Wonderful You (35 page)

* * *

“
W
asn’t it a wonderful weekend?” Zoey cooed as she curled up next to Ben in her bed where, overhead, a soft rain made gentle taps on the skylight. “The most wonderful wedding ever.”

“Wonderful.” He nodded.
Almost as wonderful as ours will be.

“And wasn’t India the most beautiful bride you ever saw?” She sighed.

“Ummhmm.” He ran his fingers along her forearm, a vision of Zoey draped in white lace playing in his imagination.

“And wasn’t it funny when they walked into August’s this morning?” She giggled. “Imagine them spending their wedding night in Captain Jon’s.”

“I’m still not certain I understand what Captain Jon’s is.”

“It’s an old mansion in Devlin’s Light. It was built by one of India’s ancestors, Captain Jonathan Devlin, and kept in the family till a few years back, when the Devlin family gave it and the surrounding grounds to the town. The historic society maintains it and rents it out for weddings and parties and every year they have several big fund-raisers there. Fancy costume balls and stuff like that.”

“And that’s where India and Nick wanted to spend their wedding night?”

Zoey laughed and said, “I have the feeling there was more to it that just that, like there’s some secret between her and Nick. Darla made some joke about revisiting the scene of the crime, but neither the bride nor the groom made any effort to clarify that so I let it pass.”

“Is it like a hotel?”

“Nope. Just a big old house, beautifully furnished and impeccably maintained. My mother and I went to a concert there last year with August. I’m pretty sure they don’t, as a rule, rent rooms out for overnight. I think it was just a concession to India, because she’s administrator of the Devlin Trust, which kicks a goodly portion of the money that maintains the grounds and the building. But there’s certainly no room service. That’s why they came to August’s for breakfast this morning.” Zoey turned and stretched in Ben’s arms. “And don’t you love Devlin’s Light?”

You, Zoey. I love you.

“Ben, I said—”

“Yes, of course. It’s a wonderful
place. I wouldn’t
mind owning a summer place there myself.”

“Really?” She squirmed happily.
Yes! He is staying. Nicky was wrong, wrong, wrong.

“Really.” Ben noticed the litt
le smile that had turned the corn
ers of her mouth upward. “And what, may I ask, is that little grin for?”

“It’s for you, Ben.” She pulled him back down to her. “Now, come here and
really
give me something to smile about.”

And of course, he did.

* * *

“
B
en, the oddest thing happened today,” Zoey told him the following Wednesday when he stopped at the bungalow with three bags of groceries and a six-pack of beer.

“What’s that?” He leaned over and kissed her. It was seven-thirty at night and he had been in a meeting since four that afternoon. Just being here—just walking through that door—had taken it all away. He smiled. This was how he’d heard it was supposed to be but had never believed it.

“There was a note in my mailbox at work. My request for a week’s vacation was approved.” Zoey was frowning.

“Yes, I can see why you’re upset,” he said thoughtfully. “How dare they approve your vacation. Tell me who signed it, Zoey. I’ll have them fired first thing in the morning.”

“Ben, I don’t remember asking for a week off.”

“Oh. Well, let’s take advantage of the week and go someplace special.” He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew an envelope. “Like maybe to England to watch the British Grand Prix.” He opened the envelope and said, “Fancy that! I just happen to have two tickets for the Concorde.”

The smile spread slowly across her face. “We’r
e going to England…
?”

“That’s what the ticket says.”

“And we’re going to watch a race?”

“Yup.”

She frowned. “You’re not driving in this race, are you?”

“No, no.” He laughed and folded her in his arms, swayed with her slightly to the tune on the classic rock station on the radio. “Even if I wanted to, I could not. But I do know a few of the drivers, and it will be fun to see some old friends.”

“Are you sad that you’re not driving?”

“Yes. Of course I am. I really love the sport, Zoey. Maybe not as much as you love your cooking show”—he earned a jab in the ribs—“but I love it. I love the cars and the camaraderie, I love the noise and the speed. I even m
iss the smells of the track…
exhaust and expensive cigars and gasoline.”

“You miss the smell of exhaust and gasoline?” she asked incredulously. “Well, we could always take you out to Interstate 95 down there by the Philadelphia airport a few times a week and let you inhale the fumes from the tractor trailers as they go screaming by.”

