The Ring on Her Finger (3 page)

“What might work?”

Instead of answering, Phoebe jumped up from the couch and dashed out of the room. When Lucinda followed, she found her friend seated before the computer in her home office, tabbing through screen after screen.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Finding you a hideout,” Phoebe said. “And while I’m at it, I’ll find you a job, too. It’s two-for-one day here at Dust Bunnies.”

After graduating from Brown University with her MBA, Phoebe had followed in her mother’s footsteps and gone into the housekeeping profession—except on a much larger scale. She’d started her own housekeeping service called Dust Bunnies, with which she had ultimately gone national. Big-time. Nowadays, her company supplied some of the country’s wealthiest and most distinguished families with all manner of good housekeeping staff. In fact, Dust Bunnies had grown by such leaps and bounds that Phoebe’s wealth was fast lapping that of many of her clients.

Lucinda studied her friend’s actions curiously, but did her best not to look at the computer. She hated computers. Instead, she watched the scrolling images on the screen reflected in Phoebe’s glasses. “What are you talking about?” she asked. “I don’t need a job. I have a job.”

Phoebe waved a hand negligently. “You don’t have a real job. You raise money for the Junior League.”

“That’s a real job.”

“Oh, sure, driving cookbooks all over town. You call that a fulfilling occupation?”

What Lucinda called it, Phoebe didn’t want to know. Maybe it wasn’t the noblest occupation in the world, but it was a useful one.
In the Kitchen with Bitsy and Friends
made a wonderful Christmas gift. Some of those recipes—especially Coco Jorgensen’s Oyster Stuffing—had become holiday traditions for many Newport families.

“Ah-hah,” Phoebe said when the rolling images came to a halt in her glasses. She read over whatever she’d found and sighed. “Perfect.”

“What’s perfect?”

Phoebe turned to look at her and smiled. “Ever been to Kentucky?”

Lucinda shook her head, confused.

“Have any objection to cutting and coloring your hair?”

Lucinda felt a pang of reluctance, but said, “I guess not.”

“Mind lying about your age?”

“Of course not.”

“Changing your name?”

“Well...”

“How about Lucy French?” Phoebe suggested. “That’s kind of a nice play on your name. Still sort of geographic.”

“Phoebe, what are you talking about?”

“You asked me to hide you,” her friend reminded her. “So I’m going to hide you.”

“In your oven?” Lucinda asked warily.

Phoebe shook her head, her grin growing broader. “Nope. I’m going to hide you in my computer.”

Lucinda—or, rather, Lucy, as she was supposed to be now that she was a fugitive from justice—halted outside the elaborate, wrought-iron security gate to gaze at the massive estate on the other side. She wished she’d asked the cabbie to hang around for a few minutes, just in case she had the wrong address. Or just in case the local police, acting on an anonymous tip, had preceded her here and were waiting beyond that gate to grab her, wrestle her to the ground, and lead her away in shackles.

Ultimately, she decided to stay put. Mostly because she had nowhere else to go. Strangely, though, for the first time in days, Lucinda—or, rather, Lucy—felt something resembling a sense of being safe. She had no idea why, seeing as she was about to embark on a false identity and undertake an unfamiliar profession in a place she’d never visited before, but there it was all the same. Something about her current situation made her feel oddly exhilarated. As if she were starting her life all over again, with a clean slate, with no expectations, and with the opportunity to do and be whatever she pleased.

Four days had passed since she sneaked away from Phoebe’s condo dressed in one of her friend’s outfits, her hair newly shorn and dyed pale brown. She was carrying two suitcases packed with some of Phoebe’s less outrageous clothing and a pile of cash her friend had given her, since neither knew how long Lucy would be required to keep up appearances. True to her word, Phoebe had found the ideal place for Lucy to hide: with Justin and Alexis Cove of Glenview, Kentucky, just outside Louisville, who needed a temporary housekeeper while their regular housekeeper took leave for a few months to tend to a convalescing parent. Lucy was to be a typical Dust Bunnies employee—a reliable local college student who needed work in exchange for room and board and a small salary.

