666 Park Avenue (7 page)

Chapter Eleven

“H
as
L
ynne
D
oran arrived yet?
” J
ane asked 21
C
lub’s host
ess. The restaurant was old and dark, and very English in feel. A bizarre ceramic jockey, similar to the ones lining the fence outside, stared forebodingly at Jane as if it were warning her away.

That’s silly,
Jane told herself—and the jockey—firmly.
Lynne’s been niceness itself.
But on the short ride down to 52nd Street, her high from Pamela’s unexpected phone call had pretty much evaporated as she had begun to catalog the myriad ways that she could screw up a one-on-one lunch—accidentally answering an unspoken question, knocking the next table over, causing a freak power outage. Nothing like starting off the mother-in-law–daughter-in-law relationship with an actual bang. And that wasn’t even counting all of the nonmagical ways that she could screw things up: mentioning exes, bringing up religion, raving about the wrong restaurants, designers, celebrities, politicians. Asking about Annette.

“Follow me please,” the petite brunette hostess told Jane, tucking a menu under her arm and escorting her to a prime table right by the window. Lynne’s brown hair was loose around her shoulders as it had been the night before, but she had traded her cashmere ensemble for a crisp pink button-down. Her taupe shoes and clutch coordinated in an understated way, and Jane was fairly sure that they were both Ferragamo. Her sapphire earrings were the size of walnuts.

“Oh good, you’re here, Jane,” Mrs. Doran said brightly, folding her hands lightly on her lap. Beside her was a stack of magazines—
Martha Stewart Weddings
,
Brides
,
New York
magazine’s wedding issue, and even the Monique Lhuillier lookbook.

Alarm bells went off in Jane’s head and she felt a sudden impulse to beg the hostess to rescue her, but the girl had already retreated back to her post. With no escape plan in sight, Jane sank into the wooden chair opposite Lynne, trying not to notice that it looked as though a wedding planner had exploded on the tablecloth.

Lynne’s perfectly manicured nails beckoned to a white-clad waiter. “We’ll both take Caesar salads and the sole”—she glanced thoughtfully at Jane’s hips for the briefest moment—“grilled, I think. Dressing on the side.
Everything
on the side. Thank you!”

The waiter disappeared almost before Jane could open her mouth, but it stayed open in shock all the same.

“You do
like
sole, don’t you, dear?” Lynne’s eyes were dark, like Malcolm’s, but the color was somehow less warm, less liquid. “It’s something of a specialty here.”

“Sole is fine, thank you,” Jane replied dutifully. Eyeing the magazines, she guessed that there would be plenty of battles ahead to choose from—grilled fish wouldn’t even make the top twenty.

“How did you sleep, dear?” Lynne went on, barely acknowledging the response. “Are you settling in all right?”

“I think so,” Jane offered timidly. “Thanks again for welcoming me into your home.”

“Malcolm told me about your grandmother.” Lynne patted Jane’s hand sympathetically, giving her a conversation whiplash. “Such a shame. How are you holding up?”

“Oh, fine thanks.” Mrs. Doran’s hand lingered on Jane’s fingers for the briefest of moments. Jane stiffened, bracing herself for a flash of Lynne’s thoughts at the contact, but none came.
Thank God.
A teeny part of her dared to dream that she’d left her magic behind when she’d left France.
It could be an Old World European thing. Why not?

“Have you made any plans for the day?” Lynne asked solicitously, releasing her hand. A woman in hot-pink wedged boots walked past their window, wrangling four poufy Pomeranians. “That’s Topsy Donovan.” Lynne leaned forward conspiratorially. “She claims her daughter married an Italian count, but I have it on good authority that he’s actually a dry cleaner out in Queens.”