“It’s not the same.” He laughed again.

“What, gas fumes are not gas fumes?”

“Nope. Race cars use special gasoline.”

“What’s different about it?”

“It’s specially formulated for high performance, no nitro, and the oxygen content is limited to a certain percentage. Like everything connected with the sport, the regulations are very specific.”

“Who regulates it?”

“The FIA World Council is the legislative body for Formula One racing. They make the rules and develop standards. They determine the specifications for tires, for example, and how wide the cars have to be.”

“Why would they care if one car is wider than another?” She poked behind him into one of the grocery bags and said, “Oh, we’re having steak?”

“Just another form of high-performance fuel.” He took the package from her hand and placed it on the counter. “Here”—he handed her one of the brown paper bags—“try to make a salad without slicing off one of your fingers. Now, to answer your question, the width of the car will have an impact on the cornering speeds. FIA wanted to reduce the cornering speeds slightly as a safety fa
ctor—the faster you take the corn
ers, the more likely you are to lose control.”

“Is that how you had your accident? Going around a co
rn
er too quickly?”

“No. One of my brake discs disintegrated and locked my right front wheel. I lost control and slammed into a wall.”

“I didn’t know that brake discs could disintegrate.” She wondered how the brakes on her little red number were holding up.

“Under normal conditions, they don’t. But keep in mind that these cars run at average speeds of one hundred twenty to one hundred thirty miles per hour for a sustained period of time. You might do fifty laps on a three-mile track. That’s one hundred fifty miles, Zoey, at a very high rate of speed. And you’re running for an hour or better, with just a few pit stops—the fewer the better, since they cost you valuable seconds.”

“Seconds? Don’t you mean minutes?”

“I mean seconds. A really good pit crew can get you in and out in maybe eight or nine seconds. That’s changing tires, refueling, everything.”

“That’s hard to believe.” She shook her head.

“That’s why the pit crews are so important, why each man has to be the best at what he does. There’s a lot of money at stake here, Zoey.”

“You mean when you win a race?”

“Not just the individual races. You get points for every race—ten for winning, th
e runner-up gets six, the third
place driver gets four, fourth place gets three, fifth place gets two, and the number six finisher gets one. They are
tallied throughout the season, and the driver who has accumulated the most points at the end of the racing season is the world champion for that year.”

“What’s the most points you ever got in a race?”

“Three. At Monte Carlo last year. And they were hard won. That race is run on the narrow streets of the city, with tiny turns and spots where it’s almost impossible to get your speed built up before you have to make a hairpin turn. It’s a fun race for the spectators, and of course, it’s Monte Carlo, with all its glamour and mystique. But it’s a devil of a run, and I was lucky to finish in fourth place.”

“You miss it,” she stated simply, and an alarm began to ring inside her head. She tried swatting at it mentally to turn it off, but it wouldn’t go away. His eyes took on a sort of gleam when he spoke of the races he had driven, of his old life, that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Clearly, racing was in his blood. But was she?

“I miss it every day,” he was saying. “But I can’t change what is. I don’t see my ankle making a full recovery. Sometimes I think it’s fine, and then it sort of locks up, unexpectedly. You can’t have that happen when you’re screaming around a track at a hundred twenty miles per hour. If you don’t kill yourself, you’ll be damned lucky if you don’t kill someone else. It simply isn’t worth the risk.”

Zoey turned on the sink and rinsed the lettuce, then tore it into sm
all pieces. So. He couldn’t go
back to racing if he wanted to. She wondered how badly he wanted to, but didn’t ask. It made a difference somehow, that he was there, stayed there, because he had no choice. She wondered what would happen if the choice was his to make. Part of her didn’t want to know.

“So, no, I won’t be driving again, but I intend to stay close to the sport. And it will be great to see some of my old friends again. I can’t wait to introduce you to Tony. He’ll be going with us to Silverstone, which is near
Towcester, Northamptonshire, for the race. You’ll like Tony, by the way. He’s quite the character. He was the first friend I made when I came to England for graduate studies.”

“Does he still race?”

