The Balance Thing (9 page)

“Oh that? Just the folly.” He dismissed it.

Of course, just the folly. Don't we all have a folly on our private island? I took a moment to imagine him by moonlight in front of it. Leaning over me, closer, gazing deep into my eyes, lips parting slightly…

“Damn!” he said forcefully. His horse had made some sort of misstep. Did I mention that it was a white horse? Well, light gray anyway. Still—I was out on a date with a real-life, actual knight on a white horse.

“What's the matter?”

“This damn beast might not have been as good an investment as I thought.” He shook the reins. “Still”—he flashed me a grin—“he's rather lovely to look at, isn't he?”

Rather.

I tore my gaze away to take in the scenery. “Is all of this yours?”

“More or less.” He looked toward the house. “My father is still living, and I'm guardian to two nephews. Their parents died in a boating accident.”

I looked at the lake. “Here?”

“Lord no.” He shook his head. “Somewhere in the Pacific between Tahiti and somewhere else.” He shrugged.

So they hadn't been a close family. A movement down by the water's edge caught my eye. “Who's that?” I pointed to a figure who was struggling toward what was probably a boathouse because it was next to a small dock. He was swaying under a load of what looked like lumber.

A flash of distaste crossed Sir Charles Shipley's perfect features. “An old gardener.” He sniffed and seemed bothered by something.

Okay. Not a good subject. “What's that town in the distance?” I asked. “Is that where the train station is?”

“That?” He squinted. “No, that's the village. The town is over there.” He maneuvered his horse close to mine, and we both came to a stop. Then he reached out and placed one hand on my back, extending his other arm over my shoulder so I could follow as he pointed to the town. This put his head close to mine, and his mouth just behind my right ear. I have no idea what he said, but I nodded at whatever he was pointing at and tried to resist melting against his chest.

His hand moved down my back and began making its way around my waist. I was trying to decide whether I should turn my head toward him, in a “kiss me” sort of way, or keep pretending to pay attention to his guided tour of the
area. Should I wait for him to take the lead? Maybe he'd say something like “Rebecca, I must have you here. I must have you now.” Or maybe I wasn't going to get that clear a message. Maybe he was waiting for me to indicate a certain willingness in some way. Maybe…

“Damn!” His beautiful horse kicked at mine and we were parted. Sir Charles gave me an angry look, possibly meant for his mount. “I'm going to have to give him a good gallop. Can you find your way back on your own?”

I wanted to say, “Hell, no—get off the stupid horse and come over here and kiss me.” But that might be interpreted as bitchy. So I nodded.

“Good. I'll see you this afternoon.” The horse reared as he dug his heels in. “Damn,” he said as he turned away.

And then he was gone.

Damn, indeed.

I
spent the ride back analyzing the exchange and came to the conclusion that it had gone well. I barged into Vida's room the instant I returned. “Success!”

“Me too!”

The gong sounded as Shayla appeared behind me. “Oh,” she said, “this I've got to hear.”

It was a little like being sixteen again, only not like being me at sixteen—like being some popular-girl-who-was-into-boys at sixteen. Anyway, between getting our dinner dresses on and getting our hair and makeup done, there was a whole lot of giggling going on.

Vida had spent the day playing tennis with Phillip. It had been his suggestion, which would have been cause enough for celebration, but it also turned out he was just taking up the game, whereas Vida was a fairly serious player.

“So there we were,” Vida told us, “and Phillip Hastings was asking for pointers from me, and being great about it—not like a guy at all, you know? I mean, I hate it when some guy tries to show me how to do something that I've been doing better than him for years—”

This threatened to turn into a rant, so I steered her back on course. “So what happened after tennis?”

Vida beamed. “Well, we got started talking, and he was really impressed by my upper-body strength, and I told him it was the surfing. And it turns out he's always wanted to try surfing.” She studied her fingernail in an attempt at nonchalance. “So he may plan a trip to California this summer.”

Fine, but in my mind that couldn't compare to having Sir Charles Shipley's lips within inches of my neck.

“Okay, so what's your plan for dinner tonight?” I asked Vida. “I'm going to do my damnedest to get my guy out in the moonlight. I don't care if it's the terrace or the fountain or whatever.”

“I think it's going to rain,” Shayla said doubtfully.

“Have him take you to the conservatory instead,” Vida suggested. “At least it's got a glass roof. And I've got my evening under control. I've asked Phillip to teach me how to play snooker.”

“You guys are so complicated,” Shayla said. “If I want a guy, I just have a couple of drinks and jump him.”

