Enright Family Collection (97 page)

“Sit down, then, and I’ll pour you a cup.” She pointed to a small settee. “But you won’t have it until you introduce me to your lady friend, you ill-mannered young pup.”

“Mrs. Bridges, this is Zoey Enright.” He took Zoey’s hand. “Zoey, this is Mrs. Bridges.”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Zoey told her.

“Come sit here, miss”—Mrs. Bridges pulled a small lady’s chair forward and gestured to Zoey—“and leave
those two be. Heaven knows neither one of them’s fit company for a lady like you.”

Zoey sat in the chair without being told twice, sticking her tongue out at Ben as she did so.

“And you, sir, may sit there.” Mrs. Bridges indicated where Tony should sit.

Amused by and apparently accustomed to her dictatorial manner, Tony sat without protest.

“And where is Miss Sibyl?” Mrs. Bridges asked.

“I don’t think she was joining us. I think she’s working,” Tony told her.

“And your other guests?”

“Won’t arrive until this evening.”

Having established that there would be no more late arrivals, Mrs. Bridges poured the tea with little additional ceremony. She served the tea sandwiches, then left the room to return with a tray of scones fresh from the oven and a porcelain plate of fancy little tea cakes, which she set upon the table. With a wink in Ben’s direction, she left the room at a dignified, if someone slow, pace.

“Wow. She is something.” Zoey laughed.

“Runs Stowe Manor with an iron fist.” Tony grinned. “And I don’t know what I’d do without her. She keeps us all on track.”

“So, bring me up to date on all the news,” Ben said, and the two men slipped into a conversation filled with names that meant nothing to Zoey. She didn’t mind, however, having nibbled on watercress sandwiches and tiny confections before pouring herself another cup of tea, which she took out onto the verandah that ran across the back of the handsome country house.

Wait till I tell Mother.
She smiled to herself.
And Georgia—wait till she finds out that I met a real British earl. She should be so lucky—she has no social life anymore.
Thinking about Georgia’s lack of a life banished the smile from her face. She worried about her little sister and her total dedication to dancing.
What will happen to Georgia when the day comes that she can no longer dance? She has nothing else in her life that I can see. . . no real friends that I know of except for Lee Banyon.

Zoey followed the stone steps down to a path that led toward the grounds that spread out before her, sipping thoughtfully at her tea, wondering just how much company Lee was these days, having lost his longtime companion to AIDS a few months back.

The path led through a gate over which white roses spilled like gallons of paint from an endless can. Letting herself into the garden she wandered aimlessly, pleased to find that she recognized so many of the flowers that lined the beds and wound around the paths like rivers of color. She bent to touch a columbine of palest pink, a tall spike of deep rose veronica, a tumble of something magenta that grew from fat leaves of deep green.

“That’s geranium,” a voice from behind announced, “or did you know that?”

Zoey stood and turned. A slight young woman wearing slim black jeans and a cropped yellow T-shirt, large round framed glasses, and bare feet had come quietly into the garden.

“No. I wouldn’t have recognized it as geranium. The geraniums we have back home look nothing like that.”

“I thought they might be new to you, the way you were looking at them so curiously.” She stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Sibyl, Tony’s sister.”

“I’m Zoey Enright. I’m a friend of Ben Pierce’s.”

“Yes. I know. I just saw him inside. He and Tony are deep into conversation, so I thought you might like some company.”

“That was very thoughtful. Thank you.”

“Would you like a tour of the grounds while Tony and Ben discuss business? They’re apt to go at it for a while, what with the new engine on the boards and all.” Sibyl smiled. “You know.”

Actually, she didn’t know, but Zoey let it pass. She’d find out later. Right now, she wanted to get a closer look at that geranium. And those lavender-colored roses along the back fence were like nothing she’d ever seen.
Beyond the garden was another fountain, and a lake with water lilies and swans. There was lots to see here. Ben could have all the time he wanted with his old friend. It was a perfect late afternoon, a lovely time for a stroll through the grounds of an ancient estate in the English countryside.

“So, Sibyl, tell me all about Stowe Manor. . . .” Zoey smiled to herself, knowing that Delia would grill her for details once they arrived back home, and she’d better have the answers to all of the questions her mother was certain to ask.