“No, no. He, too, was forced to quit following a bad accident that made him stop and count his blessings. But he’ll never be out of the sport completely, either. We’ve talked for years about going into business together someday, you know. Recently he’s been looking into several possibilities. When I spoke with him some weeks ago, he hinted that he has some new venture he wants to talk to me about.” Ben laughed and slid the slab of beef onto the broiler pan. “Could be just about anything. Who knows what he’s come up with?”

A chill passed through Zoey and she shook it off, refusing to acknowledge it. Not now. Later, there would be time
…

“We’ll have a wonderful vacation together, I promise.” He turned and smiled at her. “You’ll love the whole race experience. It’s fast, it’s loud, and it’s fun.”

“Will this be the first race where you’ve been a spectator, not a participant?”

“Yes.” He turned back to the stove and fiddled with the broiler switch. “And yes, it will be difficult for me not to be driving. Very difficult. But that’s how it is.”

Later, after Ben had fallen asleep, Zoey thought back to his words. Having herself taken so many years to find her place in this world, her heart hurt for Ben, who, having found his place, was now denied that which he loved to do. It was sweet of him to want to take her to this big English race with him, and to introduce her to his friends. It should be a fun holiday—it had been years since she had been to London, one of her favorite cities for shopping, and she mentally made a list of all the boutiques and little shops she would have to check out before they came home. She had always loved London’s pace, the pomp of Buckingham Palace, the extravagance
that was Harrod’s, even the imagined sense of eerie foreboding she had experienced in the Tower of London. It would be a treat to spend a week there—a week, she reminded herself, she would be spending with Ben.

Then why—she twisted in his arms slowly, so as not to awaken him—did she feel so uneasy?

26

“
B
en, where are you going?” Zoey turned in the small front seat of the sporty tan Jaguar Tony had left for him at the airport for Ben to make the drive between London and Northamptonshire, where the British Grand Prix would run in two days. “The sign for Towcester pointed that way.”

“Just a little detour, my dear.” Ben glanced in the rearview mirror to make certain that no car had emerged from one of those little hidden driveways, thinking to pass him on this narrow road. Seeing no other cars, he eased into the left turn, whistling a happy tune. There was something absolutely wonderful about speeding along a country road in a spectacular car, on a superb summer day, with a dazzling woman at your side. He smiled. Sometimes life was as good as it could possibly get.

“Slow down,” Zoey told him. “I’d like to see a little of the scenery.”

“You can do all the sight-seeing you want on the way back.”

“I thought the race wasn’t till Sunday.”

“Right.”

“Then why are we flying through the English countryside like a couple of whippets?”

“We’re supposed to be at Tony’s in time for tea.”

“Now’s a fine time to tell me. I could have changed into something less wrinkled at the airport.” She frowned. Why do men always overlook little things like that when they make plans? Had she known they’d be making a social call, she would have worn something other than the pale green linen suit, which, after hours of traveling, looked like she’d found it under the bed.

“You look fine, sweetheart. Beautiful.”

She didn’t feel beautiful. She felt travel worn and travel weary, and had spent the past several hours dueling with a tight edginess that had settled under her rib cage. As much as she longed to spend time here with Ben, something had set her instincts on alert. This was
his
territory, and she didn’t know how strong the pull might be.

She leaned back against the seat and told herself to concentrate on the scenery as it zipped by. Fields edged in stone walls, randomly set, picturesque churches and neat, tiny towns, spacious estates surrounded by manicured grounds—all flew past in a blur of shapes and colors.

Ben slowed as they entered a small town with rows of stone town houses lining both sides of the street
.
A small marketplace with several magazine-perfect shops—or
shoppes,
as several of the signs declared—outlined the square in the middle of town, and a lovely old stone church and vicarage defined the outermost limits of the village.

“Pretty place,” Zoey told him.

“Very.” He nodded, and accelerated just slightly as he took the soft turn in the road onto a straightaway.

A mile or so down the road, he pointed to an old stone house that sat back a bit from the road and was surrounded by gardens and told her, “J.D. Borders, the rock singer, and his family live there,” as they whizzed by.

“I’m sure it was lovely,” Zoey grumbled, “had I been able to see it.”