Vida and I exchanged looks. I don't think the direct approach had occurred to either one of us.

“What if he's not interested?” Vida asked.

Shayla made a broad gesture encompassing her hair, her face, her impressive chest, her hips.

We got it. He'd be interested.

“If you want my opinion, and you're both probably a lot smarter than me—” We protested, but she waved a hairbrush dismissively. “If you want my opinion, nothing works like pushing a guy up against a wall and planting one on him.”

 

EVEN IF WE'D DARED
take Shayla's advice—and we probably wouldn't have—we never got the chance. When we went down to the Chinese Dining Room, we were greeted by a winking Trinny, who informed us that Sir Charles Shipley had arranged something called a “lad's night” in Ian's honor. All the men were gone.

“They'll probably come back legless in the wee hours of the morning and sit around uselessly all day tomorrow, but boys will be boys,” she said. “They need their little indulgences, and we must keep them happy.”

They do? We must?

“Why don't we all go out somewhere?” Vida proposed. But it was not to be.

“Becks, Vida.” Connie materialized at my elbow. “Come sit by me. We need to go over some of the things I'll need you to take care of tomorrow at the garden reception.”

Resistance was futile. Day Three was lost.

 

ON DAY FOUR,
Sir Charles Shipley disappeared. Some “unavoidable commitments” took him to London. The slightly scary housekeeper mentioned that he might not even show up in time for that evening's reception in the walled garden—at which Vida and I would monitor the guest book, alert the staff if the canapés were running low, make sure the volume of the music suited the level of conversation, and carry out all the other duties on Connie's lengthy and Trinny-free list.

After lunch, I stood at my bedroom window and glumly
watched Vida and Phillip set off for a jog around the grounds. We were both supposed to be meeting Connie at the fountain to help supervise the people setting things up for the next day, but Vida hadn't needed much encouragement to bail on that in favor of a sweaty run with her dream man.

Oh, well. At least one of us was happy. I gave myself five minutes to wallow in LOTM-induced self-pity, then set off to help Connie.

Two enormous trucks had arrived, and a gigantic white tent was being spread out on the open lawn behind the famous baroque fountain. Rows of immaculate white chairs were being placed in precise, angled lines facing the rose-covered arch that had been positioned in front of the fountain.

Swarms of efficient-looking workers seemed to have the situation completely under control. Connie was nowhere in sight.

“Excuse me.” I spotted a tall woman in a silk blouse and tailored trousers wearing a telephone headset and appearing to be in charge.

“What?” she snapped at me. “Do you work for me? What are you supposed to be doing?”

Wow. I expected snakes to leap out of her eyes. “I'm a bridesmaid. I'm supposed to meet the bride here.”

“You bloody fucking bastard!” she shouted. “No, that's not good enough! I said fucking white silk organza ribbons and you'll bloody well bring me fucking white silk organza ribbons!”

She was shouting into the headset, I realized, but I still took a step back. Her gaze flicked to me. “The bride's in the house. I sent her away to take a bubble bath and think pretty
thoughts or whatever the fuck brides do. What they do
not
do is tell me my business, thank you very much, or get in my way while I'm trying to prevent a
bloody fucking catastrophe!”

The last three words seemed to be for the benefit of her staff, who continued to rush around efficiently. I realized who she had to be.

“You're the wedding planner.”

Connie had spoken in dismissive terms about someone she'd been faxing and e-mailing on this end. She hadn't mentioned anything about the woman's ability to breathe fire.

“That's right. And unless you've got twenty pounds of
pâté de
fucking
foie gras
down your shirt I'll thank you to let me get on with this
fucking disaster!”

I fled in the direction of the lake.

 

I PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE TRIED
to find Connie, but the thought of getting between her and the creature with the headset terrified me. Instead, I set off for the little dock I'd seen the day before with some sort of vague idea of finding a rowboat and investigating the island folly as a potential romantic backdrop.

But as I got closer to the dock, I heard a sort of clanging, banging sound coming from the boathouse. The door was open, so I stuck my head in to see what was going on.

I was greeted by the sight of a six-foot-tall white swan in the process of having its neck wrung by an elderly English gentleman.

“Hullo,” he huffed when he saw me. “What extraordinary timing. Could you please hold this in place for a moment while I try to find the right size spanner?”

“Um. Sure.” As my eyes adjusted to the gloom of the interior, I realized the swan was in fact some sort of sculpture in the final stages of construction. The man, I assumed, was the old gardener I'd seen from horseback the day before, struggling under his load of equipment.

