“Oh, Cam!” she exclaimed. “Do you think—”
“I’ll make it happen,” he said. “No matter what.”
“You will?” she wailed.
But Cameron smiled to himself because he knew that her tears were coming from a place of hope and relief now. “I promise you, Jess. You have my word.”
“We’d need to see it soon. And you’ll come with me, Cam? I barely know Margaret. You’ll help me?”
“Whatever you need, Jess.” He sat on his couch and crossed his legs as he tipped the beer back and took a satisfying gulp. “Now tell me about this auction Brooks won’t help you with . . . and when you want me to kick Preston’s ass.”
***
Margaret blinked, opening her eyes to the morning sunlight streaming through the diamond-shaped cut-glass window just over her head. For just a moment she reveled in the plush softness of her country bed, covered with a thick down comforter and smelling of fresh-cut grass and her own lilac perfume. But all too soon the memories of last night invaded her peaceful good morning, and she cringed, turning to her side and picking up her phone to check the time. Ten o’clock. She’d overslept by hours.
Huffing softly, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the sharp angle of the ceiling. Her bedroom at The Five Sisters was in the converted attic of a thatched-roof cottage she’d had completely renovated, and although it was a tiny room, she loved it more than any five-star hotel suite in the world.
Exposed beams peeked through white stucco in a sharp inverted V that sheltered her full-size bed snugly, with just enough space for a petite end table and lamp on each side of the bed. The lamps were clear glass, filled with fresh herbs that emitted a lovely smell when the lit bulbs gently warmed them from above. Beside her lamp was her Kindle, her phone, and a glass of half-drunk wine.
Wine that she’d needed last night.
She’d never gotten to speak to Shane about going their separate ways, and to say the evening had been awkward, disjointed, and downright upsetting would be the understatement of the year.
It all started when Margaret’s younger, very bohemian sister—twenty-seven-year-old Priscilla, whom Margaret hadn’t seen in almost a year—opened the front door of Forrester to greet them.
Priscilla had interned at Story Imports last summer, while she was trying to get her act together, but it had been a short-lived stint that ended with her chasing one of their French wine reps, Xavier, back to Paris.
Suddenly home again, she was decked out in a colorful muumuu. Her long brown hair tumbled around her shoulders in fairy-tale waves, a dozen bracelets covered her wrists, and bright aqua feathers hung from her pierced ears. When she swung open the door, she practically fell into Margaret’s arms.
“Marguerite!” she exclaimed, crushing Margaret with her embrace. “Oh God, I’m so glad to see you!”
“Pris,” she said, thinking Priscilla had nothing on pythons when it came to squeezing the air from another life form. “I thought you were still in Provence.”
Priscilla leaned back to beam at Margaret, her neon-blue mascara bleeding from her tears. She wiped them away quickly, showcasing her chipped, hot-pink fingernails and a new tattoo, which looked like a long quote in French, on the underside of her wrist.
“Non! Non, belle soeur. I’m home now.”
Margaret was finally permitted to draw away and look up into her sister’s deep brown eyes. “Xavier?”
Priscilla looked behind Margaret, flashing her thousand-megawatt smile at Shane before locking eyes with her older sister. “Quel salaud. Connard. J’en ai plus rien à foutre.”
All the Story sisters—educated at a Swiss finishing school, at their mother’s insistence—were fluent in French, and it was their language of choice when they wanted a moment of privacy. Margaret cringed. Suffice it to say that things hadn’t ended well with Xavier. The approximate translation of her sister’s soft-spoken tirade was so filthy, it would have made a sailor blush.
Priscilla didn’t blush. She kept a smile plastered on her face, but her eyes burned, a phoenix-style fever in their fury.
Margaret flinched at the pain she saw in her sister’s eyes before raising her chin and reaching for Priscilla’s hand.
“Je suis désolé, Priscilla.” I’m so sorry.
“Je m’en fiche.” I don’t give a damn.
And yet it was clear that she did. A lot.
Shane cleared his throat from behind Margaret. Having forgotten he was there, she dropped Pris’s hand and turned to her nonexclusive, more-and-more-unwanted pseudo-boyfriend.
Shane cocked his head to the side. “My French isn’t terrific, but that didn’t sound too good.”
Priscilla’s trilling laugh echoed in the portico as she took Margaret’s arm and pulled her against her hip, facing Shane.
“Shane! It’s so good to see you again.”