Dreaming of Manderley by Leah Marie Brown (8)

Chapter Nine

Tara is driving me crazier than Miley Cyrus on a wrecking ball. She’s normally so chill, but she has turned into a magpie with her endless chirping. “Find a job.” “Find a job.” “Find a job.” Make her stop. Please.

Remember how Daddy used to say, “You don’t need to hang from a tree to be a nut?” Emma Lee is living proof Daddy was right!

When the dealer repossessed her car, I swear, something snapped in her brain. She spends all day on the sofa watching Married at First Sight and reruns of Millionaire Matchmaker.

Yesterday, I found her watching a British show called Naked Attraction. It’s like The Bachelor . . . except the contestants are naked! I am here to tell you, darlin’, Khloé Kardashian is wrong: Strong doesn’t always look better naked.

When I ask her why she isn’t out looking for a job, do you know what she says? “I am seriously considering becoming a matrimonial broker. Watching these shows is like taking a master class in matchmaking and courtship.”

Lord knows I am a patient woman, but she is working my last nerve with a handsaw. If you don’t talk to her, I am going to pack my bags and move to . . .

* * *

“Is Tara threatening to run away from home again?”

The sound of Olivia’s voice startles me and I bang my knee on the table. My teacup rattles against its saucer. Tea splashes out of the cup and onto the pristine white tablecloth. Needles of heat prick the back of my neck. I don’t have to turn around to know my clumsiness was witnessed by the A-list couple eating their breakfast at the table behind me.

“I’m sorry.” Olivia slides onto the chair across from me. She whips her napkin off the table and drops it onto her lap. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Dressed in a short, pleated tennis skirt and sleeveless top, her high cheekbones brushed with bronzer, her edgy black bob styled to face-framing perfection, Olivia appears fully recovered from her Grande Dame drinking binge.

“You were serious”—I dab the tea stains with my napkin—“about wanting to play tennis this morning?”

“Uh, yeah. Have you seen the tennis pro? He makes me want to work on my stroke, if you know what I mean,” she says, waggling her eyebrows. “If I am lucky, he will offer to be my ball boy.”

“Olivia!”

“Don’t Olivia me! You would say the same thing if you saw him.”

The waiter arrives. Olivia orders her usual breakfast—an egg white omelet, two slices of multigrain toast, and a black coffee.

“So,” she says, looking at me from beneath an arched brow. “How dire was this morning’s email? Did Emma Lee write to say she broke a fingernail and would like you to fly home and file it for her?”

I laugh. “As far as I know, Emma Lee’s nails are intact. Tara did say that Em is spending an alarming amount time watching reality television, though.”

“And Tara is at her wit’s end?”

“Naturally.”

“And threatening to run away from home?”

“Of course.”

We laugh, because Tara has been threatening to run away from home ever since she learned how to put one tiny foot in front of the other. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because she’s consumed by a fierce restlessness, a desire to find her unique place in this world, a place where she isn’t Manderley Maxwell’s less ambitious little sister or Emma Lee Maxwell’s less beautiful older sister. Maybe it is because she is the middle child and grew up feeling not. Not Daddy’s favorite and not Daddy’s baby.

“Where is she threatening to run away to this time?”

“Tásúildun.”

“Where?”

“Tásúildun.” I take a sip of my tea. “The castle she inherited from our aunt.”

“She inherited a castle and all you got was a leaky old sailboat? Robbed! What did Emma Lee inherit, a palace?”

“No,” I say, laughing. “Emma Lee inherited Wood House.”

“Wood House?”

“My aunt’s cottage in England.”

“A boat. A castle.” Olivia holds out her hands, moving them up and down as if they were scales. “A boat. A cottage. I guess we know who Aunt Pattycake loved best.”

I laugh to be polite, but my thoughts drift away on a current of time, back to the day my Aunt Patricia’s solicitor read me the letter she attached to her will, the letter in which she explained her reason for leaving me her cherished yacht.

