Читать книгу Summer at Willow Lake - Сьюзен Виггс - Страница 10

Olivia Bellamy set down the engraved invitation and smiled across the table at her grandmother. “What a lovely idea,” she said. “Congratulations to you and Granddad.”

Nana slowly rotated the tiered array of tiny sandwiches and cakes. Once a month no matter what else was going on in their lives, grandmother and granddaughter met for tea at Astor Court in the Saint Regis Hotel in midtown. They had been doing it for years, ever since Olivia was a pudgy, sullen twelve-year-old in need of attention. Even now, there was something soothing about stepping into the Beaux Arts luxury of elegant furnishings, potted palms and the discreet murmur of harp music.

Nana settled on a cucumber slice garnished with a floret of salmon mousse. “Thank you. The anniversary is three months away, but I’m already getting excited.”

“Why Camp Kioga?” Olivia asked, fiddling with the tea strainer. She hadn’t been there since her last summer before college. By choice, she had put all the drama and angst behind her.

“Camp Kioga is a special place to me and Charles.” Next, Nana sampled a tiny finger sandwich spread with truffle butter. “It’s the place where we first met, and we were married there, under the gazebo, on Spruce Island in the middle of Willow Lake.”

“You’re kidding. I never knew that. Why didn’t I know that?”

“Trust me, what you don’t know about this family could fill volumes. Charles and I were a regular Romeo and Juliet.”

“You never told me this story. Nana, what’s up?”

“Nothing’s up. Most young people don’t give a fig about how their grandparents met and married. Nor should they.”

“I’m giving a fig right now,” Olivia said. “Spill.”

“It was all so long ago, and seems so trivial now. You see, my parents—the Gordons—and the Bellamys came from two different worlds. I grew up in Avalon, never even saw the city until after I was married. Your granddad’s parents even threatened to boycott the wedding. They were determined that their only son would marry well. In those days, that meant somebody with social status. Not some Catskills girl from a mountain camp.”

Olivia was startled by the flicker of hurt she recognized in her grandmother’s eyes. Some wounds, it seemed, never quite healed. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Nana made a visible effort to shake off her mood. “There was a lot of class consciousness back then.”

“Still is,” Olivia said softly.

Nana’s eyebrows shot up, and Olivia knew she’d better change the subject, or she’d be trapped into explaining what she meant by that. She looked expectantly at the teapot. “Is it ready?”

They always split a large pot of Lady Grey, which carried a whisper of lavender along with the bergamot. Olivia’s grandmother nodded and poured. “Anyway,” Nana said, “you have more important things than my ancient history to think about.” Behind her chic black-and-pink glasses, her eyes sparkled and for a moment she looked decades younger. “It’s a grand story, though. I’m sure you’ll hear it this summer. We hope everyone will come for a nice long stay. Charles and I are going to renew our vows at the gazebo, in the exact spot where we first spoke them. We’re going to reenact the wedding as much as we’re able.”

“Oh, Nana. That’s a … wonderful notion.” Deep down, Olivia was cringing. She was sure the idyllic picture in her grandmother’s mind was a far cry from the reality. The camp had ceased operating nine years before and had lain fallow ever since, with minimal maintenance performed by a skeleton crew that mowed the grounds and made sure the buildings were still standing. Some of the Bellamy cousins and other relatives used the place for reunions or vacations, but Olivia suspected the camp had gone to ruin. Her grandparents were sure to be disappointed in the setting for their golden anniversary.

“You know,” Olivia said, determined to be diplomatic, “some of your friends are getting on in years. As I recall, the camp is not wheelchair accessible. People would be more likely to attend if you had the affair at the Waldorf-Astoria or maybe right here at the Saint Regis.”

Jane sipped her tea. “Charles and I discussed it, and decided to do this for us. Much as we love all our friends and family, our golden anniversary is going to be the affair we want. That’s what our wedding was, and that’s what we’ll do fifty years later. We’ve chosen Camp Kioga. It’s a way to celebrate what we’ve been in the past and what we hope to be for the rest of our lives—a happy couple.” Her cup rattled, just slightly, as she set it down in its saucer. “It will be our farewell to the camp.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The golden anniversary celebration will be our last event at Camp Kioga. Afterward, we’ll need to decide what to do about the property.”

Olivia frowned. “Nana? Did I just hear that right?”

“You did. It’s time. We’ve got to come up with a plan for the property. It’s a hundred acres of prime real estate, and it has been privately owned by my family since 1932. Our hope is that we can keep it in the family for our children.” She looked pointedly at Olivia. “Or our grandchildren. Nothing’s sure in this life, but we hope the property won’t be sold to a developer who will put up roads and parking lots and rows of those dreadful tract mansions.”

Olivia didn’t know why the prospect of her grandparents letting go of the property made her feel wistful. She didn’t even like the place. She liked the idea of the camp. Nana’s father had received the property during the Great Depression as payment for a debt, and had built the compound himself, naming it Kioga, which he thought was an Algonquin word for “tranquillity,” but which he later learned was meaningless. After the camp closed in 1997, none of the Bellamy offspring was inclined to take it on.

