thing for her father; all sheâd ever wanted was for him just to recognize that she was there and that she was his daughter. Was that abnormal? Probably no more abnormal than her choosing psychology for a major because sheâd hoped, deep down, that she would gain some insights, some self-awareness, to help her stop trembling with terror whenever a man came close to her. Some courses, some professors, had been helpful. Outwardly, no one would ever be able to guess what had happened to herâsheâd filled herself with insights from every psychological theory; sheâd grown up; she understood that the prince was mentally ill and she had been just a helpless girl drawn in by him; she accepted her fear of men as not being normal, but quite natural, of course, because of what the prince had done to her. She accepted all of it, took it in mental stride, smiled occasionally with cool objectivity at the idea of anyone being actually afraid of the opposite sex, but in the stillness of the night, when she was alone, the pain of those memories could still overwhelm her, the pain and the humiliation, her own stupidity. But she handled it now. At the very least, psychology had taught her how to handle it. Except handling Gruska, the jerk.
She was stuffing papers back into her purse when she saw the letter from her grandmother that had arrived yesterday afternoon. Sheâd forgotten to read it. She pulled it out and put it to her nose, still smelling the faint odor of musk roses, her grandmotherâs favorite scent, made especially forher in Grasse, France, by one man named dâAlembert, after the eighteenth-century French philosopher. Gates Foxe was eighty-two and dâAlembert had made her perfume for nearly forty years now. Lindsay had flown to San Francisco at Christmas at her grandmotherâs request. Lindsay hadnât seen her in several years. Sheâd slowed down, but her mind was still sharp and she still loved life and still tried to control those around her. Only there wasnât anyone around her anymore. Royce had remarried the year before. His new wife had been there for Christmas and it hadnât been very much fun. The new wife, formerly Holly Jablow, widow of the former Washington state senator, Martin Jablow, was thirty-five. She was vain and greedy and when she wasnât focused on her new husband, she was focused exclusively on herself. She loved mirrors. She quickly saw her husbandâs dislike for his daughter and adapted in the next moment. She was grating and sweetly patronizing, giving Lindsay advice on her clothes, on her hair, on her fingernails. Lindsay had suffered her in silence. As for Jennifer, Lindsay had seen her mother only once. She was too thin, too nervous, smoked incessantly, and was sleeping with a man who was twenty-six years old. Jennifer had been forced to introduce Lindsay to the man when sheâd come to her apartment one afternoon unannounced. She treated her daughter like a rival. Lindsay had left quickly, feeling cold and very sad and very alone. Sheâd felt all ties to San Francisco falling away from her.
Lindsay pulled the two pages from the envelope, a smile on her face, expecting to hear chatty news about friends and vagaries about the rich and richer in San Francisco. Her grandmother had a light touch with her at least. The letter began as sheâd expected.
Just news at first, chatter about Moffitt Hospital and how the board of directors was loath to spend enough money to modernize the new radiology rooms. She mourned the horrible proportion of Democrats to Republicans in northern California. Then Lindsay stopped smiling.
âI donât think anyone bothered to tell you because you really donât exist to your father, as you well knowâhis fault, not yours. Sydney is pregnant. I have no idea if the prince is the father, nor does your father know, by the way. I suppose the family will pass the child off as a di Contini
Heidi Cullinan
Dean Burnett
Sena Jeter Naslund
Anne Gracíe
MC Beaton
Christine D'Abo
Soren Petrek
Kate Bridges
Samantha Clarke
Michael R. Underwood