wadded up the tissue. Looking just a tad uncertain, she slanted a glance in Isabelle’s direction. “Victoria’ll be all right, won’t she?”
Isabelle was surprised the woman asked her that question. Anastasia Del Vecchio always projected such a strong, confident image on and off the screen. Seeing this vulnerable, uncertain side to the woman took her aback. It also, Isabelle thought, made the woman exceedingly human in her eyes.
“I think that, interestingly enough, out of the three of you, Victoria’s the one who is the most ‘all right.’” The look in Anastasia’s eyes told her that the woman struggled very hard not to cry. Very human, Isabelle thought. “You and your son did a great job raising her. She’s mature and secure and very, very levelheaded. More than I was at her age.”
Anastasia was instantly her old self, waving away the assessment. “Oh, I sincerely doubt that, Isabelle. I think you were born old.”
Isabelle examined the comment. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment,” she said, bemused.
Over the past few weeks, Anastasia had grown exceedingly fond of her physical therapist. Setting aside her bombastic persona for a moment, she took Isabelle’s hand in hers and patted it.
“It was meant as one, dear.” Releasing her hand again, she glanced back toward the room she’d been in. “Well, I think I’ll go lie down and absorb all this. Saying goodbye has taken a lot out of me.”
Isabelle smiled to herself. The drama queen had returned. In this case, it was a good sign.
“Fine. I think we’re about done for the day, anyway.” She regarded the woman warmly. “You deserve some time off for good behavior.”
“You’re only saying that because you want to get ready for your night out,” the actress responded intuitively, giving her a knowing look.
“Well, having more than five minutes to throw on a dress and put my makeup on would be nice, yes,” Isabelle agreed.
Anastasia paused to regard her for a moment, as if to scrutinize her more closely.
“Oh, my dear, you’re still so very young—don’t you know you don’t need any help?” As she said the words, there was a note of longing in the actress’s voice for the years that had gone by.
There were times when she felt old and other times when she felt invisible. Now was not the time to argue about either. “I guess I am young at that,” Isabelle agreed, then winked playfully at Anastasia. “Almost as young as you are.”
Anastasia laughed. She knew that Isabelle was neither pandering to her ego, nor being sarcastic. Her words were tendered with affection. As a rule, the actress did not like many women, feeling, instead a sharp sense of competition whenever she was in the company of another female. Such was not the case with Isabelle. She genuinely liked her.
Moreover, she hoped that Brandon would have the good sense to snap her up before some other man did.
“You’ll do, Isabelle Sinclair,” the actress told her, not bothering to appear regally austere, an image she ordinarily projected for the benefit of those outside the parameters of her own family. “You’ll do.”
Just as Anastasia left the foyer, Isabelle heard the front door behind her open and close again. Turning around, she saw Brandon standing just inside the doorway. In her opinion, the writer had looked a lot happier than he did right at this moment.
Casting about for something comforting to say, she waited for him to speak first. She didn’t want to intrude into his private moment.
Brandon sighed deeply as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Well, she’s gone.”
“She’s going to have a wonderful time, Brandon,” Isabelle assured him. “Someone with Victoria’s level-headedness needs to be able to kick back a little, have some wholesome fun. Otherwise, I have a feeling she might just spend the whole summer reading books and never even venturing outside the house.”
“Yeah, I know. You’re right. Camp was a good idea. She’ll have fun.” A small sigh escaped, and he looked as though he had a momentary lapse of control. “She probably won’t even miss—home,” he said, substituting another word for the one he meant at the last minute.
Not that he fooled her at all. Isabelle struggled not to smile, even though she thought it rather sweet that he was so protective of his daughter. Not for the first time, she thought how lucky Victoria was to have such a relaxed relationship with her father. He was both her friend and her protector. Most of the time, you got either one or the other.
And sometimes, she thought with a pang, as in her case, you got neither.
“I’m sure she’ll miss ‘home,’” she told him with the proper emphasis on the last word. “But you know, it’s also nice to have the opportunity to miss ‘home,’ instead of always hanging around ‘home’ and not knowing what a day without being ‘home’ is like.”
By the time she took a breath, it was utterly obvious just what she meant each time she’d said “home.” He hadn’t really been trying to be subtle when he’d switched his words at the last minute.
Brandon frowned. “Are you through?”
Rather than answer him, she asked, “Do you want to cancel our dinner date?”
He had no idea what one thing had to do with the other. If he lived to be a hundred and twenty, he just knew he’d never understand how the female mind worked. “No.”
Isabelle smiled, relieved. She really liked the idea of going out with him. To her, this was an unofficial “date.”
“Then I’m through.” She began to walk away and head for the stairs.
He sighed, shaking his head. “I always thought that under standing women would get easier the older I got.”
Isabelle stopped and turned around. She was not about to put herself out on a limb and assume something. When he said nothing further to follow up on his statement, she prodded, “And?”
“And, I was incredibly wrong,” Brandon confessed. “It doesn’t get any easier. Matter of fact, it gets harder.”
Men were always saying that, she thought. But that was because they liked having their mystery plots complicated and their women simple. It didn’t work like that. Smiling, she said, “We’re not so hard to understand.”
Brandon’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he was trying to fathom the meaning being her words, and then, when he realized she was serious, he laughed.
“Ha!”
Isabelle continued as if he hadn’t interjected anything. “We respond to kindness and honesty—and a sense of humor never hurt the situation.”
There he begged to differ. “Unless I laugh at a dress you wear.”
Isabelle inclined her head. He was right there. She stood corrected. “Unless you laugh at a dress I wear,” she agreed. The moment she echoed his phrase, she remembered. “Speaking of which—”
If she didn’t get started soon, she wouldn’t be ready
