Great-Aunt Sophia's Lessons for Bombshells (26 page)

Sophia cursed under her breath and muttered, “The organizers of that race should be shot.”

Grace leaned toward her aunt and whispered, “What is everyone talking about?”

But Sophia ignored her, her eyes watching the fluster and panic of the women like a fox watching a coop full of hens.

“We’ll have to cancel,” someone said.

“After all this work . . .”

“We already have two hundred and fifty confirmed guests, including several celebrities, senators, two ambassadors . . .”

“. . . all the props and costumes . . .”

Sophia’s voice cut through the dithering like a silver stiletto. “The solution is simple.”

Complaints broke off midsentence, and everyone turned to the grand dame of the table.

“We will have the charity gala at my home.”

The pronouncement was met with a collective indrawn breath of doubt. Glances were exchanged, eyebrows subtly expressed misgivings.

“Er,” Gwennie started, looking round the table to gather support, “I worry that your house might not be quite large enough. The guest list is for four hundred.”

Grace’s eyes bugged. Four hundred people! There was no way they’d all fit in Sophia’s house.

Sophia, however, was unruffled. She looked almost bored. “Gwennie,” she said in a voice tinged with the faintest trace of condescension, “the secret to a successful party has always been to have too much food and not enough space.”

Gwennie tightened her lips but retreated, making Grace wonder if Gwennie had recently hostessed a flop of a party with too little food and too much space.

“My home will be an improvement over the vineyard,” Sophia went on, “and we can put the money we save on not renting a space toward additional food and drink.”

“But four hundred people,” some brave soul cautioned. “And they’re to be served dinner.”

“Chefs from several of California’s best restaurants—I have already spoken with half a dozen—will have their own stations scattered throughout the gardens, serving small bites. Actors and musicians will be dotted through the woods, performing. Strung between the trees will be thousands of Chinese lanterns, glowing softly, like will-o’-the-wisps. Imagine the guests in their historic costumes, strolling the paths of such a venue. It will truly be a Long Ago Night in an Enchanted Forest.”

Small discussions broke out among the women, the tone questioning at the beginning but quickly turning hopeful, and even excited.

Their food came, and as Grace picked at her salad—despite her now continual hunger, the thought of eating salad yet again made her gag—and listened to the conversations around her, she began to piece together what was going on. Her neighbor Ellen filled in the blanks that were remaining.

“The gala was Sophia’s idea,” Ellen explained. “The Concours d’Elegance is a classic car show, as I’m sure you know, and this year there’s going to be a special exhibition race re-creating the 1950s races on Seventeen-Mile Drive.” Ellen glanced at Sophia and gave a little shake of her head. “Of course she doesn’t like that.” Before Grace could ask for clarification, she went on, “Sophia suggested that we revive another past tradition. The Carmel Art Association used to hold a masquerade ball every year as a fund-raiser, the most famous of which was at the Hotel Del Monte in 1941. It was called ‘Surrealist Night in an Enchanted Forest.’ Salvador Dali conceived of the theme and decorations, including burlap hanging from the ceiling to turn the room into a grotto; a wrecked car with drugged, bandaged models lying in it; tigers and elephants and whatnot from a private collection; and his wife wearing a unicorn head. Self-indulgent artistic twaddle, of course, but it was fabulously successful in terms of attendance and publicity.”

“And fund-raising?”

Ellen laughed. “Dali spent so much on throwing the party, expenses far outweighed earnings.”

“Why not just have people write checks to a charity instead of having them buy overpriced admission to a pretentious party and hope there’s something left over for—ow!” Something sharp and hard hit Grace on the ankle. Grace glanced toward her aunt and was met with a look of icy warning.

“Er . . . ,” Grace hedged, turning back to her neighbor and seeing the look of carefully controlled offense on Ellen’s face. “I mean, I’m sure that’s what some people were wondering back in 1941. But it’s obvious to me that with this group of women in charge, a charity event will be everything it should be and more. There’s no reason that beauty and elegance cannot be part of helping those in need. I think the world is always improved by a display of taste and discernment, and there’s no reason one can’t enjoy oneself while helping others, is there?” Grace smiled, hoping she’d laid it on thick enough, but not too thick.

Ellen looked at her for a moment, then leaned closer and said under her breath, “Let’s not forget the assistance of an open bar for getting bigger numbers written on checks.” She winked. “And pretty girls don’t hurt, either.”

Grace smiled, and gave her a coy look.
“I don’t suppose your son will be attending?”

“I think he can be persuaded, for the right reason.”

“Then I have something to look forward to.”

Ellen smiled and patted her hand. The rest of the lunch passed in discussion of details and people of whom Grace had never heard. She played her part as well as she could, never forgetting after that first slipup that it was a part she played, and that her performance was being judged by Sophia.

Grace was exhausted by the time she collapsed into the
backseat of the Duesenberg for the ride home, but the women hadn’t been half as uptight or judgmental as she’d expected for a bunch of conservative, filthy rich country clubbers. She’d almost . . . liked them.

“Wow, that was—” Grace started to say. But Sophia cut her off with a raised hand.

“We obey the fifty-foot rule,” Sophia said tersely.

Grace raised her eyebrows in question.

“You do not discuss an event or people until you are at least fifty feet away.”

“Oh.” Grace chewed her lip, and as Sophia waved farewell to Gwennie, who’d just appeared as if from nowhere, Grace admitted that it wasn’t a bad policy.

