Speak Now (3 page)

“She told you he was married—No! That he was on parole—No!” Brenda was getting out of control.

“No.” I cut her off. “She told me I had white powder all over my butt.”

They were silent for a moment, registering the facts. Then my closest friends in the entire world burst into laughter.

“Fine, I’m glad you’re all so amused.”

“So what did you do?” Simon finally asked, after choking on an olive.

“I went back to the ladies, dusted myself off—it was flour, incidentally, from the kitchen—got my coat, and went outside to get a cab.”

“That was it? That was your first meeting?” Brenda looked absolutely betrayed.

“I really don’t see how you got from there to a shotgun wedding in—how long ago was this?” Eileen asked.

“It was six weeks and almost three days ago, and it was not a shotgun wedding,” I said pointedly. “And that wasn’t all.”

“What, what, what?”

Ah ha! I know how to work an audience. “Well, there I was waiting for a cab, and the next thing I knew he was next to me again. I don’t know how he did it. He just sort of appeared.”

“And?” Simon demanded.

“And he said, ‘I was going to tell you your ass was covered in flour.’”

There was a collective groan of sympathy, which I found very comforting. “I was absolutely mortified. And it didn’t help that he looked like he was going to start laughing any second. Then he leaned in again, to whisper in my ear, and he said,” wait for it… “‘But it’s a magnificent ass.’”

“Yes!” Eileen and Simon exchanged high fives while Brenda applauded.

“What did you say?” Brenda asked.

“Nothing! It all seemed to happen so fast.” I shook my head, clearing the memory. “Then a cab pulled up and the driver said…something…and when I turned back he was gone.”

“Gone?” Eileen exclaimed.

“Poof, vanished, absorbed into the dark and the fog and the crowd.”

The three of them turned to look appraisingly at my husband.

***

By the time we left the party I had hit the wall of exhaustion again. We went downstairs to our suite and slept all night, all the next day, and all the following night.

Well, mostly we slept.

Chapter 3

I was staring at Jack’s sleeping profile when his left eye opened.

“Charley—” he cleared his throat— “that’s getting to be a very weird habit.” The eye closed. “Suppose I get used to it? I won’t be able to sleep without you looking at me.”

I kissed the corner of his mouth then settled back again, my chin in my hands, regarding him.

“You’re still doing it, aren’t you?”

“I can’t help myself.” I sighed elaborately.

At that he let out a laugh, gave up on further sleep, and turned toward me, propping his head in his hand. “Good morning.”

“You were wonderful last night.”

“You really don’t need to tell me that every morning.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean with the gang. You were wonderful. They loved you.”

“Technically,” he pointed out, “that wasn’t last night.”

“Whatever. They still loved you.”

“Well,” he said, “they were a tough crowd.”

“Oh, they’re a bunch of pussycats.”

“Pussycats?” I sensed a certain skepticism.

“Creampuffs.”

“Mmmm. I could go for a creampuff right about now.” His smile was just the slightest bit wicked.

“Room service?” I suggested. “Creampuffs and coffee for two?”

“Why is it I think we’re talking about different things?” He drew me toward himself just as the phone rang. “Shit,” he said, his face centimeters from mine.

“Shit,” I agreed. “It’s our wakeup call.”

“We’re awake. Make them go away.”

“They won’t.” I rolled away from him, causing him to let out a very flattering grumble. “We’re paying them to do this.”

“Then we’re idiots.”

I laughed and picked up the phone. “Would you believe?” I asked Jack, “it isn’t even a person. It’s a recording.”

“Then I have no qualms about ignoring it. Get over here.”

I hung up. “So much for personal attention and service.”

“Hey lady,” he said, putting on what he must have thought was a Brooklyn accent, “I got your personal service right here.”

“Oh, that’s sexy,” I said flatly. “That’s the way to my heart.”

“I ain’t interested in your heart, doll face,” he persisted, and I reconciled myself to being late for brunch with Uncle Harry.

***

It wasn’t until later, when I was dressing, that I started to feel queasy. Why had I wanted to come home so soon? A sane woman would be in Venice or the South of France at a time like this, not worried about bringing the new hubby over to meet the family’s lunatic elder statesman.

Ever since he had become my guardian, Harry had taken it upon himself to investigate anyone I was involved with. The fact that he had stopped controlling my finances when I’d turned twenty-five hadn’t stopped him from trying to keep control of every other aspect of my life. Possibly because some shady characters had recurring roles in his own personal life, he was deeply suspicious about anyone who came into mine.

Some people thought being over-protective was endearing. These people haven’t been on the receiving end of it. I was sure my uncle would be just itching to dig up anything he could find on Jack. He’d probably already started. Not that he’d find anything.

As usual, I took my anxiety out on the inanimate objects around me. I’d already shredded two pairs of pantyhose and caused a pull in the loosely knitted sweater set I’d planned to wear. I had to opt for a celadon-colored Armani sheath dress instead. I was too pale for the color to look good on me, but at least the dress was linen and unlikely to spontaneously unravel.