*  *  *

The British Grand Prix has run on the Silverstone Circuit since 1948, and only seventeen times in all those years had the race been run on a track other than the former airfield in Northamptonshire. Over the years there have been modifications to the course, tightening this corner and lengthening that, adding a new complex of curves—a right-hand turn here, a double of left turns there, all efforts to slow the cars down.

“But I thought that the whole idea behind the Grand Prix was to go fast.” Zoey had said as Ben showed off the track upon their arrival early on Sunday morning. “To see who could go fastest, to win.”

“Well, the object is to win, certainly,” he had told her, “but there’s a strategy involved. Being fastest all the way around the track is more likely to get you to the morgue than the winners’ circle.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look, here.” He took her hand and walked her to the fence between the track and spectators’ area and pointed across the track. “There’s a series of curves there—they’re called, for the record, Bridge, Priory, and Luffield—”

“They give names to the curves on the track?”

“Yes. Now, picture, if you can, coming into that first curve at, oh, let’s say, one hundred and twenty miles an hour, then moving into Priory without slowing down.”

Her jaw dropped contemplating it. “You’d die.”

“Highly probable. But if you reduce the speed, you lessen the chance of a crash. There are far too many vehicles on the track during a race to risk the kind of accident that can result from driving at too high a speed for a sustained period of time. So they have modified the circuits to force the drivers to drive a smarter, more thoughtful race. You have to time your stops more carefully, you have to maneuver more intelligently.”

“And here I was thinking it was merely a pedal to the metal game,” she mused.

“I think that’s what most people believe.” He tugged at her arm. “Let’s catch up with Tony, Zoey. I see someone he’s been wanting to talk with.”

Zoey smiled a smile she didn’t really feel. If Ben took off with Tony, that would mean that she would get stuck playing buddy-buddy with Tony’s date for the weekend, Greta, a Dutch model whose only real interest appeared to be keeping track of how many times her picture was taken and whether or not anyone else in the crowd was wearing the same hat. Zoey figured the hat—being black and white straw sporting a blood red feather flat across the brim—to be one of a kind, and found herself shrugging indifferently every time Greta asked, in her thick accent, “Did he just take my picture? Was my mouth open? Is my makeup all right?” which seemed to be the outer limits as far as her command of the language was concerned.

Zoey strolled through the well-dressed crowd, marveling at the number of beautiful young women, all fashionably attired, in attendance. She had recognized several high-fashion models, a number of movie actors and musicians, and several international celebrities.
Mom would get a kick out of this,
she mused as she passed a group that included Meryl Webb, a British actress who had starred in the film version of one of Delia’s books, and several aging stage actors whose names Zoey could not recall. She wandered back to where she had last seen Ben, only to find him deep in conversation with Tony and an older man who appeared to be drawing some sort
of diagram on a small notepad.
I wonder what all that is about,
Zoey thought as she walked toward him, trailed by Greta, who was keeping an ever watchful eye out for the press.

At her approach the older man smiled and closed the notebook, gesturing toward Tony as he slid the slim leather book into his pocket.

“Ladies.” he smiled gallantly.

Tony made the introductions. “Zoey, Greta, this is an old friend of Ben’s and mine, Darryl Beckett. Darryl used to design for Ferrari.”

“And who do you design for now, Mr. Beckett?” Zoey had asked.

Beckett smiled broadly. “A new company. One you will, undoubtedly, be hearing a great deal about in the near future.” To Ben and Tony he said, “I’ll have that chat with Nigel Vale, gentlemen, and I’ll get back to you within the week with his decision. Ladies, it’s been a pleasure.” He tipped his hat and disappeared into the crowd.

Ben and Tony exchanged a look of satisfaction, and Zoey couldn’t help but think that there was more going on than just old friends catching up on old news. A shot of apprehension shot through her.

“It’s almost time for the drivers to come onto the track,” Ben said, taking her elbow. “Let’s get some good fence position, and I’ll tell you who’s who and what to watch for during the race.”