Her grandmother helped herself to a cornet filled with chocolate ganache. “We’ll discuss it after the anniversary celebration. Best to get everything settled so no one will have to make a decision about that after we’re gone.”

“I hate it when you talk like that. You’re sixty-eight years old, and you just did a senior triathlon—”

“Which I never would have finished if you hadn’t trained with me.” Jane patted her hand, then looked pensive. “So many important moments of my life took place there. The camp floated my family through the Great Depression, just barely. After Charles and I married and took over, the place became a part of who we are.”

So typical of Nana, Olivia reflected. She always looked for ways to hold on to things, even when she would be better off letting go.

“That’s all in the future.” Nana’s manner turned brisk as she took out some pages she’d obviously printed off from Olivia’s Web site. “We have business to discuss. I want you to prepare the property for our gala celebration.”

Olivia let out a short laugh. “I can’t do that, Nana.”

“Nonsense. It says right here you provide expert research, design and services to stage and enhance real estate for optimum market presence.”

“All that means is that I’m a house fluffer,” Olivia said. Some of the designers in her field objected to the expression, which definitely lacked a certain gravitas. They preferred house stager or property enhancer. Fluffer sounded … well, fluffy.

The expression was fairly descriptive of what the job entailed. In the service of people seeking to display their property at its best, Olivia was a master of illusion. An artist of deception. Making a property look irresistible was usually a simple, low-cost process, incorporating elements the seller already owned, but combining them in different ways.

She loved her job and did it well, and her reputation was growing accordingly. In some parts of Manhattan, agents would not even consider listing a property until it had been fluffed by Olivia Bellamy of Transformations. The job was not without its challenges, though. Since she’d launched her own firm, Olivia had learned that there was a lot more to property staging than weeding the flower beds, painting everything white and turning on the bread-making machine.

Still, a project the size of Kioga was not in the realm of her expertise.

“You’re talking about a hundred acres of wilderness, a hundred fifty miles from here. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“I would.” Jane pushed an old-fashioned, leather-bound photo album across the table to her. “Everyone has a notion of summer camp in their mind, whether or not they even went to camp. All you have to do is create that illusion once again. Here are some pictures taken through the years to get you started.”

The photos were, for the most part, classic views of rustic cabins clustered on the shores of a lake in a pristine forest. Olivia had to admit that there was something both peaceful and evocative about the place. Nana was right about the illusion—or maybe it was a delusion. Olivia had had a terrible time at summer camp. Yet somewhere in the back of her mind, there lived an idealized summer place, free of taunting children, sunburns and mosquitoes.

Her imagination kicked in, as it always did when she viewed a property. Despite her reluctance, she almost immediately started seeing ways to dress it up.

Stop it, she told herself.

“I don’t exactly have the best memories of my summers there,” she reminded her grandmother.

“I know, dear. But this summer could be your opportunity to exorcize those demons. Create new memories.” Interesting. Olivia hadn’t realized her grandmother had known about her suffering. Why didn’t you stop it? she wanted to ask.

“This project could take the entire summer. I’m not sure I want to be away that long.”

Nana lifted an eyebrow, high over the rim of her glasses. “Why?”

Olivia couldn’t keep it in any longer. Her excitement spilled out, along with her next words. “Because I think I have a reason to stay.”

“That reason being a Brad Pitt look-alike with a Harvard law degree?”

Deep breath, Olivia, she cautioned herself. You’ve been here before, and you’ve been disappointed. Take it easy. She couldn’t, of course. She nearly came out of her seat as she said, “I think Rand Whitney is going to ask me to marry him.”

Nana took off her glasses and set them on the table. “Oh, my dear, darling Olivia.” She used her napkin to dab her eyes.

Olivia was glad she had decided to tell Nana. There were some in her family who would react with more skepticism. Some—her mother being one of these—would be quick to remind her that at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, Olivia already had two failed engagements under her belt.

As if she could ever forget.

She pushed aside the thought and added, “He’s selling his apartment downtown. It’s my latest project, in fact. I need to check on the finishing touches this afternoon because it’s going on the market tomorrow. When he gets home from the airport, I’ll be there, waiting for him. He’s been in L.A. all week at the West Coast office of his firm. He said when he gets back, he’s going to ask me.” “To marry him.”

“I assume so.” Olivia felt the slightest flicker of unease. He hadn’t actually said that.

“So selling his place is a good thing.”

Olivia felt herself smiling all over. “He’s looking at properties on Long Island.”

“Oh, my. The man is ready to settle down.”

Olivia’s grin widened. “So you’ll understand … I need to think about your offer.”

“Certainly, dear.” She signaled for the check with a familiar, regal gesture that never failed to bring a white-gloved waiter scurrying. “I hope it all turns out perfectly for you.”

