Showdown

  Grabbing a Tesco’s Finest mince pie from the open packet on the table, she booted the cat off the armchair and sat down, demolishing half the pie with one giant bite.

  “Absolutely not.” Linda was resolute, though the truth was, she felt none too chipper herself. “He’d see through it in an instant. Everyone would think you hadn’t come because you don’t like Rachel.”

  “Well, I don’t like her,” said Milly reasonably.

  “All the more reason to make the effort,” said Jasper, who’d just shuffled in in one of Cecil’s old dressing gowns, which totally swamped him. He’d lost a shocking amount of weight in prison. “Rachel may have wronged us. But this is our chance to forgive, to turn the other cheek. Love and mercy are the great levelers, you know.”

  “Exactly,” said Linda, who had no idea what he was talking about.

  Milly caught Zac’s eye across the table and tried not to giggle. St. Jasper of Her Majesty’s Prisons was going to take a little getting used to.

  Pulling into the drive at Mittlingsford that evening was a surreal experience. The manor was lit up with candles, just as it had been the night of the summer party when Cecil had had his first stroke, and Rachel had hijacked her way into the drama at the hospital. If anything, the house looked even more beautiful tonight. A light dusting of afternoon snow lent it a magical, Hansel and Gretel feel, and the faint snow-muffled boom of church bells in the village added to the general air of Christmas spirit.

  “I’m really glad you’re here,” said Milly, squeezing Zac’s hand for moral support as they walked up to the porch.

  He squeezed back. “Me too.”

  It was odd, given the very public, vocal nature of the battle between them in the press, that Milly hadn’t actually seen Rachel in America at all. Everything she knew about her career and life—her early success in the Belmont, her high-profile romance with TV heartthrob Mickey Malone after the breakup with Jasper, and her much-photographed weight gain when that relationship collapsed—she’d gleaned from the gossip mags. The same rags in which Milly herself had, until recently, been such a regular fixture.

  The only reason Rachel was back in England now, apparently, was to try to shed the excess pounds out of the glare of the media spotlight. Clearly, she still had hopes of returning to the States and recapturing her early success there, although she’d be doing it with another owner. Randy Kravitz had fired her the moment her weight shot up, a turn of events that had pleased Milly enormously when she heard about it, notwithstanding Jasper’s wise words on mercy and forgiveness.

  The thought of seeing her archrival in the flesh tonight probably ought to have made her nervous. A few months ago, it would have. But a combination of Zac, being out of the spotlight herself, and the joy of being reunited with Radar and the others had restored a lot of Milly’s natural confidence. Now what she mostly felt was curiosity. Try as she might, she couldn’t help but hope that Rachel really did look as awful as she had in last month’s Star.

  She wasn’t disappointed.

  “Fucking hell,” whistled Zac under his breath when he saw her. “Rosie O’Donnell’s gone blond and been eaten by a marshmallow!”

  Rachel, advancing toward them in a billowing pink-taffeta dress, did indeed look frightful, not to mention the size of a barge. Her hair was still thick and lustrous, and her breasts, now even more mammoth than before, were very much front and center, wobbling above her basque bodice like two enormous blancmanges on a plate. The kindest word one could use to describe the overall effect was “matronly.” But Milly wasn’t feeling kind.

  “Rachel.” She smiled thinly. “My goodness. You have changed.”

  “I might have gone up a couple of dress sizes,” Rachel shot back defensively. “But at least my family aren’t the laughingstock of the county.” The jibe was specifically intended for Linda, who was standing only a few feet away, making conversation with a gaggle of racing wives, and who duly blushed scarlet when she overheard it.

  “Quite frankly, I’m surprised you decided to show your faces this year, what with Jasper in prison and your—what should one call it—fall from grace? I’m sure Mummy only invited you out of pity. But I suppose you had nowhere else to go?”

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” said Zac, stepping forward before Milly could jump on her and rip her throat out. “Zac Spiro. Absolutely charmed to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  His delivery was so deadpan that for a minute Rachel didn’t know how to react. She was even more thrown when, moments later, Jasper appeared at his side.

  “J.?” she stammered. “What are you . . . ? I mean, shouldn’t you be . . .”

