Kitabı oku: «Summer at Willow Lake», sayfa 2

“Nosy, aren’t you?” he remarked, grabbing the shirt and yanking it on over his head. “Of course it’s my last name, genius, or I wouldn’t have a tag that says so on my shirt.”

Lolly forgot to breathe. Oh, cripes. Davis. As in Terry Davis. Oh, cripes on a crutch. “So, is he,” she fumbled, “is Mr. Davis, the caretaker, any relation?”

Connor strode away from her. His ears were a bright, furious red. “Yeah, that’s him. My father. The ‘huge drunk.’”

She bolted into action, following him. “Hey, wait,” she said. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t know … didn’t realize … oh, man. I never should have said that. It’s just some gossip I heard.”

“Yeah, you’re a real comedian.”

“I’m not. I’m horrible. I feel horrible.” She had to run to keep up. She was covered in guilt, like slimy sweat. Worse. You didn’t say stuff about people’s parents. She ought to know. Her parents were pretty awful, too, but she’d be offended if anyone other than her said so, and that was a fact.

But how could she have known? What were the chances? Everyone said Terry Davis didn’t have a family, that no one ever came to see him, so the last thing she was expecting was that he had a son. Still, she should have kept her big fat mouth shut.

Terry Davis had a son. Amazing. In all the years the quiet, melancholy man had worked at the camp, she had never known. All she knew about him was that his father and her granddad had been in the Korean War together. Granddad said they’d met while bombing something called the Han River, and that Mr. Davis had been a hero, and for that reason, he would always have a place at Camp Kioga, no matter what. Even if he was, as she’d so stupidly said, a huge drunk. He’d been a fixture around the place, living alone in one of the staff cottages at the edge of the property. Those cottages provided housing for the cooks, caretakers, groundskeepers, drivers and maintenance crews, all the invisible people who worked around the clock to keep the place looking like a pristine wilderness.

Mr. Davis was a loner. He drove an old work Jeep, and often looked tired, prone to having what she’d heard her grandfather call an “off” day.

“I’m really, really sorry,” she said to Connor.

“Don’t feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t. I’m sorry I said that about your dad. There’s a difference.”

Connor jerked his head, tossing a wave of dark hair out of his eyes. “Good to know.”

“He never said he had a kid.” The minute the words were out, she realized her mistake was getting bigger and bigger, every time she opened her mouth. Her jaw was a backhoe, digging deeper with each movement. “I mean, I never—”

“He didn’t want me coming here for the summer, but my mom got married again and her husband didn’t want a kid around,” Connor said. “Said three’s a crowd in a double-wide.”

Lolly thought about the bruise she’d seen. This time, she remembered to keep her mouth shut.

“A double-wide trailer doesn’t have much space for three people, but I guess you wouldn’t know about that,” he added. “You probably live in a mansion somewhere.”

Two mansions, she thought. One for each parent. Which just proved you could be miserable whether you lived in the 800 block of Fifth Avenue or in a Dumpster. “My parents have been sending me away every summer since I was eight,” she told Connor. “Maybe it was to get me out of the way so they could fight. I never heard them fight.” Perhaps if she had, Lolly reflected, the divorce might not have been such a shock.

“When my mom figured out I could come here for free on account of my dad working here,” Connor explained, “my fate was sealed.”

In her mind, Lolly put together the facts, like a detective. If he was coming here for free, that meant he was a scholarship camper. Each year, under a program her grandparents had founded, needy children were brought to the camp for free. They were kids who had rough family lives and were “at risk” although she wasn’t quite sure what “at risk” meant.

At camp, everybody dressed the same, lived and ate and slept the same. You weren’t supposed to know if the kid beside you was a crack baby or a Saudi prince. Sometimes it was kind of obvious, though. The scholarship kids talked differently and often looked different. Sometimes their bad teeth gave them away. Or their bad attitude. Or sometimes, like with Connor, a kid had this hard, dangerous look about him that warned people he didn’t need a handout. There was nothing needy about him at all, no hint that he was “at risk.” Except the hurt in his eyes when she had called his father a drunk.

“I feel completely cruddy,” she reiterated. “And horrible. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You’re right. You shouldn’t have. Crazy-ass girl, no wonder you go to a shrink.” He stabbed his stick into the ground and sped up. It looked as though he wasn’t going to say another word to her. Ever.