“I promise, on the way back, I won’t even take the car out of second gear. I’m just anxious to see my friend, that’s all. I’m sorry, Zoey. I will make it up to you on the return trip.”

Twenty minutes later, Ben made a slow right turn up a narrow, tree-lined lane.

“How much farther?” Zoey asked.

“We’re here.”

“We’re where?”

“At Tony’s.”

“Where’s his house?”

“About another quarter mile up the lane.”

“Tell me more about this Tony person.”

“Tony Chapman and I went to graduate school together. He was majoring in engineering, I was majoring in business. We roomed together, became the best of friends. He was the one who introduced me to the racing. We’ve worked pit crews together, we’ve test-driven cars together.” Ben smiled. “We’ve even talked of owning our own cars someday, maybe even having our own team.”

“But not to drive…
”

“No. We would build.”

“Build the cars?”

He nodded.

“Doesn’t that take a lot of money?”

“Tons.”

“Well, if it’s not too personal to ask, do you have tons of money?”

“When I turned twenty-one, I inherited the money my grandfather had set aside for my mother. I invested it well—acting as my o
wn broker, I am pleased to say—
and that money paid for my cars. Of course, I had sponsors to back me financially as well. I don’t know of
anyone who could completely fund their own cars without a few sponsors.” He broke into a grin. “Except maybe Tony.”

“Is he terribly wealthy?”

Ben merely pointed to the large stone house that rose majestically from behind the trees. “Stowe Manor,” he said simply.

“I’ve seen that house before. In magazines!” Zoey leaned forward.

“Tony’s sister is a fashion photographer. She often uses the estate for her shoots.”

“It’s beautiful!” Zoey exclaimed. “And look at that fountain! Wow! A real English country manor house! Wait till I tell Mom!”

Ben came to a stop in front of the house and turned off the engine. Almost immediately the wide front door opened and a tall, lanky man with wavy brown hair pulled back into a short ponytail stepped out. Ben was out of the car in a flash, and Zoey watched as Ben greeted his old friend.

“Zoey”—Ben opened her car door—“please say hello to Anthony Chapman, the twelfth earl of Stowe.”

“An earl,” she repeated as Tony offered her his hand and helped her out. “What do you call an
earl?
”

“Tony,” he told her. “You call me Tony. And I’ll call you magnificent.” He kissed her hand, his eyes twinkling. “You’re far too beautiful for this rake. You should be with me.”

Zoey laughed, charmed by his easygoing way and flirtatious manner. The twelfth earl of Stowe was adorable, with baby blue eyes and deep dimples.

“Leave your things.” Tony took both their arms. “Mrs. Bridges has been holding tea, waiting for you, and you know how she hates to serve a late tea, Ben.”

“Mrs. Bridges is still with you?”

“Could you imagine this place running without her? Mrs. Bridges is a distant relative of my mother’s and has been with the family since, oh, roughly seventeen twenty-two or thereabouts,” Tony confided to Zoey.

“We’ve offered her a handsome retirement on several occasions, but she’s convinced that it is she, and only she, who holds Stowe Manor together. She firmly believes that should she turn her back for more than ten minutes, the entire estate would collapse. And the truth of the matter is that she’s most likely right. She’s like a little army drill sergeant, our Mrs. Bridges is, and we wouldn’t have things any other way.”

Tony led them into a wide hall with black and white marble squares on the floor and rich wood paneling on the walls. The eyes from rows and rows of what surely must have been family portraits followed them down the hall. They passed through a maze of rooms until they reached a sunny sitting room overlooking the expansive grounds.

“Well, then, and it’s about time.” The formidable white-haired woman wore a blue and white polka dot dress that fell two inches below her knees and sturdy sensible oxford shoes, and she actually
clucked
as they entered the room. “You have never been on time for tea in this house before and it’s no surprise to me that you’re late today, Bennett Pierce.”

“Ah, Mrs. Bridges.” Ben embraced her fondly, and the ste
rn
folds of the woman’s face softened in spite of herself. “You remembered. I’m flattered.”

“It’s not meant for flattery.” She shooed him away even as the smile touched her lips. “Your scones are getting cold and so’s your tea.”

“I’d cross the ocean for your scones and tea”—he kissed her forehead—“cold or otherwise.”

