She focused on Palmer. “How’d you do?”
“I won. I usually do. I’m fast, and I’m powerful.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Wanna feel my biceps?”
Arden glanced at his tanned muscular arm pushing up the fabric of his cotton sleeve. He did look strong. He did look healthy. He did look—uh-oh—attractive.
“Tell me about your family,” she invited.
“My family?”
“Yes. Because my family is so bizarre. It would be nice to hear about someone whose life isn’t wacko.”
“You think my family’s not wacko?” Palmer grinned. “I think that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Arden dropped her head in her hand. “Oh, damn, I have been slightly snotty, haven’t I?”
“Not snotty. Let’s say cautious.”
“Women in our family tend not to trust men,” she told him. Waving her hand, she pressed, “But I need a break from my family for a while. Tell me about yours.”
Palmer leaned his head back, as if searching for the information on the ceiling.
“My father’s a hedge fund manager. My mother’s a social worker. I’m a media space manager. My sister Hadley’s a nurse working in Africa.” After a moment, he added, “My father is six feet tall. My mother is five feet six. I’m six feet tall. Hadley, who is two years younger, is six feet three.”
“How was it for her, growing up?” Arden asked.
Palmer shook his head. “Not easy. She got her height early, and her boobs, too. She always knew she’d be tall. She was tall in kindergarten. With our mother recounting seriously upsetting scenes from her day at the dinner table—and I realize she was a little off base to do so, but maybe this will assure you that all families are wacko—Hadley started volunteering as a Big Sister early on, and at youth shelters and safe places. Right after school, she’d bike off, or later, when Dad gave her a beat-up old sedan, which was exactly what she wanted, she’d drive that. After high school, she went to nursing school, and then she signed on with a volunteer relief agency.”
“She sounds admirable.”
“She is admirable, but she’s no saint, and she’s not boring, and she attracts her share of men. She’s actually quite a bombshell now that she’s an adult. She’s engaged to a doctor, and in a couple of years they’re going to settle down in Boston and start a family.”
“Nice.” Arden reached forward to pour herself more wine.
“Feel better now?” Palmer asked.
“I do. Thanks. Sometimes my family life overwhelms me.”
“I’ve got a proposition for you that would take you far away from all that.” Palmer’s eyes were sparkling.
Arden leveled a skeptical look at him.
Palmer laughed. “Well, of course, I’m always up for that, you might say. But no, this is a business proposition.”
“Oh yeah?” Now she was interested.
“I recently bought a TV station in Houston. I need someone
to jazz it up. I need a morning show most of all, something to appeal to women.”
“And you thought of me?” Arden was stunned.
“You’re a smart woman. You can learn fast. Plus, you’ve got a real presence, you think on your feet, you’ve got sex appeal, you’ve got a great laugh. I want you on my team.” He paused, then added slyly, “And I guarantee the pay is good.”
Arden stared into space, her mind buzzing.
Houston
. One thing she knew from reading
W
and
Vogue
was that the parties were stupendous, the clothes and houses out of this world. They knew how to live in Houston; they weren’t paralyzed by ancient Yankee rules of make it last/wear it out. The women’s jewelry was more than one set of grandmother’s pearls; the men’s wardrobe consisted of more than one old blue blazer. Lots of money in Houston …
“I have a contract with Channel Six.”
“Since I own it, I’m sure we can work that out.” Palmer stood up and held out his hand. “Let’s go out to dinner. Someplace really posh so you can contemplate my suggestion in seductive luxury.”
Arden hesitated. “Well …”
“Don’t worry,” Palmer said with a quirky smile. “You can pay.” She took his hand, knowing at that moment she was just perhaps maybe falling a little bit in love with him.
Weirdness, she was utterly weird, but she didn’t want to drive the thirty minutes back to her mother’s home in Belmont to change clothes. For one thing, it was close to rush hour and the traffic would be horrific, but more than that, Jenny did not want to share one fraction of this event with anyone, not even her mother—
especially
not her mother—not yet.
William Chivers was Jenny’s father, her biological father, and he wanted to take her out to dinner, to get to know her, and she wanted to get to know him.