Fine, she thought. She’d blown it, the way she always did with other kids. And he was probably going to make sure the whole world knew it. He’d probably tell everyone she was all freaked out about her parents, in therapy. He would probably say he’d seen her cry. She had made an enemy for life.

She trudged onward, feeling more sweaty and cranky with every step she took. You’re an idiot, Lolly Bellamy, she told herself. Each year, she came to Camp Kioga with ridiculously high expectations. This summer will be different. This summer, I’ll make new friends, learn a sport, live my own life, just for one single season.

But once things got under way, reality set in. Simply leaving the city didn’t mean leaving discontent behind. It came along with her, like a shadow, expanding and contracting with the light.

She and Connor Davis were the last to reach the summit. Everyone else was gathered around the fire pit. There was no fire because it was plenty hot and sunny. The campers sat on huge old logs. Some of the logs had been there so long they had seats worn into them.

The head counselors of Eagle Lodge this year were Rourke McKnight and Gabby Spaulding, who fit the Kioga mold perfectly. They were cute and perky. Each had attended Kioga as a camper. Now in college, they embodied what Nana and Granddad called the Kioga “esprit de corps.” They knew the camp rules, CPR, several key Algonquin words and the tunes of every campfire song known to man. They understood how to talk a camper out of feeling homesick. Among the Fledglings especially, homesickness was a dreaded epidemic.

In the olden days, homesickness wasn’t a problem because the cabins had been rented by families. That was how camp used to work. As soon as the school year ended, the moms and kids would move into the bungalows, and each weekend, the dads would come to join them, taking the train up from the city. That was where the term “bungalow colony” came from. A colony was a group of bungalows set close together. Often, Nana had told her, the same families returned year after year. They became close friends with the other camp families, even though they never got to see each other except in the summer, and they looked forward to camp all year.

Nana had pictures of the olden days, and they looked like happy times, frozen in black-and-white photographs with deckled edges, preserved in the black-paged camp albums that went back to the Beginning of Time. The dads smoked pipes and drank highballs and leaned on their tennis racquets. Nearby were the moms in their kerchiefs and middy blouses, sunning themselves in bent-willow lawn chairs while the kids all played together.

Lolly wished life could really be like that. Nowadays, of course, it couldn’t. Women had careers and a bunch of them didn’t have husbands.

So now the bungalows housed the counselors—scrubbed, enthusiastic college kids by day, party animals by night. Last summer, Lolly and three of her cousins, Ceci, Frankie and Dare, had sneaked off after lights-out and spied on the counselors. First there was the drinking. Then the dancing. A bunch of couples started making out, all over the place—on the porches, in the lawn chairs, even right in the middle of the dance floor. Ceci, who was the eldest of the cousins, had let loose with a fluttery sigh and whispered, “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to be a counselor.”

“Yuck,” Lolly and the younger cousins had said in unison, and averted their eyes.

Now it was a year later, and Lolly seemed to understand that fluttery sigh a little better. A kind of electricity danced in the air between Rourke and Gabby. It was hard to explain to herself but easy to recognize. She could totally picture them together in the staff area, dancing and flirting and making out.

As soon as a head count verified all were present, Rourke took out a guitar (there was always a guitar) and they sang songs. Lolly was amazed by Connor’s voice. Most of the boys mumbled the words and sang off-key, but not Connor. He belted out “We Are the World,” not really showing off, but singing with the matter-of-fact self-confidence of a pop star. When some of the kids stared at him, he would just shrug and keep singing.

A few of the girls gaped openly, slack-jawed. Okay, so it wasn’t Lolly’s imagination. He was as cute as she thought he was. Too bad he was such a jerk. Too bad she’d blown it with him.

Then it was time for the introductions, which were as boring as she’d feared. Each partner was supposed to stand up and offer three facts about the person with whom they hiked up the mountain, the idea being that strangers who shared an adventure could wind up friends.

Cripes, she thought, she and Connor hadn’t bothered to learn anything about each other except that they were enemies. She didn’t know where he lived except in something he called a double-wide, if he had any brothers and sisters, what his favorite flavor of ice cream was.

There were no surprises in this group. Everybody went to the most exclusive schools on the planet: Exeter, Sidwell Friends, the Dalton School, TASIS in Lugano, Switzerland. Everybody had a horse or a yacht or a house in the Hamptons.

