Great-Aunt Sophia's Lessons for Bombshells

CHAPTER

1

PEBBLE BEACH, CALIFORNIA

"Gracie, you’ve got the luck of the devil."

Grace Cavanaugh rolled down the passenger window of the old Volvo, taking in the fresh sea air and the view of rocky shoreline, the lush green golf course grass, and cypress trees bent by the wind. I had no idea it was so gorgeous here! All I’ve ever seen of Pebble Beach on TV is the golf course.

Catherine’s elfin face was pinched with envy. "I can’t believe you’re getting paid to hang around in a beach house for the summer."

Hey, not just hang around, Grace said, cheerful from her good fortune. I’ll be providing necessary companionship for a lonely old lady.

Catherine snorted.

Admittedly, in a house at the beach. Grace laughed, feeling free and happy for the first time in what felt like years. The June sunlight was warm on her pale arm, a deeply welcome change from the cold gray clouds of Seattle. Three months of California summer stretched before her, gloriously free of teaching undergrads, free of rent, free of grocery bills and roommates, free of everything but working undisturbed on her dissertation and sharing a few undemanding hours of companionship with her almost-ancient-enough-to-be-dead great-aunt. She felt like a kid again, on the last day of school. It’s too good to be true, isn’t it?

Catherine arched a black brow. Better not say that—it means you’ve overlooked something.

"Pshh. Grace waved the thought away. Everything’s going to be fine."

The car glided through a gentle curve of 17-Mile Drive, the scenic loop road that residents of Pebble Beach drove free of charge, but which tourists paid nine bucks to do. At the gated entrance to the drive, the guard had handed them a preprinted pass with Grace’s name and the date for the dashboard.

"What could go wrong, anyway?" Grace asked, the thought taking unwelcome hold. She pulled a lock of red hair to her mouth and started nibbling. When this cushy summer job had appeared so conveniently, she’d felt a surge of joy and relief so powerful that it had washed away her usual caution. Now and then there was a faint buzz of misgiving in the back of her mind, but she’d gleefully smothered it.

The only things I could possibly be worried about are whether she has freezer-burned food dating from the Reagan administration, and how well we’ll get along, she said. I only met Sophia once, when I was ten.

What was she like?

She scared the bejesus out of me.

Yeah?

We were at my uncle’s house for Easter, back in Connecticut where I grew up. It was the snooty side of my family, so I was on edge to begin with. Sophia was visiting from California. She held court in the living room like Queen Elizabeth, sitting stiff and straight in a high-backed chair, with ropes of fake pearls around her neck and half a dozen enormous rings on her bony fingers. Her hair—pure white—was parted on the side in that 1940s style, like Lauren Bacall, with a swoop of waves down one side. I’d never seen hair like that on anyone, or so much costume jewelry, either.

So what happened?

My mom dragged me over to be introduced. Sophia looked me over as if she was evaluating a dog in the show ring. Then she turned to my mother and said, loud enough for the whole room to hear, Grace said, sitting up straight and pitching her voice high and haughty, ‘Darling, that girl needs a training bra. Do you want old men ogling her tits?’

Catherine burst into laughter. She didn’t!

Grace went on in the same haughty voice, ‘I hope to God you’re doing a better job teaching her about birth control than you are about lingerie. Boys are going to be getting into her pants sooner than you think.’

No!

Grace crossed her arms over her chest. "I was ten. I was so embarrassed I ran outside and crawled under a hydrangea."

Catherine chortled.

I was afraid to come out because I thought everyone would be staring at my breasts. They were only anthills, but Sophia was right, they weren’t flat like a child’s anymore. So I stayed under my hydrangea until it was time to go. Ruined my dress. Missed the egg hunt. Cried my eyes out.

I wonder what got into her?

"Too many Bloody Marys, I bet. I refused to go to school until Mom bought me a bra, which did not endear Sophia to my mother. She started referring to Sophia as ‘that crass old tart.’"

"Your mom said that?"

I know, Earth Mother herself. Which tells you how mad she was. She thought Sophia had turned natural comfort with my body into shame.

The serpent in the garden of your innocence.

Pretty much. But I’m twenty-six now, a grown woman getting her Ph.D. in Women’s Studies. Grace assumed a prim expression. I am safe from corrupting influences.

"I’m the only one who’s even tried to corrupt you in the last five years," Catherine muttered, then darted a look of hope and hurt at her.

