In Love Again (2 page)

Claire cringed. “Must you be so graphic?”

Sarah burst out laughing. “Graphic?
Sleep with
? Let me get Bronte to stop over on her way back from work and give you a little graphic.”

Claire started laughing too. Her other sister-in-law, the Duchess of Northrop, also known as plain old Bronte, preferred a four-letter word to any other, whether the situation called for it or not.

“Oh, fine!” Claire smiled. “Call her. Let’s get drunk and put the pieces of my
fucked up
life back together.”

“Yay!” Sarah squealed. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and hit the speed dial for her best friend’s number.

“Hey, it’s me. Can you come over to my office after you leave Mowbray’s? … How much longer? … Okay…mm-hmm…” She took a sip of champagne while she listened. “Okay, perfect. Yes, I’m here with Claire, and we’re going to get her back on track. Roll up our sleeves and tell her what’s what…mm-hmm…yes, she even said the word
fuck
…” Sarah burst out laughing. “Okay, see you soon, sweetie.” She clicked off the cell phone and turned back to Claire. “Okay, first things first. Who’s the dream man?”

Claire set the champagne flute down on the glass tabletop in front of the Breuer chair she was sitting in. “He was nobody. Just a summer…thing.”

“Like a swoony, oh-my-god-I-can’t-believe-I-met-my-dream-man-while-backpacking-through-Europe thing or…just a thing?”

Claire smiled. It was impossible not to. Sarah had the strangest combination of raw innocence and infectious mischief. “I guess, at the time, I thought he was just a thing. But it stuck. Does that make sense?”

Sarah stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the southern wall of her office. “I don’t know if it’s wrong to talk about your brother in this way, but yes. After I met Devon, it just never stopped. I tried to forget him and get over it and move on, or whatever. But he just stuck.” Sarah smiled. Now that she was happily married to the devil, it wasn’t worth wondering why he had stuck. He just did, and it had all worked out. But Claire?

“I don’t know,” Claire began, twisting her champagne glass and trying to speak honestly for maybe the first time about her ruinous marriage. “Everything was as it was supposed to be with Freddy. His mother. My Mother. The marquisate. I was the daughter of a duke. He was a marquess. Everything was as it should be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, don’t pretend that your stepmother didn’t have…hopes…for you and Eliot. You know exactly what I mean. It just all fit together, for the families, for both of us.” Claire sighed. “I know it sounds antiquated and stupid to your modern ears, but it was just the thing. To obey.”

Sarah looked at the woman she had come to think of as her older sister. Claire was technically her sister-in-law, but being an only child, Sarah had wholeheartedly embraced her husband’s family as her own. She thought of Abby and Claire and Bronte as her sisters, and Max as her brother.

“All right. I won’t pretend to be clueless about the power of parental approval. I’m sure your father and mother encouraged you to get along with Freddy. But seriously? He’s just so lame.”

Claire snorted. “I guess he looks that way now, but twenty years ago, he was pretty debonair. He wasn’t all slithering and slick like he is these days. He had the occasional nice thing to say. But you’re right. I knew he was all wrong for me. Yet, my mother convinced me that I was too young to know what was right for me and that I needed to rely on my elders to point me in the right direction.”

“How awful.”

“Oh, stop. What’s done is done. I married the Marquess of Wick. He has a castle. I thought he was charming and rich. I suppose at the time, he
was
rich. But that’s all come to a finish now. Even so, let’s not pretend that he didn’t have something to offer back in the nineties. As my mother would say,
moving on
!”

Sarah took a deep breath. “Okay. Moving on. Tell me about Mister Summer Vacation.”

“What’s the point?” Claire asked.

“The point is, I need to know what type of man actually piqued your interest when your mother and everyone else in the world weren’t watching. Was he quirky and academic? Tall, dark, and handsome? Smooth? Bumbling? What?”

“Oh, I don’t know. When you say it like that, it’s hard to describe. He was just, so kind, but sort of adamant too.”

“Oh, Claire. You really liked him.”

“I think I loved him.”

Sarah watched as Claire tried to repress a shudder of pleasure. Even after all these years, apparently the mere thought of him still brought on a physical reaction.

“What happened to him?” Sarah pressed. “Was he just some backpacking ne’er-do-well?”