As she hurried up the stairs to Rand’s apartment near Gramercy Park, Olivia felt like the luckiest girl in the world. Here she was, enjoying the rare privilege of setting the scene for her own engagement, right down to the last detail. When Randall Whitney asked her to marry him, he would do so in a place created by her own imagination and hard work. So often in these situations, it was the job of the gentleman to create the proper ambience, and so often, he failed.

Not this time, Olivia thought, enjoying a delicious tingle of excitement. This time, everything would be just right.

Unlike the other times. With Pierce, the engagement had been doomed from the start by something Olivia refused to acknowledge until she discovered him taking a shower with another girl. With Richard, the moment of humiliation had come when she’d caught him using her ATM card to steal from her. Two strikes had left her doubting her own judgment … until Rand. This time, she wouldn’t get it wrong.

She opened the front door, turned and pictured the way the apartment would look through Rand’s eyes. Perfect, that’s how, she thought. The place was the epitome of contemporary luxury, clean but not fussed over (even though she had fussed over every little thing for days), tasteful but not decorated (even though she had planned it obsessively).

In the taxi ride from midtown, Olivia had gone over and over the scenario in her mind until she was nearly giddy with anticipation. In less than an hour, Rand would come through the door and step into this ideal setting. He probably wouldn’t go down on one knee; that wasn’t his style. Instead, he’d wear that raffish, have-I-got-a-deal-for-you grin as he reached into his jacket for the gleaming black box with the emerald-shaped logo of Harry Winston. Rand was a Whitney, after all. There were perks.

Forcing herself to move with attractive dignity, she paused at the sideboard and checked the angle of the champagne bottle in the ice bucket. The label didn’t need to be turned all the way out. Any practiced eye could pick out the mark of Dom Perignon, just from the silhouette.

She spared only a glance—half a glance—into the mirror above the sideboard, which was actually a tansu chest she’d rented from a furniture warehouse. Mirrors were important in her line of work, not for studying one’s reflection, but for creating light and dimension and ambience in a room, and for checking—oh so briefly—one’s teeth for lipstick. Anything more than that was a waste of time.

Then she saw it—a flicker of movement in the reflection. Even as a scream erupted from her, she grabbed the Dom Perignon by the neck of the bottle and swung around, ready to do battle.

“I always did want to split a bottle of bubbly with you, darling,” said Freddy Delgado, “but maybe you should let me do the honors.”

Her best friend, incongruously good-looking even in a borrowed apron and holding a feather duster, strode across the room and took the bottle from her.

She snatched it back and shoved it into the ice bucket. “What are you doing here?”

“Just finishing up. I got a key from your office and came right over.”

Her “office” was a corner of the sitting room in her apartment, which was even farther downtown. Freddy had his own keys to her place, but this was the first time he’d abused the privilege. He removed the apron. Underneath, he was wearing cargo pants, Wolverine workboots and a tight Spamalot T-shirt. His stylishly cut hair was tipped with white-blond highlights. Freddy was a theater-set designer and aspiring actor. He was also single, well-spoken, and he dressed with exquisite taste. All reasons to suppose he was gay. But he wasn’t. Just lonely.

“I get it. You’ve lost your job again.” She grabbed a cloth from his back pocket and dried the water spots from the spilled ice.

“How did you guess?”

“You’re working for me. You only work for me when there’s no better gig around.” Scanning the apartment, she couldn’t help but notice he’d done a stellar job putting the finishing details on her design work. He always did. She wondered if their friendship would change after she got married. Rand had never liked Freddy, and the feeling was mutual. She hated it that loyalty to one felt like betrayal to the other.

“The funding fell through for the show I was working on. I hate when that happens.” Although he was a talented set designer, Freddy tended to get hired by shows with thin-to-nonexistent financing, and he often found himself abruptly out of a job. Fortunately for Olivia, he was a world-class builder, painter and all-around creative talent. “By the way,” he said, charming her with a smile. “You really outdid yourself with this place. It looks like a million bucks.”

“One point two million, to be exact.”

He gave a low whistle. “Ambitious. Oops, cobweb.” He went to the built-in media shelves and fluffed at a high corner with his feather duster. “And oops again,” he added. “I almost missed this.”

“Missed what?”

“The DVD collection.”

The slender cases and boxed sets were lined up neatly on the shelf. “What about it?” she asked.

“You’ve got to be kidding. You’ll never sell this place with Moulin Rouge in full view.”

“Hey, I liked that movie. Lots of people liked that movie.”

Freddy was a movie buff. A major, annoying-to-the-point-of-snobbery movie-trivia champ. If it had been put on celluloid, Freddy had seen it and probably memorized it, too. He made short work of the DVD shelf, tucking Moulin Rouge into a drawer, along with Phantom of the Opera and Ready To Wear. “They’re turnoffs,” he said. “Nobody wants to make a deal with a guy who watches dreck like that.” He squatted down and peered into a cupboard where the rest of the movies were stored. “Aha. This is much better,” he said.

“Night Nurses From Vegas?” Olivia asked. “Flight of the Penis? No way. You’re not putting porn out where people can see it.”