Big fat hairy deal, she thought. If the most interesting thing about a kid was what school he went to, then he must be a pretty boring person. It was slightly interesting that the kid named Tarik attended a Muslim school and that a girl called Stormy was home-schooled by her parents, who were circus performers, but other than that, totally yawnworthy.

Nearly all of the other factoids were equally tedious or boastful, sometimes both. One kid’s father was a publicist who had A-list celebrities on speed dial. Another girl had her diving certification. People came from families that won prizes—Pulitzer, Oscar, Clio. The kids flashed these credentials as if they were scouting badges, undoubtedly making stuff up in order to top each other.

Listening to everyone, Lolly came to a conclusion—a lie worked better than the truth.

Then it was her turn. She stood up, and she and Connor glared at each other through narrowed eyes, silent warnings leaping between them. He had more than enough information to humiliate her if he wanted. That was the thing about telling somebody something private and true. It was like handing him a gun and waiting to see if he’d pull the trigger. She had no idea what he would tell the group. All she knew was that she’d given him plenty of ammo to use against her.

She went first. She took a deep breath and started speaking even before she knew what she was going to say.

“This is Connor, and it’s his first time at Camp Kioga. He …” She thought about what she knew. He was here on scholarship and his father drank. His mother had just remarried and his stepfather was mean, which was why he had to go away for the summer. Lolly knew that with a few words, she could turn the gun on him. She could probably turn him into a kid nobody would want to be friends with.

She caught his eye and knew he was thinking the same thing about her.

“He puts ketchup on everything he eats, even at breakfast,” she said. “His favorite group is Talking Heads. And he always wins at one-on-one.” She was guessing at that last bit, based on the fact that he was so tall, and he wore Chuck Taylor high-tops. And he seemed fast and had big hands. She was guessing at everything, as a matter of fact, but he didn’t contradict her.

Then it was Connor’s turn. “This is Lolly,” he said, her name curling from his lips like an insult.

Moment of truth, she thought, adjusting her glasses. He could ruin her. She’d shown too much of herself on the way up the mountain. He cleared his throat, tossed his hair out of his eyes, assumed a defiant slouch. His gaze slid over her—knowing, contemptuous—and he cleared his throat. The other campers, who had been restless through most of the exercise, settled down. There was no denying that the kid had presence, commanding attention like a scary teacher, or an actor in a play.

I hate camp, she thought with a fierce passion that made her face burn. I hate it, and I hate this boy, and he’s about to destroy me.

Connor cleared his throat again, his gaze sweeping the group of kids.

“She likes to read books, she’s really good at playing piano and she wants to get better at swimming.”

They sat back down and didn’t look at each other again—except once. And when their eyes met, she was surprised to see that they were both almost smiling.

All right, she conceded, so he hadn’t decided to make her a human sacrifice this time, or use her for target practice. She was torn between liking this kid and resenting him. One thing Lolly was sure of. She did hate summer camp, and she didn’t even care if it belonged to her grandparents. She was never coming back here again for as long as she lived. Ever.

INVITATION

THE HONOR OF YOUR PRESENCE IS

REQUESTED

BY JANE AND CHARLES BELLAMY

ON THE OCCASION OF OUR

50TH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY.

YOU’VE SHARED IN OUR LIVES WITH

YOUR FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE.

NOW WE INVITE YOU TO JOIN US IN

CELEBRATING

OUR GOLDEN ANNIVERSARY.

SATURDAY, THE 26TH OF AUGUST, 2006.

CAMP KIOGA, RR #47, AVALON,

ULSTER COUNTY, NEW YORK.

RUSTIC ACCOMMODATIONS PROVIDED.

Two

Olivia Bellamy set down the engraved invitation and smiled across the table at her grandmother. “What a lovely idea,” she said. “Congratulations to you and Granddad.”

Nana slowly rotated the tiered array of tiny sandwiches and cakes. Once a month no matter what else was going on in their lives, grandmother and granddaughter met for tea at Astor Court in the Saint Regis Hotel in midtown. They had been doing it for years, ever since Olivia was a pudgy, sullen twelve-year-old in need of attention. Even now, there was something soothing about stepping into the Beaux Arts luxury of elegant furnishings, potted palms and the discreet murmur of harp music.

