A Convenient Proposal(59)

SATURDAY’S BRUNCH for the bride and groom took place at the Sheridan Fine Art Museum.

“Remarkable,” Griff commented as they arrived, “for its total lack of any fine artwork.”

Arden gave him a reproving glance. “Kathy brought me here earlier in the week. I thought there were some nice paintings and a couple of good sculptures.”

“Exactly. ‘Very nice’ and ‘good.’ But not ‘fine.’”

“This isn’t New York, after all.”

“You would know.” He opened the door for her. “I’m still wondering about your mysterious past, by the way. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

“I wouldn’t be so naive.” Arden smiled at him, but he thought he saw shadows in her eyes. She’d been a little tense this week, distracted. He wondered what she could be thinking about. And he felt a little hurt that she still wouldn’t confide in him. What did he have to do to prove she could trust him?

Standing in yet another receiving line, Griff congratulated himself on the plan to bring Arden to Sheridan as his fiancée. Once word got around, thanks to Zelda, and once his family had appeared to accept her, he hadn’t had to deal with questions or sympathy. The plan they’d concocted together, on that beach four weeks ago, was working perfectly.

After waiting ten minutes, they finally stood near their hostess, Mrs. Hilary Crumpler.

“Zelda’s great-aunt,” Griff whispered. “Sheridan’s social arbiter.”

Arden frowned at him. “Thanks for the advance warning.”

“I am simply devastated,” Mrs. Crumpler was saying to the older lady in a pink dress in front of Arden. “Thirty minutes before my guests are due to arrive, the pianist calls to say he cannot perform—he has smashed his fingers in the car door. Can you imagine?”

“Oh, my dear.” The woman pressed Mrs. Crumpler’s hand with both her own. “Such a tragedy. What will you do?”

“My husband is trying to set up some sort of recorded music, but…” She gave a disdainful shrug. “Not at all what I wanted.” Then she turned toward Arden. “And how are you— Oh, my stars!”

Her gasp echoed off the marble floors of the museum entry hall. “I can’t believe this.” Somehow, she had grabbed Arden’s hand and now held it tightly. “Arden Burke? The Arden Burke?”

“Yes.” Arden stood as if paralyzed.

Griff stepped closer. “This is my fiancée—”

Their hostess brushed him away with a wave of her fingers. “I know who she is. I just never imagined, when I issued you an invitation—much against my inclinations, I must tell you, because I don’t believe an ex-fiancé has any place at a bride’s celebration of her wedding—as I say, I never could have imagined that your guest would be such a renowned young lady. I am so honored to meet you, my dear. I’ve attended many of your concerts, in New York and Washington and San Francisco.”

Griff’s stomach dropped into the soles of his feet. Concerts? San Francisco?

Mrs. Crumpler made a show of releasing Arden’s hand. “I shouldn’t hold your fingers so tightly, should I? We wouldn’t want to damage these priceless instruments.”

Arden took a long step back. Griff had never seen her so pale, even when she was sick. “Thank you for inviting me—”

“Oh, my dear, thank you for coming.” A flirtatious look came over Mrs. Crumpler’s face. “Can we dare ask you to play for us? What a delight, what an honor that would be, to hear an Arden Burke performance right here in Sheridan.”

Arden shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Oh, please, Miss Burke, it would be the highlight of my entire year.” The old bat actually had tears in her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have my—my violin with me, Mrs. Crumpler.”

Griff’s memory flashed on the violin case he’d seen in the corner of the beach cottage. Then he heard an echo of Arden’s denial that she was a musician.

Mrs. Crumpler sighed deeply. “Ah, such a tragedy. However, I have also heard you play the piano, and we do have one of those. Would you favor us with a few pieces?”

A resigned smile settled on Arden’s face. “Of course.”

The next hour tested Griff’s patience and his temper. He called upon every ounce of good manners he possessed to refrain from biting people’s heads off. He did not want to talk or eat or drink champagne punch. He certainly did not want to answer questions, accept compliments or, God forbid, make explanations.