out a niche for herself separate from the self-destructive Pembrokes, the celebrated Mattie Witt, the lost Lilli Chandler Pembroke. She’d moved forward with her life and had learned to live in the present.
She’d learned to stay out of attics.
Refusing to knuckle under to self-pity, she got on with her task.
Deep in the trunk, she found the dress.
It was red and sleek and perfect. Mattie had worn it in Tiger’s Eye, the movie that had transformed her from an overnight sensation into a star.
Dani dug even deeper and produced the ostrich plume.
Rolling back on her heels, she held it up to the dim light. I must be out of my mind. Dyed red to match the dress, it was an integral part of Mattie’s glamorous look. Dani had never in her life worn a feather in her hair.
It’s my Pembroke genes. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
And she couldn’t stop herself.
The plume was squashed from having been stuffed in the trunk, but otherwise in good shape.
Would anyone at the Chandler lawn party recognize it?
Oh, yes.
In her unforgettable scene in Casino, Lilli Chandler Pembroke had worn Mattie’s ostrich plume. Nick had said she’d meant it as a tribute to her mother-in-law, a symbol of independence and freedom to Lilli and to millions of women.
Maybe Kate was right, Dani thought, and she ought to dust off her checkbook and go to town and buy a dress.
If no one else recognized the dress Mattie Witt had worn in one of her most famous roles, the feather she and Lilli both had worn, the Chandlers certainly would. And they’d know—as perhaps Dani meant them to know—that it was yet another of her attempts to force them to confront their image of who she was. To remind them she’d always fight that image. To show them she was determined, and would remain determined, to be herself.
She closed the lid of the trunk and rose stiffly, then pulled the string on the lightbulb and carried the dress and ostrich plume downstairs. She got a hanger from her closet, shook the dress out and hung it on a curtain rod in the bedroom window. Perhaps the clear light of day would make her change her mind.
It’d have to be cleaned. And she’d have to buy shoes. Preferably red. No. Definitely red.
She could wear her gold key with it. Maybe the scarred old brass one, too.
Eyeing it, she debated. Had the clear light of day helped her change her mind?
Nah. It was a great dress.
As far as Zeke could tell, the Pembroke “experience” could be anything from quiet, healthy luxury with a nutty twist to something approaching marine boot camp.
He didn’t care. He just wanted his experience to be brief.
He’d been put in a small room on the third floor with twelve-foot ceilings, a window seat, rose-flowered wallpaper and a jewel-colored crazy quilt on a brass queen-size bed. There was a marble-topped dresser and a needlepoint-cushioned chair he didn’t think he was supposed to sit on.
There was no beer in the tiny refrigerator, just a six-pack of Pembroke Springs Natural Orange Soda. He opened up a bottle. It was clear glass with a pale green label featuring a kite floating above a stand of birches. What kites and birches had to do with natural soda Zeke didn’t even want to speculate. He took a sip. It wasn’t as syrupy as regular orange soda, but it was still soda.
He examined a brochure. If he wanted to, he could take hang gliding lessons, climb rocks or show up on the front lawn at the crack of dawn for a hot-air balloon ride. There were quilting bees on the “north porch.” Nature walks. Kite-making and kite-flying lessons. Tubing expeditions on the Batten Kill. “Handson workshops” in the many flower, herb and vegetable gardens. Zeke took them to be weeding sessions. He could soak in mud if he wanted to. Get scrubbed, clipped, polished, deep cleaned and massaged. He could jog. Ride a bike. Climb a mountain. Tour Saratoga. Go to the races. Shop. Take in a concert at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center, a lecture at Skidmore College.
He could, if he chose, pick wild blueberries and make his own jam.
Only a Pembroke could get people to pay good money to do something they could do for free. Did Dani Pembroke have her guests do their own sheets as well? Beat them against rocks like in the old days?
Quite a place, the Pembroke.
He called Sam Lincoln Jones in San Diego. “Sam, if you’ve got some time on your hands, mind doing me a favor?”
“Been figuring you’d call.”
“Always a step ahead. Could you check out what Nick Pembroke’s up to these days? I think he’s still alive.”
“I’ll look him up and let you know. Where are you?”
Zeke told him.
Naturally Sam had heard of the place. He chuckled. “Going to sign up for croquet?”
After he hung up, Zeke headed into the bathroom, which was small but cozy. The fluffy white towels were monogrammed with the same ornate P that was engraved on his soda bottle. On the back of the john was a basket of glycerin soaps, bath gels, bath salts, lotions, shampoos. He turned the water on in the tub, which was up on legs. Homey. Feeling reckless, he dumped an envelope of bath salts into the hot water and watched them dissolve.
Croquet and jam making, he thought.
He just couldn’t wait to meet Dani Pembroke.
Five
Tucking her box of brand-new red shoes under one arm, Dani headed up to her bedroom, exhausted. She swore she’d rather scale Pikes Peak than go shopping for shoes. She’d tried downtown Saratoga first, where one could find handmade jewelry, fine wines, expensive antiques, art supplies, adorable children’s outfits, fancy toys, homemade pastries and chocolates, fresh pasta, health food, Victoriana, nice clothes. Everything, it seemed, but a pair of size-six shoes that matched Mattie Witt’s red ostrich plume. She’d finally had to drive south of town to a shoe outlet. The red was an exact match, but the heels were three inches high. Fortunately she’d only have to wear them a few hours.
Presumably it would have been simpler just to buy a new dress. Or to wear her all-purpose black pumps. But, in for a penny, in for a pound.
A long, relaxing bath, however, was in order.
Her only bathroom was downstairs, which meant fetching her robe from upstairs. In renovating the main house, she and her architects had become quite clever at finding places for bathrooms where there were no obvious places. Space wasn’t the problem at the cottage; the problem was getting around to the job. An upstairs bath just wasn’t a pressing need.
She stopped hard at her bedroom door, clutching the shoe box.
Holding her breath, she stared, frozen, at the mess.
Someone had removed all the drawers from her bureau, dumped them out on the floor and tossed them aside. Her underwear,
