7. Daphne
7
DAPHNE
I f Luke found it was cold in my office yesterday, he must be fighting frostbite today.
Not that anyone would have been able to tell. He sits there, reading contracts and asking questions, as if we’re perfect strangers.
Not as if I invited a kiss and he declined to continue it.
Yes. I’m mad. What’s the point of asking for what you want if you don’t get it? Why wouldn’t he take what I was offering? What particular kind of plague do I have? Luke isn’t shy and casual hook-ups seem to be his forte.
Just not with me.
Message received.
More . That word makes me livid. I was awake all night, fuming, and rolled into work like a tropical storm about to wreak havoc on anyone or anything dumb enough to get in my way. I can’t remember ever being insufficient for anyone, and I don’t like the change.
That Luke doesn’t even seem to notice my mood is icing on the cake.
And then—too late—he gives me all the right words, presenting it as sincerity when I know better. He didn’t have to prove to me that good-looking guys are all the same. Was he trying to get a second chance after turning me down? What kind of game is that?
It’s one I’m not going to play.
It helps absolutely nothing that my heart keeps going skippity-bop when I hear his voice, all low and rumbly, making all my sensitive girl bits tingle in harmony. It doesn’t help that I admire the thoughtful questions he has and the way he sees through the words to the legal implications. He’s no fool, that’s for sure. Even my father raises his brows and flicks me a look after one discussion, impressed.
Luke’ll be gone soon.
That the thought leaves me with the taste of disappointment makes everything that much worse.
I grind the gears of my beloved Honda backing out and have to talk myself down. It’s good that I won’t see Luke until the next morning. It’s good that this transaction is likely to be short and sweet. If I go to Toronto to present his proposal to Meredith MacRae tomorrow, he might disappear right after that. He’ll never come back to Empire now and I tell myself to be glad.
Maybe I will be, later.
As I wait on the clerk, I compose a list. Wednesday means that tonight is my turn to play hostess. I might as well take advantage of my unexpected trip to Havelock to buy some groceries, the likes of which are unavailable in Empire.
Tonight, I will create a charcuterie board to spawn legends. That should be enough to improve my mood.
Funny, but it’s not.
Wednesday night is the very best night of the week.
Every time.
Because that’s when I meet up with my friends. It is the ultimate girls’ night, held weekly, filled with wine and snacks, gossip and love. It’s the highlight of my new life.
These three weren’t always my friends, but that’s how it works, right? Abbie came up with the idea of our club in high school. It was Abs and me, Mackenzie Rhodes and Willow Forsythe. In high school, we hung out all the time. You never saw a more unlikely group of BFFs but it worked.
Maybe it was because we were so different. Mackenzie is the math whiz, the overachieving heiress to the throne of Rhodes Vineyards. If anyone was ever all work and no play, it’s Mackenzie—though she says that when you love what you do, work seems like play. (Where have I heard that recently? Maybe she should jump Luke’s bones. Two of a feather, etc. Grr.)
Willow is the creative genius who can turn any problem on its head to find an unexpected solution. She sees everything from a different perspective, which makes her unpredictable and interesting.
Abbie was always pretty and popular, the rich girl who everybody liked and who knew everyone.
And then there was me, quiet and serious, a socially awkward nerd who could lose herself in the details—or a good book.
Abbie and I went away to university, but when we came home for holiday breaks, there were Mackenzie and Willow. We always picked up where we’d left off, as if no one had ever been gone. Mackenzie went to a winemaker’s program in France for a year in the middle of our absences from Empire. Willow never left, just dabbled in online courses and hobbies and part-time jobs. Abbie took a job in Vancouver when she graduated and never came back. We keep a chair for her, just in case.
Damn, but I wanted her to have that house. Oh well.
A year ago, Cameron Sinclair just walked up and knocked on my door one Wednesday night. She’d bought the house next door, having discovered that real estate was significantly cheaper in Empire than in Havelock where she works. She’s not the kind of person to let a detail like not knowing anyone in town stand in her way. She’d noticed us getting together and self-invited. She’s a nurse and I like her. She seems aloof, even reserved, when you first meet her, but she slides in these wicked little comments that crack me up every time. She also has a gift for finding the only single guy in a crowded room/bar/event and charming him so completely that she ends up taking him home.
Every time.