She wanted him all to herself. She wanted him to
look
at her, his daughter. She wanted to hear everything about him, to see if he held his fork the way she held hers.
But they were meeting at the Harvard Club for dinner, and she felt wrinkled in her blue linen dress. She hurried over to Newbury Street, slipped into the first boutique she came to, and quickly found a svelte sleeveless black dress. She bought heels to wear with it, even though she had a pair of black shoes almost like them back on the island.
She passed the time until dinner walking around the public gardens, pretending to enjoy the flowers, the children playing games, the man throwing a Frisbee for his dog. But all she could think of was William Chivers.
They were seated at a table near the window, with a respectable amount of space between their table and others. Light music played, something classical. William Chivers wore the same tan suit, white shirt, blue tie. The maître d’ knew him, as did the waiter. He requested his favorite white wine and made small talk while they checked out the menus and ordered their meals. Then they sat back in their chairs and studied each other.
“Please,” Chivers said. “Tell me about yourself.”
Shyly at first, Jenny spoke about the easy things: her work, her schooling, her life in the Nantucket house. She was hesitant to say her mother’s name, or Rory’s, as if that would break the frail cobweb bond between herself and this new real father.
“And men?” Chivers asked. “Or women?”
“I broke up with a man a few months ago. He was a really nice
guy, but perhaps a bit too beefcake.” She blushed, remembering sex.
“Tell me about your sisters.”
The waiter set their entrées in front of them, giving Jenny a moment to gather herself.
Delicately, she requested, “First, could I hear something about
your
life?”
“All right.” He sipped some wine. “I’m old enough now to reflect on my past. So I can say with some pride that I’ve had a rewarding career as a transplant surgeon. I have saved lives. I’ve been less of a success as a father.” His eyes were sad. “My relationship with my children was never close. Entirely, I’ll be the first to I admit it, my fault. It has improved since their mother died. By the way, before I forget …”
Putting down his fork, he reached into his breast pocket, took out an envelope, and handed it to Jenny.
She accepted it, confused and slightly alarmed.
“It’s a sort of medical history of my side of the family,” Chivers explained. “I made a copy for you to keep. You can study it at your leisure, but I can assure you there are no hideous genetic diseases in our family. Although”—he hesitated—“there might be a history of OCD. Obsessive-compulsive disorder.” With a twitch of his shoulders, he added, “Also a bit of anxiety.” His eyes twinkled. “I have often heard it reported that I prefer people under anesthesia.”
Jenny chuckled. “You’ve always lived in the Boston area?”
“Yes. Back Bay. I can walk to Mass General.” Sighing, he continued, “Peggy, my wife, had hoped that would mean I’d be able to spend more time at home, but it didn’t work out that way. I found family life rather stressful, I’m afraid. Two children—well, with children, very little is under complete control.”
Jenny had to duck her head so he would not see that this made her guiltily happy, that he hadn’t been such a perfect father.
“I provided financially, and of course I attended school events and graduations. I took everyone on vacation for two weeks to Cancún or Hawaii. Unfortunately, I remained in the hotel room reading medical journals. In my field, there is never enough time to keep up with new techniques, new advances.” He cut a piece of haddock and chewed it thoughtfully. “I sound as if I’m stating my claim to the entrance through the Pearly Gates before Saint Peter. Not, my dear, that you resemble Saint Peter in the slightest.”
“Good to know,” Jenny said.
“Let’s get back to you. I’d like to hear about your childhood.”
He wanted to know about Justine, Jenny understood, and now she was ready. “Mother got married when I was five, but I don’t remember much about her first husband except that Peter didn’t especially care for me. They got divorced after about a year, and I was glad. Mother got married again, when I was ten, to Rory Randall. He adopted me, so I took his last name. Jenny Randall.” She savored the words. “He died this spring.”
“You loved him,” Chivers said.
“Very much.” How to describe Rory, his energy, his magic? “He was a real estate broker, here in Boston, very successful, and he appreciated people, which must have been one of the reasons for his success. He possessed a singular, remarkable
charm
—it was such fun to be with him. He had terrific ideas, enjoyed playing games—life was a game for him in a way. He was handsome. All my girlfriends at school had the silliest crushes on him. He’d take us all out for ice cream in his convertible with the top down and would let a lot of us smash in together, not caring whether we wore seat belts, so even when we were twelve, we felt kind of like we were living dangerously.”