“Hello !” Olivia snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Manderley.”

I blink and the spell that took me back in time is broken.

“I am sorry,” I whisper, a little sad to discover I have returned to a café in the South of France instead of to a place in time when my aunt still walked amongst the living. “I was remembering the day my aunt’s solicitor told me I had inherited the Constante Sur.” I take a shuddering breath. “Memories can be like sandspurs, can’t they? Treacherous, sharp little things that poke into your most tender spots and make you feel foolish for not remembering to be more careful.”

Olivia smiles sadly and grabs my hand, gently squeezing. “Memories can also be like sand, soft and warm and inviting, beckoning you to sit and appreciate. Right now, your memories are as spiny as sandspurs, but that won’t always be the case, I promise.”

“Thank you, Olivia.”

“Always,” she says, squeezing my hand before letting go. “Maybe sharing your memories will help lessen the sting of the spine.”

“Maybe.”

“Well”—she smiles encouragingly—“you won’t know unless you try.”

I take a deep breath, hold it, and release it slowly. “Before she died, Aunt Patricia wrote me a letter. She wrote letters for Tara and Emma Lee, too. Her solicitor gave them to us on the same day he read her will.” I close my eyes and visualize the wood-paneled conference room of Winter V. Hastings III, Attorney-at-Law, the gilt-embossed law books lined up along the shelves, the dust motes dancing in the air heedless of our grief. I open my eyes again. “Aunt Patricia said she wanted me to have her yacht to remind me life doesn’t always need to be a scrupulously charted journey. She said the most spectacular adventures happen when we just set sail and let the wind take us where it wishes. She said I needed to get out of my head and let my heart lead me. Passion over duty, or something like that.”

“I love Aunt Pattycake. She’s one smart broad.”

“Was. She was one smart broad.”

Olivia frowns and color stains her cheeks. “Of course. Was. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say, smiling sadly. “I don’t think any of us have accepted the fact that a woman as vibrant as Patricia MacCumascaigh has faded away.”

The waiter arrives with Olivia’s breakfast. He places the omelet before her with a flourish (he presented my scrambled eggs sans flourish). For as long as I have known her, Olivia has had this effect on men. Waiters, professors, studio execs. They break a sweat trying to please her.

“Would mademoiselle care for more coffee?” the waiter asks Olivia.

“No, thank you.”

The waiter backs away, keeping his gaze fondly fixed on Olivia and her coffee cup.

“Passion over duty,” Olivia says, removing the lid from the silver saltcellar and sprinkling several grains of coarse sea salt over her omelet. “You were saying?”

“Do you think I am too sensible?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being sensible, Mandy.”

“But am I too sensible?”

“Too sensible?” She rolls her eyes. “That’s like saying someone is too rich or too beautiful. One can never have too much sense, money, or beauty.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I sigh. “Still . . .”

“What?”

“I wish I were more like Emma Lee.”

“What do you mean? You wish you were sleeping on Tara’s couch and watching crap television instead of partying like a rock star in the South of France with your best friend?”

“No! That’s not what I meant.”

“Well”—she cuts a small piece of omelet and forks it into her mouth—“what do you mean?”

“I wish I were more impulsive and uninhibited.”

“Okay, your fairy godmother suddenly appears and”—she waves her fork in the air as if it is a wand—“poof! You’re suddenly impulsive and wild. What would you do differently?”

“What do you mean?”

“Stop stalling, Manderley Maxwell. You know precisely what I mean. How would your life change?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

She busies herself with spreading jam on her toast.

She’s right. I know how my life would change, but what’s the point in entertaining Cinderella dreams? My fairy godmother isn’t going to magically materialize and sing “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo.” She’s not going to change my tennis shoes into glass slippers. Life is not a fairy tale.

If it were . . .

I exhale.

