A brief silence was followed by Sister saying, “Brilliant intellectually. Driven. Rich, although some of that wealth has to be inherited. We’ve never met his people, you know. He rarely mentions them except that they live in Newport Beach, California. Let’s see. Well, he’s handsome.”
“Succumbs to flattery, especially from women,” Betty added.
The two women looked at each other and laughed. “What man doesn’t?”
“I’m on empty.”
“By the time you know whether he really can make a whipper-in, you’ll have figured out how to handle him,” Betty said.
“Or he’ll have figured out how to handle me.”
“That’s easy.” Betty tossed her sponge in the bucket. “Do what you say.”
CHAPTER 8
The glow of candlelight and the free flow of champagne improved everyone’s complexions.
Betty and Bobby Franklin’s modest, pretty clapboard house sat on forty acres. Bobby had wanted to name this patch of land Mortgage Manor, but Betty prevailed, and the name remained Tricorn Farm, for once a hatter had lived here who made tricorns in the eighteenth century.
The hunt membership plus flotsam and jetsam from town and country jammed into the traditionally decorated house. A time traveler from colonial Williamsburg would have felt at home. Jennifer and Sari, after dutifully greeting guests, sped away to a party where the median age was twenty. At the Franklins’ the median age had to be forty, which for two girls in their freshman year at Colby College might as well have been one hundred and ten.
While the Franklins’ daughter and Sari might have had no need of candlelight’s soft glow, it added to Sister Jane’s natural radiance. The soft glow didn’t hurt Tedi and Edward Bancroft, either.
It most certainly didn’t hurt Frederika Thomas, whose creamy cleavage pulsated in the light from the fireplaces, the candles flickering in the two-hundred-fifty-year-old chandeliers. Freddie’s bosom, much admired, rose and fell at a pace she controlled. The more they heaved, the more she sought to impress upon the gentleman (it was usually a gentleman) with whom she spoke that she was deeply impressed with his conversation. Perhaps, given the height of the heave, she might even be sexually interested. When Freddie discovered the power of her mammary glands, she made certain to wear low-cut dresses or blouses. A snug cashmere turtleneck could be worn to good effect as well. Freddie had mastered this technique by eighteen. At thirty-four she had perfected it.
Speaking with Sister, a respectable 38C, which suited her six-foot frame, Freddie kept her glories at a moderate pace with the chat. Freddie admired Sister but had never thought of seducing her. Good thing, because Sister would have laughed herself silly.
“Poor Marty.” Freddie’s doe eyes widened further. “You just know she’s dying to come. This is the party. Anyone not invited to the Franklins’ winds up at the country club, I suppose. Well, at least Marty will be able to wear her major jewels. Crawford’s no cheapskate.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Sister saw Iffy in her motorized metal wheelchair festooned with party lights and sparklers, which Iffy intended to set off at midnight. “Marty needs a scooter like Iffy’s. I’m surprised those rubies and diamonds don’t bend her double.”
“I’d kill for those rubies and diamonds.”
“You’d have to.”
Freddie, possessed of a good sense of humor, laughed at Sister’s good-natured jibe. “Good as he is that way, Crawford’s a brute to keep her from her friends.”
“Once a man takes a position publicly, he rarely backs down or seeks a compromise. It’s a particular failing of the gender, I’m afraid, and Crawford is more pigheaded than most.”
“You don’t think women can be stubborn?”
“I do.” Sister’s silver hair gleamed in the light. “But with great effort, especially from friends, most women can be brought around to seek a compromise. Maybe I’m making too much of it. I’m upset with Crawford, obviously, and I adore Marty. I miss her already. She was the most P.C. person in the hunt, and even though I often thought she was to the left of Pluto she made me think.”
Jason Woods, intent in conversation with Walter, turned his head. Both Freddie and Sister noticed his classic profile simultaneously.
“Divine.”
“I’d have to agree.” Sister smiled. “But surely you’ve met him.”
“In passing. There’s never been enough time to talk, and I was usually stuck with my tick of an ex-boyfriend.”
“Jason seems to have a refreshingly low opinion of monogamy,” Sister remarked.
“These days so do I.” Freddie laughed.
If a male stranger had beheld these two women together, he would have first fixed his gaze on Freddie. At thirty-four, lithe and voluptuous, she’d send the blood south. Eventually his eyes would shift to Sister. Standing there, completely unself-conscious, the older woman burst with raw animal energy. Maybe his blood wouldn’t head south, although it would have when she was younger, but even a man half her age would be drawn to her. The energy would pull him—and it pulled women, too, in a different manner.
Some creatures possess this magnetism. Secretariat had it. Archie, Sister’s late anchor hound, had it. You just had to look at him, the way you had to look at Sister.
Freddie wanted to be like Sister, but she was too concerned with her effect on others. Beautiful as she was, this made her vulnerable. She needed praise to feel feminine, to feel good. Sister woke up in the morning feeling good. If people liked her, fine. If they didn’t, well, there were six billion people on earth. There ought to be someone out there they liked.
“I heard your parting with Mick was stormy.”
Freddie pursed her lips. “I vented to all my girlfriends, and now I’m ashamed of myself. I should have kept my mouth shut.”
The wind rattled the windowpanes. A downdraft sent spark showers flying up in the fireplace and glowing on the firescreens.
Jason made his way to the two women.
“Ladies.”
“Jason, you’ve met Freddie Thomas before, I believe.”
“That has been my pleasure, but”—he inclined his head toward the lovely woman—“she was always guarded by a two-toed sloth.”
Freddie and Sister burst out laughing.
“You haven’t been out hunting,” Jason remarked.
“I’ve been so busy this season, I haven’t been out once.”
“Freddie has reached that critical juncture in her practice where she needs to either take a partner or partners or cut back on work so she can enjoy life—which of course means foxhunting.” Sister leaned toward Freddie. “I mean it.”
Freddie was a certified public accountant. Gray thought highly of her.
“I’m sitting at the crossroads being a big chicken.” She sighed in agreement.
“If you don’t get off the crossroads you’ll be squashed. Listen to the sage of Roughneck Farm,” Sister teased.
“Funny, my image of accountants is of someone dull. I was wrong.” Jason assiduously avoided staring at her cleavage.
“I love accounting. I get to study businesses from the inside. I guess I’m a little like Sonny Shaeffer.” She nodded toward the florid-faced banker. “I know a little bit about every business, but perhaps not enough to run one.”
“Freddie, you could do anything you set your mind to because you’re so intelligent.” Sister meant that. She turned to make her exit so these two could discover one another but was nearly run over by Iffy, who hit her brakes.
Sister was pinned between Iffy on one side, Jason and Freddie on the other.
“Happy New Year.” Iffy appeared festive, although resentment bubbled beneath the surface.
“Happy New Year,” the others replied.
“Freddie, did you know that Jason is my doctor?”
“I did.”
“He saved my life. If you ever feel a lump anywhere, go to him.” She stared at Freddie’s bosom.