“Spine out,” Freddy insisted. “It’s subtle, but it says the seller is just a regular guy who doesn’t put on airs. What are you doing dating a guy who watches porn, anyway?”

The discs had been party favors from a bachelor party, but she didn’t feel like explaining that to Freddy. She smiled mysteriously and said, “Who says Rand is the one watching porn?” “Give me a break.”

“I am,” she said, “whether I like it or not. Next time you decide to get back on the payroll, clear it with me.”

“You would have said yes.” He jammed the handle of the feather duster into his back pocket. “You always say yes. That’s another reason I’m here.”

“I don’t get it.”

His customary sunny smile disappeared. He fixed his sincere, brown-eyed gaze on Olivia and sank to one knee before her. Reaching into his apron pocket, he drew out a small black box. “Olivia. I have something to ask you.”

“Oh, please. Is this a joke?” She laughed, but there was an intensity in his gaze that unsettled her.

“I’m deadly serious.”

“Then get up. I can’t take you seriously at all when you’re on the floor like that.”

“Fine. Whatever you like.” With a long-suffering sigh, he stood up and opened the jewel box. Inside lay a pair of silver earrings. From one dangled the letter N and from the other, O. “A friendly reminder to just say no.”

“Come on, Freddy.” She gave him a playful shove. “You’ve had a problem with Rand from day one. I wish you’d get over that.”

“I’m begging you, Livvy. Don’t marry him.” He swept her dramatically into his arms. “Come away with me instead.”

“You’re unemployed.” She pushed away from him.

“Not so. I have the best employer in the city—you. And he’s late, isn’t he? The scoundrel. What sort of man shows up late to pop the question?”

“A man who’s stuck in rush-hour traffic from the airport.” Olivia went to the window and looked down—way down—at the avenue, so crammed with taxis that it resembled a river of yellow sludge. “And nobody says scoundrel anymore. Don’t write him off just yet, Freddy.”

“Sorry, you’re right. Bad, Freddy. Bad.” He made a self-flagellating motion. “It’s just that I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Again. He didn’t say so aloud, but the word hovered in the brief silence between them.

“I’m fine,” Olivia said. “Rand is nothing like—” She struggled to quell the emotional flurry in her gut. “No. I won’t say it. I won’t mention them in the same breath.”

She physically shook herself. Don’t go there. The trouble was, there was here. She couldn’t escape her own life. The fact that she had been engaged and dumped twice before was as much a part of her as her gray eyes, her size-seven feet. In her circle of friends, her ill luck with men was something people joked about, like in the old days, when they used to joke about Olivia’s weight. And just like in the old days, she laughed right along with them, bleeding inside.

“Smart girl,” Freddy said. “Rand Whitney is his own brand of disaster, unlike any other.”

“Oh, now you’re being melodramatic.”

“He’s all wrong for you, sweetheart.”

“You know what?” she said. “I don’t need this.

You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me. You didn’t hire me in the first place.”

She tapped her foot. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to get you to leave.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to get you to dump Rand.”

They glared at each other, and the strain on their friendship thrummed between them. They’d met as seniors at Columbia, and had been best friends ever since. They’d even gotten matching tattoos one night before graduation, sipping liquid courage from a bottle of Southern Comfort while Jorge, the tattoo artist, created a butterfly in the small of each of their backs, a blue one for Freddy and a pink one for Olivia. Freddy had never known the old, fat, miserable Olivia. He believed she had always been fabulous. It was one of her favorite things about him.

Muttering warnings and dire predictions under his breath, he handed over his apron and duster and left. Olivia stowed the cleaning supplies, took out her cell phone and checked her messages. The least Rand could do was let her know if he was going to be late. Of course, if he was on a plane, he couldn’t very well do that, could he?

She could always call the airline, check his flight status, but she didn’t know his airline or flight number. What kind of girlfriend doesn’t know her boyfriend’s flight number? A busy one, she thought. One who’s used to having a boyfriend who travels half the time. He’d be here any minute, she told herself. She slipped a hand into her pocket and fingered the silly earrings Freddy had given her. What did Freddy know? This was right. She was ready to settle down with Rand, to make a life, have babies. The urge was so palpable that her stomach clenched.

Turning in a slow circle to survey the apartment, she felt a surge of pride and satisfaction. It was remarkable, she mused, the way minor details could matter so much, the way a shade of color or angle of light could set a mood. These things had a huge impact on buyers. A property that had been skillfully staged nearly always fetched a higher price.

Many people scratched their heads, claiming they didn’t know why there should be a pair of flip-flops haphazardly parked by the shower, or why a well-thumbed paperback copy of A Man In Full should be open and placed facedown on a nightstand. Olivia did, though. It had nothing to do with aesthetics and everything to do with human nature.

People liked to think of themselves as living a certain way, being surrounded by certain things. Creature comforts, signs of sophistication, evidence of success and, probably most important and least tangible, that sense of home, of safety and belonging. And even though what she did was all smoke and mirrors, the feelings her best work produced were real.