When Lucy had reminded Phoebe that she was twenty-eight years old and was booted out of college because of her poor performance, Phoebe told her she could easily pass for someone five years younger, and that, hey, here was her chance to go back for her degree. So, while she was at the computer creating Lucy French’s bogus personnel file for Dust Bunnies, Phoebe had also hacked into the computers of a local university and enrolled Lucy in the English department’s graduate studies program, because Phoebe often wished she had minored in English, and gosh, this was the next best thing.

Currently, Lucy French was halfway through her MA in literature, with a focus on metaphysical poetry, and she was maintaining an admirable 3.5 average, so what was the big deal anyway, Phoebe would like to know. Lucy had replied that the problem was that Lucinda Hollander majored in art and struggled to maintain a D average before flunking out and knew absolutely nothing about metaphysical poetry. Phoebe had in turn replied, “Two words: John Donne,” and that had been the end of that. Then she had driven Lucy as far south as Newark and put her on a bus to Louisville.

Four nights ago, this hadn’t seemed like a bad idea. Then again, four nights ago, she’d been under the influence of four green martinis and more panic and terror than any human being had a right to feel. Now, as she studied the palatial Tudor home of the Coves from a distance, Lucy was having second thoughts about this ludicrous scheme. And third thoughts. And sixteenth thoughts, too.

It was housekeeping, she reminded herself. How hard could it be? Dusting, vacuuming, setting the table. That should be a piece of cake for her, since she had been around housekeepers all her life. She had done her fair share of entertaining over the years, too, not to mention having been entertained a time or two herself. Besides, there was a whole chapter on silverware placement in
In the Kitchen with Bitsy and Friends
, complete with visual aids. All Lucy French would be required to do for the Coves was clean rooms—two or three thousand of them, judging by the size of the place—and keep track of a few party preparations...at the very height of the holiday season. Still, even Lucinda Hollander should be able to do that.

Pushing aside her doubts, she inhaled a deep breath and told herself everything would be fine. Evidently, the Coves were wealthy enough to keep an entire fleet of servants on hand, so if Lucy needed to ask anyone a question or two—hundred—there would doubtless be someone around who could answer them. And really, the Cove home wasn’t that much grander than the house where Lucy grew up and continued to live. So why should she be terrified of entering it?

Hmm… Could it be because she would be entering under false pretenses and intentionally misrepresenting herself? Could it be because she had authorities of the federal persuasion looking for her? Could it be because she was going to have to look up metaphysical poetry the first chance she got? Could it be because she still had a hideous engagement ring stuck on her finger that not even a big can of Crisco had been successful in helping her remove?

Mmm, could be.

So much for the odd exhilaration. So much for starting her life over again. So much for the clean slate, the no expectations, and the opportunity to do and be whatever she desired. She was doomed.

Quashing her fears, Lucy pushed her thumb against the button on the security gate. While she awaited a response, she ran a hand over her new, light brown hair, marveling at how quickly the chin-length bob came to an end beneath her fingers. She had opted for the least funky of Phoebe’s outfits this morning, hoping to make a good impression on her new employers: a paisley miniskirt in varying shades of pink and orange, along with a short-sleeved knit top the color of raspberry sherbet. Well, it was the least funky of Phoebe’s outfits. Lucy couldn’t help it if her best friend was a bit whimsical. Nor could she help it if Phoebe was a size smaller than she. Snugness was fashionable these days. Of course, so was being a size negative two, which Lucy most certainly was not, but still.

At least the outfit was appropriate for the weather. It was surprisingly hot in Kentucky this first day of September, a heavy, humid kind of heat without the merest wisp of breeze. The lofty oaks lining the cobbled driveway and the wide maples dotting the front yard were all lush green, and the sky beyond was vivid blue, streaked from west to east with gauzy white clouds. A purple finch in one of those trees serenaded her with a cheerful tune, and Lucy gradually felt her tension ease. Somehow, she knew in that moment that everything was going to turn out all right.

Eventually.

Probably.

She hoped.

She was about to push the button on the gate again when a garbled, static-laden voice came over the intercom. “Yes?” a woman said. “May I help you?”

Lucy did her best to sound confident and honest when she replied, but somehow, she came off sounding neither. “Ah…H-hello?” she stammered. “I believe I’m expected? I’m, um, Lucy? Lucy French? The new housekeeper from Dust Bunnies? Mr. and Mrs. Cove are expecting me? I’m filling in for a few months? Did I mention I’m expected?”

