Change of Life. Leigh Riker
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Nora didn’t mean the gorgeous new development at the shore, a few miles from Destin, and not far from the other planned community where Johnny owned a beach home. “You’ll be too far from the pharmacy,” she informed Leonard, “and the mall. And probably from the water.”
“I can practically walk from my kitchen into the Gulf.”
“I see,” Nora said again. If her life kept going this way, she wouldn’t need to worry about her presumed perimenopause. She’d have a stroke. “So you’ve gone behind my back, bought a marvelous new home—and Starr has great plans for it.” Nora couldn’t help the next words that came from her mouth, Maggie’s long-ago teachings aside. “Well, congratulations. When she fills the place with hideous pseudo pre-Columbian art and charges you a fortune, please don’t call me.”
Leonard sounded like a little boy. “Nora.”
She pressed her fingers to her forehead, easing the frown that wanted to form. Her latest Botox injections were supposed to be at their peak effect, and her forehead shouldn’t show a ripple, like the surface of an unused swimming pool in the sun.
She took a deep, steadying breath. “I’m hurt, Leonard.”
How could Starr steal her most lucrative and ever-present client? Just as she wanted to take Geneva Whitehouse? What would Nora do without Leonard? It seemed worse than her usual question: What to do with him? He had been the pain in her ribs for years, but she was, well…used to him. He had his gentler side, and until now a certain loyalty, although it wasn’t showing today.
“It’s a beautiful house,” he said in a soft, tempting tone.
And with that Nora realized she’d been played like a fine Stradivarius. Leonard had made the hackles rise on her neck, made her forget Mark Fingerhut.
She rubbed her imaginary frown. “You were trying to tempt me. The problem is, I’ve never provided estimates on your ‘projects’ before. If you can’t give me carte blanche this time, then by all means realign yourself with Starr Mulligan. I hope you won’t be sorry.”
Like a hermit crab, Leonard scuttled in his baggy khakis across the office to seize her hand. “Please, Nora. I do value your input.”
“I refuse to be manipulated.” She withdrew from his cold grasp. “I thought we were friends,” she added in a gently scolding tone and, ignoring his hangdog expression, ushered him out the door.
She knew Leonard’s taste in home decor. She would simply redo his new quarters in a month or two. For twice the price.
For the time being, she decided to let him squirm.
As for Starr, they would talk, all right. But there would be no truce.
By the time Nora got to Starr’s office, having needed an hour to gather herself after Leonard’s betrayal, she learned that Starr had left for the day. Disappointed, Nora drove to her last appointment in the very upscale Royal Palms subdivision on the outskirts of Destin. Ready to do some serious arm-twisting, she found the slim, almost petite Geneva Whitehouse waiting—but also, quite unexpectedly, Starr Mulligan.
Nora gritted her teeth, determined to keep her mouth shut until the right opportunity arose to confront Starr in private. Even her latest perfidy wouldn’t cause Nora to lose her cool. In grim silence, she trailed Geneva and Starr through the house, expressing the proper oohs and ahhs here and there over Geneva’s treasures. Geneva, who appeared to be the very epitome of the trophy wife, wanted a new showcase for several of her valuable collections, and Nora and Starr both offered their suggestions.
At a ceiling-high, antique glass-fronted cabinet in the wide hallway, which had a gleaming black walnut floor, Geneva paused.
Peering over her shoulder at the lighted étagère, Nora saw a large number of handblown glass bowls, perfume bottles, and paperweights. A vast amount of gold and silver mixed with crystal sparkled on every shelf. Nora identified Lalique, Orrefors, Waterford—and was that vintage Tiffany?—before her gaze caught on a stunning slender, heart-shaped vase that stood out from the rest.
“That is a gorgeous piece,” she murmured. “Very unusual.” The light struck and then ricocheted off the cobalt and ruby inside through a swirl of clear glass, creating a rainbow across the dark floor.
“Obviously expensive,” Starr said.
“Who’s counting?” Geneva smiled, showing a row of very white—and probably fully porcelain-crowned—teeth. Nora guessed she was in her early forties now, but everything about the woman appeared to be perfect, including her youth, or the illusion she had managed to sustain. “It was a present from my husband right before we became engaged,” Geneva told them with a loving smile. “His promise, he said then, of our future.”
“And you certainly have that,” Nora murmured.
Even so, this cabinet was a relatively minor possession. So was the vase, which Nora assumed held a more sentimental price tag. The rest of the house was a monument to expensive taste and extravagance, from the lush sofas with goose down cushions to the brushed nickel-framed paintings on the silk-papered walls. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on the redesign job. As soon as she got home, she would draw up her plans. Something a shade less traditional, she envisioned, a tad more lean and contemporary to complement the obvious bling that Geneva appeared to treasure.
Almost twitching, Nora waited until Geneva drifted off into the kitchen. Should she use cherry or alder wood for the new cabinetry? While she pondered the choices, Nora and Starr were alone for a moment, and Nora spoke her mind.
“How dare you?”
Starr arched an obviously waxed eyebrow. There wasn’t a stray hair, or even a hair on her head, out of place. Her bland expression didn’t alter, not even a blink. “I beg your pardon. Haven’t you heard of capitalism, free enterprise?”
Nora clenched her teeth. “In other words, it’s every woman for herself.”
“If you mean Leonard Hackett, we competed, you lost.”
“And you feel entitled to steal my clients from under my nose?”
In response, Starr looked pointedly at Nora’s beak. She’d never felt especially proud of her nose. A trifle too long, a bit narrow, it would appear in her mirror to be a classic slash of a blade, but with just a slight bump over the bridge. That might work on a man, on Johnny for example, or Heath Moran.
The thought of Heath gave her a twinge of regret. In spite of her best intentions, after Johnny and Savannah had left the other night Nora had given in and called him, needing some kind of affirmation that she was still a reasonably attractive woman. But Heath hadn’t answered his telephone. Maybe he had his reasons, and Heath had decided she was right about the difference in their ages.
Would Nora also inherit her mother’s flabby underarm gene, her spreading cellulite? She could already imagine her breasts becoming a sad ski slope under her raw linen blouse, which by now had turned into a mass of wrinkles.
“Starr, darling.” She repeated Starr’s word from the luncheon. “Let me give you some advice.”
“Unsolicited, as always?”
Nora smoothed her blouse. “I don’t know who scheduled these two meetings at the same time, but I can guess. Wasn’t Leonard enough? No,” she answered her own question, “you had to call Geneva, and when you learned I would see her today, you ‘dropped by’ a few minutes earlier. Of all the nerve. If I were you I’d make some polite excuse and leave.” She indicated Geneva, who was opening and closing the doors to the immense pantry only a few feet away. “You can put in your bid another day.”
“Another day and you’ll have contractors all over this place.”
“Just tell Geneva—”
“What? That I’m the better designer? Most of the Florida Panhandle already knows that.”
Nora