Call To Honor

“It was a deadly bore. Same people, same drama. I’m pretty sure it was even the same food as Monique’s last gala. The woman is tapping people for a thousand dollars a plate—you’d think she’d try a new recipe or two.”

While Harper shredded sharp cheddar over the golden crust for the quiche, Andi regaled her with wickedly disparaging tales of the rich and famous.

“So there he is, this big shot banking CEO, in the coat closet with his pants around his ankles and his hands down the front of this woman’s dress. His sister-in-law, it turns out. But does Monique care about the scandal? About a dozen guests seeing her closet used for an upright quickie? Of course not.” Andi paused to sip her water, then gave Harper an eye roll. “Monique’s only concern was whether they’d wrinkled the coats they were doing it against. To which the CEO responded in a dismissive tone, if her guests didn’t have enough class to wear quality, they deserved a few wrinkles.”

“He didn’t.” Harper laughed, entertained as always by the adventures of the rich and spoiled.

“He did,” Andi assured her as she helped herself to more water. “And even that couldn’t liven up that snoozefest of a party.”

“You sound so jaded.”

“Sweetie, I am jaded.”

“No. You’re bored. You need a project. Actually, you need a career. But since you won’t do that, you really should find a project.”

“Not won’t. Can’t,” Andi corrected meticulously, her fingers tapping a quick beat on the counter. “Any income I bring in will impact my divorce settlement. That weasel cheated on me enough while we were married. I refuse to allow him to cheat me out of anything else.”

Harper couldn’t blame her. Matt was a complete dog. The jerk had been caught with his pants down twice in less than a year of saying his vows. Harper wasn’t sure if that betrayal had damaged Andi’s heart, but she knew it’d done serious damage to her confidence. For that alone, Harper believed he should pay.

Something Andi was doing her best to ensure. But it’d already been eight months and was looking like it’d be at least a year more before they settled. Doing nothing for that long would drive Harper crazy.

Still, Harper couldn’t complain. Not when the divorce settlement was the reason she was living in this gorgeous house with a huge kitchen.

Since she’d gained control of the California properties three months ago, Andi had rented the place to Harper for a quarter of its worth. If not for that, there was no way Harper could have afforded a house in the exclusive Santa Barbara neighborhood.

Oh, sure, over the last three years, Harper had made a strong name for herself as a visionary interior designer. But last year she’d risked it all—her savings, her security and, sometimes she thought, her sanity—when she’d left Lalique to go it alone. But she was making it work. Homes by Harper had an exclusive client list, a sterling reputation and a solid portfolio.

Most people had no idea that beneath her sophisticated demeanor, Harper was obsessed with saving for her son’s college fund, worried about being a year behind on her career goals and often frantic trying to be a good mom, raise her son to be a better man than what he’d come from and still find time to polish her nails.

Whenever she thought about trying to juggle it all, she remembered living on welfare, wearing church-donated hand-me-downs because her mom couldn’t afford to both feed and clothe her only child, and finding the safest route home from school in a neighborhood where drive-by shootings were simply shrugged off.

And that, she decided as she sprinkled more cheese over the vegetable mixture, was the only use she had for her past. As a yardstick for how far she’d come.

“I’m pretty sure you’re the first person to actually cook in this kitchen,” Andi observed, her words muffled through a mouthful of the apple she’d finally given in to.

“Now, that’s a crime against kitchens.” Harper broke a dozen or so eggs into a thick pottery bowl, added cream, then with a careless shake of a few spices, whipped it together. “I can’t believe you lived in this house for two years and never cooked.”

“I’d lived in various other places twenty-six years before that and didn’t cook in any of them, either.” Andi looked around the rich, airy space with its touches of red pottery, midnight-blue fabrics and cozy eating nook. Three low-backed stools bellied up to the sleek island with its prep sink and marble top. When Andi had lived here, that island was often decorated with fresh flowers or, more often, caterers’ supplies. Now it held a blown glass bowl in bleeding greens that contrasted sharply with the bright red apples.