I reached out and steadied the swan's neck. “Here?”

“Lovely.” He stepped back to check the angle of the head. “Very nice.” He rooted around in a pile of tools on a shelf behind him and emerged triumphant. “Ah! Here you are!”

He reached into an open flap at the swan's shoulder and began tightening something.

“Um, I'm one of the wedding guests.”

“Oh?” He squinted in concentration.

“Actually, I'm a bridesmaid.”

“How nice,” he grunted conversationally. “There! I think we've got it!”

He stepped back and motioned that I should let go. When I did, the whole structure groaned forward slightly but held.

“Brilliant! Can you help me get her outside?” The gardener placed a shoulder under one wing, and not knowing exactly why this had become my responsibility, I did the same on the other side. The structure was light. “Fiberglass,” he explained. “Weighs next to nothing and should float like a charm.”

Oh. It was a boat. Of course. When we got it to the dock and I could look at it in the sunlight, I realized it was one of those bicycle-pedal boats people can rent at ponds, to take the kids out and feed the ducks or something.

“Isn't she lovely?” my companion asked. “I got her on eBay.”

Where else? “It certainly is…big,” I offered.

“Oh, well, a lot of her will be underwater, you know. Just like the real thing. Furious activity underneath while up top we see only white, smooth, serene beauty.”

Much like a wedding, I reflected.

He held out his hand. “My name's George,” he said.

“Becks.” I shook his hand.

He took a large white handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped his brow. Then he glanced up toward the mansion, where the tent was beginning to rise. “I expect that place is a madhouse by now.”

“Pretty much.”

We both thought our own thoughts for a moment. Then I asked a question. “Why did you buy a swan pedal-boat on eBay?”

He let out a surprisingly ringing laugh. “Yes, I suppose it does look a bit eccentric at that. But I got it for the boys, you see.”

I looked around. Maybe George had been in the boathouse too long.

He waved away my confusion. “My grandsons. I thought it would be rather jolly for them, but then…perhaps they're getting a bit old for pedal-boats.” He shrugged. “In any case, they got an invitation from a school chum to go to Cannes or Nice or someplace for the end of their hols, and well…she's lovely, but she can't really compete with topless French girls, can she?” He patted the swan's neck affectionately.

“How old are the boys?”

“Fifteen and seventeen.”

I looked at the swan. “She didn't have a chance.”

George laughed again. “Ah, well, since I've retired, I need to do things to stay busy myself, so there you have it.
I'm sure you understand, a bright young lady like you. You must work?”

How had I walked into that dreaded topic?

“Well, yes, of course.”

His expectant gaze asked the follow-up question. And for the first time in eighteen months I thought “screw it” and answered truthfully.

“I'm a voiceover artist for a cartoon vampire.” As soon as the words were out, I felt like a complete idiot.

“Really?” He seemed impressed, which for some reason made me feel like even more of an idiot. “On American television?”

How soon could we stop talking about this? “On the Internet,” I explained.

“Oh, good heavens.” He clapped. “You're not that Vladima person, are you?”

I wouldn't have thought eccentric English gardeners of advancing years were the demographic Josh was looking for, but there it was. “Yes.”

“Oh, but the boys love you!”

Right, that explained it. Fifteen- and seventeen-year-old boys who'd ditched gramps to go ogle French girls—that sounded more like my public.

“They'll be so sorry to have missed you.”

“Yeah, well, gosh…” I had no idea how to have this conversation. Suddenly I longed for Connie and her wedding-dragon accomplice. This was my reward for running out on my bridesmaid responsibilities. Talking Vladima next to a giant swan.

“Well, this has been an exciting day,” George enthused. He gave the swan an absentminded pat on the rump. “I tell
you what”—his eyes sparkled—“come back tomorrow when I've got her hull sealed and I'll give you a spin on the lake. You can tell me all about your delightful vampire work. The boys will be so impressed.”

Tempting. But my plans called for moonlight passion with the LOTM after the wedding, not pedal-boats and Vladima with the retired gardener, however cheerful he might be.

“I'm going to be a little tied up,” I explained.

“Of course, of course,” he said. “Silly of me. In fact, is that someone trying to get your attention now?”

I followed his gaze toward the house and saw Connie on fast approach. “That's the bride,” I told George. “I think I'd better go.”

“Yes, I think you better had,” he agreed. We could now hear Connie's voice on the breeze. And she was not saying, “Oh, what a pretty swan.”