The Husband Lesson

Honestly. In her Louis Vuitton ballerina flats from the summer collection, did she really look like someone who enjoyed playing in dirt? “I hire lawn crews for all my properties.”

“Do you like children?”

They were getting warmer. “My best friend has two. I’ve taken her daughter into the city for shows and her son to see the Yankees play.”

“Okay, great.” Rhonda flipped through the folder again, this time scanning more closely. “I see here that you have a Masters in public relations from Van Cortlandt College. I did my graduate work there.”

Karan nodded. Not such a surprise. The Ivy League school was a popular draw to the area.

Well over a century ago, people had surged to Bluestone Mountain when miners had discovered feldspathic greywacke, the rare, dark blue sandstone that made her hometown a unique location, and a wealthy one. Now the area appealed to an elite and eclectic crowd because it lacked the commerciality of the nearby hamlets of Woodstock and Bearsville.

When most of the Catskill region had been earmarked as part of New York’s Forest Preserve, not all of that land was publicly owned. Private colleges like Van Cortlandt owned property along with people of means who wanted a fast escape from Manhattan. Precisely why she kept a home here.

Until she could talk to a real estate agent, that is.

Add another project to her list.

Rhonda closed the folder. “All right, Karan, let me mull on this a bit. I’m sure we can come up with the perfect something.”

“I hope so. We need exactly three-hundred and fifty-nine hours’ worth of perfect.”

“Trust me. You’ll be an asset to our program. I can feel it, and I’m big on trusting my feelings.”

It was hard not to like this woman. Even though that was the last thing Karan wanted to do with her court-appointed therapist. Especially a woman who worked closely with Charles.

“So let’s wrap this up for today,” Rhonda said. “I’d like you to keep a journal for your homework.”

“Keep a journal, as in writing?”

Rhonda nodded “You don’t have to share what you write. The journal will help you reflect on our discussions and give you a place to refer to when we talk again. Sound good?”

Not what Karan had expected, but it didn’t sound difficult. “Not a problem.”

“Great,” Rhonda said. “Please bring it with you. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. A spiral notebook will do the trick. I’ll give you a question after we talk. You’ll be in charge of remembering it.” She glanced at her desk with a wry smile. “I’ll write it down. I won’t be able to find it again.”

Karan did smile then. Rhonda must have gotten to be codirector of New Hope on sheer personality because she was clearly an organizational nightmare. Maybe Karan should refer her personal assistant, who was a positive genius at organizing.

She didn’t get a chance because Rhonda said, “I’d like you to reflect on what was different about that night. Okay?”

“Okay.” Karan would have plenty of time to reflect since she wouldn’t be driving anywhere until her next visit to New Hope.

CHAPTER FOUR

Karan’s Journal

What was different about that night?

THAT NIGHT WAS NOTHING SPECIAL from what I remember. No different than the thousand other parties I’ve attended. Great food. Even better conversation. I can always count on Brent to host a decent party, which is one of the reasons why he’s such a successful politician. I never even blinked while writing my check for five thousand dollars to his campaign. I’m sure most of his supporters don’t. Two terms in office, work on the Banking and Finance Committees—he’s more than proven his good sense and character.

And he has been a good friend. He ran interference when that busybody Ginger Downey commented on my solo arrival. Brent grabbed my hand and twirled me and announced how delighted he was that he’d get a chance to dance more with me. When he wasn’t dancing with Annette, of course.

Annette was so sweet when she caught me in the powder room to ask if I was okay. I wouldn’t have missed this party for the world. Only the most influential names were on the guest list. Mine, of course, had been one of the first.

Certainly well above Ginger Downey’s.

Now that I think about it, I was also excited about getting out. The past few months…well, I haven’t felt settled anywhere. When I’m in the city, I’m out-of-sorts because I miss my routine with Patrick. But I’m not settled in Connecticut, either. Being at the beach makes me feel as if I’m on vacation. I need to be rebuilding my life, establishing new routines.

That leaves Bluestone Mountain.

On the upside, I’m close to Susanna.

On the downside, I’m close to Mom, which is always a mixed bag. But she hasn’t been too difficult lately, so no complaints. I thought she might be going to Brent’s party because she likes the Inn at Laurel Lake—one of the few places around Bluestone she cares for—but she was in the city for another event.

I remember being excited. I made a special trip into the city to shop for evening wear and completely lucked out when I found the most darling Akris appliqué dress. I spent the better part of the day at Mill Hill Resort and Spa preparing for the night with the usual workout, massage, mani, pedi and facial.

I put my hair in a ponytail to show off the gorgeous tulle inset shoulders of the dress. I was excited, no question. More excited than I can remember being in quite some time. Since before Patrick left.

I can’t remember when things started to change, but somewhere between the Russian caviar, the Wagyu rib eye and the conversations with an A-list of local, state and federal officials, the sparkle of the night dulled. All the laughter and discussions about the cigarette tax and small business loans, all the reconnecting suddenly lost its appeal.

Maybe that was my first clue. After all the preparation, all the careful attention to detail, I wanted to leave long before the party had ended. I remember thinking that all the preparation felt like an enormous waste of time. I was bored at best, distracted at worst, and after asking Congressman Bruij to repeat his question not once but an appalling twice, I was more than ready to say my goodbyes and head home.

Yes, now that I think about it that definitely should have been my first sign of trouble.

But how could I leave until Brent made his announcement? I couldn’t. Ginger would have certainly drawn attention to my early departure and started up talk about how I was rebounding after my latest divorce—nosy woman. Now there’s someone who needs a hobby. Crocheting maybe, so she stays home and I won’t run into her as often at social events. But I absolutely refused to give her ammunition to use against me. Not to mention that leaving before the announcement would have been rude considering how Brent and Annette had gone out of their way to be nice.

No, even upon reflection, I really had no choice but to tough it out and pretend to be interested.

I suppose the Dom Perignon Rosé helped me do that.

One sip and I managed to nod in all the appropriate places whenever Judge Townsend stopped his soliloquy about the unique responsibilities of probate, adoptions and guardianships long enough to draw air.

Another sip and I directed leading questions to State Assemblywoman Whaley, who argued emphatically for the property tax cap and against an increase of income and excise taxes as an alternative to educational cuts.

I seem to have kept right on sipping, raising an almost-empty flute when Brent finally made his announcement. Then I kissed him and Annette and headed for the door.

My small misstep at the entrance was another sign of trouble. The doorman saved me from disaster, un ceremoniously hauling me upright when the heel of my slingback caught on the runner. I slipped entirely out of my shoe and was forced to cling to him to stay upright.

Of course he asked if he could call me a taxi. I recognized the code for: should you get behind the wheel?

It was one stupid glass of champagne. Besides, leaving my car wasn’t an option, not when Jessica’s husband was the general manager of the Inn. If he saw my Jaguar in his parking lot overnight, he’d tell Jessica, who would tell Marietta, who would tell Becca…and so on until every cheerleader who’d once been on my team would start the Bluestone gossip mill grinding.

Everyone would speculate about who I’d spent the night with. Or assume I’d had too much to drink. Then word would make its way back to my mother, who never missed anything that happened in this town. I did not want to get that phone call.

I produced my claim ticket and told the doorman I was fine to drive. He looked doubtful, but I just flashed him my most reassuring smile and told him the truth—only one glass of champagne.

I headed outside to wait, so the night air would help clear my head.

Why had I been looking forward to seeing all these people again? I couldn’t remember. I should have probably just sent Brent the check.