Wonderful You (19 page)

“No one can say that Delia doesn’t take care of herself, as well she should. Of course, first and foremost, she takes exceptional care of others. We were delighted, actually, when she started to build on to the house. She takes great pleasure in her sun room. We call it Babel, for the Hanging Gardens, because of all the tropical plants she has growing in there.” She glanced at him as she turned to the cupboard to get mugs for their tea. His stare was glazed, focused at the tile floor, though his mind was clearly elsewhere. “Of course, I personally thought that adding that tower was going a bit too far, but Nicky thought it might come in handy some day.”

“Ummm. Right.” He nodded.

“Next, I hear, she’s planning on taking down the ba
rn
so that she can re-create the Temple at Jericho. Before it came tumbling down, of course. Nicky’s talked her into building a sort of Biblical theme park right there in Chester County, though some of her neighbors who still ride to the hounds weren’t real happy when they heard she was thinking about adding a scaled-down Dead Sea right there in the middle of the traditional hunt course.”

“Um.” He nodded and played with the silver spoon she had placed on the table next to the cup.

She waved a hand in front of his face.

“What? Oh, I’m sorry. I’m afraid that for just a moment, I was back at the house with Delia.” He tried to think of a way to explain to her how good it felt to be home. To actually see the faces of those he had held in his heart for so long, including hers. Which no longer looked even remotely like the child she had been.

The teakettle whistled and she turned her back to
him, wondering why her mother hadn’t bothered to call to let her know she had come back early from her tour.

“So, did you have a good visit?”

He thought about the carriage house, unchanged since the day he and his mother had closed the door behind them and left for Connecticut, and the sights and sounds and memories he had spent more than half his life trying to forget—the memories that a confused and frightened boy had convinced himself would be better off forgotten. The way that rugged branch of the Brandywine flowed behind the small ba
rn
, swift enough to take two young boys back through history or forward through time. Trees he had climbed and songs he had sung, forts they had built in the woods and snowmen they had built in the fields. Dreams he had dreamed while laying on his back and watching the clouds change shape. His mother tossing him his jacket on frosty mornings before he left for
school
…

“Yes,” he nodded, “If I had understood I could have
…
come home,
I would have done it a long time ago.”

The wistful drift had returned to his eyes, and she wanted to ask why he had not, but she swallowed the words. Some other time, she might press the point and perhaps he would tell her. But not tonight.

“I was just lucky that Delia happened to be home while I was there,” he added.

“You were. I was under the impression that she wasn’t coming back until next Monday.”

“She said something about going back early tomorrow morning.”

Zoey frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would she come home today and leave again tomorrow?”

“She said she had just come home to get something."

“She made a trip home just to
get
something? That doesn’t make any sense, Did she say what it was?”

“No.”

“That’s odd.” Zoey opened the freezer and popped a
few ice cubes into her glass. “If she had wanted something that badly, why didn’t she just call me—or Mrs. Colson, the housekeeper? Whatever it was could probably have been sent out by overnight mail.”

She twisted the metal cap off the soda bottle.

“Maybe she was bored.” Ben shrugged.

“My mother is never bored.” Zoey grinned wryly. “If there is no fun, she makes her own. How did she seem to you?”

Ben thought back to his visit with Delia.

“Vibrant. Warm, welcoming, loving. As I remembered her.”

“Nothing else?”

“A tad more subdued, maybe a bit more, well, philosophical comes to mind, than I may have recalled, but then again, I haven’t seen her in years, so that may not be an accurate assessment.”

“Subdued.” Zoey repeated thoughtfully. “Philosophical.”

“Look, I could be wrong,” Ben said. “I was a little distracted, understand, overwhelmed at being home again.”

Zoey smiled. It was the second time that he referred to the Westboro house as
home.
She was about to mention it when the doorbell rang

“That must be dinner. I’ll get it.” Ben pushed the chair back and unfolded himself slowly, favoring his right leg as he did so.

Zoey watched his lanky body move to the front door, and noticed the limp for the first time.

“How is your leg?” She asked as she laid green plaid place mats on the kitchen table when Ben returned with two brown paper bags.

“As well as one has the right to expect after crashing into a wall at a high rate of speed,” he said as he began to unload white containers onto the kitchen counter.

“Ouch.” She winced as she opened the cartons and transferred the entrees onto dinner plates.

“Big
ouch.” He nodded and sat down. “I will be
starting with a new therapist next week. I’m hoping my ankle improves enough for me to drive again.”

“I thought you drove here.” She pointed in toward the driveway and the roadster parked there.

“I mean race driving.”

“You would do that again?” She opened a cupboard and reached in for two bowls, into which she divided the salad.

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Why, because that’s what I most love to do. I love the speed, the excitement, I even love the noise.”

She placed the salads on the table, then followed with their dinner plates before sitting down opposite Ben at the table.

“My mother always used to say that you were a boy with a wish for adventure. You and Nicky both.” She smiled, then said, “Oh, you should call him after dinner. He’ll be so happy to speak with you.”

