Read Online 666 Park Avenue by Gabriella Pierce - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gabriella Pierce
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always struck her as so self-assured, so comfortable in his own skin. He had truly led a charmed life.
And now I’ll have one, too, she thought, cutting into the tender froth. And a family, and a home, and, it sounds like, a job just waiting for me to come and accept it.
Things were most definitely looking up.
Chapter Eleven
“H as L ynne D oran arrived yet? ” J ane asked 21 C lub’s host ess. The restaurant was old and dark, and very English in feel. A bizarre ceramic jockey, similar to the ones lining the fence outside, stared forebodingly at Jane as if it were warning her away.
That’s silly, Jane told herself—and the jockey—firmly. Lynne’s been niceness itself. But on the short ride down to 52nd Street, her high from Pamela’s unexpected phone call had pretty much evaporated as she had begun to catalog the myriad ways that she could screw up a one-on-one lunch—accidentally answering an unspoken question, knocking the next table over, causing a freak power outage. Nothing like starting off the mother-in-law–daughter-in-law relationship with an actual bang. And that wasn’t even counting all of the nonmagical ways that she could screw things up: mentioning exes, bringing up religion, raving about the wrong restaurants, designers, celebrities, politicians. Asking about Annette.
“Follow me please,” the petite brunette hostess told Jane, tucking a menu under her arm and escorting her to a prime table right by the window. Lynne’s brown hair was loose around her shoulders as it had been the night before, but she had traded her cashmere ensemble for a crisp pink button-down. Her taupe shoes and clutch coordinated in an understated way, and Jane was fairly sure that they were both Ferragamo. Her sapphire earrings were the size of walnuts.
“Oh good, you’re here, Jane,” Mrs. Doran said brightly, folding her hands lightly on her lap. Beside her was a stack of magazines— Martha Stewart Weddings , Brides , New York magazine’s wedding issue, and even the Monique Lhuillier lookbook.
Alarm bells went off in Jane’s head and she felt a sudden impulse to beg the hostess to rescue her, but the girl had already retreated back to her post. With no escape plan in sight, Jane sank into the wooden chair opposite Lynne, trying not to notice that it looked as though a wedding planner had exploded on the tablecloth.
Lynne’s perfectly manicured nails beckoned to a white-clad waiter. “We’ll both take Caesar salads and the sole”—she glanced thoughtfully at Jane’s hips for the briefest moment—“grilled, I think. Dressing on the side. Everything on the side. Thank you!”
The waiter disappeared almost before Jane could open her mouth, but it stayed open in shock all the same.
“You do like sole, don’t you, dear?” Lynne’s eyes were dark, like Malcolm’s, but the color was somehow less warm, less liquid. “It’s something of a specialty here.”
“Sole is fine, thank you,” Jane replied dutifully. Eyeing the magazines, she guessed that there would be plenty of battles ahead to choose from—grilled fish wouldn’t even make the top twenty.
“How did you sleep, dear?” Lynne went on, barely acknowledging the response. “Are you settling in all right?”
“I think so,” Jane offered timidly. “Thanks again for welcoming me into your home.”
“Malcolm told me about your grandmother.” Lynne patted Jane’s hand sympathetically, giving her a conversation whiplash. “Such a shame. How are you holding up?”
“Oh, fine thanks.” Mrs. Doran’s hand lingered on Jane’s fingers for the briefest of moments. Jane stiffened, bracing herself for a flash of Lynne’s thoughts at the contact, but none came. Thank God. A teeny part of her dared to dream that she’d left her magic behind when she’d left France. It could be an Old World European thing. Why not?
“Have you made any plans for the day?” Lynne asked solicitously, releasing her hand. A woman in hot-pink wedged boots
And now I’ll have one, too, she thought, cutting into the tender froth. And a family, and a home, and, it sounds like, a job just waiting for me to come and accept it.
Things were most definitely looking up.
Chapter Eleven
“H as L ynne D oran arrived yet? ” J ane asked 21 C lub’s host ess. The restaurant was old and dark, and very English in feel. A bizarre ceramic jockey, similar to the ones lining the fence outside, stared forebodingly at Jane as if it were warning her away.
That’s silly, Jane told herself—and the jockey—firmly. Lynne’s been niceness itself. But on the short ride down to 52nd Street, her high from Pamela’s unexpected phone call had pretty much evaporated as she had begun to catalog the myriad ways that she could screw up a one-on-one lunch—accidentally answering an unspoken question, knocking the next table over, causing a freak power outage. Nothing like starting off the mother-in-law–daughter-in-law relationship with an actual bang. And that wasn’t even counting all of the nonmagical ways that she could screw things up: mentioning exes, bringing up religion, raving about the wrong restaurants, designers, celebrities, politicians. Asking about Annette.
“Follow me please,” the petite brunette hostess told Jane, tucking a menu under her arm and escorting her to a prime table right by the window. Lynne’s brown hair was loose around her shoulders as it had been the night before, but she had traded her cashmere ensemble for a crisp pink button-down. Her taupe shoes and clutch coordinated in an understated way, and Jane was fairly sure that they were both Ferragamo. Her sapphire earrings were the size of walnuts.
“Oh good, you’re here, Jane,” Mrs. Doran said brightly, folding her hands lightly on her lap. Beside her was a stack of magazines— Martha Stewart Weddings , Brides , New York magazine’s wedding issue, and even the Monique Lhuillier lookbook.
Alarm bells went off in Jane’s head and she felt a sudden impulse to beg the hostess to rescue her, but the girl had already retreated back to her post. With no escape plan in sight, Jane sank into the wooden chair opposite Lynne, trying not to notice that it looked as though a wedding planner had exploded on the tablecloth.
Lynne’s perfectly manicured nails beckoned to a white-clad waiter. “We’ll both take Caesar salads and the sole”—she glanced thoughtfully at Jane’s hips for the briefest moment—“grilled, I think. Dressing on the side. Everything on the side. Thank you!”
The waiter disappeared almost before Jane could open her mouth, but it stayed open in shock all the same.
“You do like sole, don’t you, dear?” Lynne’s eyes were dark, like Malcolm’s, but the color was somehow less warm, less liquid. “It’s something of a specialty here.”
“Sole is fine, thank you,” Jane replied dutifully. Eyeing the magazines, she guessed that there would be plenty of battles ahead to choose from—grilled fish wouldn’t even make the top twenty.
“How did you sleep, dear?” Lynne went on, barely acknowledging the response. “Are you settling in all right?”
“I think so,” Jane offered timidly. “Thanks again for welcoming me into your home.”
“Malcolm told me about your grandmother.” Lynne patted Jane’s hand sympathetically, giving her a conversation whiplash. “Such a shame. How are you holding up?”
“Oh, fine thanks.” Mrs. Doran’s hand lingered on Jane’s fingers for the briefest of moments. Jane stiffened, bracing herself for a flash of Lynne’s thoughts at the contact, but none came. Thank God. A teeny part of her dared to dream that she’d left her magic behind when she’d left France. It could be an Old World European thing. Why not?
“Have you made any plans for the day?” Lynne asked solicitously, releasing her hand. A woman in hot-pink wedged boots
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