In her business, the key question was, When I walk into this place, do I feel like taking off my shoes, pouring a glass of sherry at the sideboard, then settling into a cushy chair with a good book and sighing, “I’m home”?

Forty-five minutes later, she was trying out the cushy chair and struggling to stave off a yawn. She tried Rand’s cell phone and his voice mail picked up on the first ring, indicating that his was still turned off. He was probably still in the air.

She waited another thirty-one minutes before heading into the kitchen. This was also beautifully arranged, right down to the retro apple design on the tea towels from a vintage-linens shop she frequented. One of the keys to staging was to find authentic things that had lost that artificial sheen of newness. The tea towels, faded but not shabby, perfectly fit the bill.

Olivia headed for the pantry, stocked with imported pasta from Dean & DeLuca, cold-pressed olive oil, pomegranate juice and dolphin-safe tuna. The stuff Rand usually ate, like Lucky Charms and canned ravioli, now lay hidden in covered wicker baskets that looked as though they wanted to go on a picnic.

She pulled out a basket and grabbed a bag of Cheetos. One of the many nutritionists she’d been sent to as a chubby teenager had counseled her about mood eating.

Screw that, she thought, ripping into the bag of Cheetos, which opened with a cheese-flavored sigh. Screw everything.

For good measure, she grabbed an Alsatian beer—another contrivance; he usually drank Bud—from the stainless-steel Sub-Zero fridge. She took a long, defiant swig and belched aloud.

She was about ten minutes into the Cheetos-and-beer-fest when she heard the front door open and close.

“Hey?” called a voice from the entryway.

Uh-oh. She looked at the orange dust clinging to her fingertips. It was probably crusted around her mouth, too.

“I’m back,” Rand called unnecessarily. Then: “Wow. Hey, this place looks awesome.”

Olivia threw the Cheetos bag and the beer bottle in the trash and rushed to the sink to wash her hands. “In the kitchen,” she answered, her voice a tad shrill. “I’ll be right out.”

She was bent over the sink, her hair falling to one side as she rinsed her mouth, when he walked in.

“Olivia, you’re a freaking genius,” he said, opening his arms.

She hastily wiped her mouth with a tea towel. “I am, aren’t I,” she said and walked into his arms.

He held her for a moment, then kissed her forehead. “You need to bill my real-estate agent for everything you’ve done here.”

Olivia froze. Her heart knew, even before her mind caught on. The awareness prickled up her spine and over her scalp. There was something in the way a man held a woman when he was about to let her go. The knowledge was in his frame and in his muscles—a tangible stiff reluctance. The air of discomfiture hovering around him was unmistakable.

She stepped back, stared up at his handsome face. “Oh, my God,” she said. “You’re breaking up with me.”

“What?” Her blunt observation clearly took him by surprise. “Hey, listen, babe. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The protest only underscored her conviction. She was right, and they both knew it. Many women with more powerful denial mechanisms than Olivia were able to shut out the warning sign. Not Olivia, not with her sensitive radar, not after two previous failures had left her bleeding. She was like one of those dogs trained to an electric fence. She only had to be popped twice, and then she got it.

The Cheetos and beer formed a cold, unpleasant knot in her stomach. It isn’t going to happen again, she thought. Not even if I have to do it first. “I completely misread you,” she said. “God, what an idiot.” She took another step away from him.

“Slow down,” he said, and the hand he laid on her arm was gentle and made her want to cry.

“Do it fast,” she snapped at him. “Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Get it over with quick.”

“You’re jumping to the wrong conclusion.”

“Am I?” She folded her arms across her middle. Don’t cry, she told herself, blinking away the tears that boiled behind her contact lenses. Save the crying for later. “All right. How about telling me exactly what you intend to do after selling this apartment?”

His gaze flirted ever so briefly with the light fixture on the ceiling, the one she’d replaced at two o’clock this afternoon. That was another symptom of man-on-the-run. He didn’t want to meet her eyes. “Something came up while I was in L.A.,” he told her, and despite his obvious discomfort with her, his face lit with enthusiasm. “They want me there, Liv.”

She held her breath. He was supposed to say, I told them I couldn’t make a decision until I talked to you. She already knew, though. With a dry laugh of disbelief, she said, “You told them yes, didn’t you?”

He didn’t deny it. “The firm’s going to create a new position for me.”

“What, asshole-in-residence?”

“Olivia, I know we talked about a future together. I’m not ruling that out. You could come with me.”

“And do what?”

“It’s L.A., Liv. You can do anything you want.”

Marry you? Have your babies? She knew that wasn’t what he meant.

“My whole life, my family, my home, my business, everything is here in New York. I put the last five years of myself into Transformations,” she said. “I built it. I’m not going to just walk away.”

“L.A. needs a company that does what you do,” he claimed. “The market’s just as hot there as it is here.