Grace felt a stab of pain and discomfort. Don’t, Cat, Grace pleaded. A year ago, Catherine had tried to seduce her. Catherine’s hurt at the rejection was a constant threat to their friendship, and Grace wished they could both forget that it had happened. We agreed not to ever speak about that.

An awkward silence fell between them. Ahead, a group of equestrians appeared on a path leading out of the cypress trees. Catherine stopped the car to let them pass, the horses’ hooves clopping across the road. So, she said, her voice brittle, didn’t you say Sophia used to be an actress?

A B actress, for a couple of years in the forties, Grace said, relieved to change the topic. She wasn’t in anything important. I don’t remember what she looks like beyond that hair and jewelry, so I keep picturing her as an aging Bette Davis swilling a martini, cigarette between her fingers, insults dripping like acid off her lips.

The horses now gone, Catherine pressed on the gas. She’s probably got dementia and sits watching Animal Planet all day.

Or maybe not. Hoping to lighten the mood, Grace narrowed her eyes and waggled her fingers at Catherine as if casting an evil spell. Maybe she invited me here so she could mess with my mind. She wants to continue the evil work she started at that Easter party long ago.

Catherine rolled her eyes. You said she was going to have hip surgery this summer and wanted to have family nearby.

It’s a cover story. No, what she really wants is to break my spirit, then pimp me out for porn films. Maybe she’s starting a production company in her garage.

You wish. I bet you’d enjoy it. They came to a stop at an intersection, a sign beside the road offering half a dozen arrows pointing to different destinations. What’s the address?

Grace clenched her jaw and looked down at the Google map in her lap. I think we turn right. Catherine was a loyal and generous friend but as sensitive as a hormonal house cat. It might be hours before she could be cajoled back into a good mood. Catherine had been cheerful and entertaining during the fifteen-hour drive from Seattle, and Grace didn’t know why she had to wait until right before their arrival to get in a snit.

A few minutes later they turned down a driveway that twisted through a grove of cypress and pine, and Grace caught glimpses through the trees of a golden stone house and the brilliant blue sky beyond. A final turn brought them through a pair of stone pillars and out into a courtyard, an Italianate mansion rising like a fortress before them.

Stop! Grace squealed.

Catherine jammed on the brakes, jerking them both against their seat belts.

Grace stared at the looming house. This couldn’t be it. No way this could be it. No one in the family had ever said that Sophia had money, and it was the type of thing they would know.

Grace looked down at her map again. We must have made a wrong turn. Or maybe she gave me the wrong house number. She dug through her backpack looking for her phone. Maybe I should call.

Catherine parked the Volvo next to a vintage Jaguar convertible, its maroon paint and polished chrome gleaming in the sun. The Volvo’s engine gurgled to a stop.

What are you doing? Grace yelped. Don’t stop! Turn around, get us out of here before someone calls security and we’re arrested for trespassing!

Why are you so sure this isn’t her house?

Because! Grace riffled through the papers crammed in her pack until she found the letter from her aunt. "It says right here, ‘beach house.’ This is not a beach house. I see no driftwood garden ornaments, no old floats hanging from a deck, no wind chimes. Therefore, not a beach house."

It’s a house. At the beach. And didn’t you just say that when you met Sophia she was dripping with jewelry?

"I thought it was fake! She was a two-bit actress, not Elizabeth Taylor! Grace stared at the house in front of her, anxiety tightening her nerves. I hate being around rich people."

What? Why?

They look down on me. They know I’m not one of them. That had always been the story with her cousins, the sneering, dismissive branch of the family that saw Grace’s parents as depressingly meaningful hippies, with their academic careers, natural-fiber clothing, and fondness for organic co-op farming.

Catherine snorted. It’s all in your head. Rich people don’t care what you do. They’re too busy with their own screwed-up lives.

Grace shook her head. Everyone silently assessed whether someone was like or unlike oneself, better or worse, higher on the social ladder or lower. She herself did it, an unconscious evaluation that took in subtleties of dress and health, posture and speech, education and culture, or the lack thereof. She relaxed if she was roughly equal, or higher. So did everyone else.

But no one liked being the lowest dog in the pack. Her rich cousins in Connecticut had laughed at her clothes, at her hair, at her going to public school, at her earnest activist parents with their green Subaru and National Public Radio bumper sticker.

