“Uncle Harry.”
“What’s the poor guy done now?”
“It’s not what he’s done, it’s what he hasn’t done.” Georgie was still amazed at what her mother had revealed right before Christmas. “Joanna, remember when I told you what my mother told me and my sisters? About Uncle Harry and how she’d once had a thing for him? She made it sound like that was in the distant past, but I think she might really be in love with him.”
“Did she say that?”
“She didn’t have to say it. She was talking about him and some dinner he’d taken her to, and all of a sudden it seemed so obvious I couldn’t believe I hadn’t realized it before.”
“I thought he was more like her brother or something. Didn’t you tell me she and your dad and Harry Hunt were like The three Musketeers when they were young? And she picked your dad.”
Joanna didn’t have to say what Harry had done. They both knew the story. Harry had picked one gorgeous model or actress after another, gold diggers all—at least, in his estimation. Each short-lived marriage had produced one son, and Harry Hunt had gotten sole custody of each of them.
“That’s what we all thought,” Georgie said. “But maybe we don’t know the whole story.”
“You mean you think she’s always loved Harry? And not your dad?”
“No, I don’t believe that. I think she loved my dad. But maybe she loved Uncle Harry first. Or maybe … after Dad died …”
“Did you ask her about her feelings yesterday?”
“Good grief, no. You know how private my mother is. Besides, it wasn’t like she’d said anything directly. And, I don’t know, I felt funny about it. Like maybe it was none of my business.”
“Wow,” Joanna said, amusement in her voice. “I think that’s the first time since I met you that you thought something wasn’t your business.”
“Oh, stuff it,” Georgie said, laughing. But she knew Joanna wasn’t far wrong.
“You know,” Joanna said, “maybe this explains why Harry got so weird about your mother dating that golf pro from the club.”
“You’re probably right. Here I thought he was just worried because the guy’s so much younger than my mother. But maybe he was actually jealous!”
“It’s possible. I know Chick can’t stand it when I even look at anyone else.”
Georgie nodded, even though Joanna couldn’t see her. “It all makes sense now. There’s got to be some kind of history here, something my sisters and I never suspected.”
“Oh, Georgie. It’s terribly romantic, isn’t it? Maybe they’ve been pining for each other for years. I know! Why don’t you and your sisters turn the tables on them and try to get them together? I mean, they were trying their darnedest to fix you guys up. Why not fix them up, because, Lord knows, if you don’t, they might never get it right.”
Georgie laughed. “It would serve them right, wouldn’t it? But think about it. What could we actually do? It’s not like we can plop them down on a desert island or something.”
“No, but you can maybe nudge them along a bit.”
“I’m afraid my sisters will have to do the nudging, ‘cause I’ll be in New York.” Glancing at the digital alarm sitting on her bedside table, she added, “Speaking of, I’d better get a move on. My flight leaves at noon, and I still have to finish packing and get a shower.”
“Okay, I’ll let you go. Safe trip.”
“Thanks.” After promising to call or text Joanna as soon as she hit LaGuardia, they said goodbye.
Fifteen minutes later, duffel packed, laptop and cell phone charging, Georgie headed for the shower.
Katie, Zach’s ten-year-old, kept Zach up half the night with a sore throat and a fever. On any other day, even if he had work stacked to the ceiling, Zach would have taken the morning off—maybe even the entire day—and taken his daughter to the doctor himself. But today was the day Georgie Fairchild was to report to work, so he reluctantly agreed that Fanny could take Katie to see their pediatrician.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Prince. She’ll be fine. I’ll call you after we’ve seen Dr. Noble.”
But Zach knew he would worry. Worse, he’d feel guilty all day. He should be the one taking care of Katie, not Fanny. As he had so often since Jenny died, he thought about how little consideration he’d ever given to the plight of single parents. But that was before, and this was now. Now he was a single parent himself. And he was fortunate. He had money, and when he couldn’t be here, he could afford the best care possible for his children. And yet he still felt guilty when he couldn’t do the things Jenny had done.
Some days he felt he was incredibly selfish—working when he didn’t have to. And yet everyone needed some kind of work. Worthwhile work was important. He wanted to set that example for his children, even as he wanted to be with them as much as possible.
He was still mulling over his ever-present, unsolvable dilemma as he wearily headed to the office.
Always begin the way you mean to continue. Georgie thought of her mother’s advice, given so often over the years, as she dressed for her first day in the New York office.
Good thing she’d arrived in the city a few days early. She’d quickly discovered her ideas of what New York women wear were wrong. First of all, she didn’t own anywhere near enough black. Second, she needed better walking boots that she could actually wear to the office—ones that wouldn’t be ruined by dirty snow and slush—because New York was definitely a walking city, which she actually liked.
Now, after a couple of necessary shopping trips, she felt as if she fit in. At least she wouldn’t look like a tourist.
She’d also scoped out the location of the Hunt Foundation’s New York office (only a couple of blocks away from the corporate apartment), the closest Starbucks (after all, she was a Seattle girl, and if she couldn’t have her daily fix of her sister Bobbie’s brew, she’d take theirs) and the best place to buy tickets to hear classical musicians she admired (this she was still investigating).
Now she was armed and ready to meet her new boss.
Dressed in black wool pants, her new black boots, businesslike white blouse, lightweight black cardigan and a good-looking black wool coat she’d bought on sale at Bloomingdale’s, she left the apartment at 8:25, even though supposedly the office didn’t open for business until nine. Why so late? she wondered. Seattle offices started their workday at eight. Did a nine o’clock start have something to do with being on Eastern Time? She guessed it didn’t really matter. There was a Starbucks conveniently close by; she’d just duck in there and get a skinny latte.
Latte in hand, she arrived at the foundation office eight minutes before nine, at the same time an attractive redhead was unlocking the door. The redhead looked up. “Hi. Can I help you?”
“I’m Georgie Fairchild. I—”
“Oh,