“I spoke with him earlier today. Your mother gave me the number. Hearing his voice again, well, it just made me realize how much I’ve missed him. Your mother invited me to the engagement party she’s giving for him and his
fiancée
, by the way. I’m really looking forward to seeing him again.”

“Oh, you will love India, we all do. She’s wonderful. They are so perfect for each other.”

“That’s pretty much what he said. And it sounds as if it would be quite a party.”

“Oh, it will be.” She smiled, thinking about the killer black dress hanging in her closet at that very moment, just waiting for the right occasion, an occasion when she really wanted to get someone’s attention. “Now, would you like more tea, or would you rather have wine?”

She wanted to pinch herself, unable to believe that she was really sitting there in her cozy breakfast nook with Ben really sitting across from her so casually, as if he belonged there, making her laugh with stories about his earliest days on the race car circuit, about dirty tricks
that had been played on one driver or another by a rival, of working for years as a test car driver before getting the opportunity to drive, at first in the smaller races, then, finally, some of the more well-known circuits. He nearly brought her to tears with his simple, eloquent accounting of the drama-filled 1994 San Marino Grand Prix in Imola, Italy, when he had watched his idol, Ayrton Senna, crash to his death. It was the single most sobering moment of his life, he had told Zoey.

“But not enough to make you want to change careers,” she noted, as she refilled his wineglass.

“No. Not enough for that. Racing is one of those things that gets into your blood, Zoey. You don’t stop until you have to.”

“I guess fear for your life doesn’t count.”

“I never feared for my life.” He grinned wryly. “For some reason, I never feared dying in a crash. Severe injuries, however, are something else entirely.”

“But you plan to go back to it.”

“As soon as I can. Of course, everything depends on how completely my foot heals. A race driver with a bad accelerator foot is a hazard to himself and everyone else on the course.”

“What will you do when you’re done with racing for good?”

“Well, for years, a friend of mine and I have talked about starting a business together, when we’ve both retired. He stopped racing last year, and has been looking into several possibilities.”

“Will it be related to racing?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He nodded emphatically.

“And in the meantime, you’re running the company for your grandfather.”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of it?”

“The HMP?” His eyebrows raised slightly and she nodded. “I think it’s an interesting concept. I think the potential could be unlimited as far as revenues are concerned. I have to admit that, initially, I had thought
Delaney had lost his touch when he told me what he’d bought, but after going over the projections, I think he might be sitting on a gold mine.”

“How are you making the transition from race car driving to corporate executive?”

“Better than I expected to. It’s just a different kind of game,” he told her.

* * *

J
ust a different kind of game,
she later mused after he had left and she had gone into the closet and pulled out the black dress. She stripped off her sweatshirt and jeans and slid the long cool column of silk over her bare skin.

She stood in front of the long mirror and raised her hands to scoop up her hair and pile it on top of her head, wondering if she should wear it up or down, what jewelry to wear, and whether or not Ben would like her in black.

The countdown to Nick and India’s engagement party had begun.

15

“
W
hat?!” Zoey shrieked, both fists landing in front of her on the small conference table like twin pistons. “Why me? I was
terrible.
Ellen,” Zoey turned, whitefaced, to the young producer who sat across from her, “you even said so yourself. I was
terrible.
”

“
Terrible
apparently appealed to a lot of viewers.” Ellen picked a piece of paper off the top of a tall pile of similar white pages.

“ ‘Watching Zoey cook brought back memories of teaching my own daughter how to cook. I loved that show! When will she do it again?’ ”

Ellen reached for the next sheet and read, “ ‘Watching Zoey Enright cook is great theater. The most entertaining hour of the day. Oh—and the stainless steel pots I bought from her are gorgeous.’ ”

“And another. ‘After watching Zoey try to fry cheese, I bought the entire set of nonstick cookware. If it works for her, it will work for me.’ ”

“And that,” Ellen told her, “is why you’ll be doing the cooking shows from now on.”

“But doesn’t it matter that I hate it? That I’m no good at it at all?”

“No.” Ellen shrugged. “People loved watching you. Look.”

Ellen slid the stack of faxes and letters across the table to Zoey. “People from all over the country are sending you recipes. They’re sending you cooking tips. They love you, Zoey. They want to help you.”

“I get all the help I need from my friendly network of take-out establishments,” Zoey wailed. “Ellen, give this to CeCe. She loves to cook. Why, she made me some buffalo chili that knocked my socks off.” Zoey grabbed the producer’s arm, her voice dropping a few octaves. “And that’s not all. She makes great pastries. Ellen, she makes the most heavenly homemade cheese Danishes. The kind you like. With the strawberries on top of the cheese.”

“Save your breath, Zoey. You’re scheduled to start in two days.”

Zoey’s eyes narrowed. “Start what in two days?”

“Your new cooking show. It will run twice each week to start, Tuesdays and Thursdays at noon.”

Zoey looked to the heavens. “I don’t deserve this. I ha
ve tried to live a good life…
”

Ellen laughed out loud.