Nana settled on a cucumber slice garnished with a floret of salmon mousse. “Thank you. The anniversary is three months away, but I’m already getting excited.”

“Why Camp Kioga?” Olivia asked, fiddling with the tea strainer. She hadn’t been there since her last summer before college. By choice, she had put all the drama and angst behind her.

“Camp Kioga is a special place to me and Charles.” Next, Nana sampled a tiny finger sandwich spread with truffle butter. “It’s the place where we first met, and we were married there, under the gazebo, on Spruce Island in the middle of Willow Lake.”

“You’re kidding. I never knew that. Why didn’t I know that?”

“Trust me, what you don’t know about this family could fill volumes. Charles and I were a regular Romeo and Juliet.”

“You never told me this story. Nana, what’s up?”

“Nothing’s up. Most young people don’t give a fig about how their grandparents met and married. Nor should they.”

“I’m giving a fig right now,” Olivia said. “Spill.”

“It was all so long ago, and seems so trivial now. You see, my parents—the Gordons—and the Bellamys came from two different worlds. I grew up in Avalon, never even saw the city until after I was married. Your granddad’s parents even threatened to boycott the wedding. They were determined that their only son would marry well. In those days, that meant somebody with social status. Not some Catskills girl from a mountain camp.”

Olivia was startled by the flicker of hurt she recognized in her grandmother’s eyes. Some wounds, it seemed, never quite healed. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Nana made a visible effort to shake off her mood. “There was a lot of class consciousness back then.”

“Still is,” Olivia said softly.

Nana’s eyebrows shot up, and Olivia knew she’d better change the subject, or she’d be trapped into explaining what she meant by that. She looked expectantly at the teapot. “Is it ready?”

They always split a large pot of Lady Grey, which carried a whisper of lavender along with the bergamot. Olivia’s grandmother nodded and poured. “Anyway,” Nana said, “you have more important things than my ancient history to think about.” Behind her chic black-and-pink glasses, her eyes sparkled and for a moment she looked decades younger. “It’s a grand story, though. I’m sure you’ll hear it this summer. We hope everyone will come for a nice long stay. Charles and I are going to renew our vows at the gazebo, in the exact spot where we first spoke them. We’re going to reenact the wedding as much as we’re able.”

“Oh, Nana. That’s a … wonderful notion.” Deep down, Olivia was cringing. She was sure the idyllic picture in her grandmother’s mind was a far cry from the reality. The camp had ceased operating nine years before and had lain fallow ever since, with minimal maintenance performed by a skeleton crew that mowed the grounds and made sure the buildings were still standing. Some of the Bellamy cousins and other relatives used the place for reunions or vacations, but Olivia suspected the camp had gone to ruin. Her grandparents were sure to be disappointed in the setting for their golden anniversary.

“You know,” Olivia said, determined to be diplomatic, “some of your friends are getting on in years. As I recall, the camp is not wheelchair accessible. People would be more likely to attend if you had the affair at the Waldorf-Astoria or maybe right here at the Saint Regis.”

Jane sipped her tea. “Charles and I discussed it, and decided to do this for us. Much as we love all our friends and family, our golden anniversary is going to be the affair we want. That’s what our wedding was, and that’s what we’ll do fifty years later. We’ve chosen Camp Kioga. It’s a way to celebrate what we’ve been in the past and what we hope to be for the rest of our lives—a happy couple.” Her cup rattled, just slightly, as she set it down in its saucer. “It will be our farewell to the camp.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The golden anniversary celebration will be our last event at Camp Kioga. Afterward, we’ll need to decide what to do about the property.”

Olivia frowned. “Nana? Did I just hear that right?”

“You did. It’s time. We’ve got to come up with a plan for the property. It’s a hundred acres of prime real estate, and it has been privately owned by my family since 1932. Our hope is that we can keep it in the family for our children.” She looked pointedly at Olivia. “Or our grandchildren. Nothing’s sure in this life, but we hope the property won’t be sold to a developer who will put up roads and parking lots and rows of those dreadful tract mansions.”