“You suit the kitchen, this house, much better than I ever did,” Andi said with an easy shrug. “Not only because you decorated it. For all your sophistication, you fit in suburbia. As much as I tried, I never could.”

“You’re definitely more comfortable downtown than you were here. And your penthouse is a better showcase for your personal style.”

“The penthouse is closer to the dating scene,” Andi corrected with another casual shrug at odds with the discontented look in her eyes. “Speaking of dating...”

“We were talking about decorating, not dating.”

“Then let’s change the subject.” Andi leaned her elbows on the counter and propped her chin in her hand, still munching the apple. “You need to start dating.”

“I’ve dated.”

“When was the last time?” Andi challenged.

Harper had to think about that.

“Sometime late last year, since I wore my black knee-length boots and that gorgeous three-quarter-length peacoat I got on sale at Nordstrom.”

That Andi didn’t question that Harper filed her memories according to outfits was just one of the reasons they were such good friends.

“Did that date end in sex?” Andi inquired.

“No. It ended in the stomach flu.”

“The guy gave you the flu on a date?”

Laughing at Andi’s confused expression, Harper shook her head.

“Not quite. The babysitter called while we were finishing the entrée to tell me that Nathan was throwing up. End of date.”

Nothing came before her son. Not men, not work, not even her own memories.

“Obviously it’s time to step up your dating life. I’ve got some ideas on that.”

“Why don’t we work on your dating life instead? Or better yet, what do you think about adding a fountain to your foyer? Something in metal. I saw a gorgeous piece last week at one of the art galleries.”

“Really? What form? Colored metal or brass? No, wait.” She threw up one hand and scowled. “Don’t do that. Don’t distract me with pretties.”

“But if we talk about decorating, we’re both happy and both get something we want,” Harper pointed out, getting cranberry and passion fruit juices and the seltzer out of the fridge. “If we talk about dating, you end up frustrated and I get a headache. Why should we do that to ourselves?”

“The real question is, why would you do this to yourself? At least I’m trying to get back out there. But you? You’re a gorgeous, vital, interesting woman. And you’re cutting yourself off from the opposite sex. You need to get out there, live it up.”

“I’ve hardly cut myself off from the opposite sex. I date when I feel like it. I have a member of the male species living with me. And I deal with male clients, designers and contractors all the time.”

“Your son doesn’t count, nor do business relationships. I’m talking about the possibility of sex, Harper. Something every woman needs in order to be healthy, energized and sane.”

Harper’s lips twitched. Poor thing sounded as frustrated as if it were she who was going on eight years without doing the deed. She probably shouldn’t have shared that sad little truth, but she’d been trying to comfort her friend over a bottle of wine while Andi lamented her eight sexless months. If nothing else, the revelation had shocked Andi out of her funk and into a frenzy to ensure she didn’t end up in the same dry spell.

“I’m doing okay without it.” Before Andi could argue that okay wasn’t enough—after all, they’d had this conversation so many times, Harper could recite it in her sleep—she gave her friend a sad shrug. “I really am. I’ve heard that some people simply aren’t very sexual. Maybe I’m one of them.”

Pretending her best friend wasn’t looking as if she’d just punched her in her perfectly toned belly, Harper set the ingredients aside and leaned her own elbows on the bar, resting her chin on her fists.

“I don’t miss it. The few times I have wondered if maybe I should, I think about everything that’d have to be done to actually have sex. And it’s just not worth it.”

“What’s to be done? Find a hot guy. Do the deed.”

Harper rolled her eyes.

“Sex requires knowing the guy, which requires more than three dates, which means being away from Nathan. That requires a babysitter, which until recently, was a luxury I couldn’t justify. Now that I can, I find I don’t really want to.” Harper straightened. “It’s just not worth the trouble. Or the risks.”