it all in. Even though she wanted to think she’d visit Sophie regularly, she didn’t expect her friend to send a jet to fetch her every time they wanted a girls’ weekend. And God knew she’d have to miser away every spare cent and every minute of vacation time before she could afford to take another trip abroad.
She sighed as they passed the yacht club, boats bobbing in the azure water, crisp, white sails billowing in the wind. Most of the vessels were larger than the modest apartment Lindsay called home.
Pointedly, she ignored the nagging question that kept forcing its way to the front of her mind—just how did one go back to Trevard after living like this?
Experts claimed it took twenty-one days to make a habit. She’d been here exactly thirty-two days. Not that it had taken anywhere close to twenty-one days to get used to the St. Michel life.
But the habit rule also worked in reverse, she reminded herself. She had a good job back in Trevard. A life there—no matter how much she’d love to stay in St. Michel, no matter how tempting Carson Chandler’s offer to audition for The Diva Dishes, Lindsay had been away long enough.
The longer she put off going home, the harder it would be to go back. Besides, judging by the hoops she’d jumped through to get the time off—even though she had the vacation days—she didn’t dare ask her boss for a single day more.
As the limo passed through a seven-story carved stone archway that resembled the Arc de Triomphe, a blue funk threatened to envelope Lindsay. She fought off the mood by reminding herself to look at the good. How many people had flown by private jet, been chauffeured by limousine and lodged in a five-hundred-year-old castle?
It was good while it lasted, and she needed to make the most out of these last moments rather than waste them brooding.
She grabbed her handbag, a cavernous Marc Jacobs—another bridesmaid gift from Sophie—and foraged for a compact and tube of lipstick to touch up her face before they arrived at the airport.
Instead of the makeup, her fingers found their way to Carson Chandler’s business card and plucked it from the inner pocket where she’d stashed it. She ran her finger over the black letters embossed on the ivory-colored linen, then flipped it over and studied the bold script he’d used to write the contact number for his assistant, Sheila.
It would be a very nice opportunity for the right person. And I believe you might be the right person, Miss Bingham.
Sophie had promised Chandler was a gentleman, “…happily married for nearly fifty years.”
Interesting, since the man had a reputation in the business world for changing his mind as often as the wind changed directions. Even the spot he’d invited her to audition for seemed tentative.
“I’m not supposed to tell you this,” Sophie had confided. “So you can’t breathe a word, but you know he just purchased the Epicurean Traveler Network. Well, he wants to eventually turn the three-minute Diva spot into an hour-long show. You have to do this, Linds, because this little spot could turn into something really big.”
Yeah, right. And it could be a dead end if he hired her and later decided to go with someone else—as he’d fired the previous Diva host.
Lindsay closed her eyes, trying to get Sophie’s voice out of her head. “Cinderella certainly didn’t get to the ball by locking herself away in the tower. She saw the opportunity and she took it.”
Lindsay couldn’t help but smile at the Cinderella metaphor. Wouldn’t it be nice if life were simply one big fairy tale?
Then she wouldn’t have to worry about cads who lied and cheated to get what they wanted.
Lies that cost Lindsay her fiancé, her job as a television reporter and her dignity.
“Chandler knows if he does you wrong he’ll suffer the wrath of the future queen of St. Michel.”
Lindsay sounded a humorless chuckle. God, Sophie almost sounded serious.
“Should I call you Ann Boleyn?” Lindsay had asked.
“Nah. Your royal highness will suffice.” Then it was Sophie’s turn to laugh. But her laugh was genuine. “You know I’m right, Linds. You’ve been hiding behind the reception desk. You’re wasting your talent answering phones.”
Really, when it came down to it, it wasn’t the bad taste her foray into journalism left in her mouth as much as it was the uncertainty of the job in question.
Even if The Diva Dishes did have the potential to morph into a full-fledged television show, Chandler seemed too likely to change his mind midstream. His vision seemed too fickle. Sure, she had the future queen of St. Michel on her side—she still couldn’t wrap her mind around the reality of Sophie’s new life—but Chandler was a businessman and he’d make decisions based on what he deemed good for business, as evidenced by the way he fired the former host when she didn’t live up to his expectations.
What if Lindsay couldn’t pull it off? Her job at Trevard Social Services wasn’t ideal, but she’d been there so long. It was comfortable—well, as comfortable as Mary Matthews allowed you to become. Lindsay’s salary, though not huge, was enough to make ends meet, and you couldn’t beat the government benefits.
Plus, she wouldn’t be able to give two weeks’ notice. Mary was certain to get her panties in a wad over that. She’d fussed over Lindsay taking time off for the wedding—even though Lindsay had more than enough accrued vacation.
No. Quitting on a whim just wasn’t practical.
Sheila’s number was one Lindsay wouldn’t need, except for possibly making a courtesy thanks-but-no-thanks call.
An awkward uncertainty bubbled to the surface. Carson Chandler hadn’t invited her to a party. So it wasn’t as if she needed to RSVP, but he’d offered her a good opportunity. And she was the only one they were seeing at the St. Michel audition. Surely they’d have to arrange a camera ahead of time. It was rude to not call and tell them she wouldn’t be there Monday.
The pang of missed opportunity pierced her, as she decided to call. If she’d learned one thing this month in St. Michel it was when in doubt, err on the polite side.
Lindsay pulled her cell phone out of the bag and switched it on. It had been off the entire week of the wedding when the battery had died, and she’d been too busy to worry about recharging it. She wasn’t expecting any calls.
This morning, she’d remembered it needed charging and plugged it in, an afterthought as she prepared to leave. But she’d only bothered to turn it on now. And what she saw made her flinch: thirteen missed calls had gone to voice mail. All from her boss Mary Matthews over the past two days, Lindsay discovered, as she flipped through the call log.
Undistilled dread coursed through her as if someone had uncorked a bottle of something bitter and upended it into her system. What did Mary want? What was so darned urgent it couldn’t wait until Lindsay was back in the office?
A multitude of possibilities sprang to mind, ranging from Mary wondering where she could find fresh file folders to her asking, “what’s the phone number of that little sandwich shop that delivers?”
To Mary Matthews, a paper clip could be urgent if she couldn’t put her fingers on one when she needed it.
Lindsay