Olivia didn’t know why the prospect of her grandparents letting go of the property made her feel wistful. She didn’t even like the place. She liked the idea of the camp. Nana’s father had received the property during the Great Depression as payment for a debt, and had built the compound himself, naming it Kioga, which he thought was an Algonquin word for “tranquillity,” but which he later learned was meaningless. After the camp closed in 1997, none of the Bellamy offspring was inclined to take it on.

Her grandmother helped herself to a cornet filled with chocolate ganache. “We’ll discuss it after the anniversary celebration. Best to get everything settled so no one will have to make a decision about that after we’re gone.”

“I hate it when you talk like that. You’re sixty-eight years old, and you just did a senior triathlon—”

“Which I never would have finished if you hadn’t trained with me.” Jane patted her hand, then looked pensive. “So many important moments of my life took place there. The camp floated my family through the Great Depression, just barely. After Charles and I married and took over, the place became a part of who we are.”

So typical of Nana, Olivia reflected. She always looked for ways to hold on to things, even when she would be better off letting go.

“That’s all in the future.” Nana’s manner turned brisk as she took out some pages she’d obviously printed off from Olivia’s Web site. “We have business to discuss. I want you to prepare the property for our gala celebration.”

Olivia let out a short laugh. “I can’t do that, Nana.”

“Nonsense. It says right here you provide expert research, design and services to stage and enhance real estate for optimum market presence.”

“All that means is that I’m a house fluffer,” Olivia said. Some of the designers in her field objected to the expression, which definitely lacked a certain gravitas. They preferred house stager or property enhancer. Fluffer sounded … well, fluffy.

The expression was fairly descriptive of what the job entailed. In the service of people seeking to display their property at its best, Olivia was a master of illusion. An artist of deception. Making a property look irresistible was usually a simple, low-cost process, incorporating elements the seller already owned, but combining them in different ways.

She loved her job and did it well, and her reputation was growing accordingly. In some parts of Manhattan, agents would not even consider listing a property until it had been fluffed by Olivia Bellamy of Transformations. The job was not without its challenges, though. Since she’d launched her own firm, Olivia had learned that there was a lot more to property staging than weeding the flower beds, painting everything white and turning on the bread-making machine.

Still, a project the size of Kioga was not in the realm of her expertise.

“You’re talking about a hundred acres of wilderness, a hundred fifty miles from here. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“I would.” Jane pushed an old-fashioned, leather-bound photo album across the table to her. “Everyone has a notion of summer camp in their mind, whether or not they even went to camp. All you have to do is create that illusion once again. Here are some pictures taken through the years to get you started.”

The photos were, for the most part, classic views of rustic cabins clustered on the shores of a lake in a pristine forest. Olivia had to admit that there was something both peaceful and evocative about the place. Nana was right about the illusion—or maybe it was a delusion. Olivia had had a terrible time at summer camp. Yet somewhere in the back of her mind, there lived an idealized summer place, free of taunting children, sunburns and mosquitoes.

Her imagination kicked in, as it always did when she viewed a property. Despite her reluctance, she almost immediately started seeing ways to dress it up.

Stop it, she told herself.

“I don’t exactly have the best memories of my summers there,” she reminded her grandmother.

“I know, dear. But this summer could be your opportunity to exorcize those demons. Create new memories.” Interesting. Olivia hadn’t realized her grandmother had known about her suffering. Why didn’t you stop it? she wanted to ask.

“This project could take the entire summer. I’m not sure I want to be away that long.”

Nana lifted an eyebrow, high over the rim of her glasses. “Why?”

Olivia couldn’t keep it in any longer. Her excitement spilled out, along with her next words. “Because I think I have a reason to stay.”

“That reason being a Brad Pitt look-alike with a Harvard law degree?”

Deep breath, Olivia, she cautioned herself. You’ve been here before, and you’ve been disappointed. Take it easy. She couldn’t, of course. She nearly came out of her seat as she said, “I think Rand Whitney is going to ask me to marry him.”

Nana took off her glasses and set them on the table. “Oh, my dear, darling Olivia.” She used her napkin to dab her eyes.

Olivia was glad she had decided to tell Nana. There were some in her family who would react with more skepticism. Some—her mother being one of these—would be quick to remind her that at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, Olivia already had two failed engagements under her belt.

As if she could ever forget.