Besides, Catherine went on, what have you got to be embarrassed about? You’re brilliant. Bet you no one here is half as smart.

Thanks. But being smart wasn’t the issue.

And you’re beautiful.

I’m thirty pounds overweight. I look like a pig. The Taco Bell burritos she’d had for lunch rolled heavily in her gut, and the waistband of her khaki capris dug into her flesh.

Catherine heaved a sigh tinged with delight. Gracie, if you of all people can still fall prey to the fake marketing-based ideal of beauty in this country, and base your sense of self-worth on it, then there’s no hope for any woman!

"It’s not my self-worth that’s in question, it’s my worth as judged by others, and how they’ll treat me as a result. Which can affect my sense of self-worth over time."

I don’t know whether to keep reassuring you or to kick you in the butt.

Butt kicking is probably quicker, Grace grumbled.

Then consider yourself kicked. Come on, let’s go meet Bette.

Grace took a deep breath and got out. How bad could it be, anyway? Aunt Sophia’s letter had made it sound like she would be a guest more than an employee. She would be a valuable member of the household, introduced to visitors as the brilliant grandniece, admired for the generous spirit that had brought her here to tend to an elderly woman in need.

Or maybe she’d be more like a Brontë heroine: plain, impoverished, and relegated to the shadows, pining for the manly hero who was forever inaccessible.

She’d be pressing a cool cloth to Sophia’s fevered brow, a brooding hero telling her what a brave young woman she was—

The front door opened and a middle-aged brunette poked her head out. Is one of you Grace Cavanaugh?

Grace waved her hand, gathering her courage as she walked over to the woman. Hullo! Yes, that’s me.

The woman had a thick, blocky torso that was not helped by her brown silk blouse and tweed skirt. Her hair was bobbed at her chin, a line of gray showing where her roots had started to grow out. Her mascara had smeared under her small, dark eyes, and her gold-rimmed glasses looked strangely old-fashioned. Her whole outfit looked old-fashioned, as if she was dressed as a no-nonsense secretary from a 1930s film.

The woman looked Grace up and down, then chuckled. Well, of course you are.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? And this is my friend Catherine Ruggieri. She gave me a lift.

The woman spared Catherine a glance and a nod. Darlene, the woman said, holding her hand out to Grace. I’m your aunt’s personal assistant.

I didn’t know she had one. I thought she’d retired a long time ago.

Oh, she doesn’t work anymore, but Sophia won’t sit still until she’s dead.

I hope that’s not anytime soon.

It won’t be. She’s got too much of the ornery bitch in her to die off quickly.

Grace blinked in shock. Uh, er, uh . . .

Darlene raised an eyebrow. I hope you’re not the sensitive type; you won’t last long around here if you are.

Grace squeaked a laugh. Me? Oh no, I’m thick-skinned!

Mm, Darlene grunted, unimpressed. Your aunt is being attended by her doctor at the moment, so get your things and I’ll show you to your room. You can clean up before you meet her.

Sure. Thanks. Um, and would it be all right if Catherine stays the night? She still has to drive down to San Diego, and it’s too much to take on today after how far we’ve come . . . , Grace trailed off as Darlene stared at her without expression.

"It’s not my house," Darlene said into the silence.

I guess I’ll check with Aunt Sophia, then?

I guess you will.

Grace turned and rolled her eyes at Cat, who was smothering a grin. Together they dragged Grace’s possessions out of the back of the Volvo, the car rising on its springs as it was freed of the weight. Loaded down with backpacks, book bags, and suitcases, they could barely stagger to the front door and into the foyer.

Darlene’s brown leather pumps clicked on the checkerboard marble floor as she quickly led the way to a curved stone staircase.

"What is her problem?" Catherine whispered.

Shhh, Grace hissed, she’ll hear you.

So what?

I’ve got to get along with her for the next three months, that’s what! Grace set her old wheeled suitcases on the floor and dragged them, the things as heavy as rocks. A horrid screech came from one of the suitcases, and after a few hard tugs it fell over. Grace looked back in annoyance and saw an empty metal bracket where a wheel had once been. A gray gouge cut across a black marble tile, ending at the dead suitcase.

Grace’s stomach sank to the cold stone floor. Oh, crap.

Darlene stopped and turned, her eyes sharp, then click-clacked back across the floor. She looked at the gouge, then at Grace.

