"Golf," Julia answered as she steered onto a cobble-
( ? ) she thought. But no matter how much the game bored her, she couldn't deny the beauty of its stage. Sunlight glistened off ponds as daylight fought for its hold on the horizon. The plantation-style clubhouse looked like Tara itself, surrounded by manicured lawns. The whole world seemed Technicolor gorgeous as the valet held Julia's door and Lance came to stand beside her. She stopped for a moment, looking up at the wide portico stairs that, like Jack's beanstalk, led to another world—one designed for giants of industry, lazy trust-fund brats, and Georgias. A world where no matter how many bestsellers she wrote, Julia had never belonged.
That is, until she walked in on the arm of Lance Collins.
Climbing the stairs on the arm of a handsome man in a vintage tuxedo, Julia saw Sycamore Hills in an entirely different light. She felt the eyes of strangers on her, a feeling she knew, but the gazes somehow seemed different. These weren't the Don't I know her? or Isn't she famous? looks she'd been getting since Table for One debuted. They certainly weren't the What's wrong with her? looks she'd been getting for far longer. These were Oh, what a lovely couple looks, Julia was sure. She jerked her head, trying to see behind her, wondering if she was only standing in between those complimentary glances and the woman they were really for. But no, the only person back there was Archie Givens, a man whose children had once hired an attorney to keep him away from Ro-Ro.
We're the best-looking people in here, Julia thought, bolstered by the revelation. Of course, we're also forty years younger. . . . But she still couldn't help feeling like a Bond girl.
When she saw her least-favorite employee rushing toward them, Julia readied herself for the evening's ultimate test: This was a man who could make supermodels feel fat, and heads of state inferior. He screeched to a halt in front of them and, to Julia's amazement, smiled.
"Good evening, ma'am," he said to Julia. "Sir," he addressed Lance. "Welcome to Sycamore Hills. And whom will you be meeting this evening?" he asked, even though Julia knew he was well aware of who she was. Still, he held tight to his podium and his questions, refusing to let anyone or anything rip that power from his bony hands.
"We're the guests of Rosemary Willis," Julia told him, mustering a smile.
"Excellent," he said, his eyes scanning a list. "Table twenty-seven. Ma'am," he asked, "may I check your wrap?"
Julia looked at her emerald-green shoulder wrap. History told her never to surrender layers when entering the Sycamore Hills ballroom, because while Ro-Ro's crowd didn't believe in skimping on the curtains, they weren't about to turn up the heat. "No, thank you."
"Very well. Enjoy your evening." He ended the statement with a smile, not his usual look of scorn for Julia the dateless leper. Julia felt herself nearly floating toward the ballroom at the rear of the building through a corridor of twenty-foot ceilings and more crown molding than a palace, and she couldn't resist stealing a glance at Lance.
"So, what do you think?"
He let out a low whistle in response.
Since meeting Lance, Julia had covered the full range of emotions, from calm serenity to blinding panic, and now she felt herself looping around to giddy. A sudden burst of laughter shot out of her so fast that she threw her hand to her lips as if to catch the laugh and cram it back down her throat.
"What?" he said. "What is it?" He pulled his hands to his face and started wiping away nonexistent crumbs.
Another giggle from Julia.
"Stop laughing," he said.
But it was out of her control. "Look at us," she said between fits, as regally dressed older couples inched past them, pushing walkers and dragging oxygen tanks. "Would you look at us?" She held her hands away from her body so he could get the full effect. Then she leaned closer and said, "We're on the lam—in formal wear. I thought this kind of thing only happened on Days of Our Lives."
"Sweetheart, don't take this the wrong way," he said, a grin on his lips as he placed her hand through his arm and began steering her toward the ballroom, "but you're a little loopy."
"Maybe so," she said, "but at least I'm not wearing a dead man's tuxedo."
Actually, she was wearing an old bridesmaid dress, but the less Lance knew about that, the better.
The hallway widened as they reached four sets of double doors leading into the ballroom. A portrait hung on the wall of the circular room. Lance looked at the painting and then read from the placard beneath it: WALLIFORD "WALLY" WILLIS. Sycamore Hills President, I939-I94Z.
"So that's the famous Wally," he said, as if meeting a long-lost friend.
"Don't worry." She brushed the lapel of his jacket. "You look better in the tux."
Lance leaned forward and studied the painting of the great-uncle Julia never knew. She and Caroline had frequently wondered what Ro-Ro's favorite husband must have been like. Was he strong enough to stand up to her, or weak enough to let her win every fight? Looking at the painting, Julia realized she'd known the answer all along. Wally must have been strong—very strong. There were plenty of people who were willing to cave in to Ro-Ro, but few who were worthy opponents. Julia studied the sharp, lean man in the picture, and she realized he hadn't just been her great love, he'd been her great challenge and, for Ro-Ro, the two were cosmically linked.
"He died young," Lance said, gesturing to the bio that hung beside the frame.
Julia nodded. "They weren't married for very long, and they lived abroad most of that time. When they moved home, he spent most of his days here." She gestured at their opulent surroundings. "And then he suddenly died. I think she hates this place because of it."
Lance nodded. "My dad spent all his time away, too. Mymom hated him for it."
"Oh," Julia said. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize your father had passed away."
"He's hasn't," Lance told her. "But my parents divorcee and he dropped off the face of the earth. The man's still living^ But the father's dead."