Hotter.” She thought about starting over from scratch, all over again. Networking, cultivating contacts, doing public relations, getting out the word of mouth. The idea exhausted her. She had finally whittled her work hours down to a manageable number, but it had taken years to get there. Starting over in L.A. would be even harder. There, her name and connections wouldn’t open any doors for her as they had in Manhattan. This can’t be happening, she thought. Not again.

“Say you love me,” she challenged him. “Say you can’t live without me. And mean it.”

“When did you turn into such a drama queen?”

“You know what?” she said, shaking back her hair and squaring her shoulders, “if I loved you enough, I would do it. I wouldn’t care. I’d be packing my things right now, and gladly.”

“What do you mean, love me enough?” he demanded.

“To follow you anywhere. But I don’t. And that’s a very liberating notion, Rand.”

“I don’t get you.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s a simple situation. You can move to L.A. with me or not. Your choice.”

My choice, thought Olivia. Surprisingly enough, she realized she did have a choice. “All right, then,” she said, somehow getting the words past a sudden, breath-stealing agony. “Not.”

And with that, she headed for the door. She’d done well this time—this third time. But if she lingered any longer, her control might waver. She passed through the foyer, noting the artful placement of the red plum blossom plant, which added an auspicious je ne sais quoi to the entryway. It was hard to miss the irony of this beautifully composed, staged setting. She considered kicking the damn thing over, but that would be so … so un-Bellamy-like.

She took the stairs to avoid waiting for the elevator. She had tried that the first time, with Pierce. She still remembered standing in the lobby, willing him to come bursting out the door, shouting, “Wait! I was wrong! What was I thinking?”

It never worked that way except for people like Kate Hudson or Reese Witherspoon. People like Olivia Bellamy took the stairs.

She didn’t even remember the taxi ride home. She blindly overpaid the cabby and, shell-shocked, climbed the stairs to her brownstone.

“Oh, this is not good,” her neighbor, Earl, said, not bothering with hello as he stepped out into the foyer between their first-floor apartments. “You’re home way too soon.”

A silver-haired older man who had come up through school with Olivia’s father, Anthony George Earl the Third owned the brownstone. Since his second wife had left him, he claimed Olivia was the only woman he wanted in his life. In a flurry of midlife ambition, he was taking cooking lessons. At the moment, the rich scent of coq au vin wafted from his kitchen, but it only made Olivia feel queasy. She wished she hadn’t told him she thought Rand was going to pop the question today.

Although Earl was divorced and lived alone, he turned and called to someone in his apartment. “Our girl’s back. And it’s not good.”

Our girl. He only referred to her like that to one person—his best friend. She scowled at Earl. “You told him?” Without waiting for a reply, she pushed past Earl and stepped into his apartment. “Daddy?”

Philip Bellamy rose from a wing chair and opened his arms to Olivia. “The rat bastard.” He pulled her into a hug. Her father was her rock, and probably the sole reason she had survived her turbulent adolescence. She leaned against his chest, breathing in the comforting scent of his aftershave. But only for a moment. If she leaned on him too hard, she’d lose the ability to stand on her own.

“Ah, Lolly,” he said, using the old nickname. “I’m sorry.”

There was something phony in her father’s tone; didn’t he know she could hear it? Pulling back, she studied his face. He looked like Cary Grant, everyone had always said so because of the cleft in his chin and those killer eyes. He was—had always been—a tall, elegant man, the sort you saw at museum fund-raisers and at weekend house parties in the Hamptons.

“What’s going on?” she asked him.

“Does something need to be going on in order for me to visit my only child and my best friend?”

“You never come downtown unannounced.” Olivia glared at Earl again. “I can’t believe you told him.” She also couldn’t believe both Earl and her father knew it would go badly, that she would come home upset and in need of comforting. She supposed that, this being the third time, they had learned to expect false alarms from her. “I need to check on Barkis,” she said, fumbling for her keys and stepping out into the hallway.

She let herself in, and despite the blow she’d taken, Barkis was Barkis. He came bursting through his little dog door and sailed into her arms. Olivia’s parents thought the dog door was a security breach, but she deemed it necessary, given her crazy work schedule. She didn’t worry about break-ins anyway. Earl was a playwright who worked at home and had the watchdog instincts Barkis seemed to lack.

What the little dog had in abundance was exuberance. Just the sight of her caused him to do a dance of joy. Olivia often wished she was as fabulous as her dog thought she was. She set him down to pet him, which sent him into paroxysms of ecstasy.

Just being home lifted her spirits a little. Her apartment wasn’t all that special, but at least it was hers, filled with a profusion of color and light and texture, created in layers over the three years she’d lived here. This was as un–New York as an apartment could get, according to her mother, and that was not a compliment. It was far too warm, even dangerously cozy, painted in deep glowing autumn colors and filled with overstuffed furniture that owed more to comfort than to fashion.

“You’re such a fine designer,” her mother often said. “What happened here?”