“Oh, I doubt that. He was American and smart. And he was on his way to some prestigious American university. California somewhere. I don’t remember. But he was so…intense. And he seemed to fancy me for some bizarre reason.”

“Why would someone need a bizarre reason to fancy you?” Sarah asked.

“Oh, stop. I was pale and shy and, oh…” Claire waved her hand in front of her face. “Just a wallflower.”

Sarah set her champagne glass down on her desk and circled around to her chair so she could look at her computer screen. “What’s his name?”

“What? Who?” Claire asked.

“What is Mister I-Fancy-You’s name?”

“Well, it’s been so long…”

Sarah stared at her sister-in-law with one eyebrow raised. “Are you really going to pretend that you don’t remember every little thing about him?”

“Okay, fine. Ben.”

Sarah stared with ridicule and impatience. “Ben what?”

“Benjamin Hayek. Satisfied?”

“Very.” Sarah grinned and started tapping the keys of her computer. As she waited for the results to come up, she asked, “He’s American, right?”

“Yes. Well his parents were Lebanese, I think, but they were American.”

“Oooh. Lebanese. Sounds exotic.”

“This is mortifying. I feel like we’re stalking him,” Claire mumbled.

“Stalking? You have no idea. This is like the tippiest tip of the iceberg. We haven’t even begun to plumb the depths of all the gritty details. Are you seriously expecting me to believe that after all those years alone in Scotland, you never
once
logged on to Facebook or Googled him, just to see what he looked like or where he lived?”

Claire shrugged. “There was no Facebook in the mid-nineties, obviously, and later on, well, I thought I was in a committed marriage, remember? And in any case, I tried to tamp down my curiosity about such things. What would have been the point?”

“The point?” Sarah laughed and took another sip of her champagne. “The point is that it’s fun. You can see if he’s turned into a pudgy, smug father of three hideous brats or if he’s got a toupee and an ant farm.” Sarah paused. “Okay, there are a few Ben Hayeks.” She hummed and tapped a few more keys. “I’m assuming he’s about your age?”

“Two years older, I think.”

Sarah kept typing and clicking. “And what did he do for a living? What was he studying when you met him?”

“I don’t know what became of him. I think he wanted to be a doctor or something. He was pretty tall. And he had dark hair. His eyes were green.”

Sarah hummed suggestively. “I’ll say.”

“You’ll say what?”

“I’ll say he’s tall, dark, and handsome and has killer green eyes. Is it this guy?” Sarah turned her screen so it faced out toward where Claire was sitting.

The four-by-five-inch portrait stared at her. The dark hair was combed into a far more adult style, the green eyes had creases around the edges, and the mouth had a firm set that was the result of experience. And he was wearing a doctor’s white coat.

Claire leaned closer to the screen and realized her breath was shallow.

Sarah smiled and said, “So, I’ll take that as a yes.” She swiveled the screen back to face her. “You have excellent taste in men, Claire. Sheesh. He’s awesome. Look at that bone structure.”

Claire actually blushed and was still blushing when Bronte burst in.

“All right. What have I missed?” She threw her enormous Prada satchel on the floor near Claire’s seat and leaned down to give her a kiss on the cheek. “How are you doing, honey? What’s the latest on
Le Bâtard
?”

Her sisters-in-law had taken to referring to Freddy as
Le Bâtard
. It had started out as a joke over drinks at Dunlear Castle a few weeks ago, when Bronte decided she no longer wanted to refer to him by name and asserted from that day forward, she would only call him
Le Bâtard
. “Because,” she had said, “it sounds dastardly and villainous.”

Claire looked up at Bronte, there in Sarah’s office, taking in her barely contained energy, her vitality. “Well, it looks as if his solicitor or the courts have frozen all of our assets.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bronte was in the midst of pouring herself a glass of champagne. She finished pouring, then paused and placed one hand on her hip, turning to face Claire. “How is that even possible? Your legal system is a shit show.”

“Oh, it’s possible all right.” Claire looked up at the ceiling, pretending she was interested in the plasterwork rather than staving off tears.

“Don’t you dare cry about him!” Bronte barked. “He’s such a douchebag.”

“Bronte!” Sarah cried.

