Rosalind strode into the teashop, not actually expecting Summer to show up to their previously arranged date.
But she was there, at their usual table by the window. She stared outside, her brow furrowed as though she had a lot on her mind.
No kidding. Shaking her head, Rosalind made a beeline and sat down.
"Rosalind." Summer sat up straight. "I didn't think you'd come today."
"I didn't think so either. Summer."
The woman grimaced.
"But we already set up this date to show you your wedding dress, so here." Rosalind drew out the portfolio from her purse and set it in the middle of the table.
Summer stared at it, blinking as though she didn't know what to make of it.
Rosalind waved away the waitress before looking at her father's other daughter. "You aren't getting married, are you? It's all part of the lie."
"I can explain," she said quickly.
"I know, but I'm pretty sure I understand. You want money."
Summer shook her head. "I don't."
"You're saying you weren't interested in the will?" She raised her brow.
"I wanted the will, but not because I wanted money. I just wanted a piece of the heritage." She leaned in, her hands braced on the table. "I'm not a Summerhill."
She looked like one. The blond hair, the sharp cheekbones, the blue eyes. Rosalind didn't know why she hadn't realized before. And then there were her actions. "You keep secrets and lie just like Father did. That Summerhill trait runs true, apparently."
"I deserved that." Nodding, she exhaled and visibly regrouped. "You have every right to feel that way, but just listen to my side of it. All my life I've lived in the shadow of the Summerhills. Do you know what that's like? Being part of you, but not."
She didn't want to sympathize, but she couldn't help it. Didn't they all feel that way? Like they were a Summerhill but not quite "in?" It'd been their father's fault.
As if reading her mind, Summer said, "I'm not blaming Dad, because he did the best he could."
Dad? Rosalind clutched her hands in her lap, holding in a tinge of jealousy-not because Reginald was Summer's father but because she felt comfortable calling him dad so casually. He'd never been anything but "Father" to any of them. "He could have divorced my mother and married yours."
Summer shook her head. "It went against his code. Mum always said so. He'd made a promise to your mother and he wouldn't break it, even if he loved mine."
"Ouch." Rosalind cringed.
"He did love Mum, in his own way." Summer shrugged sadly. "I know it must be awful to hear it, but it's the truth. Even when he wasn't as accepting of me, there was never any question he loved her."
Despite herself, she said, "He wasn't accepting of any of us. We had a strike against us the moment we were born female."
"I can't believe you're reassuring me, after all this." Summer touched the scarf around her neck.
The scarf she'd given in friendship. She sighed, feeling tired and sad. "Tell me about it."
"I'd heard so much about you girls, and I saw your pictures in the society pages all the time. It seemed like you were princesses, and I just wanted to be one, too. I wanted to be acknowledged as one of you. It's the only reason I wanted the inheritance."
"You want to be included. I understand." Another Summerhill trait they all shared.
"Do you?" Summer asked hopefully.
"Yes, but I don't condone what you did." She leaned forward. "I liked you. We had a nice chemistry, and now everything is awkward. I don't trust you."
She swallowed audibly. "You're justified not to trust me, and I know I have a lot to make up for, but don't you think eventually we could be friends again?"
Hugging her arms, Rosalind glanced at the portfolio. She'd poured part of herself into that design, giving it more thought and care than most because she'd wanted Summer's day to be special. And it was all fake. "I don't know."
Summer nodded, lowering her head. "All right. That's fair, I guess."
Knowing there was nothing else to say, she pushed the portfolio across the table and stood. "Your wedding dress is perfect. You'll look like the princess you always wanted to be. A good seamstress will be able to make it, when you're ready." Swallowing all her regrets, she picked up her purse and turned to leave.
"Rosalind." Summer rose from her chair and touched her arm. "Don't blame Nick."
She stiffened, slowly pulling her arm away. "Nick made his own bed."
"Nick is loyal to those he loves, and he loves me." Summer gazed at her unrelentingly. "He loves you, too."
"I don't want to talk about him." Her heart felt like it would break.
"The lies were mine, not his. From the beginning he begged me to be honest with you. He told me this would happen. I just-" She sighed. "He loves you. I hate that I've come between you two."
"That doesn't change anything, though, does it?" Too little, too late, she thought on her way out. She stepped out into the London winter and shivered violently, drawing her collar closed.
"Here you go, lamb." Fran set a plate of fresh-out-of-the-oven shortbread in front of her. "Some more tea?"
