Rusty Nailed (Cocktail, #2)(82)

I excused myself from the mayor and swiftly made my way through the crowded lobby, where a production of Take Me to Petty Town was taking place.

“I still can’t believe you. It’s like talking to a brick wall.”

“I still can’t believe you don’t understand that you will never be up against this brick wall again.”

“It’s like arguing with a child.”

“The same child who called you and had to listen to some woman answer the phone? Giggling?”

“My mother doesn’t giggle.”

“Oh please, you expect me to believe that was your mom?”

“Why do you think I tried to call you back?”

“I don’t care. I hate you.”

“Enough!” I hissed, and grabbed them both by the elbows. Steering them behind the petit fours, I turned them both around and let fly. “That’s enough. I’m tired of listening to you two fight; it’s just ridiculous. Not here, not now, and not ever again. We’re all friends, and we’re going to continue to be friends, and I’m sick of you two dickheads making it miserable for everyone else! So knock it off—both of you,” I snapped.

As I turned to stomp away I heard Neil say, “Jeez, she didn’t have to yell at us,” which was quickly followed by, “I know, right?” from Sophia.

I caught Mimi trying to muscle her way over to the petit fours, and I told her to leave it alone—no more meddling. She huffed a little, but quickly abandoned her plan when Ryan asked her to dance.

Everyone was dancing. We’d hired a big band to play for the party, old meets new. And as I sipped my champagne in the middle of the gorgeous hotel that I’d designed, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I knew it was him. My skin told me.

“Glen Miller?” I asked, turning around.

“I might have requested it.” He grinned. “Moonlight Serenade” spilled over the dance floor, and I let myself be spirited away by my Wallbanger. He held me close, and as moonlight beamed down through the open windows, I sighed in his arms. Content.

Until Monica tapped me on the shoulder and told me we had a problem.

Excusing myself from Simon, I followed her toward the back of the reception area. Her face was beet red and full of apology as she sputtered and stuttered and tried to tell me what was going on. All I could get out of her was “coat closet.”

“What’s the problem? Is it full? We can use one of the guest rooms on this floor. Just ask housekeeping to bring up— Oh!”

I’d opened the door to the coat closet and saw something I can never un-see. Burned into my retinas forever was the image of Neil and Sophia, on a pile of minks. Going at it like—well, you guessed it.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Sophia was shouting. She should: Neil was . . . Hmm, how shall I put this?

Ever seen a Clydesdale?

As I say, I can never un-see.

As luck would have it, they “finished” while I stood there, my jaw on the floor next to his jacket and her undergarments. I backed out, slammed the door, and as they afterglowed on the other side, I instructed Monica to keep everyone away for at least five minutes.

And that any cleaning bills should be sent directly to Neil at NBC.

? ? ?

Two weeks later, Simon was back out on the road. Cambodia. He was doing a series on secret cities and hidden temples, buried by centuries of the jungle taking back the land. The photos he was sending back to me were haunting, riveting, and beautiful.

I still had my hands full. After the Claremont opened I finished up the last few projects I had going over there, worked with Jillian on some new office protocols, and then decided to take a few personal days to rest and relax. What I was really doing was putting the finishing touches on the house. I wanted to surprise Simon when he came home and have it totally ready. Jillian had stopped by to help.

Initially I’d balked at ordering so much new furniture, but Simon kept insisting, “Make it how you want it, and I’ll love it. It’s just money, Caroline.”

Anytime anyone says something like that, you know they’ve got wads of it. I’d seen a few figures on some of the banking reports when Simon bought this house, and Mother of God, it was a big wad.

Big Wad—what a great name for a band.

So order I did. I aimed to marry my style and his, while honoring the original beauty of the house. Taking my cue from the natural landscape all around, I let the surrounding hillside inspire the palette throughout, especially in the living room. Buttery creams, burnished bronzes, soft muted greens, and splashes of goldenrod made the house cozy. It was made even cozier by the tall stone fireplace where a fire crackled merrily, framed by refinished built-in bookcases stacked high with our collection of books behind the leaded glass doors. And by the bay window perched the customary telescope through which I could see San Francisco.

Windblown Girl on a Cliff with an Orange hung over the original wooden mantel, which now gleamed golden after being rubbed rich with oil. Simon loved this photograph of me, cringing in embarrassment at having my picture taken, orange juice clear on my lips and chin, hair blown out wildly by the Spanish wind. It was his favorite, and he’d insisted that it be displayed somewhere downstairs.

A long, thin custom shelf filled with the bottles of sand Simon had collected was positioned on one wall, with a smaller shelf just below with bottles from our trips together. Tahoe, Nerja, Halong Bay, they clustered together to tell the beginning of our story, with plenty of room for the next chapter.