank you, Faith). So Droog it was.
See? She was trying. Really hard. She did need to get a life, and not just because Dad might beat her to the altar.
Three days ago, Dana emailed, asking if she was ready to hang out. Honor had been out of town on a sales trip to Poughkeepsie and had only responded to say so. Then yesterday, Brogan left a message, saying he was back from Tampa and would love to see her for dinner.
And last night, Honor had a panic attack, abruptly terrified that she’d die in this bed where she’d slept most of her life, and Dad, not the most observant man in the world, would think she was traveling, and Spike would chew off the tip of her nose for food, which would mean closed casket, definitely. This pleasant little fantasy had led her to visiting OnYourOwn.com and cruising through profiles of sperm donors, and then panicking a little further. She’d soothed herself by making a list of things she needed to do for the Black and White Ball, which was only a month and a half away, and ended up working until 3:00 a.m.
“Mom?” she said as she drove out of town. “I could use a little help finding a man. Okay? Be my wingman.”
Please God, Droog Dragul would be nice.
* * *
“HONOR?”
Honor’s head snapped around. Oh. Oh, dear. “Droog?”
“Yes. How luffly you look,” he said. He grabbed her by the shoulders and leaned in to kiss her (eep!). She leaned back as far as possible, which caused his lips fall on her chin, where they stayed for a horribly long moment before she wrenched away.
“Um, hi. Hi, Droog. Nice to meet you.”
Don’t judge on first impressions had been the advice from Faith and Colleen. Droog was lucky, in other words.
They were in the middle of the student center at Wickham College, where Droog headed up the Science and Engineering department. The Droog in front of her bore little resemblance to the Droog in the eCommitment photo (she should really stop thinking his name, which was not improving with repetition). No, his photo had apparently involved Glamour Shots, a spray tan and many dedicated hours with Photoshop. The actual live Droog (there it was again) looked ten years older and was considerably whiter. Also, he carried a purse. Not a cool, battered leather satchel, but a purse that Honor had been eyeing last week at Macy’s.
“Come. Vee vill go in my car. I heff Dodge Omni. It is old, but very good gas mileage.”
“You know, I think I’ll drive myself,” she said, wiping sweat from her forehead. “It’s, uh...it’ll be easier for me to get home.”
“As you vish.”
It was possible, Honor thought as she followed him outside, that Droog Dragul’s accent would grow on her. After all, hadn’t she loved the Count on Sesame Street? Perhaps his narrow face would be more attractive in a softer light. And she herself was no supermodel.
She wondered if he could see himself in a mirror. If he sparkled. Stop judging, she told herself. He couldn’t help being Transylvanian or Romanian or Hungarian or whatever it was.
She smiled firmly (though hopefully not like a wolverine) as he led the way to the parking lot. If nothing else, this date would be practice. It had been several years since she’d been on a first date. Years.
The sound of feminine laughter, and lots of it, made her turn her head. A gaggle of girls clustered around a man. He turned her way.
Oh, fungus. It was Tom Barlow.
Without thinking, she ducked, pretending she dropped her keys. Hey, why not actually drop them for authenticity purposes? She did. Kicked them under the car a little so she could have more time. Hopefully, Tom and the gaggle would move on.
“Heff you lost something?” Droog asked, bending to help. He was very tall.
“Um, no, no. I just dropped my keys.” Right. So she should pick them up and not just stand here, hunched over like Quasimodo. She squatted down and reached under the car, feeling only gritty pavement. Took a peek. Great. She’d effectively kicked them out of reach.
“I vould help you, but dee cartilage in my knees has torn and shredded, and I can no longer kneel. Eh heh heh heh.”
One! One beeg mistake! Two! Two bad knees!
“Hallo, Droog. Hallo, woman on the pavement.”
She sighed. Busted.
“Tom, Tom, how are you, my friend?” Droog asked. “I vould like you to meet my date, Mees Honor Holland.”
She looked up. Tom raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing around that mouth. “Oh,” she said flatly. “Hi.”
“Lovely to see you again,” he said.
“Heff you met before?” Droog’s eyebrows rose way, way up on his giant forehead.
Tom just kept looking down at her. “We both live in Manningsport,” he said after a beat, and his accent was so much more appealing than the Count’s. “Met at the pub one night, had a bit of a chat. Small town and all. Have you dropped something, Honor?”