Rosalind shook her head, holding the cup that'd gone lukewarm against her broken heart. "No, thank you."
Fran nodded and went bustling around the kitchen. Rosalind waited for the warmth and hominess to lift her spirits, but she just felt cold. Maybe it was time to go back home.
Past time.
Bea was back, and between her other sisters they'd figure out how to help their mother best. It looked like the will was really, truly lost, so that was a plus. She could go back to her business and drown herself in tulle.
Bijou would tell her to get on a plane and go back to people who loved her.
She sighed.
"Rosie, you haven't had a biscuit yet." Fran pointed at the plate. "You don't want me to think you don't love me, do you?"
"I love you, Fran"-she tried to smile-"I just don't feel like one right now."
"You love my shortbread." Worry lined her brow. She propped her hands on her hips and tapped her foot. "You tell me what's happened now."
"What's happened?" her mother asked as she came into the kitchen.
"Rosie isn't eating my shortbread."
Her mother frowned at her. "You always loved Fran's shortbread. You used to sneak downstairs and break into the tin at night when everyone was asleep."
She lifted her head, blinking. "You knew that?"
"Of course." She pulled a seat close and smiled at Fran. "She gnawed on your shortbread even before she had teeth."
"Such an adorable little thing she was." Fran smiled weepily. "She was the only one of the lot who was truly angelic. Little hellions, the rest of them. But this one was an angel."
"It was love at first sight with all of them, even Imogen, who I swore would drive me mad even as a baby," her mother said fondly.
"I don't understand," Rosalind said, unable to keep it in. She faced Jacqueline. "You were always gone. Fran was more a mother to us than you."
"Rosie." Her old nanny gasped.
"No, it's valid, Fran." She faced her. "I was a terrible mother. Beatrice was born, and I was barely an adult myself, and I had no idea what to do with her. Beatrice, even as a newborn, had the force of will she has now, and I've never been comfortable around children. I found Fran, who was so much better at being a proper mother than I was, and I told myself I was doing a good thing by stepping out of the way and letting her take charge.
"It didn't occur to me that there'd come a point when I wanted to know all you girls, only you'd have no time for me. That's what I regret most." Her mother faced her. "I took the easy, expected path, and I didn't realize until it was too late that it wasn't the road I should have chosen."
"Would you do it differently, if you had the chance?" Rosalind asked, because she'd been wondering what she'd do differently with Nick-and Summer-if she'd known.
"I can't do it differently, so it's pointless to think about it. But I can change the road I walk on going forward." Her mother looked at her steadily. "I intend to be more"-she paused, as if searching for the right word-"present, Rosalind. In your life and your sisters'."
"I'd like that." She swallowed. "I'm thinking of leaving."
Her mother stilled, but Fran exclaimed, "Leaving where?"
"Leaving here, to go home. To San Francisco." She played with the handle of the teacup, her head lowered. "It's time, I think."
Silence lay thick over the kitchen.
Fran flanked her other side. "This wouldn't have anything to do with that young man, does it?"
"Yes, it does." She firmed her lips, not going to say anything more. She wasn't going to be the one to tell her mother her husband had another child.
Her mother touched Rosalind's hair, tucking a piece back from her face. "I wish I had motherly wisdom to give you, but we both know what utter bollocks that'd be. But let me just say most men aren't like your father."
"Nick might be," she said, feeling miserable.
"No, he isn't." Fran shook her head, lips pursed with conviction. "I saw the way he looked at you, lamb. He's nothing like Reginald Summerhill."
She couldn't stop herself from asking, "How did he look at me?"
"Like you were his sun."
"'No sooner met, but they looked; no sooner looked, but they loved.'"At their questioning looks, her mother smiled sadly. "Rosalind said it in As You Like It."
"You were the one who told me that life didn't turn out like Shakespearean comedies." She pushed back from the chair.
"That's not the moral of your story, Rosalind." Her mother took her hand. "And your ending hasn't been written yet."
"Think about it, lamb," Fran added, squeezing her other hand.
"I can't believe you two are tag teaming me." Rosalind shook her head, trying to look stern, but their caring thawed some of the iciness that had settled in her chest. She kissed the back of Fran's hand, and then her mother's, before letting go.
She was halfway out of the kitchen when she stopped. Then she went back and took two shortbread cookies, smiling at the women, before going to her room to think things through.