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Honestly. In her Louis Vuitton ballerina flats from the summer collection, did she really look like someone who enjoyed playing in dirt? “I hire lawn crews for all my properties.”
“Do you like children?”
They were getting warmer. “My best friend has two. I’ve taken her daughter into the city for shows and her son to see the Yankees play.”
“Okay, great.” Rhonda flipped through the folder again, this time scanning more closely. “I see here that you have a Masters in public relations from Van Cortlandt College. I did my graduate work there.”
Karan nodded. Not such a surprise. The Ivy League school was a popular draw to the area.
Well over a century ago, people had surged to Bluestone Mountain when miners had discovered feldspathic greywacke, the rare, dark blue sandstone that made her hometown a unique location, and a wealthy one. Now the area appealed to an elite and eclectic crowd because it lacked the commerciality of the nearby hamlets of Woodstock and Bearsville.
When most of the Catskill region had been earmarked as part of New York’s Forest Preserve, not all of that land was publicly owned. Private colleges like Van Cortlandt owned property along with people of means who wanted a fast escape from Manhattan. Precisely why she kept a home here.
Until she could talk to a real estate agent, that is.
Add another project to her list.
Rhonda closed the folder. “All right, Karan, let me mull on this a bit. I’m sure we can come up with the perfect something.”
“I hope so. We need exactly three-hundred and fifty-nine hours’ worth of perfect.”
“Trust me. You’ll be an asset to our program. I can feel it, and I’m big on trusting my feelings.”
It was hard not to like this woman. Even though that was the last thing Karan wanted to do with her court-appointed therapist. Especially a woman who worked closely with Charles.
“So let’s wrap this up for today,” Rhonda said. “I’d like you to keep a journal for your homework.”
“Keep a journal, as in writing?”
Rhonda nodded “You don’t have to share what you write. The journal will help you reflect on our discussions and give you a place to refer to when we talk again. Sound good?”
Not what Karan had expected, but it didn’t sound difficult. “Not a problem.”
“Great,” Rhonda said. “Please bring it with you. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. A spiral notebook will do the trick. I’ll give you a question after we talk. You’ll be in charge of remembering it.” She glanced at her desk with a wry smile. “I’ll write it down. I won’t be able to find it again.”
Karan did smile then. Rhonda must have gotten to be codirector of New Hope on sheer personality because she was clearly an organizational nightmare. Maybe Karan should refer her personal assistant, who was a positive genius at organizing.
She didn’t get a chance because Rhonda said, “I’d like you to reflect on what was different about that night. Okay?”
“Okay.” Karan would have plenty of time to reflect since she wouldn’t be driving anywhere until her next visit to New Hope.
CHAPTER FOUR
Karan’s Journal
What was different about that night?
THAT NIGHT WAS NOTHING SPECIAL from what I remember. No different than the thousand other parties I’ve attended. Great food. Even better conversation. I can always count on Brent to host a decent party, which is one of the reasons why he’s such a successful politician. I never even blinked while writing my check for five thousand dollars to his campaign. I’m sure most of his supporters don’t. Two terms in office, work on the Banking and Finance Committees—he’s more than proven his good sense and character.
And he has been a good friend. He ran interference when that busybody Ginger Downey commented on my solo arrival. Brent grabbed my hand and twirled me and announced how delighted he was that he’d get a chance to dance more with me. When he wasn’t dancing with Annette, of course.
Annette was so sweet when she caught me in the powder room to ask if I was okay. I wouldn’t have missed this party for the world. Only the most influential names were on the guest list. Mine, of course, had been one of the first.
Certainly well above Ginger Downey’s.
Now that I think about it, I was also excited about getting out. The past few months…well, I haven’t felt settled anywhere. When I’m in the city, I’m out-of-sorts because I miss my routine with Patrick. But I’m not settled in Connecticut, either. Being at the beach makes me feel as if I’m on vacation. I need to be rebuilding my life, establishing new routines.
That leaves Bluestone Mountain.
On the upside, I’m close to Susanna.
On the downside, I’m close to Mom, which is always a mixed bag. But she hasn’t been too difficult lately, so no complaints. I thought she might be going to Brent’s party because she likes the Inn at Laurel Lake—one of the few places around Bluestone she cares for—but she was in the city for another event.
I remember being excited. I made a special trip into the city to shop for evening wear and completely lucked out when I found the most darling Akris appliqué dress. I spent the better part of the day at Mill Hill Resort and Spa preparing for the night with the usual workout, massage, mani, pedi and facial.
I put my hair in a ponytail to show off the gorgeous tulle inset shoulders of the dress. I was excited, no question. More excited than I can remember being in quite some time. Since before Patrick left.
I can’t remember when things started to change, but somewhere between the Russian caviar, the Wagyu rib eye and the conversations with an A-list of local, state and federal officials, the sparkle of the night dulled. All the laughter and discussions about the cigarette tax and small business loans, all the reconnecting suddenly lost its appeal.