I’m so sorry!

"It’s not my house."

I’ll tell my aunt—

Darlene shook her head, a sharp denial. "This isn’t the type of thing to bother her with. I’ll take care of it," she bit out. She turned on her heel and once again set out for the stairs, moving up them without a backward glance.

Grace’s shoulders slumped. It had taken her only minutes to screw up. She was nervous and embarrassed, and she avoided Catherine’s eyes as tears stung her own, afraid that any sympathy would undo her. She set her jaw against her tears, righted her bag, and hoisted it off the floor.

She was a few steps up the staircase, deep in a silent monologue of self-chastisement, when the sound of quick, solid footsteps behind her penetrated her inner storm cloud. Catherine made a startled noise, and a moment later Grace felt the heavier of her suitcases being pulled from her grip. She instinctively tightened her hold and jerked it back toward her.

Here now, beautiful young women shouldn’t be carrying their own bags, a deep male voice said.

Grace looked down at the broad, strong hand pressed against hers on the handle of the bag, then raised her gaze to meet startling turquoise eyes fringed with black lashes.

I promise I won’t steal it. He winked.

Grace opened her mouth, but all that emerged was a gurgling sound. A flood of heat rose to her cheeks. He was the most ruggedly handsome man she’d ever seen, tall and broad and with a square jaw and heavy brow that had testosterone written all over them. Sex appeal wafted off him like cologne off a hot lightbulb. He steamed with it.

Grace’s grip loosened, and he took the bag, slinging it under one arm as if it were a loaf of bread. He grinned and reached for her other bag, his arm brushing against the small of her back. A shiver stroked over her body, and her breasts tingled. She dropped her eyes.

And then he had her bag and had pulled away. Which way, my darling Darlene? he asked, and with their three suitcases ran easily up the stairs.

The Garden Room. Don’t go barging in on Sophia; she’s with Dr. Andrew.

When do I barge? I’m meek as a maid.

And chickens dance the cha-cha, Darlene said sourly, leading them all down the hall and opening a door.

I taught them myself, the man said. Wonderful sense of rhythm, chickens.

Darlene shook her head, a hint of a smile softening her mouth, and waited in the hall while he deposited the bags inside. Grace followed him in, her book bag bumping Darlene as she passed.

Sorry, Grace muttered.

Darlene exhaled through her nose, her lips tightening again.

The Garden Room was full of light, one wall composed of French doors that showed the tops of cypress trees and the blues of the sky and ocean beyond. Grace was only vaguely aware of yellow-flowered wallpaper and a canopy bed; the man setting down the suitcases sucked up her attention, even as she pretended to look at everything but him.

Excuse me, Catherine said, dropping her own things and disappearing into the bathroom.

When Grace sneaked a peek at the man’s face she found him staring at her, looking puzzled.

Declan O’Brien, he said, and put out his hand.

Grace Cavanaugh. She shook his hand, but he didn’t release it. He sandwiched her hand between both of his, his thumb rubbing the back of it, his fingertips pressing gently against the inside of her wrist. Each stroke of his thumb sent shivers up her arm.

Do I know you? he asked. Where do I know you from?

She pulled her hand out of his grip. Nowhere. I’ve just arrived from Seattle. Sophia is my great-aunt.

She could see comprehension work its way across his face. After a stunned moment he laughed. Well, of course you are!

Yes, of course I am, she repeated, bewildered again. Are you a friend of Aunt Sophia’s?

Financial adviser. And friend, too.

Suspicion snaked into her mind. He seemed too young and good-looking to be a financial adviser, and too charming. She hoped he wasn’t taking advantage of her aunt. He seemed like a salesman/womanizer/fast-talker type. She’d bet he owned a speedboat, or some other noisy, motor-powered, penis substitute.

Catherine emerged from the bathroom and Grace introduced her, noticing how Declan quickly scanned her friend’s lithe, compact body and high, small breasts. Catherine was a natural beauty, her olive complexion smooth, her curly black hair luxuriant in its loose ponytail. Grace always felt like pale boiled haggis in comparison.

How long are you visiting? Declan asked Grace, turning back to her.

All summer. I’ll be watching over my aunt, Grace said, crossing her arms. Yes, that’s right, Slicky McSlickerson, I’ll be watching if you try any schemes on a relative of mine.

