now, Bob, a dogleg to the right. No wind to speak of. Two hundred yards to the clubhouse and . . . oh, yes, she's doing it in second gear.
Lance asked, "Was the PGA tour here in 2000 or 2001 ?"
"I really don't know," Julia answered. And don't care, I heard that before?"
"Golf," Julia answered as she steered onto a cobble-
( ? ) she thought. But no matter how much the game bored her, she couldn't deny the beauty of its stage. Sunlight glistened off ponds as daylight fought for its hold on the horizon. The plantation-style clubhouse looked like Tara itself, surrounded by manicured lawns. The whole world seemed Technicolor gorgeous as the valet held Julia's door and Lance came to stand beside her. She stopped for a moment, looking up at the wide portico stairs that, like Jack's beanstalk, led to another world—one designed for giants of industry, lazy trust-fund brats, and Georgias. A world where no matter how many bestsellers she wrote, Julia had never belonged.
That is, until she walked in on the arm of Lance Collins.
Climbing the stairs on the arm of a handsome man in a vintage tuxedo, Julia saw Sycamore Hills in an entirely different light. She felt the eyes of strangers on her, a feeling she knew, but the gazes somehow seemed different. These weren't the Don't I know her? or Isn't she famous?
looks she'd been getting since Table for One debuted. They certainly weren't the What's wrong with her? looks she'd been getting for far longer. These were Oh, what a lovely couple looks, Julia was sure. She jerked her head, trying to see behind her, wondering if she was only standing in between those complimentary glances and the woman they were really for. But no, the only person back there was Archie Givens, a man whose children had once hired an attorney to keep him away from Ro-Ro.
We're the best-looking people in here, Julia thought, bolstered by the revelation. Of course, we're also forty years younger. . . . But she still couldn't help feeling like a Bond girl.
When she saw her least-favorite employee rushing toward them, Julia readied herself for the evening's ultimate test: This was a man who could make supermodels feel fat, and heads of state inferior. He screeched to a halt in front of them and, to Julia's amazement, smiled.
"Good evening, ma'am," he said to Julia. "Sir," he addressed Lance. "Welcome to Sycamore Hills. And whom will you be meeting this evening?" he asked, even though Julia knew he was well aware of who she was. Still, he held tight to his podium and his questions, refusing to let anyone or anything rip that power from his bony hands.
"We're the guests of Rosemary Willis," Julia told him, mustering a smile.
"Excellent," he said, his eyes scanning a list. "Table twenty-seven. Ma'am," he asked, "may I check your wrap?"
Julia looked at her emerald-green shoulder wrap. History told her never to surrender layers when entering the Sycamore Hills ballroom, because while Ro-Ro's crowd didn't believe in skimping on the curtains, they weren't about to turn up the heat. "No, thank you."
"Very well. Enjoy your evening." He ended the statement with a smile, not his usual look of scorn for Julia the dateless leper. Julia felt herself nearly floating toward the ballroom at the rear of the building through a corridor of twenty-foot ceilings and more crown molding than a palace, and she couldn't resist stealing a glance at Lance.
"So, what do you think?"
He let out a low whistle in response.
Since meeting Lance, Julia had covered the full range of emotions, from calm serenity to blinding panic, and now she felt herself looping around to giddy. A sudden burst of laughter shot out of her so fast that she threw her hand to her lips as if to catch the laugh and cram it back down her throat.
"What?" he said. "What is it?" He pulled his hands to his face and started wiping away nonexistent crumbs.
Another giggle from Julia.
"Stop laughing," he said.
But it was out of her control. "Look at us," she said
Lance asked, "Was the PGA tour here in 2000 or 2001 ?"
"I really don't know," Julia answered. And don't care, I heard that before?"
"Golf," Julia answered as she steered onto a cobble-
( ? ) she thought. But no matter how much the game bored her, she couldn't deny the beauty of its stage. Sunlight glistened off ponds as daylight fought for its hold on the horizon. The plantation-style clubhouse looked like Tara itself, surrounded by manicured lawns. The whole world seemed Technicolor gorgeous as the valet held Julia's door and Lance came to stand beside her. She stopped for a moment, looking up at the wide portico stairs that, like Jack's beanstalk, led to another world—one designed for giants of industry, lazy trust-fund brats, and Georgias. A world where no matter how many bestsellers she wrote, Julia had never belonged.
That is, until she walked in on the arm of Lance Collins.
Climbing the stairs on the arm of a handsome man in a vintage tuxedo, Julia saw Sycamore Hills in an entirely different light. She felt the eyes of strangers on her, a feeling she knew, but the gazes somehow seemed different. These weren't the Don't I know her? or Isn't she famous?
looks she'd been getting since Table for One debuted. They certainly weren't the What's wrong with her? looks she'd been getting for far longer. These were Oh, what a lovely couple looks, Julia was sure. She jerked her head, trying to see behind her, wondering if she was only standing in between those complimentary glances and the woman they were really for. But no, the only person back there was Archie Givens, a man whose children had once hired an attorney to keep him away from Ro-Ro.
We're the best-looking people in here, Julia thought, bolstered by the revelation. Of course, we're also forty years younger. . . . But she still couldn't help feeling like a Bond girl.
When she saw her least-favorite employee rushing toward them, Julia readied herself for the evening's ultimate test: This was a man who could make supermodels feel fat, and heads of state inferior. He screeched to a halt in front of them and, to Julia's amazement, smiled.
"Good evening, ma'am," he said to Julia. "Sir," he addressed Lance. "Welcome to Sycamore Hills. And whom will you be meeting this evening?" he asked, even though Julia knew he was well aware of who she was. Still, he held tight to his podium and his questions, refusing to let anyone or anything rip that power from his bony hands.
"We're the guests of Rosemary Willis," Julia told him, mustering a smile.
"Excellent," he said, his eyes scanning a list. "Table twenty-seven. Ma'am," he asked, "may I check your wrap?"
Julia looked at her emerald-green shoulder wrap. History told her never to surrender layers when entering the Sycamore Hills ballroom, because while Ro-Ro's crowd didn't believe in skimping on the curtains, they weren't about to turn up the heat. "No, thank you."
"Very well. Enjoy your evening." He ended the statement with a smile, not his usual look of scorn for Julia the dateless leper. Julia felt herself nearly floating toward the ballroom at the rear of the building through a corridor of twenty-foot ceilings and more crown molding than a palace, and she couldn't resist stealing a glance at Lance.
"So, what do you think?"
He let out a low whistle in response.
Since meeting Lance, Julia had covered the full range of emotions, from calm serenity to blinding panic, and now she felt herself looping around to giddy. A sudden burst of laughter shot out of her so fast that she threw her hand to her lips as if to catch the laugh and cram it back down her throat.
"What?" he said. "What is it?" He pulled his hands to his face and started wiping away nonexistent crumbs.
Another giggle from Julia.
"Stop laughing," he said.
But it was out of her control. "Look at us," she said
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