Free The Love Season by Elin Hilderbrand Page B

dollars—and everything was fine. Renata, over the years and despite her best intentions, had sensed herself about to overreact in the same embarrassing way. The scene downstairs in the kitchen, for example. What if Miles had walked in and seen her throw a banana and break the vase? How to explain that? I’m angry about Suzanne’s list . It was just a list , just a collection of thoughts, of good, generous intentions, which now sat crumpled on the side of the guest bathroom’s sink, the words blurring in the shower steam.
    And yet something about the list bugged her.
    Renata dried off, moisturized, and slipped into her bikini. She wanted to have a swim and lie on the small beach in front of the house until it was time for lunch. But first she sat on the guest room bed—which had, miraculously, been made. ( Made? Renata thought. She hadn’t bothered. Oh, maid. Nicole .) Renata yearned for Action, who at that very moment would be doing what? Canoeing down a cold river? Gently dabbing calamine lotion on a camper’s mosquito bites? Action would be able to deconstruct Suzanne Driscoll’s list; she’d turn it into mincemeat, intodust. She would render it meaningless. Either that or she would become indignant; she would put Renata’s outburst to shame with her ranting and raving. Who does that woman think she is? The Sherry Netherland? Bonsai trees? Action was unpredictable—at once both passionate and unflappable, always smart, always funny, always exciting. Would Action Colpeter feel comfortable in this house? Would she be welcome in this house? Renata seethed with guilt. Her own best friend didn’t know about her engagement. Renata had tried to call her the second she got home from Lespinasse, the ring burning on her finger, but when Action’s cell phone rang Major had answered. Action’s cell phone had been left behind in her parents’ brownstone on Bleecker Street. And so Renata was stuck with her guilt. The one person who should know about her engagement—who should have known before everyone else—didn’t.
    Or no, not the one person. One of two people.
    Renata fished her cell phone out of her bag, stared at it for a few long seconds, then dialed her father.
    She was so nervous she thought she might gag. This was, most definitely, not in the game plan that she and Cade had devised. They had planned to tell Daniel Knox of their impending nuptials together, in person, in Manhattan—on their turf, either over cocktails at “the little place” that now belonged to Cade on East Seventy-third Street or at a dinner that Cade would pay for, in a restaurant that Cade would select.
    It doesn’t matter how we tell him , Renata said. He’s going to say no. He’ll forbid it .
    Don’t be silly , Cade said. Your father loves you. If you tell him you want to get married, he’ll be happy for you .
    Renata was tempted to inform Cade of just how wrong he was, but Cade was a born diplomat. He accepted everyone’s point of view, andthen, by virtue of his patience and tolerance and goodwill, he inevitably won everyone over to his side. But not this time.
    Still, Renata had agreed to wait. She was relieved that telling Daniel would be left until the last possible minute and that Cade would be the one to break the news. Renata couldn’t pinpoint what was making her press the issue on her father now. Was it Suzanne’s list or a general sense of propriety? Either way, her father needed to know.
    Daniel Knox picked up after the first ring. Eleven o’clock on a gorgeous summer Saturday: Renata felt dismayed that he was at home. He would be alone, working, or catching up on Newsweek , when he should be at a Yankee game, or playing golf.
    “Daddy?”
    “Honey?” he said. “Is everything okay?”
    “Everything’s great!” Renata said. She wished she were wearing clothes. She felt exposed in her bikini. “I’m on Nantucket. At the Driscolls’. It’s sunny.”
    “You’re having fun?”
    “Yep. I ran down to the Beach