Plants in colorful pots bloomed on every windowsill—not the spare, sleek-tongued tropicals that indicated taste and sophistication, but Boston ferns and African violets, primroses and geraniums. The back garden surrounding the tiny flagstone-paved patio was no different, its candy-colored blooms brightening the brick privacy wall on all three sides. Sometimes she sat out here and pretended the rush of traffic was the sound of a river, that she lived in a place with room for her piano and all her favorite things, in a setting of green trees and open space. As her relationship with Rand progressed, children entered the picture, tumbling into her fantasy in laughing profusion. Three or four of them, at least. So much for that, she thought. Right dream, wrong guy.

Her father and Earl barged in and went to the not-very-well-stocked liquor cabinet. “What’ll it be?” asked Earl.

“Campari and soda,” her father said. “Rocks.” “I was talking to Olivia.”

“She’ll have the same.” Her father lifted one eyebrow, looking young and mischievous, and Olivia was grateful for once that he was not a sentimental man. If he offered sympathy right now, she might just melt. She nodded, forcing a wan smile, then looked around the apartment. If things had gone the way she’d anticipated today, this would be a much different moment. She’d be looking at her place through new eyes and feeling bittersweet, because she would soon be moving on with her life, planning a future with Rand Whitney. Instead, she saw the place where she would probably live forever, turning into an odd spinster.

Olivia and her father sat down at the bistro table by the window overlooking the garden and sipped their aperitifs. Earl managed to rustle up a tray of pita triangles and hummus.

Olivia had no appetite. She felt like a survivor of some disaster, shocky and tender, assessing her injuries. “I’m an idiot,” she said, the ice clinking in her glass as she set it on the wrought-iron table.

“You’re a sweetheart. What’s-his-name is a world-class heel,” her father said.

She shut her eyes. “God, why do I do this to myself?”

“Because you’re a …” Always careful with words, her father paused to find the right ones.

“Three-time loser,” Olivia suggested.

“I was going to say hopeless romantic.” He smiled at her fondly.

She knocked back the rest of her drink. “I guess you’re half-right. I’m hopeless.”

“Oh, now it starts,” Earl said. “Let me take out my violin.”

“Come on. Don’t I get to wallow for at least one night?”

“Not over him,” her father said.

“He’s not worth it,” said Earl. “No more than Pierce or Richard was worth it.” He spoke the names of her previous two failures with exaggerated disdain.

“Here’s the thing about broken hearts,” Philip said. “You can always survive them. Always. No matter how deep the hurt, the capacity to heal and move on is even stronger.”

She wondered if he was talking about his divorce from her mother, all those years ago. “Thanks, guys,” she said. “The whole you’re-too-good-for-him-anyway routine worked once. Maybe twice. This is the third time, and I have to consider that the fault might be with me. I mean, what are the odds of meeting three rat bastards in a row?”

“Honey, this is Manhattan,” her father said. “The place is crawling with them.”

“Quit blaming yourself,” Earl advised. “You’ll give yourself a complex.”

She reached down and scratched Barkis behind the ears, one of his favorite spots. “I think I already have a complex.”

“No,” said Earl, “you have issues. There’s a difference.”

“And one of those issues is that you mistake your need for love for actually being in love,” her father observed. He watched a lot of Dr. Phil.

“Oh, good one,” Earl said, and they high-fived one another across the table.

“Hello? Breaking heart here,” Olivia reminded them. “You’re supposed to be helping me, not practicing armchair psychology.”

Both her father and Earl grew serious. “You want to go first, or me?” Earl asked.

Her father fed another tidbit to the dog. Olivia noticed he wasn’t eating or drinking, and felt guilty for upsetting him. “Take it away, maestro,” he said to Earl.

“There’s really not that much to say,” Earl told her, “except that you didn’t love Rand. Or the others. You only think Rand was special because he seemed so perfect for you.”

“He’s moving to L.A.,” she confessed. “He never even checked to see if that would be all right with me. He just expected me to go along.” She felt her chest expand, and knew she was inches from tears—because it was true that she didn’t love Rand enough … but she had loved him a little.

“You’re … what, twenty-seven years old?” Earl continued. “You’re a baby. An emotional newborn. You haven’t even scratched the surface of what love is.”

Her father nodded. “You never got past the early-crush phase. You were strolling in Central Park and fixing candlelit meals for each other, and he was parading you in front of his friends. That’s not love, not the kind you deserve. That’s like … a warm-up exercise.”

“How do you know that, Dad?” she demanded, crushed that he had managed to sum up her entire relationship with Rand so handily. Then she caught the look on her father’s face, and backed off. Even though her love life was always under the microscope, her parents’ marriage and divorce were protected by a conspiracy of silence.

“There’s a kind of love that has the power to save you, to get you through life,” her father said. “It’s like breathing. You have to do it or you’ll die. And when it’s over, your soul starts to bleed, Livvy. There’s no pain in the world like it, I swear. If you were feeling that now, you wouldn’t be able to sit up straight or have a coherent conversation.”

She met her father’s gaze. He so rarely spoke to Olivia about matters of the heart, so she was inclined to listen. His words grabbed at something deep inside her. To love like that … it was impossible. It was frightening. “Why would anyone want that?”