“Oh.” Jane blinked. “I do have plans this afternoon, actually,” she replied after a moment, deciding to stay with the safer topic. She doubted a granddaughter of a reclusive witch ranked much higher on the social scale than a dry cleaner. “I was really hoping to hit the ground running and build my life here as quickly as possible.”
And not look like
such
a gold-digger, in case this is where the conversation is going.
“So I have an interview this afternoon with Conran and Associates down on West Fourth Street. It’s a small firm, but they’re doing some really innovative things in the . . .” She trailed off, uncomfortable. Lynne’s dark eyes were wide as saucers and she was staring at Jane in apparent horror. “I—I’m sorry,” Jane stammered. “Is something wrong?”

“You mean a
job interview
?” The peach-lipsticked mouth gaped. “Why on earth would you want a
job
?”

Jane floundered. She’d assumed Malcolm’s family would be
thrilled
that she wanted to continue working. She had half-expected them to insist on it, along with an eighty-page prenup that Lynne probably had stuffed in her little taupe clutch.

“I like architecture,” Jane heard herself say softly, and cleared her throat. “I love being an architect,” she announced more firmly.
There. That’s better.

Lynne continued to stare at her until the waiter reappeared with two dainty porcelain plates of Caesar salad. Without sparing a glance in his direction, Lynne reached out one French-manicured hand, and the waiter deftly slid a plate of lemon quarters under it just in time. As Lynne began to squeeze the juices onto her salad, a subtle whiff of anchovies mixed with her confusion, making Jane feel faintly nauseated.

“Jane, dear, I don’t think you fully understand the amount of time, work, and commitment that being a part of this family requires.” Lynne’s voice was soft, almost hypnotic. “Just think of the wedding alone—you simply won’t have time for anything else until that’s done with. And even then, you’ll be busy with charity work, social events, networking . . . Malcolm has his art hobby on the side, but his
real
job—his first obligation and top priority—is the business of being a Doran. And I fully expect that, devoted as you are to my son, it will be yours, too.”

The words “being a Doran” bounced hollowly around in Jane’s head as she pushed a piece of romaine around her plate with her fork. She hadn’t thought yet about changing her name. She had actually never known what her father’s last name was. Her birth certificate and passport said Boyle, and her grandmother had always pointedly ignored the question.

Jane bit absently into a lemon wedge. The tartness puckered her lips, and her heart turned at the thought that Gran would never get to meet her new family. She would probably have loved Lynne’s womyn-power family tree. Or, given their extreme social differences, perhaps the two matriarchs would have fought to the death. That possibility seemed a little more likely: the world couldn’t be big enough for two such formidable women.

“Well I am committed to that, obviously,” Jane began, “but—”

“Lovely,” said Lynne, looking pleased, as if Jane had signed some kind of contract. “And that starts with the wedding, which, given our position, will be the event of the season. Now, I know that a lot of girls buy into the whole ‘June bride’ thing, but God knows you won’t want to be
showing
on your wedding day. So I think a March—”

“Mrs. Doran!” Jane gasped, too shocked to care about interrupting. “You think I’m
pregnant
?”

Lynne shrugged. “It’s ‘Lynne,’ dear. And I do know my son, Jane, and if you’re not now, it certainly won’t be long.” The peach lips curled up in such a knowing way that Jane’s jaw fell open. Jane tried briefly to form a response, but she couldn’t think of a single civil answer to such a horrifyingly inappropriate remark.

“So,” Lynne snapped, apparently satisfied that Jane wasn’t going to put up a fight. “
Early
March, then, because anything delivered less than eight months later is just plain tacky. Now.” She shuffled through one of the stacks of magazines. “Let’s talk flowers.”

“Calla—”

But before she could get the “lilies” out, Lynne was off on a tear about Chrisobel Santos’s orchids versus the “carpet of roses” that Twig & Vine had managed to create on the ceiling at Blake and Laura’s wedding.

“. . . which may sound like overkill but it was really just the loveliest effect because it positively
rained
petals all evening . . .”

