Four days later Monique was back in her office. She reviewed cover poses for the May issue, conferred with Linda and managing editor Phoebe Martinez about the new page format, OKed the wedding banquet article, and kept jet lag at bay with nicotine and mug after mug of espresso. She interviewed the four final candidates for art director and wearily told Linda to keep looking. She ran out at lunchtime for a preliminary fitting of the wedding gown she’d designed herself, and bought her mother a pair of earrings that caught her eye in Tiffany’s window.
The afternoon was full of meetings and endless decisions, including scheduling an interview segment with Entertainment Tonight. Leeza Gibbons was all set to do a feature on Ana and Teri that would be filmed right before Christmas. The segment would preview Ana and Teri in their Perfect Bride wedding gowns and would build on the hype for the June issue.
Put that in your stogie and smoke it, Drew McArthur, Monique crowed, elated, as she finished all the arrangements with the ET producer.
By the time she reached the country house that night, she was exhausted, bleary-eyed, and badly in need of a hot meal, a crackling fire, and tea laced with cognac.
“They’re beautiful,” Mireille exclaimed as Monique lifted the tanzanite and diamond teardrops from the blue velvet pad. Monique fastened them for Mireille and held up the ivory hand mirror so her mother could see the crystal-blue glow of the tanzanite capture the light.
“I notice the terrace hasn’t been painted yet. Where has Mr. Lambert been all this time?” she inquired casually. “Did he desert you?”
“Of course not. He spent Thanksgiving here, but he decided I shouldn’t be breathing in paint fumes just yet. He’s been working on the Parker place.”
“What a dear,” Dorothy remarked, bringing in Mireille’s eight o’clock pills along with the overpowering scent of Jungle Gardenia. “He never comes by without bringing some little gift for your maman. For example, yesterday he brought that,” the nurse said, pointing to a slim volume of French poetry. “They certainly broke the mold with that man.”
Thank God, Monique muttered to herself, remembering the insolent way he had looked her up and down in her very own kitchen. Well, she was thankful he wouldn’t be coming by anytime soon. This weekend while Richard was on the West Coast trying to nail down his deal with Theogustus she could hole up here with Maman and wade through the pile of work that had accumulated while she was on Maui, and she wouldn’t have to worry about running into that insufferable egotist.
But the next day, while taking a break from her work, she found herself meandering down toward the bridge and crossing the path that led toward the Parker place. Bundled against the cold in her sheared-mink parka, Monique kicked snow as she strolled along, luxuriating in the biting cold and the dazzle of sunlight on icicles that dangled like diamonds from spindly branches.
She came to the crest of the road from where she could catch a glimpse of the Parker house and hesitated only a moment before plunging on up the path. He’d done wonders with the old place. Gone were the crumbling brick, the drooping shutters, and the weed-strewn, neglected grounds that had made the place resemble a ramshackle leftover from a Stephen King movie set.
In its stead stood a masterpiece of striking simplicity, a redwood and granite showplace with expansive glass windows overlooking a two-story deck perched above a fish pond, stone-bordered gardens, and grounds dotted with bird feeders and salt licks to attract the forest deer.
Beyond snow-dusted hedges she saw the carriage house, freshly remodeled in the same rich redwood, smoke curling from the chimney.
Impressed in spite of herself, Monique started forward. “Lambert! Hey, Lambert.”
She didn’t really expect him to answer. She didn’t even know if she wanted him to, but suddenly a snowball cuffed her in the back. She whirled around.
A second snowball splattered against her shoulder.
“Shit—missed.” Pete stooped to gather another handful of snow.
Before he could toss it, a hard-packed cruncher hit him in the forehead. “I didn’t,” Monique shouted across the expanse of sloping ground as she turned and ran.
The fight was on. Like a pair of ten year-olds, they shrieked and dodged and hid behind trees until at last Pete tackled her and washed her face with a leather ski glove full of snow.
“Had enough?”
“You’ll pay for this, Lambert!” she gasped.
He grinned and hauled her to her feet. “Truce?”
“Beats another snowball down my back.”
He pulled her toward the carriage house. “I know just how to warm you up.”
He poured steaming coffee into mugs and topped them off with a splash of amaretto. “Delicious,” Monique sighed as she took stock of her surroundings.
The carriage house was stunning. A high-beamed rough-hewn hideaway. There was an open redwood loft complete with built-in bed extending halfway over the expansive living room below, where a glazed red brick hearth blazed. The floor was patterned in the same red brick, warmed by thick Dhurrie rugs.
Monique rubbed her fingers across the pebbled-suede throw cushions on the cordovan sofa. “Nice digs. No wonder you’re stretching out this job.”
“The owner isn’t in any particular hurry. Which suits me just fine. Want to see what I’ve done so far?”