. . . if life were as dreamy as a fairy tale, I would have long, flowing platinum hair, wide blue eyes, and pink, bow-shaped lips. People would notice me when I walked into a room in my blue ball gown and matching satin gloves. I would have the courage to pursue my dreams . . . and my Prince Charming.

Instead, I have dirty-dishwater blond hair and drab gray eyes. People usually ignore me and the closest thing I own to a blue ball gown is a hideous periwinkle bridesmaid dress I wore to a friend’s wedding.

I don’t know what my dreams are anymore. At one time, I thought I wanted to be a journalist and work on hard-hitting, investigative pieces. Then, I imagined myself as a novelist, living in a coastal home on stilts, pounding away on an old manual Smith Corona as the surf swirled below me. Now . . . I am not even certain I have a talent for writing. Perhaps my creative muscle atrophied while I was busy helping Olivia flex hers. (And I don’t mean that to sound as bitter as it might, because helping Olivia has been my choice. Nobody forced me to become her assistant. I volunteered.)

The waiter suddenly appears, pours a few drops of steaming black coffee into Olivia’s cup, and backs silently away, a vassal pleased to have successfully completed his duties. For her part, Olivia has perfected Monarch Face—that blank expression that says If there are little people out there toiling to prepare my food and keep my goblet filled with wine, I do not know. I see nothing except the dazzling reflection of my greatness in the cutlery.

As far as Prince Charming . . .

. . . I think of Xavier, dressed in a tuxedo, leaning casually against the hood of his sports car, and my heart sinks. I am employing fairy-tale thinking if I imagine Xavier as my Prince Charming. I don’t know if he is married. He could be someone else’s Prince Charming. Maybe the woman in the slinky dress is his Cinderella. After all, I know little about him.

“I don’t even know his last name.”

Olivia looks up from her toast. “Who?”

“Xavier.”

“And knowing his last name is vital if you are to continue allowing him to rescue you from peril and shower you with beautiful designer handbags?” Olivia brushes bread crumbs from her fingers and leans forward. “He is single and seriously interested in you. Isn’t that enough for now?”

Let’s say he is single and seriously interested in me. He is French. I am American. We live half a world apart. How could we possibly make a relationship work? Courting via text? Holidays spent somewhere halfway in between, like Kuujjuaq, Canada, or Ashtabula, Ohio? Forty percent of couples in long-distance relationships break up, so the odds aren’t great.

There I go again. Sensible Manderley. Throwing a big bucket of icy logic on my kindling passion. Why can’t I do as my aunt suggested and let my heart lead me, even if it takes me somewhere my head thinks I should not go?

Olivia sighs. “If I were able to tell you his last name, would that be enough for you? Would you release your inner sex-kitten long enough to have a little vacay prowl?” She sits up in her chair, craning her neck to look around me. She smiles, raises her hand a little, and wiggles her fingers.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.”

The waiter appears at our table. “Oui, mademoiselle. Is there something you desire?”

“Absolutely,” Olivia purrs, batting her long, fiber-mascara-enhanced lashes at him. “I desire some information and I believe you are just the man to provide it.”

The waiter straightens, lifting his chin. “Of course, mademoiselle—”

“Olivia. Please, call me Olivia.”

“How may I assist, Mademoiselle Olivia?”

“It’s my friend here.”

The waiter reluctantly redirects his gaze from Olivia to me. His shoulders sag a little. His smile falters. I push my glasses farther up my nose and smile apologetically, embarrassed for him.

“This is Manderley,” Olivia says, nodding her head at me. “She is my best friend, and I would do anything in the world to make her happy. I’ll bet you feel the same way about your best friend, don’t you—” Olivia gasps and slaps her hand to her cheek. “How rude of me! I didn’t even ask your name.”

“The name is Robert, mademoiselle.”

“Robert. What a wonderful name. So strong and masculine.”

Robert grins.

“The thing is, Robert, Manderley was accosted by a pickpocket just outside the hotel.”

