Remember When by Judith McNaught
She saw Cole’s expression shift from gravity to poorly concealed amusement, and in her anxiety, she crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward. “I did something while we were there, didn’t I?” she demanded. Her fevered imagination conjured up an image of an inebriated woman in a purple gown trying to climb on stage and dance with the showgirls. Or, dear God, were they strippers? “Whatever I did, it was awful, wasn’t it?” she said weakly.
“That depends. Are you morally or religiously opposed to gambling?”
“No.”
“Then it wasn’t awful.”
Diana threw up her hands in joyous relief and cast her eyes heavenward. “I gambled!” she cried.
In the space of a few hours Cole had seen her switch from solemnity to panic to relief to humor, and it occurred to him that no matter her mood, he thoroughly enjoyed her company. He always had. With a sideways smile, she picked up her fork and took a bite of scrambled egg. “How did I do?”
“Not bad.”
“I lost,” she concluded with a muffled laugh, her happiness and her appetite remarkably unspoiled by that discovery. When Cole nodded, she reached for the orange juice and drank a little. “How much did I lose?”
“At the roulette table? Or at baccarat? Or at the slot machine?”
She put the glass down, nonplussed. “I lost at all three?”
“Yes, but I stopped you before you got into a high-stakes poker game,” he added as he picked up his coffee cup and took a sip.
“How long were we at the casino?”
“Not long—a half hour.”
“Then I couldn’t have lost very much,” Diana said, but something in his carefully noncommittal expression made her pause. “How much did I lose?”
“About three thousand dollars.”
She was appalled, but she nodded and said very formally, “I’ll write you a check.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I insist. A lady must always pay her own gambling debts,” she quoted with humorous finality, as if she’d learned it in finishing school.
She wasn’t merely beautiful and intelligent and witty, she was obstinate as hell, Cole realized. But then, so was he. “And a gentleman always pays for the honeymoon,” he countered firmly.
Unfortunately, by referring to a thirty-minute stop in a casino as a “honeymoon,” he had inadvertently made a mockery of the word and a mockery of the abrupt, unromantic wedding that preceded it. He realized this as soon as he’d said it, and so did Diana. Her smile faded, but he noted that she didn’t grow angry or hurt. She simply . . . readjusted to reality.
“I wish you hadn’t let me make those phone calls from the plane,” she said instead.
“I didn’t stop you because it was to your benefit and to your company’s benefit for the public to find out as soon as possible that you’d married me.” He hadn’t stopped her because of that and also because her phone calls to the media had eliminated any possibility that she could back out of their bargain this morning. On this point, however, he wisely kept his thoughts to himself, and she cooperated by changing the subject to something more neutral.
“At least I understand now why I kept dreaming of slot machines. Except that in my dream, the slot machine was gigantic—taller than you and at least five feet wide.”
“That wasn’t a dream.”
“Really?” she said with well-bred interest, but it wasn’t a question, it was a courteous statement. She had retreated behind a wall of pleasant reserve, which was her norm, and Cole switched his thoughts to business details, which was his.
“We have some practical details to discuss, but we can do it on the way to see your family.”
She nodded, looked at her watch, and got up. “It will be five o’clock by the time we get there. Corey had to retake some shots for the magazine, so the crew should be wrapping up when we get there.”
With her hand on the bedroom door she stopped and turned. “Last night I walked off with my grandmother’s purse instead of my own. Since I didn’t have any identification with me, how did we get married?”
Cole was pouring coffee into his cup and he glanced up, his expression wry. “Actually that caused a minor problem for a few minutes, but the wedding chapel belongs to a man and his wife. She recognized you, and with the help of an extra hundred dollars, her husband agreed that was proof enough of your true identity.”
Diana accepted that with a nod, her thoughts turning to the problem of clothing. “It’s a good thing I left my car with the valet last night, or I wouldn’t be able to get into my apartment to change clothes.”
Chapter 31
A HALF HOUR LATER, SHE’D changed into a pair of white linen slacks, white sandals, and a lilac silk shirt that she’d knotted in the front at the waist, and they were on the way to the family house on Inwood Drive.
Because she still was feeling a tad under the weather, Cole took the wheel of her car, and as he drove along familiar boulevards lined with gracious mansions set back among the trees, he felt a strong sense of déjà vu combined with a feeling of total unreality. Of all the bizarre, unpredictable twists and turns his life had taken in the years since he’d last driven down these streets, the oddest by far was to return here with Diana Foster sitting beside him—as his wife.
Oblivious to the direction of his thoughts, Diana was concentrating on the best way to break the news to her family. Somehow, she had to portray an optimism she didn’t completely feel and simultaneously convince them that last night’s marriage was not only sane but ideal.
She was working out her strategy, rehearsing her opening speech, and deciding on the right location to give it when Cole reached into the inside pocket of his navy blazer and extracted a folded sheet of hotel stationery. As he handed it across to her, he said in a businesslike voice, “While you were sleeping this morning, I wrote out a summary of the terms of our verbal agreement. Basically, it sets out that our marriage will last for one year. At the end of that period, we will obtain a quiet, amicable divorce with neither of us making any financial claims against the other.”
