to be sure she didn’t sabotage herself, her life or her career.
Ordinarily Edie could manage that by keeping her sister’s calendar booked, and she never had to leave California to do it.
But Mona had rung two days ago from Mont Chamion and said, “Pack your bags.”
When her mother spoke in that brisk no-nonsense tone, Edie knew not to argue. Where Rhiannon was concerned, Mona’s instincts were almost always spot on. If she foresaw trouble, it was better to tackle it head-on than to hope it might not happen. So Edie had dutifully flown halfway around the world ready to put out whatever potential fire might erupt.
But she hadn’t expected to attend the wedding.
“Why ever not?” Mona had demanded. “Of course you’re coming to the wedding. And the reception,” she’d added firmly. “God only knows what mischief Rhiannon can get up to there—especially now that Very Nice Andrew is gone.”
Very Nice Andrew—long-suffering Andrew was how Edie thought of him—was Rhiannon’s fiancé. Her first love, he was absolutely right for Rhiannon, and they both seemed to know it—most of the time. When he and Rhiannon were together and blissful, Edie’s life was relatively blissful, too.
But a lovers’ quarrel had sent Andrew stalking out yesterday. And Mona was right, disaster could easily ensue if Rhiannon was left feeling unappreciated and unloved.
But still Edie had protested that she wasn’t attending the wedding.
“Of course you are,” Mona had said firmly that afternoon as she’d slipped into the gown she was wearing for the wedding and motioned for Edie to lace the back panel. It was a simple sheath, royal blue, setting off Mona’s amazing eyes, with an open V at the back which, as Edie laced it, offered a glimpse of Mona’s still-creamy flesh. It was quietly sexy and titillating, showing just enough to remind the world that, at fifty, Mona Tremayne was still a very appealing woman.
“I’m not invited.” Edie pulled the laces together. “And I’m not crashing a royal wedding.”
Mona’s gaze met hers in the mirror. “Nonsense. You’re not crashing. You’re my guest.”
“Oliver is your guest.”
Sir Oliver Choate, English actor and Mona’s most recent costar, had flown in from Spain yesterday afternoon expressly to escort Mona to the wedding.
“Besides Oliver,” Mona said impatiently. “You need to be there. And you might meet someone …” Her voice trailed off, but she looked at Edie hopefully.
Edie’s teeth set. Exactly what she’d been afraid of. Mona—matchmaking. She gave a long-suffering sigh of her own. “I’m not interested in meeting anyone, Mother.”
“Don’t call me Mother in public,” Mora admonished. “You’re nearly thirty, for goodness’ sake!”
Edie laughed and shook her head, then gave an extra tug to the laces, making her mother suck in a sharp breath. “We’re not in public, and I don’t think they have the bedrooms bugged. Besides, you don’t get parts for ingenues anymore. People know how old you are.”
Mona sighed, then stood up a bit straighter. “I try not to think about it. Anyway—” she shoved a hand into her artfully windblown auburn hair “—you must come—even if you don’t meet a soul,” she added piously. Then she spoiled it by saying, “But honestly, Edie, you need to get back on the horse.”
Start dating again, she meant. Get a life again. Get over Ben.
But Edie didn’t want to get over him. Why should she? Her husband, Ben, had been the best thing that had ever happened to her. And yes, he had been dead two and half years. But so what?
“I did,” Mona pointed out, not for the first time.
“And how did that work out for you?” Edie said dryly.
Edie’s father, Joe, had been killed in a horse riding accident when Edie was five. He’d been the love of Mona’s life, and she’d spent the next twenty years trying to replace him with a succession of men who’d become Edie’s stepfathers.
“I have wonderful children,” Mona said, defiantly meeting her daughter’s eyes in the mirror.
That was certainly true. Edie couldn’t complain about her younger brothers and sisters. In fact Rhiannon, Grace, Ruud and Dirk were the best part of her life, the family that had become for her the one she and Ben had never had.
“You do,” Edie agreed solemnly. She might not have shared her mother’s determination where men were concerned, but she loved her siblings dearly.
“And one of them needs you,” Mona had said, playing the trump card. “Tonight. Lord knows what will happen if Very Nice Andrew breaks off the engagement.”
“Do you think he might?” Edie thought Andrew was besotted with her sister, but she supposed even he could be pushed too far.
Andrew Chalmers was twenty-three, a three-event Olympic swimming medalist, cute as a button and an all-around nice guy, to boot. He had been head over heels in love with Rhiannon since they were in high school together, poor fool.
Though, to be fair, when she wasn’t flirting outrageously with everything in trousers just because she could, Ree genuinely seemed to be in love with Andrew, too. He steadied her, brought out the caring, sweet side of her. And both Mona and Edie were delighted.
A month ago, Andrew had asked her to marry him. Instantly Rhiannon had said yes. They were getting married next summer.
Rhiannon was happily planning their wedding. Or had been—until yesterday’s quarrel.
It hadn’t been subtle. Right there in the middle of one of the Mont Chamion’s most elegant royal reception rooms in front of the king and most of the royal family, Rhiannon had pitched a fit when Andrew had said he was leaving to go to a swimming competition in Vancouver.
“But what about me?” Rhiannon had wailed. “You’re taking me to the wedding!”
“I’m not, actually,” Andrew had said in calm, reasonable tones. “And you knew that, Ree. I said so last week when you wanted me to come over. I said I could come but I had to leave on Friday.”
“But I want you to be with me!”
“You can come with me. I said so,” he reminded her.
But Rhiannon hadn’t wanted to miss the royal wedding. And she’d been sure she could twist Andrew around her finger once she got him here. But Andrew had more backbone than that. And no flood of tears or flurry of words had deterred him. He had stalwartly held his ground and soon thereafter caught a flight to Paris and then to Vancouver. Privately Edie had cheered him on, glad he wasn’t knuckling under to every demand Rhiannon made.
But she had worried, too, because Rhiannon had been in High Drama Mode ever since.
“She’ll ‘do something,’” Mona predicted. “I know it. And so do you. She’ll ruin it, shoot herself in the foot.”
Shooting herself in the foot, literally, was not Rhiannon’s problem.