“Charley,” Jack called from the bathroom. “What’s your uncle like?” He stood in the doorway, toweling his hair dry and wearing another towel around his hips. Why hadn’t we gone to Bora Bora or Fiji or someplace like normal honeymooners so he could dress like that all the time? “You two must be pretty close.”

I gave up on my search for the little Kate Spade sandals that I was beginning to believe I hadn’t packed. “Close?”

“Well, he invited us over on our second day in town.” He shrugged. “Sounds like he missed you.” I thought about how to reply while Jack went to the walk-in closet to dress. “He raised you after your parents died, didn’t he?”

Sort of, along with the proprietors of boarding schools, camps, and various “retreats” I’d been sent to. “I suppose you could say that.”

“So what’s he like?” Jack came out looking perfect. Perfectly tailored black trousers and a perfectly fitted charcoal cashmere sweater, a perfect black jacket over his arm. Not only a perfect look for him, but exactly the uniform of choice for gorgeous men attending Sunday brunch in San Francisco. How the hell did he do that? He probably knew exactly where his perfect shoes were at all times. “I’m imagining a sort of Lionel Barrymore character,” he said. “The old family patriarch who raises orchids or keeps spaniels or collects first editions.”

I laughed. “Hardly.”

“What then?”

I thought about Harry. “Picture a Beach Boy gone to seed.”

“That’s picturing a Beach Boy.”

I shrugged. “There you have it.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” How to describe Harry? I tried. “When he was young he was pretty much a classic bad boy, but on a spectacular scale. His major ambitions involved surfing in the summer, skiing in the winter, and getting laid as often as possible. He smoked a lot of dope and drank a lot of booze and got kicked out of all the best schools.”

“As long as they were the best,” Jack said reasonably.

“Naturally. He didn’t really grow up until he had to. Until my dad died and Harry had to take over…things.”

Jack pecked me on the cheek in passing. “Such as your lovely self.”

“Exactly,” I said graciously. “And a couple hundred million dollars.”

“Only a couple?”

I ignored him. “But Harry never really matured, if you know what I mean. He was still the same wild man, always pulling outrageous stunts, always just barely on this side of what’s legal. And on top of that he got—” I hesitated, not sure how to put it. “Weird. Paranoid and suspicious and mistrustful.” I accused myself of being redundant while I held a scarf up to see if it would help the dress.

“Smoking a lot of dope will do that to a person,” Jack said. I looked at him enquiringly. “Or so I’ve heard,” he added. “How old is this guy?”

“Mentally? About eighteen. On his driver’s license—if they still let him drive—it’s more like late fifties. He and my father were almost ten years apart.” I gave up on the scarf and went back to the shoe search.

“Your dad was older?”

“Harry says my dad was born old enough for the both of them.” I settled for a less-than-perfect pair of high-heel slides. “I suspect when he says ‘old’ he means ‘mature.’ Just wait,” I warned him. “At some point in the day he’ll tell you, ‘I may be middle-aged but someday you will be too and you won’t have lived through the sixties.’”

Jack laughed. “I think I’m going to like this guy.”

“Everyone does,” I admitted.

“I notice there’s no aunt associated with him.”

“Oh, there have been.” I moved to sit next to Jack on the bed; then I saw the way he was looking at me and thought better of it. “Come out to the living room.” He grinned and followed me. “There were…” I did a quick calculation, “five official aunts and, oh, probably a dozen whose terms of office were too short to make the record.”

“Any kids?”

“My cousin Cece. She’s going on thirty now, and apparently she’s just like Harry.”

“Another black sheep or another surfer?”

“Another pain in the ass. At least she was when she was a little girl,” I said, remembering a particularly nasty incident involving maple syrup and my Trixie Belden book collection. “She got kicked out of her share of schools as well. There were always drugs, of course, and the inevitable ‘bad crowd’ that had corrupted her.”

“You sound like a fan.”

“Well, you know me.” I gathered up my purse, which would have matched the missing sandals beautifully, and checked to make sure it contained the right shade of lipstick. “I hate a cliché. She’s the typical spoiled rich girl whose daddy buys her out of trouble.”

“I can’t wait to meet her. Will she be there today?”

“God, I hope not. It’ll be bad enough without that.” Too late, I realized what I had said. I looked at Jack, draped elegantly on the couch. He raised an eyebrow. “I mean…” I couldn’t think of a good way to finish the sentence.

“Family, huh?”

“Yeah.”

***

Harry’s driver had arrived on time and waited for us. From the direction he took, heading toward Highway 280, I figured we weren’t going to Harry’s apartment in the city but to his house in Hillsborough.

Jack interrupted my train of thought with a question. “Is there an aunt in the picture these days?”

“No,” I told him. “The last time we spoke he told me he’d just hired some guy to cook for him and sort of run the house. He said at his age that’s all he wants from a wife. This way he can have as many mistresses as he likes without ending up in divorce court again.” I rolled my eyes.

