Poppy’s roller hadn’t reached.
“That’s true. It just doesn’t help paint the walls.” Still, Ava had a point and she offered the first olive branch that popped to mind. “That Courtney Love is all wrong for Cobain.”
“I know!” Ava rubbed her cheek against a plump shoulder, dislodging the bright strand of hair that had swung forward to stick to the corner of her mouth. Dimples peeped again in her round cheek when she flashed a look up at Poppy. “I think he’s just killing time with her until I’m old enough to marry him instead.” She nodded sagely. “Men need sex, you know?”
“I’m sure that’s the reason.”
“Without a doubt,” Jane agreed.
“But you can have Cobain,” Poppy added. “I’m holding out for the Sheik.”
Ava and Jane howled, because that was the fantasy man they’d invented last year during a backyard campout. Secretly, Poppy had to suppress a shiver. Because the dark, larger-than-life, lean-fingered man of their combined imaginations was her private ideal.
A regular real-life boyfriend wouldn’t be too shabby, though.
“Are you girls ready for a break?”
At the distinctive sound of Agnes Bell Wolcott’s deep voice, all three of them turned toward the door where she stood, decked out in designer couture from her snow-white, exquisitely coiffed hair to her expensively shod feet. They’d met Miss A. at an event at Ava’s house two years ago and shortly afterward, she’d invited them for tea at the infamously ugly Wolcott mansion as a thank-you for spending time with an eccentric old woman known in certain circles for her adventurous travels, beautiful wardrobe and exquisite collections. She’d given them their first diaries at that tea and it was then that they’d started referring to themselves as the Sisterhood, after Miss Agnes said their connection to each other reminded her of such. They’d been coming for tea at least once a month ever since, and often dropped by—either as a group or individually—simply to talk to her in between times.
When Poppy had Miss Agnes to herself, conversation often turned to philanthropic endeavors. The older lady’s enthusiasm for “giving back” left an impression on Poppy. There was just something about Miss A. that made you think about things in ways you’d never done before, and Poppy wouldn’t be surprised if she was sporting the same fatuous, pleased-to-see-her smile now that she saw on Jane’s and Ava’s faces. To make up for it—conscious as she was about her dignity these days—she said sternly, “If you’re going to be in here, you need to put on a smock.” She nodded toward the pile that her parents had supplied. “I will not be responsible for ruining that outfit.”
“And I will not ruin the beautiful lines of my Chanel with a paint-spattered lab coat,” Miss A. said crisply, stepping outside the doorway so she was safe from wet paint but still in their line of vision.
Poppy grinned at the old lady’s acerbic tone. One of the things she adored about Miss A. was that she never insulted their intelligence by pulling her punches. “There’s a plate of homemade oatmeal-chocolate-chip-walnut-raisin cookies for you on the sideboard in the dining room,” she said. “Mom said since I was no doubt my usual pain-in-the-patootie self trying to get you to agree to painting this room, the least she could do was supply a little sugar to sweeten the deal.”
“How lovely of her. She obviously knows you well.” The latter sentiment was offered in a dry tone, yet accompanied by a fond smile. “I’ll tell Evelyn to add some to our dessert platter. Speaking of which, are you ready to break for lunch or would you prefer to finish your wall first?” She studied the completed one that was a deeper, more dramatic shade of the pale melon that Poppy and Ava were applying to the adjacent wall and nodded approvingly. “Divine color, by the way. It’s going to look amazing with the draperies. You do have a wonderful eye for this sort of thing, don’t you?”
“She’s got the best eye,” Ava agreed. “And if you don’t mind, Miss A., we’ll finish this wall first.”
Slipping a foot from the ladder rung, Poppy gave her friend an affectionate nudge with her toe. For she knew how much Ava loved Miss A.’s luncheons; knew, too, that she was sacrificing the immediate gratification of sitting down to one for her. She looked back at the older woman. “It shouldn’t take more than ten or fifteen minutes, if that’s okay.”
“Darling, I’m getting free labor and beautiful new walls. You take all the time you want. I’ll just go tell Evelyn.”
She disappeared down the hallway and Poppy turned back to her painting with renewed energy. She knew the old lady was indulging her by letting them paint the room when she could afford to have it done professionally every month of the year if she wanted. That was the thing, though. Agnes didn’t want the bother of it; she cared about the beauty of her collections, not the rooms they went in.
Even so, Poppy couldn’t prevent the satisfied smile curling her lips. “I’m gonna talk her into letting me paint the parlor next.”
“Good luck with that,” Jane said from her position in front of the baseboard where it angled around the corner. She rose from painting the trim and stretched out her back. “That’s where nine-tenths of Miss A.’s collections are kept. It would be a killer undertaking just to move everything.”
“Still. I’m gonna do it. I’ll wear her down—just wait and see. Dad says that’s what I do best. And once I do?” She smiled dreamily. “We’re going to paint it a lovely creamy yellow.”
Jane and Ava exchanged glances. “We,” Jane said. “Well, lucky us.”
“Yeah,” Ava agreed. “Sometimes there’s a definite downside to this Sisterhood business.”
But her two best friends picked up their painting tools and went back to work.
Chapter One
Of all the rooms in all the field houses in all the parks in Seattle, he had to walk into this one?
WHAT THE HELL IS he doing here?
Poppy did her best to continue her conversation with the manager of the Ace hardware store. But the man had a tendency to drone on at the best of times and with the new arrival striding through the milling crowd of business owners as if he owned the joint, it was difficult to focus her attention. Her gaze kept wanting to follow his progress. That was de Sanges, right?
She just barely swallowed the self-derisive snort that tickled the back of her throat. Because, please. This might be the last place she expected to see him, but of course it was.
Considering their one and only encounter, however, she didn’t feel a burning need to beat herself up for allowing her mind to shy away from the admission.
Still, the truth was, it had taken no more than a glimpse to recognize the tall, lean, muscular body she’d seen only once before. She’d documented the prominent bony nose, those sharp cheekbones and that black-as-a-crow’s-feather hair. Was familiar with those long, white-nailed fingers and the dark olive skin that she had a feeling owed more to genetics than exposure to the sun.
And
Oh
My
God
Really
