Nathan snuck a startled glance at me, but I paid him no mind. I was proud of my house, and I appreciated that she appreciated it. Why shouldn’t I show it off?
My visitor didn’t hesitate. “Most enthusiastically!”
“I suppose introductions are in order, then,” I said. “I’m Louisa Lake George, and this is my nephew, Nathan Lake.”
“Pleased to meet you both,” she replied. “Ashley Brooks.” She bowed her head like I was royalty, and I didn’t mind one bit.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ashley,” Nathan said, and offered his hand. I watched with curiosity as his touch rouged her cheeks. Good heavens, is she attracted to him? What a beguiling thought. I noted her well-maintained eyebrows and expertly curled eyelashes and wondered if she thought herself beautiful. I had launched the careers of some of the most sought-after actresses on earth, women so exquisite they made you feel as desirable as an old rag doll. And exactly none of them believed they were beautiful, even while getting $1 million just to stand next to a bottle of perfume and smile. I had come to think being beautiful was more of a curse than a blessing. The ugly duckling learns to cultivate self-love by looking inward. But a beautiful girl is born to be adored. No one feels it necessary to teach a beautiful girl to love herself, so most of them never learn how. My daughter had exquisite features—sea-green eyes, perfectly tapered heart-shaped face, copper-red hair as captivating as the desert sun. But I never complimented Winnie on her looks. Because once a girl expects compliments, she forgets how to feel complete without them.
“Nathan, why don’t you do the honors?” I suggested. “While our tea steeps.”
“Of course,” Nathan said with a smile that was obviously forced.
“Shall I leave Brando here with you?” the young lady asked, offering me the leash.
“Please do,” I replied. I had a once-a-week cleaning woman, but I did not want her to spend her whole day vacuuming dog hair. I was pleased the little dog didn’t resist when the leash passed from the young lady’s hand to mine.
“Why don’t we start in the dining room,” Nathan suggested, pointing the way.
“I’ll follow you.”
She nodded graciously to me, then slipped off her sneakers without being asked. As she fell in behind Nathan, all smiles and nervous enthusiasm, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, the person who would do what Nathan wouldn’t had just walked through my front door.
CHAPTER 9
* * *
ASHLEY
A rare orchid? Enchanted? Most enthusiastically? Good God, when had I become a character from a Victorian-era romance novel?
I do this inexplicable thing when I’m nervous. It’s like I don’t trust my own voice, so I become someone else—a character from a book or movie, or someone I’ve seen on TV. During my day job as a tour guide I often morphed into a glitzy game show host （“Come on down!”） or a wannabe stand-up comic （“How’s everybody doing tonight?”）。 Sometimes on the upper deck of the open-air bus, I became James T. Kirk from the starship Enterprise （“This is your captain speaking!”）—anyone who wasn’t me. Today I was apparently the titular character from Jane Austen’s Emma. People assume that actors are naturally outgoing, but many of us choose the profession so that we can disappear. Going into character makes my nervousness go away, because people can’t judge me if I’m someone else.
That night I was crazy nervous. Not because I’d lost my dog, or been shot at, or because, after seven years of avoiding it, I was inside the spooky Scooby-Doo house. Or even because I’d just thrown myself at a man who wanted nothing more from me than half the rent. No, I was nervous because of him.
“My aunt Louisa has lived here for over thirty years,” he said as we started down a hallway wallpapered in red velvet. “But the house was built in the 1950s. It was quite run down when she and my uncle bought it.” He rambled on about the architect, the floor plan, the furnishings. His voice rolled over my skin like hot fudge, warming me in parts that had been cold for a long time. I was not one to swoon over a man just because he was handsome. I saw handsome men every day in my （desired） profession—the LA acting scene was full of them. But this man, with his uneven smile and dimples so deep you could shoot whiskey from them, was otherworldly beautiful. Listening to him talk was like skiing fresh powder—so floaty and exhilarating that it made my skin tingle.
“I presume you live nearby?” he asked as he flipped on the light of a perfectly petite powder room with a pedestal sink and a toilet you flushed by pulling a chain. His eyes found mine, and for a second I couldn’t breathe. My heart was racing, I felt so light I thought I might take flight.