A bicyclist was in the middle of their lane when they rounded a curve, and Cole paused as he went around her; then he continued, “Naturally, any gifts we give each other, such as our wedding rings or the necklace I bought you last night, will remain the property of the recipient.”
“Wedding rings?” Diana echoed blankly. “What wedding rings?”
He reached into the outside pocket of his jacket and extracted two plain, wide gold bands, holding them toward her in his palm. “These wedding rings.”
“When did you get those?”
“The Silver Bells Wedding Chapel is a fully equipped, full-service establishment. I bought them there from the owner, and we exchanged them during the ceremony.” With a sigh of mock dismay he chided, “How quickly some of us forget the tender, poignant moments in life.”
Diana took the smaller of the two rings from his palm and held it between thumb and forefinger, puzzled by his description of the event as poignant and tender. “Was it a tender moment?” she asked, peering at his profile.
A smile quirked his lips. “You seemed to think it was. You cried during most of the ceremony.”
“I always cry a little bit at weddings,” Diana admitted ruefully.
“At your own wedding,” he ungallantly said, “you cried so hard you had to stop twice to blow your nose.”
Diana’s initial horror gave way to a sudden burst of hilarity at the picture of a drunken bride in a purple gown bawling her heart out and blowing her nose. She slumped down in her seat, her body quaking with laughter. “Before the ceremony, you were deeply distressed about the decor.” Diana laughed harder.
A few moments later, however, Cole’s brisk words made her sober and straighten. “Look over my list, and see if you have any questions or comments,” he instructed.
Diana unfolded the sheet of paper and read what he’d written. His handwriting was a bold scrawl, and yet it was r
“It’s pretty straightforward.”
“Very,” Diana murmured.
“Your attorney can use it to draw up the formal document. As soon as it’s drafted, have it faxed to me at my home in Dallas.”
With his left palm on the steering wheel, he took a slender wallet out of his pocket and extracted a white business card from it. He handed his card to her, and Diana realized with a twinge of alarm that she’d actually married a man whose phone number and address she did not know.
“Do you have an attorney whom you can trust to handle your end of this discreetly and quickly?”
Diana couldn’t possibly turn this over to the sedate law firm that represented Foster Enterprises. Lawyers gossiped among themselves, and even if she had the nerve to confess what she’d done to one of those lawyers, she couldn’t trust them to keep the titillating information completely confidential. The only attorney she could trust, personally and professionally, was Doug Hayward. Doug had given up law for politics and in a real legal battle, he’d be no match for the kind of attorneys Cole was likely to have, but this wasn’t a battle, this was a simple agreement.
Postnuptial agreements had become fairly common, she knew, though she was pretty certain they were usually preceded by prenuptials. According to what she’d read and heard, wealthy middle-aged people with children from an earlier marriage, or charitable bequests to protect, frequently used them when they remarried because they held up much better than prenuptials in court.
Charles Hayward, Doug’s father, would probably know lots of friends who’d used them, and he’d have good advice to offer Diana and Doug. His advice and help had been invaluable to Diana after her father died.
“I know someone,” she said after a prolonged moment.
Cole turned off Inwood onto the long tree-lined drive that led to the house Diana had lived in when he knew her as a young girl, and he saw several cars in front of the house. “It looks like your family has a lot of company.”
“The Explorer is Corey’s and the BMW is Spence’s. Spence is here because we try to have Sunday dinner as a family when we can. The other cars belong to Corey’s assistants. Corey’s redoing a shoot she wasn’t happy with.”
Chapter 32
THE FOSTERS’ HOME WAS A stately place, much like many others Cole had been in that were built in the late fifties and early sixties, but the rooms he glimpsed as she led him across the foyer and down a hall toward the rear of the house had a subtly different ambience. Some of the rooms were formal and beautiful, some were casual and cozy, but all of them were inviting.
The kitchen was huge and had obviously been redesigned for very serious cooking projects, with two commercial stoves, two sinks, an oversize refrigerator and freezer, and an abundance of copper pots and pans hanging overhead.
A middle-aged woman who Cole assumed was either cook or housekeeper or both was slicing summer squash at a chopping block, and she nodded toward the back door. “Everyone is still working in the back,” she told Diana, and then in a mildly irritated voice she added, “Your grandpa told me his new organic fertilizer is producing much bigger squash. Why does he keep growing squash, squash, and more squash? We don’t have enough space or enough recipes for more squash. The freezers are full of squash casseroles and squash-everything-else. Unless your mother and grandma can come up with a recipe for squash ice cream, we can’t use any more squash!”
“We can always paint it,” Diana replied imperturbably.
Cole was still trying to adjust to the idea of painting squash when he followed her outside into another world. The back lawn was at least three acres in size, and every segment of it was charmingly designed to please the eye and yet be of use in the family business. People were everywhere.