“Um, my car keys,” she said.
He knelt down next to her, and she caught a whiff of his soap. He hadn’t shaved recently, and his jaw was bristly with stubble. Or maybe it wasn’t bristly. Maybe it was soft. Those lips would be soft, that was for sure.
Give us five minutes and we can be ready, the eggs said.
Tom leaned over, and something surged inside her. For one nanosecond, she thought he was going to kiss her, and yes! That would fine! Her eyes fluttered; the left one got stuck, thanks to the clumpy mascara. But no. Of course he wasn’t going to kiss her here on the pavement (or ever). He was reaching for her keys.
Which put his head very close to her, um, special places. Her uterus wobbled, and she pictured the eggs taking up a battering ram.
“Everything all right with your eye?” Tom asked with a knowing grin.
“Everything’s fine.”
She could probably hate this guy, if they spent much more time together. With superhuman eyelid effort, Honor managed to unstick her lashes as Tom groped under the car, then straightened up and handed her the keys. “There you are,” he said, his eyes filled with laughter. Gray eyes.
Kind of a gorgeous color, really. The lake in November, dark and deep.
“So you’re on a date with Droog, are you?” he asked. “Great guy.”
“Yes,” she said briskly. She’d almost forgotten about the Count. “Droog, sorry about that. Let’s get going, shall we?”
“Have fun,” Tom said.
“Tom, I veel see you tomorrow,” Droog said, opening the door of his rusting, maroon-colored Dodge Omni.
“Thank you,” she said to Tom. He smiled over his shoulder as he headed for his car, and damn. That was a Mack truck of a smile. And by the way, he was not built like Ye Typical Math Teacher, no sir. Broad shoulders. Rather perfect ass.
Then he glanced back again, and Honor was abruptly aware that she was still staring after him. He cocked his eyebrow as if knowing she was ogling him. He was probably used to it, she thought as a young (and beautiful) woman cantered to his side. Why didn’t he marry that one, huh? Why meet Honor if women were throwing themselves at him?
The man was not particularly likable. Droog, on the other hand, thought she was luffly. It didn’t make sense to let Down Under start getting all tingly and warm when the man causing those feelings had been such a boor.
* * *
“DO YOU LIKE bowling?” Droog asked a half hour later as they sat in the little restaurant. “I luff eet. Dee crash of dee pins, dee joy on the dee faces of dee cheeldren.” He smiled. “Perhaps we may try it sometime.”
There would be no bowling.
Honor had definitely ruled out marriage and children with Droog Dragul. In addition to the faint fear that he was going to throw his head back and start howling, or start counting things. (One...one pointy knife! Two! Two major blood vessels in dee neck!) Droog had wiped down everything at their table with antibacterial wipes he produced from his purse, including their chairs and the floor around them. “Now I heff created clean space,” he said, smiling.
Dexter the serial killer leaped to mind.
Then Droog ordered water and took a sandwich from his purse. Baloney on white bread.
It was a long eighty-three minutes.
To his credit, when he asked her for a second date, Droog took her rejection well. “Ah, yes, I understand,” he said. “Vee don’t have the cleek.”
“The cleek?” she asked.
He snapped his fingers. “The cleek.”
“Oh. Right. The click.” Honor forced a smile. “But it was very nice meeting you, Droog.”
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Kristan Higgins
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: What if the perfect match is a perfect surprise?Honor Holland has just been unceremoniously rejected by her lifelong crush. And now–a mere three weeks later–Mr. Perfect is engaged to her best friend. But resilient, reliable Honor is going to pick herself up, dust herself off and get back out there…or she would if dating in Manningsport, New York, population 715, wasn′t easier said than done.Charming, handsome British professor Tom Barlow just wants to do right by his unofficial stepson, Charlie, but his visa is about to expire. Now Tom must either get a green card or leave the States–and leave Charlie behind.In a moment of impulsiveness, Honor agrees to help Tom with a marriage of convenience–and make her ex jealous in the process. But juggling a fiancé, hiding out from her former best friend and managing her job at the family vineyard isn′t easy. And as sparks start to fly between Honor and Tom, they might discover that their pretend relationship is far too perfect to be anything but true love….