As soon as they pulled onto the main road, though, Darlene broke the silence, speaking over her shoulder, “Did they go for it?”

“Of course,” Sophia said, looking self-contented. “What choice did they have?”

Grace laughed. “You almost make it sound like you wanted the banquet hall to flood.”

“Darling, there was no flood.”

“The broken pipe at the vineyard,” Grace reminded her, worried for a moment that her aunt might have lost a synapse or two.

“The only flood was of praise, from my mouth into the ears of appropriate people at Stanford University, which the vineyard owners’ daughter will now be attending despite her less than perfect grades.”

Grace’s jaw dropped. “You wanted the gala at your house!”

“I never liked the choice of the vineyard, but I needed everyone’s cooperation for the gala, and I didn’t want to force the issue. It’s always better to be seen as a rescuer than as a bully, Grace. You not only get your way but also people feel in your debt. It’s win-win.”

“I don’t think ‘win-win’ is supposed to mean one person getting both wins,” Grace said drily.

“Win-win-win, then. At any rate, everyone is happy.”

Which made Grace wonder exactly why Sophia was so anxious to have the gala at her house. But she knew if she asked, the last thing she would hear was the truth.

Sophia was like a goddess, moving other humans about like pieces on a game board. And like a goddess, her ways were inscrutable to mere mortals like Grace.

Heaven help her.

CHAPTER

19

“T
here’s no such thing as a Steinbeck cricket, and you damn well know it!” Declan shouted at Andrew, barely restraining himself from tossing the smug bastard off the terrace of Sophia’s house.

“Apparently one has been found. It’s your unfortunate luck that it was found on your land.”

“It’s a fake, and you know it!”

Andrew’s pale cheeks heated to a raspberry hue. “I don’t know why you’re blaming me for your problems.”

“I’m blaming you because you are a part of that blasted Save Monterey group, and it was one of their members who photographed the supposed cricket. Who gave them the idea to look on my land?” Declan advanced on Andrew, who took a step back. “Who could that have been, Andrew?
Who?
”

“There are probably half a dozen endangered species on that land. I’m sure the EPA will find more than just the Steinbeck cricket, now that they’re looking more closely at your abomination of a housing development.”

“The Steinbeck cricket?” Grace’s voice said behind them. “Someone found a Steinbeck cricket?”

They both turned. Even through his anger, Declan was hit by her appearance. She was in a simple yellow skirt and white top, but her body beneath them had changed. She was still gorgeous,
but there was less of her, as if she’d been ill and hadn’t eaten well in a couple of weeks. Her breasts were smaller than he remembered when he’d last seen her, naked in bed, exhausted by pleasure.

She didn’t look exhausted by pleasure now. In the brief moment their eyes met he thought he saw hurt and accusation; reproach even.

“No one found a Steinbeck cricket,” Declan said to her, trying to keep his focus. He kept getting distracted by her body and the hollows of her cheeks, and was wondering why she’d lost so much weight. Was she unwell? Was she unhappy? Was she unhappy with
him
? “Andrew got one of his friends to plant a fake one on my land.”

Grace looked confused. “Andrew would never be part of something underhanded like that. Would you, Andrew?”

“You
know
me, Grace,” Andrew said. “You know I wouldn’t do something I believed to be wrong.”

“He doesn’t
think
it’s wrong!” Declan shouted, Andrew’s smug self-righteousness driving him over the edge. “He thinks he’s serving a higher good! I’d like to know who put the idea of the cricket in his head in the first place! It’s cleverer than I would have given him credit for.”

Grace’s eyes went wide, and her lips parted.

Declan got a sick, sinking feeling. “Grace? What is it?”

“I may have said something about crickets on your land . . . ,” she said, not meeting his eyes. She looked at the doctor. “But if Andrew’s environmental group found a Steinbeck cricket, then it’s right that the development be halted.”

Declan clapped his hands to his forehead in frustration. “There’s no such thing as a Steinbeck cricket!”

“Andrew wouldn’t lie,” Grace said primly, moving toward Andrew as if choosing sides.

Declan felt the betrayal like a stab to the gut. Was she part of the cricket scheme, too? Goddammit! He’d sensed she was out to get him; he should have listened more closely to his own instincts. He’d spent the past few weeks struggling to keep his distance from her, for fear that he was beginning to form a much too real attachment to her. He should have stayed right here and kept his eye on her! Sophia would have been the first to tell him that you keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.

“Grace!” Sophia said sharply from the doorway. She was leaning on her cane, her face stern. “Come here.”

“Aunt Sophia, Declan—”

“Grace! At once!”

Her brow puckered, Grace did as her aunt bid. Sophia said something to her in a low voice, which earned a vigorous head shaking and a protestation from Grace. A few more low words came from Sophia, and then with a look of extreme reluctance Grace slipped past her aunt and disappeared into the house.

“Andrew,” Sophia said crisply, “help me to that chair. Declan, please pour me a Scotch.”

Declan and Andrew both stared at her, held rigid by their anger and unwillingness to quit the field of battle. Sophia rapped her cane on the terrace. “Will you both keep me standing here?” she asked incredulously.

They jerked into motion, Andrew to offer his elbow, Declan to fetch the supportive assistance of alcohol. Five minutes later found the three of them seated at the table under the arbor, ice cubes clinking in two glasses of Scotch and one glass of club soda. Sophia forced them into a conversation about party preparations until Declan caught himself almost smiling at the “God help me escape this” look on Andrew’s face, a look he wore as well.