“It’s what living is about. It’s the reason you go through life. Not because you’re compatible or you look good together or your mothers attended Mary-mount at the same time.”

Clearly, these two had studied and discussed Rand Whitney’s résumé.

“I still feel like crap,” she said, knowing somehow that they were right.

“Of course you do,” her father said. “And you’re entitled to feel that way for a day or two. But don’t mistake that feeling for grief over lost love. You can’t lose what you never had in the first place.” He swirled his glass, the ice clinking against the crystal.

Olivia rested her chin in her hand. “Thanks for being so great, Dad.”

“He’s the mother you never had.” Earl made no secret of his dislike for Pamela Lightsey Bellamy, who still used her married name, years after the divorce.

“Hey,” Philip warned.

“Well, it’s true,” Earl said.

Olivia drank the rest of her Campari and gave the ice to a thirsty-looking African violet. “So now what?”

“Now we have coq au vin for dinner, and you’ll probably have more vin than coq, but that’s okay,” Earl said.

“Mom is going to hate this,” she said. “She had high hopes for Rand. I can just hear her now—’What did you do to run him off?’”

“Pamela has always been such a lovely woman,” said Earl. “Are you sure you’re an only child? Maybe she ate the others when they were young.”

Olivia grinned over the rim of the highball glass. “She would never do that. Mom has too much fun messing with people’s heads. I bet she’d like to have ten of me if she could.”

It had taken Olivia’s entire adolescence to finally lose the weight that had made her such a target for bullies, and gain the approval of her mother. Ironically but not surprisingly, all it had taken was the loss of forty or sixty pounds, depending on how much she was lying to herself. Once the slender, chic Olivia emerged from her cocoon of obesity, Pamela had a whole new set of ambitions for her only daughter. It never occurred to Pamela to wonder why Olivia had only found success in losing weight when she left home for college.

“I wish there were ten of you,” Earl said loyally, clinking his glass to hers. “You’re adorable, and it never would have worked out with Rand Whitney anyway.”

“Still, it would have been fun if she was married to a Whitney,” her father mused.

“Bullshit. She’d be so busy with charity fund-raisers and gallery openings, we’d never see her. Plus, she’d be an alcoholic in a few years, and where’s the fun in that?”

“I don’t believe you guys,” said Olivia. “If you were so convinced I’d be miserable with Rand, why didn’t you tell me months ago?”

“Would you have listened?” Her father cocked an eyebrow.

“Are you kidding? He’s Rand Whitney. He looks like Brad Pitt.”

“Which should have been your first warning sign,” Earl pointed out. “Never trust a man who gets collagen injections.”

“He doesn’t—” Olivia cut herself off. “It was just the one time, for that Vanity Fair feature.” The magazine had made her even more crazy about him, emphasizing his blond good looks, his effortless charm, his insistence that being a Whitney didn’t define him, his assurance that he worked for a living just like everyone else. Well, like everyone else, except for that handy trust fund.

In the article, Olivia had been reduced to a single line: “Rand Whitney is protective of his privacy. When asked about romance, he says only, ‘I’ve met someone special. She’s wonderful, and that’s all I can tell you.’”

There was only one problem. A dozen other women also thought the statement was about them. When the article came out, Olivia and Rand had laughed about it, and she had been touched by the pride that lit his face. He had his insecurities like everyone else.

And now he had his freedom.

She resigned herself to spending the evening with her father and Earl. It was one of the first warm spring nights of the season, so Earl insisted on bringing over the coq au vin to the patio for dining alfresco. She, her dad and Earl even played the toasting game. They went around the table, taking turns finding one thing to drink to, the goal being to prove to themselves that no matter what else happened in the world, they had something to be grateful for.

“Voice dictation software,” Earl said, raising a glass. “I despise typing.”

“I’m toasting guys who can cook,” Philip said. “Thanks for dinner.” He turned to Olivia. “Your turn.”

“Once-a-month heartworm pills,” she said with a fond glance at Barkis.

Her father regarded her with kindly eyes. “Too bad they don’t make them for humans.”

He and Earl had seen her through this two times before. They knew the drill. And the depressing thing about that was, so did she. She felt … stuck. There was a point in her past that still held her captive. She knew what that moment was. She’d been seventeen, spending her last summer before college at camp, working as a counselor. That had been the only time she’d truly given her heart—fully, fearlessly, without reservation. It had ended badly and she didn’t know it at the time, but she had gotten stuck there, mired in emotional quicksand. She still hadn’t figured out how to move on.

Maybe her grandmother was offering her an opportunity to do that. “You know what?” she said, jumping up from the table. “I don’t have time to sit around and wallow.”

“So we’re practicing speed breakups now?”

“Sorry, but you guys will have to excuse me. I need to pack my bags,” she said, taking Nana’s photo album out of her briefcase. “I’m starting a new project first thing in the morning.” She took a deep breath, surprised to feel a beat of hopeful excitement. “I’m going away for the summer.”