She had to slap a hand over her mouth to keep herself from further babbling, “And please tell Mr. and Mrs. Cove that I’m not running from the Rhode Island State Police? Or the FBI, either? And that I didn’t murder anyone? I just got involved with a moron? But I’m pretty sure he didn’t murder anyone, either?”

The intercom crackled again, and the same voice said. “Oh. Yes. Just a moment, please.”

The security gate began to hum, and both halves began to swing slowly away from her. Lucy hesitated before passing through them, not sure what to do. Then she saw a woman striding down the long, cobbled drive toward her, so she lifted a suitcase in each hand and began to make her way in that direction.

As she drew nearer and saw the woman more clearly, however, Lucy realized it wasn’t Mrs. Cove. Alexis Cove, Phoebe had told her, was a forty-something socialite, and this woman appeared to be around Lucy’s own age—her real age, not the one she was pretending to be. And in place of the expensive, tailored fashions one would expect of a woman in Alexis Cove’s social stratum, this woman wore a sleeveless printed dress that fell to mid-calf, coupled with plain flat sandals. Her only concession to jewelry was a delicate gold cross nestled just above the slightly scooped neck of her dress.

The word
wholesome
jumped into Lucy’s mind as the woman came to a stop before her, even though that was a word she normally reserved for describing the ideal breakfast. The woman’s light green eyes sparkled with mischief, and her pale red tresses were braided around the crown of her head like a coronet. Her creamy complexion was flawless, save a sparse scattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose and high cheekbones. Lucy couldn’t help thinking the woman looked like an early twentieth-century refugee.

The image was only enhanced when she extended her hand and said with an accent that Lucy recognized as Irish, “Hello. I’m Rosemary Shaugnessy. I’m the Coves’ au pair. I care for their daughter, Abby.”

“Lucin... Ah... Lucy. Lucy French,” Lucy quickly corrected herself. She set one of her bags on the drive and extended her own hand, then was startled by the strength in the other woman’s grip. Obviously she wasn’t as fragile as she looked.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lucy French,” Rosemary said, smiling. “Welcome to Harborcourt.”

“Harborcourt?” Lucy repeated, confused. She could have sworn Phoebe said this place was called Glenview.

Rosemary tilted her head back toward the imposing mansion behind her. “Harborcourt is what Mr. and Mrs. Cove named their house when they bought it two years ago. A play on their name, I suppose. They quite fell in love with the place. Pity they don’t show the same affection for their only child that they show for their property.” Obviously realizing she shouldn’t have added that last sentiment—at least not until she and Lucy knew each other well enough to bitch and moan about their employers—she quickly amended, “But that’s not my place to say, is it? Abby’s a trifle challenging at times, but she’s a sweet child. The Coves are just a bit confused when it comes to their priorities. But in my experience, that’s always been the case for people who have more dollars than sense.”

Lucy bit her lip to prevent her response. It would probably be best just to agree with Rosemary, even if, in her own experience, economic privilege didn’t necessarily equal a lack of good sense—that moron Archie notwithstanding. Lucy French, housekeeper, would doubtless agree with Rosemary. They were, after all, both working-class.

So Lucy only said, “Is Mrs. Cove here? I’m supposed to meet with her this morning.”

Rosemary shook her head. “I’m the only one at home right now. Well, me and Max. He takes care of the cars and does a bit of driving for the Coves now and then. Abby started back to school a week ago, and Mr. Cove is at work. Mrs. Cove will be back shortly.” In a tone as wry as before, she added, “She had a terribly, terribly important meeting this morning with her manicurist. I’ll show you ’round and get you settled. Mrs. Cove can go over your duties when she returns.”

Without being asked, Rosemary picked up the suitcase Lucy had placed on the ground and began to make her way back up the drive. Lucy hurried her step to keep up. The nearer she drew to the house, however, the more her pace slowed. It was a massive place, actually much larger than the house where she had grown up, four stories high, with numerous chimneys and dozens of mullioned windows that cast back the sunlight as if they were made of crushed diamonds. The grounds, too, sparkled like gems, embellishing the front and sides of the house with vast, variegated landscaping.