  “Hullo, Rachel.” Leaning forward with a strange grimace on his face (he’d actually spent long hours in front of the mirror in his cell perfecting what he thought of as his “serene and beatific” look, which in fact made him look like he was having trouble passing wind), he kissed her on both cheeks.

  “They gave me early parole for good behavior,” he explained. “But how are you, Rachel? Are you happy?”

  It was very disconcerting. The way he took both her hands in his and looked deep into her eyes when he spoke. Not like a lover. More like a psychiatrist. As if she were the one whose life needed sorting out.

  “I’m perfectly happy, thank you, Jasper,” she said primly.

  “I hope so,” he said, giving her the trapped-wind look again. “Because I’d hate for you to think you weren’t forgiven. We all forgive you for what happened.” He turned to Milly. “Don’t we?”

  Milly was about to reply in no uncertain terms that she most certainly did not forgive her, and never would as long as she had breath in her body. But Rachel was too quick for her, exploding with righteous indignation.

  “You?” she spluttered. “You forgive me?”

  “I do,” said Jasper. Self-absorbed as ever, he seemed utterly oblivious to her outrage and actually tried to pull her into a hug before she wrenched herself free. “I’ve learned to let go of my anger, Rachel. You should try it sometime. Maybe then you wouldn’t have to turn to food for comfort. You could turn to the Lord.”

  Milly didn’t think she’d ever loved her brother till that moment. The look on Rachel’s face was almost worth losing Newells for.

  “Before you turn to the Lord, though, Rachel,” she said gleefully, “do fill us in on the latest with Mickey. I hear he’s dating that Czech gymnast now, Paulina whatever her name is. Are you two still in touch?”

  “No,” said Rachel icily. “We’re not. And contrary to what you may have read, it was me who dumped Mickey, not the other way around.”

  “Ah, there you are.” Rachel’s father, all smiles as usual, swooped down on his daughter like a genial hawk. “And Milly!” He beamed, including her in his bonhomie. “How are you, my dear? It’s so nice to see the two of you burying the hatchet at last.”

  “Hello, Michael,” Milly said, kissing him with a warmth that she knew would infuriate Rachel still further. “Merry Christmas.”

  “I think your ma wants a word,” he said. They all turned to look at Linda, who was indeed gesturing frantically in a sort of strange beckoning motion to Milly and Zac. Jasper had already wandered off, no doubt to spread the Good News to the rest of the Delaneys’ godless guests.

  “What were you doing?” Linda hissed theatrically, when Milly finally went over. “You promised me you wouldn’t cause a scene with Rachel.”

  “I didn’t!” said Milly indignantly, turning to Zac to back her up. “I hardly said anything. Jasper was the one who got her started.”

  “Well.” Linda sounded far from mollified. “In any case, there’s something else.” Reaching into her gold Escada evening bag, she pulled out a stiff white envelope. “It came for you yesterday and I quite forgot to give it to you. I think”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“I think it might be from Bobby.”

  Milly felt her earlier sangfroid melting like spring snow and an unpleasant prickling sensation spreading all over
her skin like measles. The postmark was indeed from Solvang.

  “You know, it’s easier to find out who it’s from if you actually open it,” said Zac gently, watching her turning the envelope over and over in her shaking hands.

  Tearing back the flap, Milly did just that, pulling out a formal printed invitation.

  “It’s from Amy,” she said, after a long pause. “She and Dylan are getting married. The wedding’s at Highwood, on New Year’s Eve.”

  “Well, that’s good news. Isn’t it?” said Zac. “I mean, you like Dylan, right?”

  “Oh yes, yes of course. He’s lovely,” Milly said absently. Her mind was obviously already somewhere else, and if she was happy, she didn’t look it.

  “You’ll need to get your skates on and book a flight, though,” said Linda. “Lots of people’ll be heading off to the sun for New Year. I expect it could be pretty booked up already.”

  “Oh, I’m not going,” said Milly, attempting a nonchalant laugh. “I couldn’t possibly.”

