At least it was September and there wasn't much left, she thought.
The noise of the car got on her nerves so she pulled the key free. It was hard to marshal the energy to go inside even though the cold night air was working its way through her clothes. She didn't want to be less, than perfectly happy for her friend but the effort of pretending seemed more than she could manage.
In a flash of memory, her father's voice, stern and commanding, came to her. Buck up, Starfish. Let's see that smile.
The refrain from childhood made her see him as he had been then, bending down, looking at her with love and determination. On command, she straightened and released the seat belt.
There'd be time enough to wallow in things she couldn't change on the trip back home. No amount of feeling sorry for herself was going to bring her father back and it wasn't going to change the implications of that article or the fact that Cuppie was being buried on Monday.
Grace flipped down the vanity mirror to check her makeup. The dark circles under her eyes were still hidden, but her lipstick had worn off. She fished through her purse, found a tube, and began to put some on.
The contact made hex pause and she let her fingertips drift across her lips.
She could still feel his kiss. That soul-shattering meeting of mouths and tongues and bodies was as vivid to her as it had been just after they'd parted. She couldn't forget what it had felt like to be drawn in hard against that stranger's body, the way he'd touched her, the thundering in her blood.
She'd had, in that stark hallway, her first taste of passion.
Grace snapped the mirror up, disturbed.
It was too bad she was never going to see him again. She had no idea who he was or where he was from and she knew asking questions about a man like him would get talk started. She was still legally married, after all, and he was dangerously attractive. The last thing she needed was to spark rumors.
God knew, they bubbled up enough of their own accord.
What she needed to do was buck up, drag herself into that beautiful house, and share in her friend's joy.
As Grace stepped out of the car, she looked over her shoulder. Moving swiftly, she grabbed her Vuitton bags and rushed over to the house. Just as her feet hit the porch, Carter Wessex threw open the door with arms outstretched.
"Woody! You made it!"
Grace dropped the luggage and hugged her friend hard.
“Whoa, you okay?"
"Fine, just fine. I'm glad to see you." Grace smiled as they pulled away.
"Well, you look fantastic. Then again, you always do."
Grace glanced down at the Chanel suit she was wearing. She couldn't wait to take it off, get it away from her skin. It reminded her of the police station.
"Why don't you leave your bags here and let's go into the kitchen." Carter pushed her thick, black hair over her shoulder. "Have you eaten?"
Grace's stomach let out a wheeze of protest. "I'm not hungry, but I could use a glass of wine."
Or two.
"Well, I've got plenty of that," Carter said as she led the way to the rear of the house. "I'm so glad you've come for the weekend. Nick's flying into Albany from London and driving up, too. He should be home within the hour. He's looking forward to getting to know you a little better."
"Me, too. Those big parties I always see him at are hardly the place to make friends."
Carter laughed. "Which was precisely why I gave them up."
When they'd settled down at a sturdy oak table in the kitchen, a plate of cheese and fruit between them, Grace raised her glass of Chardonnay. "To my best friend and comrade in arms. May your marriage be long and full of joy."
With a warm light in her intense blue eyes, Carter smiled. “I’m so glad you came. "
"Me, too.” Grace looked away. "So tell me about the wedding. Were you gorgeous?”
"How are you doing?" Her friend's voice had an edge to it.
"I told you. I'm fine, Mrs. Farrell. Now, I want details, although the Cliffs Notes version of the wedding night will be sufficient."
"You look exhausted."
"You just told me I looked fabulous."
"You look fabulous and tired." Carter's expression softened. "I've been worried about you. I know how close you and your father were."
Grace glanced down into her wine. "Let's only talk about good things. Wouldn't you rather wow me with details of the honeymoon?"
The silence that followed told her that Carter, in typical fashion, wasn't going to be sidetracked.
Grace put her glass to her lips and emptied it in two swallows. Liquid courage, she thought, tilting the thing toward her friend.
Carter obligingly refilled it.
"Did you read in today's paper about Cuppie Alston's death?"
Carter frowned. "A gruesome tragedy. You knew her well, didn't you?"
Grace nodded. "I was at the reception last night. Waiting for her to arrive like everyone else."
"That must have been awful."
"It was. They kept extending the cocktail hour until finally they had to start the program without her. That empty chair on the dais ..." Grace shuddered. "They found an article next to the body, about socialites in the city. Cuppie was one of the women covered by it."
"Don't tell me they think it's some kind of serial killer?"
Grace took a deep breath. "I was also featured in the piece. I was questioned by the police today."
Her friend's response was a shocked hiss.
"My God, Grace." Carter reached across the table, knocking over a salt shaker.
Grace gave her friend a reassuring squeeze while righting the shaker with her other hand. Just then, the back door swung open and Nick Farrell strode into the kitchen. They both looked up.
Farrell was a big man, a powerful man, dressed in an elegant pinstriped suit with a pale blue shirt and dark tie. As he placed a lingering kiss on his new wife's mouth, Grace looked away discreetly.
"So this is not just Grace Woodward Hall," Carter said nodding her head across the table. "This is my old friend Woody."
Pale gray eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard a lot of things about what you and Carter have done together."
As she shook his hand, Grace forced a smile. "It is true we were almost kicked out of Groton for smuggling in wine coolers, but that thing about the St. Mark's lacrosse team is a total fabrication."
He laughed and glanced back at Carter. Instantly, his expression changed. Dark brows crashed together. "What's wrong?"
Carter's eyes flashed across the table. When Grace shrugged, her friend explained. When she was done, Farrell wore a grim expression.
"Here's what we're going to do," he said.
"Please," Grace interrupted. "None of this is your problem. I don't want to—"
"We're going to call John Smith."
"That's a great idea," Carter declared.
"Who's John Smith?" Grace asked. "Other than a man with a ridiculously ubiquitous name?”
"He's helped me in the past," Farrell said. "He's a private security guy. First rate. And he's very discreet."
"I don't really think that's necessary."
Nick shot her a blunt look. "Whoever left that article is probably just getting started. You want to meet him some night when you happen to be alone? "
The picture of Cuppie's throat flashed through her mind and Grace felt a stab of fear in her chest.
Carter frowned and stroked her arm protectively. "You don't have to be so harsh, Nick."
"I apologize, but you both know I'm right. She needs a bodyguard."