While two photo assistants waited on the sidelines with lights and reflectors, Corey was in the middle of a vast vegetable garden, posing her grandmother, who was dressed in a parka and holding a huge pumpkin in her hands. Piles of dried oak leaves were spread about her feet. Mary Foster, with a jar of paint in one hand and brush in the other, was touching up the face of a scarecrow. All three women seemed startled to see Cole with Diana, but not displeased, he noted. Which meant they hadn’t heard the news yet.
“We’ll be finished in two minutes,” Corey called. “I just want one more shot.”
Spence was standing beside a blanket, dividing his attention between his wife and the identical twins who were working their way to the blanket’s edge in pursuit of a huge ball. He turned and smiled at Diana. Then he looked at Cole and nodded, but he did not smile.
“We’re working on the October issue right now,” Diana explained, nodding toward the garden.
“Your grandmother must be roasting in that parka,” Cole observed.
Tables had been set out on the right side of the lawn near a workshop that looked more like a storybook cottage. At one of the tables, two women were putting down wreaths and centerpieces made of pinecones, berries, and what looked to Cole liked painted vegetables. Vegetables, he realized with some amusement, actually were very attractive when painted.
At another table a young man and woman were vigorously removing tarnish from a pile of large, old, brass door knockers. Three doors in various stages of refinishing were leaning against the side of the workshop. “We’re doing a feature on ‘Giving Doors a Personality,’ ” Diana provided. As she spoke, two more young men with paint-stained clothes emerged from the workshop and began carrying the doors inside.
“Be careful with those doors, boys,” Henry Britton called out from his worktable in front of the cottage workshop. The space on top of the table and below it was covered with drawings anchored against the breeze by wooden boxes of various shapes and sizes with no particular use that Cole could discern.
When Henry saw Diana and Cole, he called to them to come over. He wiped off his hand to shake Cole’s; then he turned to his granddaughter, his weathered face and light brown eyes intent on what he had to tell her. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, Diana, and I’m certain I’m right. Take a look.”
Diana peered at the drawings and then at the small wooden boxes he was making. “What are they?” she asked, trying very hard to concentrate.
“They’re birdhouses! Birdhouses would be a big hit!” Henry predicted. “Not just ordinary ones, Diana, but birdhouses that look like little castles and cottages with thatched roofs and miniature barns and Southern plantation houses. I could fix up some modern-looking ones, too, that look like town houses and apartment buildings.”
Corey and her mother and grandmother had finished in the garden and were close enough to hear the last of his words. “Henry Britton,” his wife exclaimed, “did I just hear you actually say you intend to build apartment buildings for birds?”
“I said no such thing. I was talking to Diana about drawing up a bunch of designs for birdhouses.”
“We already featured birdhouses two years ago, Dad,” Diana’s mother said, sounding a little stressed out by the constant need for originality.
“These aren’t birdhouses for birds, Mary,” he said, sounding a little frustrated himself. “These would look like birdhouses, only they’re ornamental. You set them in your garden for decoration. Hell’s bells,” he said, slapping his leg in enthusiasm. “They’d be cute as the dickens all lined up in a row in a garden—”
His wife was unimpressed. “Sort of like a suburb for birds, you mean?”
He gave her a testy look. “Corey could set them around in just the right way, with some of my pink and orange impatiens behind them and little green shrubs here and there. Corey could get some great photographs for the magazine out of a setup like that.”
“I just don’t think miniature birdhouses that birds can’t use would go over very well with Diana’s subscribers.”
“Yes, they would. Every Christmas, you spend two days under the Christmas tree, lining up miniature ceramic houses so they look like one of those Norman Rockwell towns, but n
Everyone paused and looked at Diana for a deciding opinion.
Although Corey was responsible for the artistic presentation of the magazine, and the others were responsible for coming up with the projects that were featured in it, it was Diana who carried the full weight of responsibility for satisfying their subscribers, which, in turn, directly affected the ultimate financial success or failure of the magazine, ergo the family business.
Diana had to force herself to concentrate on this instead of the announcement of her marriage. “Actually,” she said after a pause, “I think Grandpa is right. We might even want to use garden ornaments and decorations as the main feature in one of the issues.”
Satisfied with that, Henry returned to a more pleasant subject and looked hopefully at Diana. “Last night you and I talked about doing another issue featuring organic gardening. Organic gardening is always popular. Maybe we could combine my birdhouses and some other garden ornaments, like you suggested, with organic gardening.
“Well,” her grandfather said, interrupting her mental wanderings, “if you like the idea, I’ll start putting together a list of article ideas tomorrow.”
Diana was trying to decide where to assemble the family for the meeting. “That sounds good, Grandpa,” she said. “Let’s do that,” she added, which made her mother and her grandmother and Corey all stop and gaze at her in amazement.
“But we already featured organic gardening not long ago,” Corey said.
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot,” Diana said absently. “That was for vegetables and fruits. We can do this one on flowers.” She looked at the group and plunged in. “I’d like to talk to all of you in the living room for a few minutes.”
Corey glanced up at the angle of the sun. “I’ve been waiting all afternoon to catch the sunlight coming through those branches the way it is now. Give me ten minutes to get Spence and the twins under the tree on a blanket. This shot is for me.”