Maybe that was my first clue. After all the preparation, all the careful attention to detail, I wanted to leave long before the party had ended. I remember thinking that all the preparation felt like an enormous waste of time. I was bored at best, distracted at worst, and after asking Congressman Bruij to repeat his question not once but an appalling twice, I was more than ready to say my goodbyes and head home.
Yes, now that I think about it that definitely should have been my first sign of trouble.
But how could I leave until Brent made his announcement? I couldn’t. Ginger would have certainly drawn attention to my early departure and started up talk about how I was rebounding after my latest divorce—nosy woman. Now there’s someone who needs a hobby. Crocheting maybe, so she stays home and I won’t run into her as often at social events. But I absolutely refused to give her ammunition to use against me. Not to mention that leaving before the announcement would have been rude considering how Brent and Annette had gone out of their way to be nice.
No, even upon reflection, I really had no choice but to tough it out and pretend to be interested.
I suppose the Dom Perignon Rosé helped me do that.
One sip and I managed to nod in all the appropriate places whenever Judge Townsend stopped his soliloquy about the unique responsibilities of probate, adoptions and guardianships long enough to draw air.
Another sip and I directed leading questions to State Assemblywoman Whaley, who argued emphatically for the property tax cap and against an increase of income and excise taxes as an alternative to educational cuts.
I seem to have kept right on sipping, raising an almost-empty flute when Brent finally made his announcement. Then I kissed him and Annette and headed for the door.
My small misstep at the entrance was another sign of trouble. The doorman saved me from disaster, un ceremoniously hauling me upright when the heel of my slingback caught on the runner. I slipped entirely out of my shoe and was forced to cling to him to stay upright.
Of course he asked if he could call me a taxi. I recognized the code for: should you get behind the wheel?
It was one stupid glass of champagne. Besides, leaving my car wasn’t an option, not when Jessica’s husband was the general manager of the Inn. If he saw my Jaguar in his parking lot overnight, he’d tell Jessica, who would tell Marietta, who would tell Becca…and so on until every cheerleader who’d once been on my team would start the Bluestone gossip mill grinding.
Everyone would speculate about who I’d spent the night with. Or assume I’d had too much to drink. Then word would make its way back to my mother, who never missed anything that happened in this town. I did not want to get that phone call.
I produced my claim ticket and told the doorman I was fine to drive. He looked doubtful, but I just flashed him my most reassuring smile and told him the truth—only one glass of champagne.
I headed outside to wait, so the night air would help clear my head.
Why had I been looking forward to seeing all these people again? I couldn’t remember. I should have probably just sent Brent the check.
The valet took forever with my car, and I wondered if he’d gone to confirm how much I’d had to drink. With liability being what it is nowadays I couldn’t fault a business for being cautious. Even though I was left outside shivering. That had been my choice. I could have waited indoors.
Or better yet, I could have stayed in Manhattan. Then leaving my car wouldn’t even have been an issue. I’d have simply tipped the valet and let the doorman call a taxi.
I wasn’t sure what I’d have done if the doorman gave me trouble. What could I do? Call Susanna? Still would have meant leaving my car. Unless Susanna brought along Brooke, who's now driving even though Susanna is awfully tight-fisted with the car keys considering Brooke's heading off to college in a few weeks. But that’s just my opinion. And Brooke’s, of course.
I didn’t want to be used as a nonexample for my beautiful, impressionable goddaughter. And Susanna wouldn’t be able to contain herself and resist the chance to drive home a life lesson. She couldn’t resist mothering on a good day let alone when I drop a perfect opportunity in her lap.
Being between husbands at the moment, I had no one else to call and my mother wasn’t an option. All I wanted to do was get home. And home was only a few miles down a long, very lonely stretch of highway late at night.
CHAPTER FIVE
OKAY, SO KARAN HAD GOTTEN HER initial therapy session and her first homework assignment behind her in less than twenty-four hours. That left the rest of her alternative sentence looming before her like an endurance test. With any luck, Rhonda had come up with a brilliant job for Karan and when she arrived at New Hope today, she’d be able to clock some hours to speed this process along. Today would be the perfect day for it—since Charles wouldn’t be there based on the conversation she’d overheard between him and Rhonda yesterday.
Karan decided to pop into her mother’s on her way into town. Technically, she would be on her way to New Hope as her mother lived on the same lake. Couldn’t get to New Hope without passing the house where Karan had grown up so she wouldn’t be violating any sentencing conditions. And there really was no point in dodging the visit. Not when her mother had made it a point to call to find out how the interview had gone yesterday.
Karan drove toward the main road that led down the mountain, maneuvered up her mother’s driveway and parked in front of the house. The place dominated a hilltop with a steep-pitched driveway her father used to joke was better left iced in the winter so they could slide their cars to the road. Of course driving back up had required chains.
But he’d chosen this property because it boasted a spectacular view of Mohawk Lake, which nestled in the forested mountainside north of Bluestone proper. He had his own boat dock, lots of room to snowmobile and several acres on all sides padding him from the nearest neighbors, which had pleased him enormously. The house was her mother’s creation, a showcase as majestic as her father’s view.