It was even more beautiful inside than out. Pete Lambert obviously took great pride in his work. The craftsmanship of the curved bay windows, buffed oak floors, and twelve-foot corniced ceiling, was flawless. She ran her hands lightly over the creamy wainscotted walls, luminous enough to reflect light back toward the mullioned windows.
“What color is this? I love it!” she exclaimed.
“It’s a blend. White eggshell finish paint dolloped with a trace of rose to warm it up. Come on, I’ll show you what I’m working on right now in the master bedroom.”
Drop cloths rimmed the parquet floor, and buckets, rollers, brushes, paint cans, and a stepladder littered the room, but even so, the space was enormous—huge and open, with skylights, vaulted ceilings, a pale marble fireplace floating between two wall-to-ceiling windows, and an adjoining dressing area the size of a small boutique. The bathroom was a self-contained spa, where additional skylights illuminated the sauna, sunken whirlpool, two-person shower stall, and his-and-her sinks that wrapped around two walls.
“I think I like my new neighbors already. Who are they?”
Pete bent closer to examine the finish work around the gold-fauceted sink. “One guy. Kind of eccentric. Probably not your type,” he threw at her.
“What do you know about my type?”
“If Richard Ives is any indication, you like high-powered moguls who live and breathe big business and don’t like to get their manicured hands dirty.” Pete’s dark blue eyes gazed challengingly into hers. “What about you, Comtesse? Feel like getting your hands dirty?”
“What do you have in mind?” Monique asked suspiciously.
“I could use an assistant today—unless you’ve got something better to do.”
“Well, there’s a whole stack of perfume strips that need stuffing into the next issue of Perfect Bride.” she drawled.
For answer, he tossed her a car-wash sponge. “I’m going to show you what real work is like.” Kneeling down, he poured paint into the metal tray along the baseboards, then dipped a second sponge into the wheat-colored paint. Baffled, Monique stared at the pristine white walls. “More blending?” she guessed.
“Uh-uh. Kindergarten stuff. Watch.” He scraped excess paint from the sponge and climbed the stepladder. Pete stamped the sponge against the wall, leaving an imprint resembling Swiss cheese. Then he pressed it again and again in a row across the upper wall, and Monique watched a lovely pattern emerge.
“I get it.”
“Great. I’ll take the top half of the room, you work the bottom.”
“Terrific. Another guy who insists on being on top.”
His chuckle was deep and resounding through that enormous room. “Richard Ives must be even more of a tightass than I thought.”
Your ass looks pretty firm from where I’m standing, Monique thought, gazing up at him, but merely said, “Drip paint on my head and you’re a dead man.”
Two hours later, with one wall completed and the daylight nearly gone, they quit for the day.
Pete served pizza and cold beer in the carriage house while Monique phoned home to tell Dorothy not to wait dinner.
“I didn’t realize I was so hungry.” Monique chomped blissfully on her third slice of pizza. “This is scrumptious.”
“An old family recipe.”
“Liar, I saw the Bertino’s box in your garbage pail.”
Pete helped himself to another slice from the ironstone serving plate. “Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, Comtesse? Then answer this—why are you marrying that jerk?”
Monique stiffened. She swallowed and patted the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin. “You don’t know anything about Richard Ives or about me,” she said quietly.
“You’re wrong, I’ve seen you with your mother—seen the soft side of you. I wonder if Richard Ives really knows how to make you happy.”
“You overheard one phone call, and that makes you an expert on my relationship with Richard Ives? Well, I’ve got news for you, Dr. Ruth—every couple fights. I don’t know what kind of rose-colored glasses you look through, but it isn’t always champagne and daffodils in the real world. I know that, Richard knows that, and if you don’t, then maybe I’ve taught you something today.”
She pushed back her chair. “Thanks for the painting lesson and the pizza. I think I should leave now.”
Pete stopped her as she reached for the mink parka she’d tossed over the sofa. His paint-freckled hands were warm on her shoulders. “I wonder if Richard Ives would go to bat for you as enthusiastically as you did for him,” he said softly. “He’s a lucky man.”
“You bet your ass he is. Guaranteed.”
The door slammed behind her.
Pete watched from the window as she stomped up the path through the deepening twilight. When she’d disappeared, he carried the plates to the sink. He’d met a lot of women, but never anyone as dynamic, complicated, or infuriating as Monique D’Arcy. Beneath her bravado, her tough exterior, she was real, she was intense, not a shallow mannequin with plastic for a heart, but more like a dreamy-eyed kid with her nose pressed against a toy store window, yearning for everything. And the hell of it was, Pete thought, rinsing the last soapy plate in hot water, he wished he could be the one to give it all to her.