Jane closed her eyes against the resurgence of nausea. Maybe she
was
pregnant. Or perhaps she was just allergic to her soon-to-be mother-in-law. What had happened to the warm, understated Lynne of the previous night?

Jane tried not to think about the fact that she’d spent the last six years of her life trying to get away from someone who controlled her every move. But then the conversation turned to dresses.

“Now I know Vera Wang is the first thought for most people, but really, I’ve never thought anyone over a size two should even bother.” Lynne pushed the stack of magazines at Jane. “Do take a look. I’ve folded down some pages and we can get an appointment to try on anything you like.”

January’s
Manhattan Bride
fell open to reveal a hoop-skirted, lace-covered confection, and Jane felt air hiss out from between her teeth. She took a shuddering breath, trying to stay diplomatic. “That’s really beautiful, but I actually was picturing a more . . . modern gown.”

She began flipping through the pages, looking for an example of what she meant, but there didn’t seem to be anything that couldn’t have moonlighted as a costume in
Marie Antoinette
. Everything had at least seven layers of netting, some sort of boning up top, and yards upon yards of bows and ribbons. “Something with cleaner lines,” she added, flipping faster. “Maybe an empire waist, or even a sheath style.”

Lynne waved her hand dismissively. “Honestly, dear, you really won’t want anything too
contemporary
—your pictures would look dated two hours after the reception’s done.” Her mouth softened a bit. “It must be so sad not to have your own mother to share all of this with, but you know, I always dreamed of having a daughter who would grow up and be . . .”

She trailed off. A few tables over, a pair of red-faced men laughed riotously at some joke. Two blond girls who looked like sisters leaned over a different table, gossiping and comparing manicures. For a horrible moment, Jane thought that Lynne might start crying.

Jane closed her eyes, silently chastising herself for resenting a woman who had lost her only daughter. She didn’t care that much about the wedding itself—she cared about whom she was marrying. And as for the few things she
did
care about—like her dress and having a job—she would just have to get sneaky.

She snapped her eyes open and smiled innocently. “Lynne, I feel so lucky that you’re so willing to help, especially since you have such exceptional taste,” she said. “I’m just so grateful because I could definitely use some guidance.”

Lynne beamed, and Jane chose her next words even more carefully. “In fact, it makes me feel so at ease with the planning that I’m confident that a job—one with reasonable hours, of course—won’t get in the way at all. If I had to work out every single detail of the wedding from scratch it would be one thing. But I clearly have such wonderful help.” She resisted the temptation to bat her eyelashes; that would probably be overdoing it.

Lynne speared a stalk of asparagus rather viciously, but her forehead remained smooth and unconcerned.
Pick your battle,
Jane silently urged her, suddenly wishing that mind control were one of her powers.
Which one do you want more?

Lynne deftly maneuvered the fork into her mouth without ever looking away from Jane. Their eye contact felt so intense that Jane half-expected beads of sweat to break out on her forehead. It seemed as though Lynne’s irises were growing, filling with blackness like stormy waters into which a squid had emitted ink. Lynne blinked, and the black disappeared—if it had never been there at all. Jane rubbed her temples. Damned jet lag.

“Well, if you think you can handle it,” Lynne said, looking the picture of a concerned mother. “I just want you to be happy.”

“Perfect,” Jane said, trying not to sound giddy. “I should actually get going, but maybe later this afternoon we could talk about the location of the ceremony?”

Lynne nodded. “That sounds lovely. And I have a list of caterers at home. We should review it as soon as possible.”

“Tonight,” Jane promised.
See? We can get along just fine.
“And thank you. For the help, and for lunch, and for just being so . . . welcoming.” She smiled. “I really couldn’t have wished for a kinder family to marry into.”

Lynne’s peach smile was wide and sincere-looking. “We’re so happy to have you. Now run along—you wouldn’t want to be late.”

You don’t need to tell me twice,
Jane thought. She air-kissed Lynne good-bye, then pushed her way out onto the bustling street.