Lost in Love (3 page)

“It must be Tuesday night,” Niamh said as she took a shot glass and filled it with Jameson. “But you’re the first Summerhill sister to arrive.”

Portia sighed as she slipped out of her coat. “I needed to get out of the house.”

“You look ready for a drink, too.” Niamh slid the glass across the bar, eyeing her with her usual attentiveness. “You all right, love?”

“Just a lot on my mind.” She tried to smile, but Niamh looked like she didn’t believe her. Not surprising—the bartender of the Red Witch had gotten to know them all pretty well. Portia and her sisters had taken to gathering there every Tuesday, to catch up. It was nice. They’d never been close, but they were changing that.

Portia picked up her whiskey and sipped it. Her younger sister Rosalind was the one who’d introduced her to whiskey. The first time, Portia swore it’d scarred a path down her throat. But now that road was paved and it flowed smoothly.

The old Portia Summerhill would never have touched it. New Portia liked it. It made her feel different, and different was good. She could picture Catherine drinking whiskey by the fireside.

She nursed her drink and studied the redhead as she wiped glasses etched with
Guinness
and stacked them to the side. “Is serving drinks difficult?” Portia asked.

“You mean being on your feet all day and dealing with drunks?” Niamh raised her eyebrow.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” She tried to picture herself dealing with a drunk person. “I wouldn’t make a good bartender, would I?”

Niamh smiled, as though amused by the thought. “Thinking of a career change?”

“Thinking of a career.” She touched her pearls. “I’m not qualified for much.”

“I find that hard to believe, smart girl like you.” The redhead patted her arm. “Keep your eyes open. Sometimes it’s not the door you’re staring at but a window.”

“I’m not staring at a door.”

“Then maybe that’s the problem.” With a wink, Niamh went to attend a beckoning patron at the other end of the bar.

Doors and windows. She’d take a trapdoor if it got her the job at the museum.

“You’re early, Portia.”

She turned as her sisters Rosalind and Summer pulled out stools next to her. Summer was really a half-sister, born of their father and his mistress, but somehow in the past several weeks she’d become family. Portia felt like she should have been upset by that, but it was difficult to hate Summer when all she’d wanted was her father’s love.

That had been all Portia had wanted, too. That and Suncrest Park. She hadn’t been lucky on either count.

“Beatrice called and said she and Viola would be here shortly,” Summer said as she sat down and unwrapped the colorful scarf from her neck.

“Are Imogen and Titania coming?”

Rosalind shook her head. “Gigi said she was tired, and no one’s heard from Titania in over a week.”

Portia pursed her lips, thinking about their youngest sister. She’d returned home from who knows where a couple weeks ago, only to be greeted by the news of their father’s death. Of course, you could never tell what was going on in Titania’s head. To say she was private was a gross understatement.

“Ladies,” Niamh greeted the newcomers with a bright smile. “Ros, you look fabulous.”

“It’s the glow of love,” Summer said with a fond smile. Summer’s stepbrother Nick and Rosalind were getting married in the coming year, and Summer was almost as happy as the couple.

Portia was happy, too. Mostly. Not because she didn’t want Rosalind and Nick to get married—she was ecstatic about that. Her unhappiness stemmed from herself. Next to her sisters, her shortcomings were so obvious. No career, no achievements, no family. Nothing. She was pathetic.

As if thinking about them materialized them, Vi walked in with Beatrice, who was berating someone on the other end of her mobile.

“Her underling is incompetent,” Vi explained as she kissed each of them on the cheek. “But she’s been cursing him for the past hour, so she should run out of swear words soon.”

Bea ended the call. “I have an unlimited vocabulary when it comes to swearing, and when English fails, I resort to French.”

“French
is
the best language for cursing,” Rosalind agreed.

Vi took off her coat and sat on the barstool Summer pulled out for her. “Maybe that’s what I should tell Chloe to get her to study.”

Vi’s daughter Chloe was fourteen and a complete mystery to Portia. If she had to be honest, her niece intimidated her. When Chloe looked at her, it was as though she was judging and found her lacking.