Jack grinned. “I swear I’m going to like this guy.”

“Before you fall in love with him,” I warned, “can we agree not to mention anything about finding that woman at the hotel?” I shivered with the sudden sharp memory of her lifeless face.

We hadn’t heard anything from Inspector Yahata since we’d left him Friday night. I was curious about whether the woman had been identified yet, but supposed these things took time. Maybe more time than usual during a weekend, although I doubted being a police inspector was a nine-to-five kind of job.

The papers and local TV news hadn’t had anything on the story. I could only assume the hotel’s public relations agency was earning its keep.

“Why don’t you want Harry to know?”

“Because he’d make something of it. He’d assume it had some meaning, like it was a threat or a warning or something. And before you know it he’d have armed guards camped outside our door.”

“He’s that bad?”

“Trust me,” I said. “I’m sure he’s already got his entire staff trying to find evidence that you’re some sort of gigolo creep bastard—”

“—who’s after your fortune,” Jack supplied.

“—who’s after my fortune,” I agreed. “The last thing we need is to give him a reason to think you’re a gigolo creep bastard who’s putting me in danger.”

Jack looked at me thoughtfully. “This should be an interesting brunch.”

***

I’d forgotten how massive the house was. It seemed to sprawl across the landscape, a conglomeration of arches, tile roofs, stucco, and iron work that comprised the architectural style Old California.

Houses of similar size, if not design, were visible through the trees. To the left was an enormous attempt at a château, and to the right a mock-Tudor monstrosity with predictable red geraniums in boxes at every window.

The rear of the property, I knew, faced the Hillsborough Country Club golf course. I had been a member of the club when I’d lived in the house as a teenager. In the stretches of time when I wasn’t at school or some camp, I’d escaped the house and its inhabitants by swimming, playing tennis, and golfing. Outdoor activities had had the advantage of being of no interest whatsoever to my cousin Cece, who at that time had been going for the world record in obnoxious behavior.

The car came to a stop at the foot of a sprawling staircase that led up to massive wooden doors, complete with heavy iron fittings. Jack gave a low whistle as he got out of the car. “Cozy.”

The doors were suddenly flung open, and Harry stood in the doorway. He threw his arms wide and yelled “Charley!” loud enough to send a flock of doves shooting out of a tree. There he was, wide grin in place, wearing a loose-fitting silk Hawaiian-print shirt, knee-length cargo shorts, and Birkenstocks. “Baby Doll! Get your butt over here and give an old man a hug!”

I approached him warily, not letting go of Jack’s hand until Harry threw his arms around me.

“Damn, girl, you got skinny!” Harry held me tightly. Over his shoulder I saw Jack mouthing “Baby Doll?” with raised eyebrows. Then Harry pushed me away, positioning me at arm’s length to get a better look. “Don’t tell me you’re turning into one of those damn stick women!”

“Hardly.” The only comment Harry ever made to a woman about her appearance was that she looked like she’d lost weight. He figured it was always safe territory. “Harry, I want you to meet Jack.”

Harry’s eyes held mine for a just fraction of a second before he turned to Jack, but it was enough time to see the flash of anger. “Jack!” he said heartily, simultaneously shaking his hand and clapping him on the shoulder. “The famous Jack Fairfax! Of whom I’ve heard so much.” This last was directed at me.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Jack said, in a voice I’d only heard once before, when he’d been addressing an Admiral at a diplomatic party we’d attended in London. It was a long way from the casual, teasing tone I was used to.

I suppose I stared at him in surprise, because there was a moment’s awkward silence. Then Harry boomed again. “Well, let’s not stand here all day! We’ve got some celebrating to do! What are you drinking, Jack?” We moved into the house.

There was no foyer or entry hall. Once inside the door, we were in the “great room” that ran the width of the house and nearly the length, at least on the ground level. It was decorated as it had always been, in sturdy oversized mission-style furniture. Dark cherry pieces with straight, clean lines and comfortable cushions were scattered around on area rugs, forming clusters here and there on the enormous expanse of wide-planked floor. The rear wall consisted of four arched windows looking out on a terrace with a pool and garden below and the golf course beyond. Harry kept talking as he led us to the bar, a huge carved altar rescued from a Watsonville church that had been damaged in the earthquake of ’89. One of the aunts had discovered it and had it converted to suit Harry’s alcoholic purpose.

“Champagne, I think! That only fits an occasion as festive as this! How about a glass of champagne, Charley? Or a mimosa! That’s the thing! Mimosas for our wedding celebration brunch! Let me just call Gordon.” He pressed a button concealed in the ornate carving of the bar and barked into a hidden intercom. “Gordon! Get up here with some O.J.! We need mimosas up here!” Then he turned once again to Jack, a broad smile not reaching his eyes as he said “Mimosa okay with you, Jack? Not too ‘girlie’ for a Navy man?”