After Cameron joined us, we tried to have a theme. We were a book club first, but then we couldn’t agree on what books to read. I like mysteries. Cameron is into thrillers, preferably of the medical variety so she can red-line all the technical errors. Willow loves romance. Actually, Willow loves pretty much every genre of fiction. She’s our official free spirit, filled with love for everything and everyone in the universe. (Thanks to Luke, that’s now reminding me of his description of Taylor.) Mackenzie never gets around to reading. (We have a joke that our book of the month should have always been The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People , because then Mackenzie would not only read it but quiz us on the content.)
We were a knitting club for a while, but I had too many scarves in a hurry. Cameron prefers to crochet and Mackenzie is still knitting a pair of fair isle mittens she cast on in 2014. They’ll be perfect if they’re ever finished, worthy of a blue ribbon somewhere, but they may never be done. Willow makes fuzzy amigurumi by the dozens and sometimes leaves them in unexpected places. There was a perfect plump crocheted penguin in my freezer the last time I hosted, waiting on the ice cube tray for me to discover him. The expression on his face is priceless.
I’ll put him back in the freezer today so she can discover him there. That always makes her giggle.
I wouldn’t miss our weekly gathering for the world. I still miss Abbie, but this helps.
Willow is first to arrive tonight. She’s brought a spinach and artichoke dip that has to be heated up and gets busy in the kitchen. We’ve done this often enough that there’s no ceremony. We know each other’s kitchens and just dig in. I’m already setting out cold cuts and olives, cutting cheese into bite-sized pieces and generally admiring the layout of my masterful platter of goodness. Willow hums as she works and that always makes me smile. She’s the niece of Jim who runs the antique store, which is where she works sometimes. Mostly she repaints vintage furniture while he’s out picking, attending auctions and estate sales. I always wonder if it bugs him that some of her repaints go for more than the antiques.
My big bookcase is one of hers, the turquoise blue one in the corner of my living room that provides the perfect pop of colour. It makes me think of the Caribbean or maybe the trip to Greece I’ve always wanted to take.
Now it’s always going to make me think of Luke admiring it last night. How can he have infected my life in just over twenty-four hours? He’ll be the ghost at the banquet forever, but I’m not moving again, not just to exorcise him. (And I’d keep that bookcase anyway.)
The bell rings and I see Cameron waving through the window in the front door. She’s tall with dark hair that’s always cut short—she says it’s practical—but you know when she’s off-duty because she wears red lipstick and dangly earrings. I open the door, she charges in, hugs me, and manages to shove a wine bottle at me at the same time as she takes off her coat. She chucks the coat in the general direction of my coat rack, and it snags a hook, seemingly of its own volition, then confronts me.
“Did I buy the wrong thing?” she demands and I look at the label on the wine. “The guy at the liquor store in Havelock recommended it, but it is entirely possible he was just trying to get lucky.”
Willow laughs. Cameron waves to her. “I hope it wasn’t expensive,” Willow says.
“He’s always recommending stuff to me,” Cameron complains. “He comes out of nowhere every time I set foot in the store.”
“Maybe he’s on commission,” I suggest. “Is he cute?”
“Not bad,” Cameron says. “But it feels like mixing work and pleasure.”
“You don’t work at the liquor store,” Willow notes.
“But it’s a cornerstone of my existence. I don’t need any complications when running errands.” Cameron eyes me. “Well?”
“This is from Rhodes Vineyard. It’s a vintage. How could it be wrong?”
Cameron makes a face. “But why is it still there? Does this vintage suck that badly?”
“Oh no, this one won awards. I remember. It’s in demand.” I show her the list of accolades on the label.
Cameron dismisses them with a gesture. “We know all that marketing crap is bullshit.”
“Don’t say that to Mackenzie!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, but I brought another bottle of Italian plonk just in case.”
Can an Italian primavera even be plonk? I’m outside my sphere of expertise and just take both bottles.
“We might need both, since he’s back,” Willow says with a smile. I know exactly who she means and I hate that I blush. Cameron doesn’t miss a thing. She looks between us, expectant. Willow brings her dip to the coffee table. It smells great. She winks at Cameron as she slips into a chair. “And the only person he went to see was Daphne.”
“Who he?” Cameron demands.