“You look tired, Vi,” Summer said as she handed her the martini Niamh pushed across the bar. “How are you doing?”

Portia looked at her older sister. Vi did look pale and pinched, even more so than she had been the past couple months.

Vi smiled at Niamh as the bartender set their usual drinks in front of them and picked up her martini. “I had Charles served with divorce papers today.”

There was a round of gasps, except from Beatrice, who took Vi’s hand in her own.

“It’s a good thing.” Vi gave them a grim smile. “He was cheating on me, and I hadn’t been happy in a long time. It’s better for Chloe this way, even though she’s not talking to me.”

“She’s a teenager,” Rosalind said dryly. “They aren’t supposed to talk to their parents.”

“I loved talking to my mother when I was a teenager,” Summer said.

“Yes, but you’re odd,” Bea said with a fond smile. Then she faced Rosalind. “Have you and Nick set a date yet?”

“Not yet.” Rosalind shook her head. “We’re having too much fun nesting.”

Bea arched her brow. “Is that what the kids are calling it?”

Rosalind laughed happily.

“Portia.” Bea turned to her. “It’s your turn.”

“To do what?” she asked cautiously.

Vi waved a hand at her. “First tell us why you’re dressed like that. You look like an expensive schoolmarm with your hair pulled back like that.”

“Is that one of Mum’s suits?” Rosalind leaned forward to look more closely. “It’s a Chanel.”

She touched her necklace. “I had an interview today.”

They fell silent. Then Rosalind said, “For a job?”

“Of course for a job.” She glared at them. “It’s not
that
inconceivable.”

“Isn’t it?” Bea chuckled and then put a conciliatory hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”

“Tell us about it,” Summer said.

“It’s a curator position at the Museum of British Peerage.”

Vi blinked in surprise. “That job’s made for you, isn’t it?”

Everyone thought so, except the one person who mattered. “The director doesn’t see it that way.”

“Make him see it,” Bea said.

“I told him I would curate the Summerhill collection I’d bring with me.”

Eyebrows raised, her oldest sister lifted her glass in salute. “That was utterly brilliant, Portia. He’d be a fool not to go for it.”

“He wants the tiara included.”

“What tiara?” Summer asked.

“The Summerhill tiara,” they all replied. Then Rosalind added, “It’s infamous. It’s been in the family forever. You can see it in a lot of the portraits in the family gallery.”

Vi frowned. “Wasn’t the tiara stored at Suncrest Park?”

Bea groaned. “Bloody hell.”

“It’s not gone, is it?” Rosalind looked back and forth between them. “Father would have taken it out before he sold the manor, wouldn’t he? It was a family relic. Sacred, even.”

“No.” And if he weren’t already dead, Portia would have killed him for it. “It’s not in the vault with the other Summerhill jewelry. I checked this afternoon. I don’t think he took anything from Suncrest Park before he sold it.”

Viola shook her head. “What was he thinking?”

“He wasn’t,” Bea said flatly, downing the rest of her gin and tonic. “He never thought when it came to conducting business.”

“So who has the tiara?” Summer asked.

Rosalind shrugged. “Probably the person who bought the manor, right?”

“Most likely,” Bea agreed.

Summer faced Portia. “Then ask the new owner if you can have it back. It’s a family heirloom.”

“I don’t know who bought it.”

“That’s not too hard to find out.” Bea took out her mobile and swiped the screen to life. “I’ll get you the information.”

“We could always try our hand at breaking and entering again,” Vi said, too seriously.

“No, we couldn’t,” Rosalind and Bea said at once. Rosalind faced Portia. “Summer’s suggestion was good. Ask the new owner what it’d take to get it back.”

That sounded good and easy, but … “What if he won’t give it back?”

“You won’t know unless you try, will you?”

No, she wouldn’t. She imagined carrying the tiara into the museum, and the warm glow of satisfaction of succeeding made her nod.

If Catherine were in her shoes, she’d use her wiles to get the man to give her what she needed. “But I don’t want to be conniving.”

“Then don’t.” Bea looked her in the eye. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t ask for what you want. If you don’t ask, you’ll never get it.”

That was true. At worst, she’d be where she was now.