  Zac gave her a look. It was one of his infuriating lawyer looks, an I’m-a-barrister-and-I-see-right-through-you stare that left you with no option but to crack and admit whatever it was he had known all along. Sometimes it bothered Milly how easily he could read her.

  “What?” she said, pouting. “It’s too much of a hassle. And it’s too short notice.”

  He looked at her again.

  “Stop looking at me like that!”

  But Zac didn’t stop. And she knew he was right. It was Amy and Dylan’s wedding, for heaven’s sake. She had to go.

  It was only Bobby that held her back. Milly couldn’t justify it or explain it even to herself, let alone to Zac. The combination of fear and hope that the thought of seeing him again stirred inside her—it was beyond words.

  Part of her wanted to run away. To hide in Zac’s arms, to cloak herself forever in the blanket of peace and calm that he provided. But another part knew that she would only be delaying the inevitable. And that was the part that scared her.

  “Sooner or later you’re gonna have to see him,” said Zac. “Face your demons. This is as good a time as any.”

  “I know,” said Milly, leaning into him like a baby bird nestling under its mother’s wing. “I know.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Summer looked at her reflection in the mirror and sighed. The burgundy wool jacket was beautiful, a real work of art, but something about the rest of her wedding outfit wasn’t quite jelling. Maybe it was the spiky three-inch heels that felt so foreign to her? Or the long, flowing burgundy skirt that matched the jacket and brought out the rich bronze of her skin but was still strangely, stiffly formal to the girl who spent 99 percent of her waking hours in blue jeans?

  Whatever it was, she wished she felt more comfortable, and confident, today of all days.

  Dylan, her darling, darling brother, was getting married. That in itself might have been a bittersweet event had it not been for the fact that he was quite clearly marrying the nicest, sweetest, kindest woman in the world. All the McDonalds adored Amy. Within hours of meeting her for the first time, any doubts they’d harbored about Dyl bringing home a spoiled heiress from the city vanished into thin air.

  Of course, Dylan had already told them in glowing terms how wonderful and down-to-earth his future bride was. But he was clearly blind drunk with love and not a reliable witness. It was Amy herself who won them over. As soon as she came out to stay at Highwood, her gentle, loving nature and touching devotion to Dylan were so apparent, the family were instantly sold. Then, a few weeks later, she’d gone on to do the impossible and brokered a peace between her father and Bobby, clearing the way for Jimmy to pour money into the fight against Comarco.

  Only ten days ago, her efforts had at last borne fruit: The oil company had decided to cut their losses and withdraw their claim on the ranch. After a year of hell, with an ax hanging over all their heads, the McDonalds could finally start getting back to normal. And they had Amy to thank.

  Fiddling with the strap on her new shoes, Summer tried to lift herself out of her funk. She had so much to be grateful for. Her beloved home was safe. Dylan was happier than he’d ever been, both with Amy and with his art taking off at last. And to cap it all, Jimmy Price had called excitedly two weeks ago to tell Amy that Todd Cranborn had been charged with fraud and money laundering. Though he hadn’t yet been found guilty, it looked certain that he faced, at the very least, a hefty fine and perhaps even prison time. Wyatt and Maggie were far too Christian and forgiving to rejoice in such news. But Summer, Tara, Dylan, and Amy had gone out and bought the biggest bottle of champagne they could get their hands on in Solvang and celebrated into the small hours.

  Only Bobby was notably absent from the celebrations. Whether it was a delayed reaction to all the stress, or that the relief was too much for him, none of them knew. But for someone whose ass had just been so comprehensively saved, he seemed unaccountably down.

  Summer would have liked to help him. But her own heart was still too fragile, and in any case she had no idea what to say. Being at Berkeley had taken the edge off her misery somewhat. She’d dated a couple of different guys and thrown herself into campus social life, at least in part to take her mind off the pain of Bobby’s rejection. But a broken heart doesn’t heal in a day, or even a semester.

  Watching Bobby’s reaction when Dyl told him Milly would be flying out for the wedding—the way his face had drained of color and his hands had started to shake—still made her feel like her heart was being ripped out and pushed through a paper shredder. She wished it didn’t. But it did.

  “Can I come in?” It was Dylan, knocking tentatively on the door before opening it and sticking his head into the room. “I need some help.”