She pushed aside the thought and added, “He’s selling his apartment downtown. It’s my latest project, in fact. I need to check on the finishing touches this afternoon because it’s going on the market tomorrow. When he gets home from the airport, I’ll be there, waiting for him. He’s been in L.A. all week at the West Coast office of his firm. He said when he gets back, he’s going to ask me.” “To marry him.”

“I assume so.” Olivia felt the slightest flicker of unease. He hadn’t actually said that.

“So selling his place is a good thing.”

Olivia felt herself smiling all over. “He’s looking at properties on Long Island.”

“Oh, my. The man is ready to settle down.”

Olivia’s grin widened. “So you’ll understand … I need to think about your offer.”

“Certainly, dear.” She signaled for the check with a familiar, regal gesture that never failed to bring a white-gloved waiter scurrying. “I hope it all turns out perfectly for you.”

As she hurried up the stairs to Rand’s apartment near Gramercy Park, Olivia felt like the luckiest girl in the world. Here she was, enjoying the rare privilege of setting the scene for her own engagement, right down to the last detail. When Randall Whitney asked her to marry him, he would do so in a place created by her own imagination and hard work. So often in these situations, it was the job of the gentleman to create the proper ambience, and so often, he failed.

Not this time, Olivia thought, enjoying a delicious tingle of excitement. This time, everything would be just right.

Unlike the other times. With Pierce, the engagement had been doomed from the start by something Olivia refused to acknowledge until she discovered him taking a shower with another girl. With Richard, the moment of humiliation had come when she’d caught him using her ATM card to steal from her. Two strikes had left her doubting her own judgment … until Rand. This time, she wouldn’t get it wrong.

She opened the front door, turned and pictured the way the apartment would look through Rand’s eyes. Perfect, that’s how, she thought. The place was the epitome of contemporary luxury, clean but not fussed over (even though she had fussed over every little thing for days), tasteful but not decorated (even though she had planned it obsessively).

In the taxi ride from midtown, Olivia had gone over and over the scenario in her mind until she was nearly giddy with anticipation. In less than an hour, Rand would come through the door and step into this ideal setting. He probably wouldn’t go down on one knee; that wasn’t his style. Instead, he’d wear that raffish, have-I-got-a-deal-for-you grin as he reached into his jacket for the gleaming black box with the emerald-shaped logo of Harry Winston. Rand was a Whitney, after all. There were perks.

Forcing herself to move with attractive dignity, she paused at the sideboard and checked the angle of the champagne bottle in the ice bucket. The label didn’t need to be turned all the way out. Any practiced eye could pick out the mark of Dom Perignon, just from the silhouette.

She spared only a glance—half a glance—into the mirror above the sideboard, which was actually a tansu chest she’d rented from a furniture warehouse. Mirrors were important in her line of work, not for studying one’s reflection, but for creating light and dimension and ambience in a room, and for checking—oh so briefly—one’s teeth for lipstick. Anything more than that was a waste of time.

Then she saw it—a flicker of movement in the reflection. Even as a scream erupted from her, she grabbed the Dom Perignon by the neck of the bottle and swung around, ready to do battle.

“I always did want to split a bottle of bubbly with you, darling,” said Freddy Delgado, “but maybe you should let me do the honors.”

Her best friend, incongruously good-looking even in a borrowed apron and holding a feather duster, strode across the room and took the bottle from her.

She snatched it back and shoved it into the ice bucket. “What are you doing here?”

“Just finishing up. I got a key from your office and came right over.”

Her “office” was a corner of the sitting room in her apartment, which was even farther downtown. Freddy had his own keys to her place, but this was the first time he’d abused the privilege. He removed the apron. Underneath, he was wearing cargo pants, Wolverine workboots and a tight Spamalot T-shirt. His stylishly cut hair was tipped with white-blond highlights. Freddy was a theater-set designer and aspiring actor. He was also single, well-spoken, and he dressed with exquisite taste. All reasons to suppose he was gay. But he wasn’t. Just lonely.

“I get it. You’ve lost your job again.” She grabbed a cloth from his back pocket and dried the water spots from the spilled ice.

“How did you guess?”

“You’re working for me. You only work for me when there’s no better gig around.” Scanning the apartment, she couldn’t help but notice he’d done a stellar job putting the finishing details on her design work. He always did. She wondered if their friendship would change after she got married. Rand had never liked Freddy, and the feeling was mutual. She hated it that loyalty to one felt like betrayal to the other.