Watching over her? He laughed. Is that a joke?

No joke.

Well, I hope you enjoy your time here. You’re very fortunate to have an aunt like Sophia. He nodded to them both and then was gone, taking all the energy in the room with him.

I’ll send someone to fetch you when Sophia is ready to receive guests, Darlene said. Don’t bother her on your own. She pulled the door shut with a slam.

Grace blinked, then went to the bed and plopped down on the edge. She felt like her stuffing had been knocked out. With a groan she collapsed backward and then covered her eyes with her forearm. Fifteen minutes ago she’d been laughing with joy at the prospect of her summer here in Pebble Beach. It really had been too good to be true. Oh God. This is going to be a very long summer.

The bed shifted as Catherine lay down beside her. So you have an ocean-view room in a mansion filled with vipers. It just goes to show: there’s nothing good in this world without the bad to go with it.

Then let me hope Great-aunt Sophia is a perfectly average old woman.

Somehow, Gracie . . . I just don’t think that’s what you’re going to get.

CHAPTER

2

Half an hour later someone knocked on the door, and at Grace’s call of admittance a pretty Hispanic girl came in. She looked about sixteen and was wearing a pale gray maid’s dress, white sneakers, and a white headband to hold back her long glossy hair. Like Darlene, she appeared to be wearing a costume from an old movie. Hi! she said, with an uncertain smile.

Hello!

The girl’s eyes went back and forth between Grace and Catherine, then rested on Grace. You’re the niece?

That’s me. Grace. And this is my friend Catherine.

Lali. Short for Eulalie. She came farther into the room. Can you believe my mother had the nerve to name me that? What, was I, like, born in 1890? I’m so glad you’re going to be spending the summer with us. Last year I was bored out of my mind working here, with no one near my age to talk to all day. No girls, anyway, just the guys working in the garden and on the pool, and occasionally some repairmen. Not that I don’t like seeing guys around without their shirts on, but you can’t exactly gossip with them, you know what I mean? They’re always staring at your boobs. She grinned. Bet you get that a lot.

Er, not really.

Then you just don’t notice. Believe me, they’re looking.

I hope not.

Really? Lali shrugged off the imponderable. Anyway, I’m supposed to tell you that tea is being served on the terrace. Mama made me say that, ‘Tea is being served.’ She rolled her eyes. "As if! It’s as pretentious as these silly uniforms. What is this, the nineteenth century?"

Your mother works here?

"She’s the housekeeper and cook. Has been since before I was, like, even born. Ever since she took that Cordon Bleu course, though, she’s had pretensions. Says she’s a chef, not a cook. C’mon, I’ll show you the way."

They followed her out, barely keeping track of her stream of chatter. Boys, her junior prom a few weeks earlier, more boys, girlfriends, clothes . . . Good Lord, Catherine whispered, is she ever going to shut up?

At least she’s friendly, Grace whispered back. She was grateful for a friendly face, grateful, too, for the distracting monologue. She’d been feeling uneasy for the last half hour, waiting to meet her aunt and imagining how horrible it was going to be. All indications hinted that Sophia had not gotten softer with age.

Lali led them through a plush, pale Louis Quatorze living room and pushed open a French door. Ta-da! The terrace. And tea. Ooh, and Declan. Hi, Declan! she called out the door. They heard the murmur of a response. He’s so cute, Lali said sotto voce to Grace and Cat, and sighed. "He’s way too old for me, but a girl can dream, can’t she? Can you imagine what it would be like to have him be your first? Lali widened her eyes at them. Can you?"

I’m trying not to, Grace said, as visions of a naked Declan rose in her mind.

"At least you’re closer to the right age for him. He calls me ‘jail bait.’ Lali grinned, then giggled. Jail bait. See ya later, ’gators!"

While, crocodile, Grace called after her.

Catherine stared at Grace.

What?

Do not regress to that age. I don’t want to pick you up at the end of the summer and hear you punctuating your sentences with ‘like.’

Like, why would I do that?

Like, hell if I know. Hell if I know why anyone would want that sleazeball Declan to touch them, either.

We don’t know for sure that he’s a sleazeball. They’d spent half their time in the bedroom discussing the possibility. Financial planners had a lousy reputation since the market crash.

"That type always is. Catherine tilted her head, examining Grace. You’re not attracted to him, are you?"

God no!

"He’d treat you