“And now you’re going to let others help you, Zoey. This will be a more interactive show than most of the ones we’ve done in the past. The viewing audience wants to feel as if they are cooking with you. Just think of all those sweet little old ladies watching you, clucking over your efforts, offering advice. Your cooking segments have made the viewers feel almost protective of you, Zoey. You’re bringing out their maternal instincts.”

“I have a mother, thank you very much. The last thing I need is several hundred thousand more.”

“You’ll love it, once you get into it.”

“I’ll hate every damned minute of it and you know it.”

“But I also know that on-screen, you will be the
smiling, happy show host who is far too professional ever to let anyone suspect that she’d rather be in traction.”

“You really know just the right button to push, don’t you?” Zoey grumbled.

“Thanks, Zoey. I knew you’d come around. Now, what we’d like you to do is to look through these recipes that people have sent in to you and see which ones interest you. We’ve already had the product coordinators go through them and pull out the ones that you could use with products we already have available for this week’s shows. So if you want to cook a pasta dish, we’ll schedule the pasta cooker for that show.”

Zoey flipped through the stack of faxes, occasionally groaning. “No, I don’t do lamb. I will not cook anything that comes from anything that was once cute and fuzzy.”

“I didn’t know you were a vegetarian.”

“I’m not. I just don’t eat cute things.” She looked over another. “Yuck. Okra. Add that to the list. I will not do okra.”

Ellen made notes on a pad of white lined paper. “This doesn’t look too bad,” Zoey murmured. “Hmmm. Chicken with fresh rosemary and tarragon.”

“Let me see that one.”

Zoey passed the recipe to Ellen.

“This one would be good. It uses both a frying pan and a baking dish, both of which we have in inventory and can be scheduled for this week. Okay, pick two more.”

“Two more? I have to cook three whole things in one show?” A horrified Zoey asked.

“Sure. You’re cooking lunch for the camera crew, did I forget to mention that?”

“Someone is going to have to eat this?”

“Yep.” Ellen grinned. “And it had better be good. You know how temperamental cameramen are. One bad meal and your good side will slip into the land that time forgot, never to be seen again.”

“I’ll have to take these home and practice,” Zoey whined.

“I’ll have someone call the people whose recipes you
select and tell them the good news.” Ellen slid the more interesting recipes to one side. “Think of how excited these people will be to know that you will be cooking their recipes on national television. And we’ll invite them to call in during the show.”

“Oh, sure. Misery loves company.” Zoey pulled a second recipe from the tall stack and placed it on the “deserves another look” pile.

“Hey, for some of these people, this will be a really big thing. Please don’t forget that,” Ellen reminded her.

“I won’t. But promise me, if this is not a howling success, we’ll drop it sooner rather than later.”

“I promise.”

Much to Zoey’s amazement, her cooking hours were instantly and wildly popular.

“Doesn’t it figure?” She had grumbled to CeCe after a quick cup of coffee in the hosts’ lounge before Thursday’s show. “Someone
up there
has a very perverse sense of humor.”

“You could always complain to your buddy,” CeCe had laughed.

“What buddy?”

“The tall handsome one who moved into the big office on the second floor.” CeCe’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve seen him every morning this week, since I’ve been scheduled for the eight to eleven shift, and I must say, he is one fine sight first thing in the morning.”

Zoey, who had been thinking the same thing all week, groaned and said, “It wouldn’t help. I saw Ben yesterday and the first thing he said was how much he liked Tuesday’s show. That he never knew how
entertaining
it could be to watch someone fumble around in the kitchen—his words—and what a great sport I was for doing something I really didn’t like.” She slipped her sweater over her head and picked up her purse. “And besides, I couldn’t take advantage of our friendship that way. I couldn’t use Ben to influence the producers to give me only shows that I like. It wouldn’t be fair. Which is
not to say that I haven’t been tempted. But I couldn’t do it.”

CeCe watched, an amused grin on her face, as Zoey stuffed the latest batch of faxed-in recipes into her briefcase. “Light reading for the weekend?”

“For next Tuesday’s show, Ellen wants a main course, a salad, and a dessert this time.” She smiled devilishly. “Do you think I could get away with sneaking in the leftovers from my brother’s engagement party?”

“Probably not. Anyway, you’ll be too busy dazzling the boss to be thinking about food.”

“Now, where would you get the idea—” Zoey began to protest weakly.

“Well, you said that he had been invited to the party. And since he has watched at least one of your shows from the set every day this week—with the cutest little grin on his face, I might add—I just naturally assumed that—”

“Really?” Pleased, Zoey blushed. “Ben has been in the studio?”

“Every day. Didn’t you know?”

“I saw him yesterday when I was doing that clothing show, but that was the only time.”

“Every day, my little chef-meister,” CeCe assured her. “And besides, when I was at your house on Tuesday night, your black dress was hanging on the bedroom door.”

“So?” Zoey asked innocently.

“In the right hands, that dress could be a lethal weapon.”

Zoey laughed and swung her bag over her shoulder, heading toward the door.

“Hey, Zoe,” CeCe called to her. “Don’t make the same mistake I did with the cowboy.”

“What was that?”

“Don’t let this one skate away.”