He’d grown up with Margaret Story—their estates separated by the Rousseaus’ house on Blueberry Lane in nearby Haverford. And she’d always, more or less, been the person she was now. Even as a child, she’d been bookish and severe, likely to blow the whistle on any misconduct and get adults running over to spoil the kids’ fun. Cameron really hadn’t paid her any attention until her legs suddenly got long and coltish and her small breasts started to tease him at neighborhood pool parties.
He’d watched her then, studied her, quietly fascinated by her innate serenity. She was more comfortable hanging back, the second of five sisters, perennially in older Alice’s shadow and looking after her younger sisters, Betsy, Pris, and Jane. He had a sense that she liked flying under the radar, which made her his favorite target for teasing: the attention, to which she was unaccustomed, always made her red and flustered, and Cam had savored her reaction to him. He loved pulling her braids—teasing her in an attempt to loosen her up—and when it backfired and she stomped away in a snit, he couldn’t help wishing he could somehow figure out how to be the boy who could make her loosen up, make her smile.
But at thirteen years old, just when Cameron might have mustered up the courage to steal a kiss from twelve-year-old Margaret, whom his barely-teen heart loved desperately, his father died suddenly of a heart attack. His whole world changed overnight, ending in his move to London with his mother, brothers, and little sister . . . and Margaret Story became a dim memory attached to happier days he’d just as soon forget.
Five years later, he moved back to Philadelphia for college, like his brothers, but Margaret no longer lived in Philly, and he heard through the grapevine that she was in finishing school in Switzerland, a tradition for the Story sisters. And from what he gathered over the years from mutual friends, she’d stayed abroad, learning about French and Italian wines from old-world masters.
A few months ago, Cameron ran into Margaret again. While he chatted with Alex English in the lobby of his apartment building, Margaret—Alex’s date—suddenly walked back into his life. She’d returned from Europe, finally, and had just moved into the fashionable Newbury Arms. Of all the places in all the world, the little girl whose braids he’d pulled now lived in the apartment directly over his.
And she was stunning. Sophisticated and charming, beautiful and refined, Margaret Story had grown into a modern-day Grace Kelly, complete with an ever-present chignon and elegant taste in clothes. With not a hair out of place and a voice that never raised beyond the honeyed tones of her quiet speaking voice, she was the epitome of grace and refinement.
“May I ask you a question?”
Jolted from his thoughts, he looked up at her. “Why not?”
“Have you ever had any work done on your apartment?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
She sighed. “Okay. Thanks.”
The elevator stopped, and the door opened to the fourth floor. Mrs. Stewart took her time getting onto the elevator, her two Pekingese dogs yapping unpleasantly. Margaret moved back a little to accommodate the feisty fur balls, and her elbow brushed against Cameron’s forearm. He knew the polite thing to do would be to move back to give her more space in the tiny, old-fashioned elevator, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to touch her, even if it was through layers of raincoat and suit jacket.
“Push the L, huh, love?” asked Mrs. Stewart in her light Scottish brogue.
“We’re going up, Mrs. Stewart,” said Margaret as the doors closed.
“Oh, dear. I want to go down to the lobby.” She reached forward and pushed the button for the fifth floor. “I’ll get off at the next floor instead.”
That strategy made very little sense to Cameron, but he held his tongue, feeling at once annoyed and secretly thrilled to have a little extra time with Margaret’s arm pressed against his. The top of her head, which just reached his shoulder, was so close that if he leaned forward, he could brush her hair with his lips. Anxious to divert himself from such foolish thoughts, he cleared his throat.
“Are you having some work done?”
“I’m thinking about it,” she said, without turning her swanlike neck to face him.
He wanted to know more, but appearing interested would be at odds with his usually insouciant demeanor toward her. The elevator dinged at the fifth floor, and Mrs. Stewart’s Pekingese pups launched through the door, thinking a walk was imminent, and Cameron felt some sympathy for the fifth-floor lobby carpet.
“So I guess that means it’ll be noisy upstairs,” said Cameron.
As the elevator doors closed again, she turned slightly to face him. “I’ll ask Geraldo to work during the day so I don’t inconvenience you.”
“Very considerate. Thanks.”
“However,” she continued, “since you’re rarely home before midnight, and always out of the building by seven in the morning, that leaves him plenty of time.”
This was interesting. She kept tabs on his comings and goings? Why in the world Cameron found this so captivating, he couldn’t put into words, but his cool facade slipped, and he couldn’t resist teasing her just a little.