Karan’s own house was situated on a modest half acre on the eastern shore. Close, but not too close. And her house didn’t remotely resemble her childhood home. Not in size. Not in design. Not in any way except the view.
“Abigail, hello,” Karan called as she stepped in the foyer.
Her mother’s housekeeper appeared quickly from the direction of the kitchen. “Karan, I thought I heard your voice. Had the radio too loud. I’m getting as deaf as a rock.” Her good-natured laughter echoed in the cavernous foyer. “But don’t mention that to your mama.”
There would be no need, Karan knew, since her mother probably already knew. She didn’t miss much. But Karan didn’t point that out as she leaned over and hugged the soft, round little housekeeper. With her apple cheeks and twinkling blue eyes, Abigail looked like Mrs. Santa Claus.
But looks could be so deceiving. This sweet-faced lady might wear her white hair in a bun, but she called things exactly the way she saw them. And anyone who dared to give her a hard time would get beat with the rolling pin. She had to have a spine of steel to care for Karan’s mother.
“Mum’s the word,” Karan agreed.
“Beautiful, and gracious, too. Are you okay?” That bright blue gaze could have sculpted ice. No question about whether or not Abigail had been brought up-to-date on Karan’s troubles.
“No worries. You’ve got your hands full enough here.”
“Pshaw. Nothing I can’t handle. It’s practically still the crack of dawn. Would you like coffee? What about breakfast? Now’s the time if you do. Before you head up to see your mama.”
That was code for: your mother is in a mood.
She would want to be briefed on Karan’s situation, give her only daughter advice and be motherly. Of course Karan had timed the visit so she could stay only a limited number of minutes.
“Thanks, but I’ve stalled long enough. I’ll head up.” And with any luck get this over with quickly.
Abigail inclined her head stoically. “The sitting room.”
Karan heard the unspoken “Good luck.”
Making her way up the stairs, she headed toward the room where her mother enjoyed coffee in the mornings while reading the paper, handling correspondence and otherwise preparing herself to join the living.
Karan tapped on the door then pushed it open.
Years ago, when Karan and Susanna had been in high school, they’d read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice for a lit class. Thus began a love affair with Mr. Darcy that had weathered decades. No matter where they were, no matter what was happening in their lives, they’d drop everything and get together to watch whatever new version hit the television or theaters.
Their absolute favorite to date was a television miniseries that had run on the Arts and Entertainment channel. They would submerge themselves in Regency England and watch all five hours straight through.
It had become such a tradition that Susanna’s kids had joined the party, and even her late husband, Skip, had been known to walk through the family room, catch a bit of dialogue and sit to finish the episodes with them.
Mr. Darcy’s venerable aunt, Lady Katherine, was the epitome of a regal lady, no matter what version of the story. Karan always thought of her mother as Lady Katherine incarnate.
“Hi, Mom.”
Georgia Madden-Kowalski sat at a Rococo-style table, the china coffee set neatly within reach, four newspapers before her, keeping her current on events from local to global so she could converse easily about any topic at social functions.
She gazed over the rims of reading glasses, face fully made up, even though she still wore her lounging robe, preferring to ease into the day.
When Karan had been young, she’d thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world with her spun-silk hair, porcelain skin and striking light eyes. Adulthood hadn’t changed that opinion. Her mother was still one of the most beautiful women Karan knew.
“Good morning, dear.” Her mother smiled in welcome. “You look very lovely this morning.”
“Thanks, Mom, you look well, too.”
“Come sit. Tell me how everything went yesterday. Would you like coffee? I’ll have Abigail bring more.”
“Thanks, but no. I’ve had some.” Setting her purse on a side table, she sat across from her mother, who folded a paper and set it aside to give Karan her undivided attention.
“How did everything go?”
Karan met her gaze across the expanse of the table and gave a casual shrug, determined to do her part to keep this conversation light. “Well, I’m happy to say the people were welcoming. I’m not exactly sure yet what I’ll be doing there, but the program director seemed eager for me to start.”
One of them, anyway.
Karan weighed the merit of mentioning Charles. Did she roll the dice and chance that her mother didn’t find out?
“So it’s a big place then? I haven’t seen much about it in the papers. Only public budgetary reports and minutes from the town council meetings. And that exposé, of course. They must have run a full week of stories about women, and men surprisingly, who’d broken away from abusive relationships. Apparently, domestic violence is epidemic.”
Her mother was clearly interested, so the odds of her not discovering Charles’s involvement at some point weren’t looking good. If she did find out and Karan hadn’t mentioned it…
“I did get a surprise while I was there.”
“Really?”
“Turns out Charles is one of the program directors.”
Her mother stopped with the cup poised at her lips. “Your Charles?” Karan nodded.
She took a small sip, considering, then said, “Well, that is news. Why is a cardiothoracic surgeon involved with a domestic violence program?”
“I have no idea. But from what I’ve been told few people are actually paid employees. The majority are volunteers. Charles shares managerial responsibilities with a psychotherapist who has a local practice.”
