now that he’d committed to writing this book, he was going to have to return to Heyday sooner or later. He was a good reporter, and he wouldn’t leave all those stones unturned.
But he remembered the Heyday residents, who hated his guts. He particularly remembered Mallory Rackham Platt, the sexy young woman who had run the Ringmaster Café, where the girls had concocted the Heyday Eight and had gathered to make their dates and count their profits.
Mallory, who had let Tyler spend so many hours there, chatting her up and complimenting her coffee, never guessing that he was gathering notes for his exposé.
Mallory, beautiful and ridiculously naive, unaware of what was going on under her nose. Mallory, whose husband had been one of the Heyday Eight’s best customers. Mallory, who had tossed a plate of French fries, complete with ketchup, into Tyler’s face when she found out who he really was.
Mallory, who for some strange reason was the only person in ten years to put Tyler’s disciplined objectivity and emotional distance in jeopardy.
“All right,” he said, ignoring the wriggle of doubt. “I’ll come back to Heyday.”
CHAPTER THREE
MINDY RACKHAM’S turquoise bikini was the most fantastic article of clothing she had ever owned. She had maxed out her MasterCard to buy it. She had almost been able to hear Mallory’s shocked disapproval as she signed the charge slip.
But the minute she saw Freddy’s face, she knew it had all been worth it.
“Wow,” he said as he wrapped his arms around her. “You’re absolute dynamite today, lady. You’ve just guaranteed Dad the vote of every male under ninety.”
She nuzzled into his shoulder happily. He was wearing his own swim trunks, and his strong, bronze, beautifully shaped torso was pretty marvelous, too. He might have been a statue of a god, except that his skin was velvety warm from the sun.
His curly blond hair was wet, dangling adorably into his forehead, and he smelled of suntan oil and cocktails. Of course, he’d already been at this party for hours. She’d had to work half a day, so she’d had to arrive alone.
That was one of the main reasons she’d indulged in this designer swimsuit and cover-up. She knew she was probably the only nine-to-five working gal here. Every other female was either the wife of a rich man, or the daughter of one—or a self-made woman who wouldn’t stoop to punching clocks or filing papers.
If the women here had jobs, they were high-powered positions with glassy offices, six-figure salaries and secretaries of their own. They were public-relations specialists and college professors and museum curators. They were speechwriters, magazine editors, airline pilots and congresswomen.
Mindy Rackham, low-level secretary at the corporate offices of a snack-cracker company, already felt inferior enough without having to arrive at this elite affair looking shabby and off-the-rack.
Freddy kissed the top of her head, and a honeyed calm slid down, from the contact point of his lips all the way to her pink-painted toes. Much better. With Frederick Earnshaw’s arms around her, how could any woman feel insecure? She could already feel the jealous eyes of the other women boring a hole into her bare back.
Everyone knew Freddy was the hunkiest guy in Richmond. And the sweetest. And the richest.
He could have had any girl he wanted. So why on earth, they whispered to each other, had he chosen little Mindy Rackham, a nobody from nowhere? From Heyday, which was actually even worse. When Freddy introduced her to people, they always seemed surprised that she could speak in complete sentences and didn’t have hayseeds falling from her hair.
The truth was, she didn’t understand it herself. Which was why she dreamed every night that Freddy took back his ring, and every morning awakened, heart pounding, with tears in her eyes, thanking God that it had only been a nightmare.
“Come on, honey, let’s get you a Coke, and there’s somebody I want you to meet.”
Freddy put his warm hand against the small of her back and guided her toward the others. The Olympic-size pool was as turquoise as her bikini, and shimmered under the beautiful afternoon sun. The people who stood around it were tall and elegant, murmuring to one another in low, laughing tones, making a collective sound that Mindy had come to associate with money.
White-coated waiters braided through them with trays of cocktails, and constantly refilled the beautiful tables piled high with pyramids of fruit and clear crystal vases of orchids.
For a minute, Mindy was afraid her feet wouldn’t move, but somehow she forced herself to be steered into the crowd. She couldn’t ever admit to Freddy that she was afraid. A politician’s wife had to be good with people. Outgoing, glib and graceful.
He had told her that when he asked her to marry him. He loved her, he’d said, but he couldn’t ask her to share his life without being completely honest about the responsibilities that came with the job.
Completely honest…
Her face had burned as if someone had lit a fire under her skin when he’d said that. She’d almost told him the truth right then. But of course she had chickened out, as always.
How could she take the piece of heaven he’d just handed her, and give it back? How could she resist the joyous security of being the cherished fiancée of Mr. Frederick Earnshaw—and go back to being poor little screwed-up Mindy, who had no future and way too much past?
“Jill, I’d like you to meet Mindy. Mindy, this is Jill Sheridan-Riley. Judge Sheridan-Riley,” he added with a teasing smile at the other woman.
Mindy smiled, too, without the teasing, and held out her hand, trying to remember, among all the things she needed to remember, that she had to shake firmly enough to look confident, but not so tightly as to seem absurd.
How could Freddy feel comfortable calling such an imposing woman “Jill”? She must be almost six feet tall, six feet of elegant, dramatic bones—collarbones, jawbones, wrist bones, cheekbones—every inch of her was jutting and determined. Dark hair and dark, intelligent eyes. Not yet forty. Still beautiful, but an uncompromising, unconventional beauty.
Judge Sheridan-Riley was one of those women who always made Mindy feel ridiculous, as if being short and blond was a character flaw. As if wearing lip gloss was a sign of weakness. Jill Sheridan-Riley hadn’t spent two hours getting ready this morning. She hadn’t needed to. She’d been born ready.
“Hi, Mindy,” Jill said. Her voice was dark, too, thick and elegant, but it held a surprising warmth. “I’ve been telling Freddy that if he didn’t introduce you soon I’d hold him in contempt.” She laughed and patted Freddy’s arm. “I’ve been dying for a chance to say that.”
She turned back to Mindy with twinkling eyes. “I’ve only been a judge about a week.”
Her laughter was infectious, and as Mindy chuckled she felt the knot in her stomach relax a millimeter. Maybe she could do this after all.
But just then, in the depths of the clever turquoise macramé drawstring purse Mindy had purchased to match her bikini, her cell phone began to ring.
Freddy shot a quick glance at her, and, her cheeks heating up, she shrugged helplessly.
