What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One (8 page)

How long have I been dating him? Seventeen months—and counting. I’m making a big investment in you, Zackery
. It hadn’t taken long for her to decide on the junior Mr. Calvin. And finding him had confirmed Santa Barbara as a logical choice, too. This coastal town was far enough north of Los Angeles to be distinct from the complex and sordid layers that made up a large city. In a population of only 100,000, a person with drive could actually be
somebody
, get noticed. Here, one could have the best of both worlds: access to the big city in two hours—depending on traffic; yet a comfortable sense remove, in a town with a culture all its own.

She imagined there would be less competition in Santa Barbara as well. Not that this town didn’t have plenty of single women. But L.A. was
full
of sexy young blondes who could distract a man’s attention. These wanna-be actresses were drawn like moths to the flame of Hollywood, and spent their youths dreaming of stardom. She considered all that to be a colossal waste of time.
I grew up with all that. My own parents fell prey to it
. Cynthia knew exactly where to focus: money and men.

So often the best of both can be found in the same place
. And this was the most important thing about the beautiful and tasteful city of Santa Barbara. There was plenty of money here. So she knew she’d find powerful and successful men.

Zackery was certainly both.
And he’s young and handsome—but that isn’t necessarily the best situation for me
. She’d generally found older men more stable professionally and more needy emotionally, which meant she didn’t have to chase
them
, because they were eagerly chasing
her
.

She’d had some success with such relationships, which often came with a bonus: generous men gave nice gifts, which she sometimes parlayed into longer-lasting resources.

Cynthia recalled the time—about three years ago now—when the South African businessman who’d been sweet on her had offered a shopping spree.
The dear man had so much money from his diamond business that he really didn’t know what to do with it all
. Though his offices were in “Jo-burg” and New York, whenever he got bored, he flew to Las Vegas to gamble away some of his surplus cash. They’d met there one night in the Palm Court Lounge, where Cynthia was singing. Cynthia’d temporarily closed her L.A. apartment to accept the four-month gig. She enjoyed his attentions, and after they dated a few times, he suggested she buy herself a new wardrobe and handed her five crisp thousand-dollar bills.

Thing is, that money came with strings: buy new clothes so I’d dress as he wanted me to; quit singing so much so I’d be available when he wanted me. But what did that mean? He wasn’t offering to pay my rent. Besides, I wanted to keep my independence
. It just wasn’t her cup of tea to be at someone’s beck and call—not with a man who only wanted a fling. Instead, she’d handed him back all but one of the bills. But to assuage his hurt feelings, she invited him to attend a showy charity ball sometime soon in Los Angeles, promising to wear something he’d enjoy.

Her life in L.A. had included membership in several high-profile charities, not so much because she loved helping others, but because she found their annual galas practical for networking. Sure enough, an invitation was waiting when she got home.

So, the day after she’d decamped Nevada and resettled herself in her Van Nuys apartment, she’d headed straight to the couturier department at Neiman Marcus in Beverly Hills, where she discovered the most scrumptious Fabrice gown, covered in silver bugle beads.
Much as I loved that dress, it really was too expensive. Besides, it was designed for a forty-year-old
. She tried on several others, and found a perfect black number: revealing and kicky, flirtatious and sleek. Then she thanked the frustrated sales woman, tossing her a smile as she left with a “I’ll think about it.”

By two hours later, she’d snagged a look-alike gown at her favorite bargain shop, then deposited the rest of her gift money into her account.
Wonder how much interest that amount has earned by now?
She smiled.
If Derek—or any of my other boyfriends—ever knew how frugal I am, they’d stop trying to buy me things. I wouldn’t want that!

She’d certainly met and dated her share of interesting businessmen in L.A. But it never took long for her to get bored. That—and an inkling it was time to put down roots somewhere—had fueled her decision to move to Santa Barbara, where she’d likely meet a fresh crop of interesting males. At first she’d singled out the senior Mr. Calvin as the most likely target. Rich. Widowed. Attractive. High-powered CEO. But then Zackery had spotted her first. Since that would’ve spoiled it with the father, she’d decided to allow the son’s advances. She hadn’t yet admitted to herself that it was the last time she’d felt completely in control with Zackery.