The overwhelming impression that Zoey took away with her from Silverstone was that car racing had to be the loudest sport on the face of the earth. Long after they had left the track, she could still hear the high-pitched whine of the engines as they streaked past in a blur, one amazing, incredible machine after another.

“I guess you really have to be familiar with the sport to be able to follow the strategy,” she remarked later to Ben as they strolled into a tent that had been set up on the grounds for an after-race meet-and-greet. “I guess you have to know what to look for. Everyone’s talking about
the winner having driven a brilliant race, but it still just looked like a lot of fast driving to me.”

Ben laughed. “The winner—Jacques Villeneuve is his name, by the way, he’s Canadian—drove smart, but he got a bit of luck there, too, when Michael Schumacher’s wheel bearing failed and forced him out. That Ferrari was a big favorite coming into the race.”

Ben seemed to know almost everyone in the crowd, and was greeted with welcoming slaps on the back from the men and kisses from—to Zoey’s mind—far too many women, who all seemed to have names like Ursula and Luciana and Astrid and who wore dresses that were Spandex versions of what might pass for a tank top in the States. Waiters in summer white passed silver trays of champagne and spring water and delicate sandwiches of watercress and cucumber. Wondering what Mrs. Bridges would have to say about the propriety of serving bubbly with tea sandwiches and all the while watching the posing and preening of the women—and some of the men, she did not fail to notice—Zoey wandered a bit through the crowd of drivers and celebrities and politicians, all of whom appeared to know each other well.

Tony touched her shoulder. “So, what did you think of your first Grand Prix?”

“It was loud.” She laughed. “But exciting.”

“Yes, to both.” He gave her a pat on the small of her back and stopped a waiter, asking Zoey, “Champagne, or perhaps some of that sparkling water you Americans seem to like so much?”

“Water would be fine, thank you.” She sipped gratefully for a moment, the warm English morning having eased into a hot English afternoon.

“Is this your first time in England?”

“No, I’ve been several times before, a few times with my mother, twice with my sister.”

“Ah, right. Ben told me that your mother was a writer. And that you are a celebrity in your own right back in America. We don’t get Ben’s television channel here, though Mrs. Bridges was working on him after breakfast.
She rather fancies the idea of seeing the latest merchandise without having to leave her apartment to do so.”

She nodded. “It’s an interesting concept.”

“Ben seems keen on it. Of course, we do know that Ben’s keen on you, as well. And I can’t say that I blame him. You’re a delightful woman, Zoey Enright. Are there more like you at home?”

She laughed. “Actually, I have a sister”—she corrected herself—
“two
sisters.”

“And you left them both at home?” He appeared crushed.

“Left who at home?” Ben joined them.

“Zoey was just telling me that she has two sisters.”

“Two beautiful sisters,” Ben told him. “And the older sister—probably just your age, Tony—looks a great deal like Zoey.”

“Dark hair, gorgeous face and smile, long legs . . .” Tony pondered the possibilities.

“That would be Laura,” Ben told him.

“And you left her behind?”

“I thought perhaps it would be safer, with Greta on the prowl. Nope, if you want to meet the fair Laura, you’ll just have to travel to Maryland, Tony.”

“Hmmm. Maryland, you say? I believe we have a cousin who lives in Virginia. Maryland is not beyond the realm of possibilities. And for someone who looks like your Zoey, it would be worth the trip.” He grinned. “After we get Chapman-Pierce off and running, of course.”

“Chapman-Pierce?” Zoey’s eyebrows rose.

“Oh, surely Ben’s told you about the company we’re starting?” Tony patted Ben on the back, and Ben appeared to sputter. “To build engines?”

“Ah, Zoey, remember I told you that Tony and I had talked about going into business together.”

“I remember you mentioning it in an offhand sort of manner. I don’t remember you saying that there was a company.” Her stomach turned. She did not like the sound of this.

“We have the design for an engine that will be so technologically innovative, everyone will want one,” Tony whispered in her ear. “We’re working on something that will keep the engine cool at speeds up to two hundred miles per hour.”

“Well, that does sound like something everyone will want to have.” Zoey tried to be light, all the while watching Ben’s face. “And what role will the Pierce, of Chapman-Pierce, be playing?”

“Ben will be setting up the business from the ground floor.”