I return to the kitchen to get the charcuterie tray. I get down the wine glasses while I’m there, upgrading to my better ones just because.
Okay, they’re in the cupboard on the other side of the kitchen, which means I can turn my back to my guests for a minute and compose myself. Sort of.
Willow meanwhile is filling in Cameron, the two of them leaning over her phone as she shows Cameron who she means.
“Luke Jones? The Luke Jones?” Cameron stares at me. “He’s here and he came to see you?”
“Yes.” I nod as if it’s no big deal. “You want to open the wine?”
Cameron will not be distracted, even though she’s twisting the cap off the Italian red. “The Luke Jones who has vanished from the world stage without a trace—” she blows at her fingertips “—is here, in backwater Empire, and he came to visit you?” I nod again, because it’s true. If I try to evade the truth, Willow will provide it. Cameron’s eyes narrow. “Why?”
“He has this plan. He wants to make things right.” I frown. “I agreed to help because I thought it might bring Abbie back to town. By the time I figured out that wasn’t going to happen, I was angry enough to help make his plan happen, despite his father’s garbage.”
There is a beat of silence while they stare at me, Cameron with an olive between finger and thumb, almost in her mouth, and Willow’s eyes wide. They’ve both heard that my version is heavily edited and I wonder which of them will call me on it. Cameron definitely will, but Willow might be faster this time.
“Is that supposed to make sense?” Cameron asks.
I sigh and perch on the edge of the couch. “We should wait for Mackenzie, so I don’t have to repeat it all.” They nod reluctant agreement. “He needed a lawyer and I won the lottery.”
“Not a lot of candidates in town,” Willow says.
“And my dad is on retainer for Cavendish Enterprises.”
Willow’s eyes round. “This is about family matters?”
“Forget that. Let’s talk about the important stuff,” Cameron says. “Tell me you’re not doing him,” she entreats me, clearly hoping I’ll say otherwise.
“I’m not doing him,” I say.
“I mean, tell me the truth about whether you’re doing him.”
“I did.”
They exchange a pitying glance. “Maybe you should rethink that plan,” Cameron says under her breath and Willow nods agreement. “He came to see you , here in Empire.”
“He needed a lawyer.”
“And there are none of those between wherever he was and here.” Cameron tosses back a measure of wine, her gaze unswerving. “You must know him. He came looking for you.”
“Details have been withheld,” Willow says in an undertone.
“Critical details,” Cameron agrees. “We need the entire backstory and we need it now.”
Mackenzie knocks at the door, saving me from the Inquisition. She looks harried and a little less composed than usual. I take her coat. “Screw Patrick Cavendish,” she says by way of greeting and there’s a universal cheer of agreement.
“You first,” I say and she laughs.
“Daphne is going to be too busy doing his son,” Willow provides, her manner innocent when I glare at her.
“No?” Mackenzie says in a whisper that is part horror and part delight.
Willow nods and offers dip.
“Wait!” Cameron demands, the one who is not from town. “Luke Jones is the son of Patrick Cavendish?”
We nod in unison.
“But why is his name Jones?”
“Wrong side of the sheets,” Willow says. How she manages to say something like that looking both wise and innocent at the same time is beyond me.
Cameron chews another olive. “Patrick Cavendish is the one who owns everything, right?”
“Including one piece of dirt that I need more than anything in the world,” Mackenzie says with heat. “And I’m pretty sure he stole it.”
Cameron looks confused.
“Patrick not Luke,” Willow and I tell her in chorus.
I distract Mackenzie with the bottle Cameron has brought and she falls on it like she’s greeting an old friend. “This! This has been sold out of our cellars for ages. Where did you find it?”
Cameron tells her and Mackenzie shakes her head, incredulous. “They must have been saving it. Or maybe they lost a case in the backroom. I’ll go over there tomorrow and see if I can buy the rest.”
“Maybe he’ll only sell it to Cameron,” Willow says, her expression sly.
“I am not doing the liquor store guy, even to get more of your wine,” Cameron says. “He’s not that cute. Open it already so we can taste it.”
But Mackenzie is doing her sommelier thing. I watch her, amused that she doesn’t even realize it. Her entire life is about wine and work, and in this moment, there’s nothing in her world but the wine in that bottle. She draws out the cork and examines it, sniffs it, touches it, puts it aside. I hand her a freshly polished glass and she pours a bit into it, holding the glass up to the light to check the color, swirling the wine around the glass and sniffing it.
