Sea Blue Beach was home.
She’d get back there once she got on her feet, dealt with Xander, and landed the CCW job. By then, Matt would be back in Hollywood.
Kicking off the covers and getting out of bed, Harlow slipped into her cut-off sweats and ratty T-shirt with a glance at her old homework desk. A fragrant and stunning bouquet of roses arrived Friday morning from Xander with a handwritten note.
Roses are red, violets are blue, I might be rich, but I’m so poor without you.
His corny little ditty dripped with his signature sincerity. He’d always been self-deprecating about his wealth, careful to realize his privilege came from the hard work of his ancestors.
To her relief, the stir from Matt’s faux pas on Letterman died down rather quickly. There were a few clips on entertainment news and stories in the tabloids but not much else. Mom wondered if Xander had something to do with it, but Harlow surmised even the heir of American aristocrats didn’t have that sort of clout.
He’d called Friday night, and they talked for an hour.
“People seem to accept Davina and I areover, and I’m still in love with you. Have youthought any more about us?”
“Not much, no. Now thatMatt told the world my story, can you answer why you locked me out of the penthouse without a word,Xander? Why you wouldn’t take my calls? Why I learned you were back with Davina onEntertainment Tonight?”
“Itold you, I don’t know that Xander Cole. But,darling, I’ll spend my life making it up to you. And you and I did talk eventually.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”Harlow felt as if she channeled a bit of Tuesday’s courage.“You’re a forty-four-year-old man, Xander, in command of your ownperson. You treated me like an enemy.”
“Fair enough, fairenough. I’ve no excuse. But I’m all in, Harlow. I’ll do whatever it takes to win youback.”
When they hung up, she thought of Matt. His apology. His expression as she left the Starlight. So genuine and unassuming. For the first time since she met Xander, his sincerity didn’t seem as pure as she remembered.
Mom caught her daydreaming several times, and her Yoda-like senses suspected something amiss, worried something might topple her goal of seeing Harlow back on top of the modeling game.
Saturday morning, Harlow braved the scale. She was down ten pounds from the big green machine at Biggs. With Mom’s hovering, she knew she’d keep on track.
Saturday afternoon, she joined Dad for lunch at the cookie plant. They had an invigorating discussion about the business book he’d sent to her.
“With your name and reputation,you could start a business, build your own brand in cosmetics or fashion,”he said.
“So you’re telling meI have options.”
“You have options.”
“Harlow?” Mom came in as Harlow tied on her running shoes. “We’re off to the club. Do you want to come?”
“Mr. Fernsby banned me in 1975.”
“I don’t think that still stands.” Mom walked over to inspect the roses, and Dad leaned against the doorframe. “Fernsby would be groveling at your feet if you showed up.”
“Probably not.”
Her hook shot on the ninth hole a dozen years ago had sailed over the sand trap and landed smack-dab on the middle of Stu Willingham’s bald head. Of course he made a big stink and threatened to sue—who and for what no one knew—but the club acquiesced. Harlow was banned.
However, to this day, the shot was legend, and no matter how much Stu complained, it was part of club lore.
“Nonsense. You’re the Harlow Hayes.”
“Oh yes, my free pass in life. Mom, I’m sleeping in my teenage bedroom. Not the image most people have oftheHarlow Hayes.”
“It’s a step up from sleeping on couches all over Manhattan.” Mom straightened the edge of Harlow’s covers.
“But not my own place in Sea Blue Beach.”
“You had to get away from that monster.”