Cynthia stripped off the Halston she’d wear later, draping it across the foot of her bed. Pulling on a short, fitted cotton
housedress, she padded on bare feet to the small desk in her kitchen and turned her attention to the party she was planning.
I’ve got to make sure that I’ve invited everybody… make sure I haven’t overlooked anyone
. Cynthia had a gift for entertaining. It was in her nature to leave nothing to chance, and to trust no one else’s ability to get things right.

I’d better call the printer
. She’d gone over the details with him endlessly, but one could never be too careful.

“Hello?” Mr. Dinzle had been a master printer for forty-five years and, she imagined, saw everything there was to see in black and white.

“Oh, yes, hello, this is Cynthia Radcliffe—with an
e.”
She’d read somewhere years ago that little idiosyncrasies made one more memorable and had decided that adding the
e
to her name—and reminding people of the unusual spelling—would become one of her trademarks.

“Oh, yes, hello, Miss Radcliffe. Are you calling about your invitations?”

“Yes. How do they look? Did the gold borders come out just perfectly?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Radcliffe, they did, and so did the little gold—” Mr. Dinzle paused. “Uh …
hearts
you wanted on the outside of the envelopes.”

His tone had seemed a bit questioning. “You don’t think they look too… well, too….”

“I’m not quite sure what you mean, Miss Radcliffe.”

“Oh, well, after all, this is rather a too-too occasion, isn’t it? And besides, nothing is too good for Zackery.”

I’m going out on a limb for you, Zackery
. A knot of discomfort tied itself in her gut.
Why am I nervous?
For one
thing, Zackery seemed to have a strange ambivalence about parties, especially big ones. That didn’t worry her too much, because he did
go
to them all the time. In fact, that’s how they’d first met. But this would be different—a party in his honor.

“Well, you would know best, I’m sure,” Mr. Dinzle continued. “Would you like me to read the invitation back to you?”

“Oh, yes, you’d better do that.”

He cleared his throat, then read: “‘You are cordially invited to join Mr. Zackery Calvin and Miss Cynthia Radcliffe’—with an
e
—‘at a benefit for the Arts Museum to celebrate Mr. Calvin’s birthday, Thursday, December twelfth, Seven O’Clock pm, Calma (the Calvin Estate), 10500 Sycamore Canyon Road, Santa Barbara, California’.”

Cynthia listened carefully, imagining the lovely script on the small cream-colored gilt-edged card.
Doing the party as a benefit was really a stroke of genius
. She’d congratulate herself again later, when she calmed down. For now, she could feel the anxiety creep over her again. Everything had to be perfect. “And you got the address right?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Radcliffe, as I just read to you.”

“And it says black tie in the bottom corner?”

“Oh, of course, Miss Radcliffe. Blue tie in the corner.”

Cynthia felt her throat begin to tighten. “Oh, no no no no no no!”

“Printer’s joke, Miss Radcliffe.”

She swallowed hard and tried to make a quick recovery. “Oh. How cute. Well, that’s all for now, I guess. I’ll send James down to pick them up, if I can’t get there myself later.” The Calvins’ butler had agreed to help with the party, though he had
not seemed enthusiastic.

“That’ll be fine, Miss Radcliffe. Thank you.”

Cynthia hung up and took a deep breath.
This event has certainly grown
. She thought back to her first vision for celebrating Zackery’s birthday: an intimate dinner party for eight or ten, to include just a few of his key business associates and club members.

But then she’d thought better of the idea—until she could afford to move into a better condo.
I know exactly what I want
. The payments would be steep, but well worth it to establish herself in the right kind of neighborhood and create a space suitable for entertaining. She needed a perfect setting for memorable evenings, the kind where people went home talking about what a great time they had, and what a great hostess she was. She would have the parties catered, of course. But that would have to wait until cash flow improved. She sighed.
Then again, if I play my cards right, I won’t need the new condo
.