“I’m dying of thirst here,” Cameron says but Mackenzie ignores her.
I will say that the process builds anticipation.
Mackenzie takes a sip, rolls it around her mouth with her eyes closed. I can practically hear the patter.
“Apples and pears, a touch of nutmeg with a strawberry undertone,” Willow says softly, as if she’s doing the voice over at a golf game when the leader takes his putt, and we all crack up.
“No nutmeg,” Mackenzie says. “Not even cinnamon.” She takes a breath, mouth open. “Touch of vanilla maybe. It’s aged well.” She admires the bottle as she savors another sip. “Really well.” I hand her more glasses and she pours, then we all toast.
“To fine wine,” I say.
“To good friends,” Willow says.
“To liquor store guys who want some action badly enough to surrender the good stuff,” Mackenzie says.
“To the full story of Luke Jones being back in town,” Cameron says and they salute me in unison before we all drink. I’m thinking we’ll fall on the charcuterie and demolish it—after suitable admiration—but no.
We might have conjured Luke up, by force of will.
Maybe he knows we’re talking about him.
(Maybe he expects all women to.)
Either way, no sooner do our glasses clink than there’s another shadow framed in the window of my front door. The shadow is male, tall, broad and I have no doubt who is casting it.
It’s not a fixation. There aren’t that many possibilities. (Says she, defensively.)
There’s a collective ‘ooooo’ as I get up, proof of the paucity of candidates.
I open the door and Luke grins, looking so much like a hungry wolf that I can’t think of a thing to say. “Want to get some dinner?” he murmurs and the contingent of women behind me inhale. It must be Cameron who makes a little growl of approval. His gaze flicks over my shoulder to my guests. “That’s got to be good wine, to render everyone speechless simultaneously. Either that, or it’s really bad.”
“Bite your tongue. It’s excellent,” Mackenzie says. She pours another glass and offers it to him, making the decision for me of whether he should join us. “Welcome back to Empire.”
And Luke, being Luke, saunters right into my house, takes the glass and salutes us all.
“Mackenzie,” he says, his gaze flicking over her. “Is this one of yours?”
“One of our best,” she admits.
He mimics her tasting routine almost perfectly, sniffing, swirling, sipping, studying my guests all the while. When he sips, he gives the mouthful of wine his undivided attention, much to Mackenzie’s obvious approval.
Maybe she’ll be the one to take him home.
“Willow Forsythe?” he asks and she beams at him for remembering. “Abbie said you were giving new life to some of Jim’s acquisitions.”
She gestures to the bookcase.
“This is your work? Really? I love it. The colour is great.”
“That’s what Daphne said.”
He turns to Cameron. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“There’s always time to make up for that,” she says. “Cameron Sinclair, right next door. That way.” She points. “That house.”
Luke nods politely, then toasts us all and sips the wine again. “Damn,” he says after he swallows and Mackenzie beams. “That’s amazing.”
“Thanks,” she says and sits down. Luke takes a seat, everyone else finds a place and I end up on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter.
There is a noticeable and awkward silence.
Cameron, being Cameron, puts down her glass, reaches under her shirt and does that miracle move of unfastening her bra and hauling it out her sleeve in record time. She tosses it at Luke and I laugh that he looks so surprised.
That doesn’t stop him from catching it one-handed. It’s bright pink and he glances at the label. “La Perla,” he notes. “Very nice.” Then he tosses it back at her.
I have a lump in my throat, for no reason at all. At least that’s what I tell myself as I make wine go away. I have no claim on Luke and he doesn’t want one on me, and Cameron is how she is.
Their one-and-done is pretty much inevitable.
The wine isn’t agreeing with me, oddly enough.
“Now, you’ve got to sing to me,” Cameron says, triumphant and expectant as she drains her glass.
The hush behind me is complete.
I look.
Luke is suddenly very, very serious and very still. “Haven’t you heard?” he asks softly, maybe even dangerously. “I don’t do that anymore.” Then he puts down his glass. “Keys in the morning?” he asks me and I nod before he murmurs something polite about seeing them all again, gets up and walks out the door.
“What did I say?” Cameron asks in the quiet that follows.
I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.