“Sit down, then, and I’ll pour you a cup.” She pointed to a small settee. “But you won’t have it until you introduce me to your lady friend, you ill-mannered young pup.”

“Mrs. Bridges, this is Zoey Enright.” He took Zoey’s hand. “Zoey, this is Mrs. Bridges.”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Zoey told her.

“Come sit here, miss”—Mrs. Bridges pulled a small lady’s chair forward and gestured to Zoey—“and leave
those two be. Heaven knows neither one of them’s fit company for a lady like you.”

Zoey sat in the chair without being told twice, sticking her tongue out at Ben as she did so.

“And you, sir, may sit there.” Mrs. Bridges indicated where Tony should sit.

Amused by and apparently accustomed to her dictatorial manner, Tony sat without protest.

“And where is Miss Sibyl?” Mrs. Bridges asked.

“I don’t think she was joining us. I think she’s working,” Tony told her.

“And your other guests?”

“Won’t arrive until this evening.”

Having established that there would be no more late arrivals, Mrs. Bridges poured the tea with little additional ceremony. She served the tea sandwiches, then left the room to return with a tray of scones fresh from the oven and a porcelain plate of fancy little tea cakes, which she set upon the table. With a wink in Ben’s direction, she left the room at a dignified, if someone slow, pace.

“Wow. She is something.” Zoey laughed.

“Runs Stowe Manor with an iron fist.” Tony grinned. “And I don’t know what I’d do without her. She keeps us all on track.”

“So, bring me up to date on all the news,” Ben said, and the two men slipped into a conversation filled with names that meant nothing to Zoey. She didn’t mind, however, having nibbled on watercress sandwiches and tiny confections before pouring herself another cup of tea, which she took out onto the verandah that ran across the back of the handsome country house.

Wait till I tell Mother.
She smiled to herself.
And Georgia—wait till she finds out that I met a real British earl. She should be so lucky—she has no social life anymore.
Thinking about Georgia’s lack of a life banished the smile from her face. She worried about her little sister and her total dedication to dancing.
What will happen to Georgia when the day comes that she can no longer dance? She has nothing else in her life that I can
see
…
no real friends that I know of, except for Lee Banyon.

Zoey followed the stone steps down to a path that led toward the grounds that spread out before her, sipping thoughtfully at her tea, wondering just how much company Lee was these days, having lost his longtime companion to AIDS a few months back.

The path led through a gate over which white roses spilled like gallons of paint from an endless can. Letting herself into the garden she wandered aimlessly, pleased to find that she recognized so many of the flowers that lined the beds and wound around the paths like rivers of color. She bent to touch a columbine of palest pink, a tall spike of deep rose veronica, a tumble of something magenta that grew from fat leaves of deep green.

“That’s geranium,” a voice from behind announced, “or did you know that?”

Zoey stood and turned. A slight young woman wearing slim black jeans and a cropped yellow T-shirt, large round framed glasses, and bare feet had come quietly into the garden.

“No. I wouldn’t have recognized it as geranium. The geraniums we have back home look nothing like that.”

“I thought they might be new to you, the way you
were
looking at them so curiously.” She stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Sibyl, Tony’s sister.”

“I’m Zoey Enright. I’m a friend of Ben Pierce’s.”

“Yes. I know. I just saw him inside. He and Tony are deep into conversation, so I thought you might like some company.”

“That was very thoughtful. Thank you.”

“Would you like a tour of the grounds while Tony and Ben discuss business? They’re apt to go at it for a while, what with the new engine on the boards and all.” Sibyl smiled. “You know.”

Actually, she didn’t know, but Zoey let it pass. She’d find out later. Right now, she wanted to get a closer look at that geranium. And those lavender-colored roses along the back fence were like nothing she’d ever seen.

Beyond the garden was another fountain, and a lake with water lilies and swans. There was lots to see here. Ben could have all the time he wanted with his old friend. It was a perfect late afternoon, a lovely time for a stroll through the grounds of an ancient estate in the English countryside.

“So, Sibyl, tell me all about Stowe Manor
…
” Zoey smiled to herself, knowing that Delia would grill her for details once they arrived back home, and she’d better have the answers to all of the questions her mother was certain to ask.