Zackery already had the perfect location for any and all entertaining. The family estate known as Calma had it all: his own charming cottage; the grand main house; the beautifully tended grounds; the patio overlooking the ocean. Her plan had come together when she’d had the brilliant idea of making his party a museum benefit. This had enabled her to approach Joseph about the use of the house and grounds, and to earn a gold star for placing Calvin philanthropy in the limelight—while honoring Joseph’s only son. Immediately, the party size had grown well beyond the bounds of intimacy.

Have I bitten off more than I can chew? I ordered 500 invitations. Two hundred are on the list so far… better invite about that many again… all the club members are already
invited and, of course, the other major charities have been notified
.

She sat quietly for a moment, and allowed herself to daydream about the big event. The food would be fantastic, the flowers gorgeous, the tent sparkling with tiny lights. She would wear
the
dress—just on the point of being too risqué for the Santa Barbara intelligencia, but tasteful enough that no one would be able to comment. The men would love it; the women would hate themselves.
Zackery will spend the evening trying to concentrate on his guests, but unable to keep his eyes—or his thoughts—off me. I’ll present him with some stupendous gift in front of all his family and friends. We’ll be dancing to the sounds of—

“Oh, the music! I never got an answer from the orchestra!” She picked up the phone and began dialing frantically. “Oh, no, that’s right, I asked James to call them for me, and he said he was already taking care of that.” She hung up and drew another deep breath.
Sometimes I’m smarter than I give myself credit for
.

She looked at the kitchen counter, where she’d tossed today’s edition of the
Santa Barbara Register
. At one time, newspapers hadn’t held the slightest interest. But then she’d discovered the society pages—why had no one ever told her? Now she’d become a devotee.

She stood, opened the fridge and pulled out a chilled bottle of
Frappuccino
—the brand new coffee drink Starbucks had just introduced—opened it and took a first delicious sip. Grabbing the paper, she sat at her kitchen table and opened the paper to the Julia Cavendish column. Scanning details of a Charity League—at which local artists had donated their work—to make sure she was familiar with all the names, she placed her
fingernail on the page when she spotted a new one.

“Zelda McIntyre.” she read, “Owner of her own company: Artists Representation. I guess that means she manages painters.” Her mind began to click into gear.
I wonder if she’s listed in the Yellow Pages?
Grabbing her copy, she rifled through the “A’s” looking for “Art: Fine”. And there, strategically placed in the middle of a page listing several galleries, was a tasteful business-card-sized print ad. “Artists Representations. Fine Art for Discriminating Tastes.”
This is obviously someone I should invite
. Pressing her long nail just below the number, she placed the call. An answering machine picked up.

“Hello, this is Zelda McIntyre at Artists’ Representations. We are out of the office at this time, but please leave a message and we will call you back.”

By the time the machine beeped, Cynthia’s nerves had racheted up again. Looking down as she spoke, she held Zelda’s name in view by pointing at it with her long, pearl-beige nail.

“Oh. Hello? Oh, hello, this is Zelda.” Cynthia knew at once she’d said something wrong and looked up. “No, no no I mean of course,
you
are Zelda… I was looking at your name when I dialed. Excuse me! This is Cynthia Radcliffe—with an
e
. You’ve probably heard that I’m co-hosting a benefit for the new Arts Museum. I would like to send you an invitation, so please get back to me and let me have your address. I’ll talk to you soon. Oh! My number is 555-1040. Thank you so much! Bye-Bye!”

She hung up. Mercifully, the message-leaving ordeal was over, and Cynthia’s dreams of a magical evening were well on their way to becoming reality.

Miranda Jones swished her brush in the jar of water, watching as blue paint trailed off the tip to form tiny pigment-clouds.

She lifted her gaze to the studio windows and followed the sunbeams lancing through the pines until she could see the sparkle of the ocean beyond.

Love afternoon light. Always have
. Even as a child, she’d delighted in sneaking out of the house in the afternoon—when she was supposed to be taking a nap—sketchpad and crayons in hand. She’d climb the hill on the far side of her family’s property and make picture after picture of the California Coastal Ranges—Mount “Tam” being her favorite—before the sun sank into the ocean.
That’s one of the good memories
.