  Smiling, Summer beckoned him over and sat him down on the bed while she undid the mess he’d made of his bow tie.

  “You’re such a baby,” she teased him. “I can’t believe that at your age you still don’t know how to do this.”

  “We weren’t all on the debate team, you know,” he said, holding up his hands, “or Future Lawyers of America.”

  “There,” she said, finishing the knot perfectly and in record speed. “Perfect. So, how’re you feeling? Not having second thoughts, I hope?”

  It was a joke, but Dylan looked horrified.

  “Not on your life,” he said. “All I’m frettin’ about is sealing the deal before Amy has a chance to realize what a mistake she’s making and how much better she could’ve done than me.”

  “Baloney,” said Summer loyally. “You’re the catch of the century. Have you seen her this morning?”

  Dylan shook his head. “It’s bad luck. But we spoke on the phone and she seems good. A little nervous, you know, but Milly’s with her. She seems to be doing a good job of calming her down.”

  “Really?” said Summer. “Funny, but I don’t remember Milly ever being much of a calming influence on anyone. I’d have thought she’d be about as much use to a nervous bride as a deaf-mute interpreter. But maybe that’s just me.”

  “Sum,” Dylan said, frowning. “Come on now. You promised to make nice. Why do you still have such an issue with Milly, anyway?”

  “Is that a serious question?”

  “She’s made her mistakes,” he admitted. “But deep down she’s a good person, she really is. You’d like her if you gave her half a chance.”

  “Ha! I doubt that very much,” said Summer. But seeing his face fall she relented. “Don’t worry. I’ll be civil, I promise. I won’t pour nitroglycerin onto troubled waters. I’d like to. But I’ll restrain myself.”

  “Good,” said Dylan. “Because I know she’s nervous coming back here, seeing Bobby and everything. And this is supposed to be a happy day. For all of us.”

  “Oh!” said Amy. “You look lovely!”

  She was beaming at Milly, who’d appeared in her bedroom doorway in a bottle-green halter-neck dress and matching emerald earrings. She’d picked out the dress in
a Newmarket boutique as sexy but suitably understated for the wedding. Knowing from experience how impossible it was to please Bobby with an outfit, she was happy to settle for Amy’s seal of approval.

  “Thanks. But, my goodness, if anyone looks lovely, it’s you,” she said truthfully. “Dylan’s going to die of pride.”

  It was hard to believe that the gorgeous, voluptuous woman in front of her, poured into a simple, bias-cut, Vera Wang gown, was the same fat, unhappy girl she’d first met at Palos Verdes less than two years ago. It wasn’t just the weight. Everything about Amy looked different. Her hair was longer and had been cut into choppy layers, which some clever stylist had shot through with subtle honey low lights, taking the edge off her white blond, Nordic look and adding instant warmth to her glowing skin. Her face was still as playful as ever, its every expression suffused with the kindness and goodness of her character. But now that they were no longer shrouded by fat, her perfect, doll-like features looked even more striking.

  If it’s true that inside every fat girl is a thin girl waiting to get out, then this was Amy’s thin girl. Everything about her seemed to vibrate with the happiness and elation of her triumphant escape.

  Milly was staying at the Ballard Inn. To her somewhat embarrassed surprise, she discovered when she got in last night that she was to be included as one of the Price family party, staying in an adjoining room to Amy and even traveling in the second bridal car over to Highwood.

  “I’m not so sure that’s a great idea,” she said, more than slightly panicked, when Amy told her the plan. “The last time I saw your father, I was telling him his wife had been having it off with Todd, and, if I remember correctly, suggesting that he could stick his job where the sun don’t shine. I expect I’m the last person he wants muscling in on his daughter’s wedding.”

  But Amy was adamant.

  “Trust me,” she said. “He’s changed.”

  She wasn’t kidding. At supper last night Milly had sat next to Jimmy, and if she hadn’t known better, could have sworn he’d been abducted by aliens and replaced by a humble, charming imposter. Outwardly he was the same cigar-smoking, bouffant-haired Trump-alike he’d always been. But divorce had obviously changed him.