“What? It’s the truth.” Bronte shrugged at Sarah then turned to Claire with more concern. “I know you know he is. Don’t you?”

“Yes. Of course.” Claire sighed, because even now she had to force herself to face facts rather than the idea of what she had always believed her life was supposed to be. “But—”

“But nothing,” Bronte interrupted, thinking she was being supportive.

“But Bron, seriously, he’s the father of my only child. All those years that I thought he was…decent.”

Bronte pressed on. “That’s what makes him even more reprehensible. Think about it.
All those years
. All those years of you doing your good works and helping your father and mother and tending to Freddy’s whims. And what’s the thanks he gives you?”

“I know,” Claire said, willing herself not to weep, to be practical. “But if it was all a lie to him, then it was
all
a lie. My life—” She choked and took another sip of her champagne.

Bronte sat in the chair closest to Claire’s and pulled her free hand into hers. “Your life has
not
been a lie. He’s the bastard for making you think so. You have a beautiful home. You have a beautiful daughter.”

Claire smirked.

“Well, Lydia is salvageable,” Bronte hedged. “She’s a bit of a handful, but she has spunk. And she is half you, so she knows the difference between right and wrong. Maybe Abby will set her straight.”

“At least I don’t have to worry about her for a while.” Claire’s youngest sister, Abigail Heyworth, had started a foundation to educate young women in sub-Saharan Africa, and Lydia had been recruited into service after she announced she was dropping out of university following one lackluster year. Lydia was traveling around different African villages with her Aunt Abby for the summer.

“Exactly. Focus on yourself,” Sarah chimed in. “Get a job.”

An abrupt silence descended over the bright office. Night had fallen outside the dark wall of windows, and the interior sparkled with the tiny halogen ceiling lights against the chrome-accented furniture. All three women sat frozen.

“What?” Sarah finally cried. “Like it’s a four-letter word or something? Repeat after me. J. O. B. Job.”

Bronte smiled and swirled her champagne glass slowly.

Sarah must have noticed that she hadn’t taken a sip. “Why aren’t you drinking your champagne, Bron?”

“No reason.” But she still didn’t take a sip.

Claire clasped her hands. “Oh! Are you going to have another baby?”

Sarah sputtered. “Wait? What!”

Bronte smiled and looked a bit sheepish. “Two babies, actually.”

“What? Twins? Oh, that’s the most wonderful news!” Claire leapt up and hugged her hard. “Why didn’t you tell us straight away? It’s so much more exciting than my dismal divorce. You are quite terrible for keeping it from us.”

“It’s all pretty new. We haven’t told a soul.”

Sarah hugged her next and suddenly started crying.

“Oh my god, Sarah!” Bronte grabbed her by the shoulders. “I’m not dying. I’m pregnant. Why are you crying?”

“We’re not all as emotionally cut-and-dried as you are, Bron, all right?” Sarah grabbed a tissue off her desk and started dabbing at her eyes.

“Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry.” Bronte pulled Sarah into a tight hug. “I’m such an insensitive idiot.”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Sarah finished drying her eyes and took a deep breath. “Whoa. Okay. Totally fine.” She took a sip of champagne. “All better.” Claire and Bronte stared at her as she collected herself. “What?”

“Are you and Devon going to start trying soon?” Bronte asked point blank.

Sometimes Claire wondered how these women made it through the day without emotional flak jackets. It was like open season on life’s most intimate details. She stared harder into her own glass of champagne and tried to be invisible.

“What? No, of course not. You know neither one of us wants to have kids right away. I’m just happy for you.” At least Sarah’s voice was starting to sound normal again. She gestured around her cluttered office, full of sketches and work orders and leather samples. “Does this look like the office of someone who is trying to have a baby?”

Bronte stared at Sarah. “You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you? We all know you’re going to be checking on the factory work orders when you start dilating.”

“Would you stop? We’re not trying to have a baby. I swear!” Sarah laughed and the hint of tension left the room. “Not that I don’t mind lots and lots of practice—”

“Stop!” Claire pleaded through her burgeoning laughter. “He’s my brother. I don’t want to think of you two having lots of
practice sex
—” She nearly squeaked out the last two words.

The door swung open just as she said it and Devon Heyworth—the brother in question—popped his head in. “Hi, ladies. Awkward moment?”