Actually, she’d be better off, because at least she’d have tried, which was so much better than not doing anything. She’d never be able to live with herself if she didn’t try.

She took a deep breath and said, “I’ll do it.”

“I still think another break in would be fun,” Vi said as she raised her drink. “Portia was brilliant that night.”

“I was brilliant, wasn’t I?” She sat up taller.

Rosalind nudged her. “I think you can be brilliant without resorting to a life of crime.”

“Good point.” She laid her hand over her pearls. She’d do this. She’d pay the new owner of Suncrest Park a visit.

Chapter Four

The renovation for Suncrest Park was behind schedule. Meredith Daniels knew she needed to contact the upholsterer, the person making the custom drapery, and the painter.

Instead she pulled out her bucket list.

Hand out balloons to kids

Wear a Harry Winston necklace

See the Taj Mahal

Walk on hot coals

Meet Vivienne Westwood

Hunt for truffles

Swim with dolphins

Try caviar

Skydive

Climb Kilimanjaro

Walk along the Great Wall

Tango in Buenos Aires

See the Northern Lights

Only there was an item missing.

She hesitated, pen poised over the paper. Maybe she shouldn’t write it down. If her mother saw the list, she’d be mortified.

But her mother wasn’t in London. Adele was in Dallas, safely tucked away in her multi-million dollar home with her new, very rich husband. She was too busy to check in on Meredith beyond a casual “Hi, honey, how are you?” once a week.

Just as well. It made it easier to justify not telling her mother things, like that she’d had a bout with breast cancer.

Not that she was still sick—she’d won that round. She’d had the lump removed and only had to do a brief course of radiation. Her oncologist had said she was
very
lucky.

Meredith didn’t feel lucky. She touched the spot where they’d taken the lump, on her right side near her underarm. She swore she could feel it, even through the many layers she wore because it was so cold in London. Her doctor assured her the scar was thin and fading more every day, but to her it was livid, glaring at her every time she stood naked in the mirror.

It’d been a wake-up call—one she wasn’t going to ignore. Eight months ago, as she’d sat in the doctor’s office after he’d told her the lump was cancerous, she’d made some decisions. She’d always lived the way it’d been expected of her, with a concrete life plan for success: school, a great job, and then marriage and kids. She’d been on track for all of that, too—only she wasn’t happy. Not truly.

She didn’t want to die with regrets.

She’d decided then and there that whether she had five months or fifty years to live, she was going to start
living
.

The first thing she did was break off her engagement with Jackson. What a relief that’d been. Not that Jackson wasn’t great. He was the sweetest man she’d ever known. He’d have stayed with her out of kindness and obligation. But she knew how he felt about sickness given the situation with his father, and she didn’t want to saddle him with herself.

She and Jackson had never been right for each other. He didn’t do it for her, which was crazy because he was
hot
. Women went tongue-tied around him. She appreciated his rugged beauty, but he was a little too rough around the edges for her.

At the same time, he was too nice. Too sweet. Too gentle. He’d always handled her with kid gloves, and it’d been a turn-off.

She knew it was a contradiction, but she couldn’t help how she felt.

She looked at the sheet of paper. There was one thing she hadn’t put on her bucket list, one thing she wanted more than any other item on it.

An orgasm.

It’d never seemed important that she couldn’t climax with her partners. Pleasure wasn’t the end goal, after all—a family was. And she’d always had so much on her mind that it’d been hard to concentrate.

The sad part was she hadn’t even realized she’d sold herself short until she’d overheard a nurse at the doctor’s office discussing her date and his impressive skills in bed. The nurse said that she’d screamed all night.

All night.
Meredith had never even whimpered during sex.

The story had made her think. It’d made her long for an orgasm that’d make her swoon.

Or any orgasm, really.

She put her hands to her cheeks. They felt hot to the touch, from embarrassment and need, equally.

She knew she could climax—she could do it fine on her own. And men excited her. She’d just never met a man who could deliver. Not even Jackson, though she’d gotten the closest with him. It was just that, at the last moment, she’d start to
think
. She’d analyze and over-process, and then the moment would be gone.