“You were,” Chivers said dryly, and Jenny caught the flash of disciplinarian in his expression.
“He didn’t do that often,” Jenny hurried to add. “He wasn’t a careless man.” She paused, wondering if her words were true. “Although … well, my mother was his third wife.”
“So he was careless with women?”
“With his wives, yes. He was a bit of a …
philanderer
is perhaps too strong a word. But he left his three daughters the Nantucket house. If we three manage to live in it together for three months this summer, we can sell it and split the proceeds. It’s generous of him. He was always financially generous.”
“Tell me about your stepsisters.”
Jenny took a big sip, almost a gulp, of wine. “Actually, they’re okay.”
“You seem to imply there’s some discord among you.”
Jenny paused thoughtfully at his formal words. “
Discord
. Well, at first there wasn’t, then there was, and now we’re working it out, or I hope we are. We’ve drifted apart since we were young. The reason is complicated, but I’m sad about it. I hated being an only child growing up, and this summer, getting to know Meg and Arden again, it’s been a dream come true being around them.
My sisters
.”
Chivers raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Do you want to stay living on Nantucket?”
“Absolutely. The island is my home. I’ve lived there for years now. My friends are there, my work.”
“And the house? Will it be hard for you to leave it?”
“Gosh, yes.” Jenny put her fork down and gave herself a small, comforting hug at the thought. “It is the most
wonderful
house.” After a moment and a reassuring sip of wine, she continued, “But it’s far too big for one person. And realistically, Arden and Meg should have their third of the proceeds from the sale. It’s only fair.”
“It’s what your father did stipulate in his will, correct?”
Jenny leaned forward. “Could I tell you a secret I haven’t told anyone else?” she whispered.
“Yes. I’m good at keeping secrets.”
Jenny scanned the room, as if expecting Meg and Arden to pop up at another table. “When my father was dying, in the hospital, I got to spend some time with him, which I’m so grateful for. Anyway, I asked him to add that stipulation to his will. Actually, I typed the letter on my laptop and printed it off, and he signed it and discussed it with his lawyer.”
“Really. How curious.”
It felt so good to let the secret out. The words spilled from her like a waterfall; she felt light-headed and breathless. “I’ve always wanted to be closer with Meg and Arden. My mother didn’t want me to have anything to do with them. I’m an adult now; I’m making my own money and doing just fine. I don’t need money. I want my sisters. I thought this would be a brilliant way to force them to spend time with me—a sustained, concentrated time when we could get to know one another. And it’s working really well. I don’t mean we’re all jolly friends forevermore, but we’re muddling along. We
are
definitely getting to know one another. We’re laughing, and talking about stuff, and I know after this summer we’ll keep in touch, see each other, e-mail—be a
family—
and that means more to me than any money in the world.”
Chivers shook his head in amazement. “What an unusual person you are.”
“Meg and Arden can’t know this. They’d get upset, tell me it’s just another way I’ve manipulated matters to my own ends, even if it means this way they’ll get one-third of the sale of the house.”
“So no one else knows?”
“No one.” Jenny smiled. “Perhaps when we’re all old, sitting
in our rocking chairs on some porch somewhere, I’ll tell them. Then they’ll peck away at me like a pair of old hens, but by then it will be too late.”
“I doubt that either one of them will make much of a fuss about receiving so much money.”
“Oh, they’ll say Dad would have left them a third of the house anyway, and perhaps they’d be right. He didn’t even have a will until he had the heart attack. He had his lawyer come in and draw one up while he was in the hospital bed. I don’t know how he would have disposed of the house, but I don’t think he would have stipulated that the three of us live there together for the summer.” Remembering, Jenny’s eyes filled. “He liked my idea. He saw immediately how perfect it was.”
Chivers laid his knife and fork in exact parallels across his empty plate. “I wonder if my own son and daughter are capable of such generosity. Or such cleverness.”