“Mon dieu! I should alert hotel security immediately. Perhaps there is still time to apprehend—”

He turns to leave, but Olivia grabs his sleeve. “I am afraid it’s too late, Robert.” She lets go of his sleeve. “Manderley was attacked two nights ago. The thief is probably long gone. I am sorry. I should have said that from the beginning.”

“Would you like me to call hotel security anyway?”

“No, thank you.” Olivia lowers her voice. “Fortunately, my friend was rescued from serious harm thanks to the intervention of another hotel guest. Perhaps you know him? He is staying in the Dior Suite.”

“I am sorry, but we are not permitted—”

Olivia leans over the table, giving Robert an unobstructed view of the deep valley between her breasts. “Robert, we know his first name is Xavier, but we don’t know his last name. Manderley would like to send him a thank-you gift. Please won’t you be my hero and tell me his last name?” She bats her eyelashes again. “Pretty please?”

Robert looks around nervously before answering. “Monsieur de Maloret,” he whispers. “The guest staying in the Dior Suite is Monsieur de Maloret.”

“Mallory? With a y?”

“Non.” Robert shakes his head. “M-a-l-o-r-e-t.”

“Brilliant!” Olivia leans back, smiling broadly at Robert. “I knew you were my hero. Merci, Robert.”

“Is there anything else? Some more coffee, perhaps?”

“What?” Olivia looks at her coffee cup and then back at Robert. “No, I am perfectly content. You have taken wonderful care with my coffee cup, Robert.”

Robert is beaming as he bows and walks away.

“There you have it!” Olivia snaps her fingers. “Monsieur X has a name. Xavier de Maloret.”

“You didn’t need to do that, you know.”

“Pshaw,” she says, waving her hands. “It was nothing.”

I have to laugh. Charming a staff member at an exclusive hotel known for their discretion into divulging personal information about one of their guests is child’s play for a master like Olivia.

“It was nothing for you. You’re Olivia Tate.”

“The name’s Bond.” Her lips quirk in a slight smile. “Olivia Bond.” She grabs her iPhone off the table. “And now, Miss Honey Ryder, why don’t we see what we can uncover about your mysterious Monsieur de Maloret?”

“No!” I reach across the table and grab the phone from her hand. “And why am I Honey Ryder? I would rather be Vesper Lynd. She was clever.”

Olivia sighs. “Vesper Lynd was cold. You are not cold, Manderley.”

“But Honey Ryder was merely boobs in a bikini.”

“Honey Ryder was more than boobs in a bikini!” Olivia cries. “She was a beautiful, mysterious, sexually liberated woman.”

“Vesper was smart and a double agent.”

“You look more like Honey Ryder.”

“Still”—I sniff and hand her back her phone—“I would rather be Vesper Lynd.”

“Fine! But you know how it ended between Vesper and Bond. She betrayed him and then died, prompting him to speak one of the cruelest lines ever uttered, ‘The bitch is dead. ’ ”

She takes her phone and pushes the home button. “Search the web for Xavier de Maloret.”

A second later, Siri’s disembodied voice says, “Here’s what I found on the web for Xavier the Malaria.”

A distinguished elderly gentleman who has taken a seat at the table beside us glances over, his bushy gray eyebrow rising in disapproval. I can almost hear him thinking, In France, dinner companions are to be seen and not heard, ma cher mademoiselle!

“Olivia, stop!” I hiss.

Olivia pushes the button again, raising her voice. “Xavier de Maloret!”

“I am sorry, Olivia the Brilliant, I couldn’t find anything on the web for Savored the mallory.”

“Xavier de Maloret!”

“Okay, here’s what I found for David and Valerie.”

Before I can grab the phone out of her hands, Olivia growls and jabs the button again. She speaks slowly this time, enunciating each word.

“What . . . do . . . you . . . know . . . about . . . Xavier . . . de . . . Maloret?”

The shadow of a man, a tall, broad-shouldered man, falls over our table.

“A bit, actually. What would you like to know?”

Olivia looks up from her phone and gasps.