her blood-red lips and salon-perfect hair. Of course Malcolm had dated girls before he’d met Jane. But just how many girls? And did they all look like Madison? Her exes paled in comparison to Malcolm. Scratch that. There was no comparison. But while hers were tucked safely away in France, his stunning life-size Barbie dolls were scattered all over New York like landmines. Ugh.
“Here Jane, try these next.” Lena bustled in and dumped a whole mound of clothes on the chair in the corner. Jane sighed and settled in for what was shaping up to be a very long day of playing dress-up.
Chapter Fifteen
“C hampagne? ”
“God, yes.” Lynne Doran sighed waspishly at the waiter. “For everyone, I should think, after that god-awful weather.”
Jane resisted the urge to point out that they had been outside for a grand total of thirty seconds—fifteen from the front door to the car, and another fifteen to the door of La Grenouille. The rest of the day had been spent indoors: the library and newly discovered indoor pool for her, the game room for Ian McCarroll, and the den for Malcolm’s father. Blake Helding had rounded up all the thirtysomething men for a card game of some sort. His wife, Laura, had her manicurist make a house call, much to the delight of Ian’s little sister Ariel, although the rest of the children had favored a wild, five-story version of hide-and-seek.
All three branches of the family had done whatever it took to avoid having to actually step outside in the subzero temperatures and driving sleet, but their reservation at La Grenouille—Jane’s “official” welcome party—had forced their hands. Andrew McCarroll had been on the phone for half an hour trying to bribe the executive chef into coming to the mansion to cook for them in-house, but eventually had had to grant that the chef’s objections (“ambiance,” “supplies,” and “sous-chefs”—he didn’t bother with “a restaurant full of other customers”) were probably valid. Jane suspected that if Lynne had been the one on the phone, they would all be dining in after all, but Lynne and her twin cousins, Belinda and Cora, had locked themselves in the west-facing atrium on the eighth floor with strict instructions that no one should interrupt their “girl time.”
And now here they were, all twenty-odd of them, tucked into a private room.
“Isn’t Jane sick of French food, though?” Ian piped up from the end of the long, flower-adorned table. He wore a preppy light blue Brooks Brothers button-down and tan cords. “Isn’t that what she, like, ate at home?”
Before Jane could mention that her version of French cuisine was hardly five-star, Malcolm saved her the trouble.
“If she’s willing to put up with all of us at once, she should get something familiar out of the deal.” He ruffled Ian’s hair and took a sip from his champagne flute. Jane did the same, minus the ruffling. The bubbles tickled her nose.
“It’s really lovely,” Jane offered sincerely. The cozy space was covered in so many dense sprays of flowers that she had felt as though she had walked into a garden. Recessed French windows led to balconies that were so inviting she could almost forget about the hostile weather on the other side. She had been a little anxious about being the center of attention twice in four days, but the lush private room and champagne had worked wonders on her nerves.
As Lynne prattled on to Belinda about invitations, and Ian told Malcolm about his Fantasy Football team, a crew of waiters delivered to the table artfully arranged plates of foie gras and blinis with caviar. The rich hors d’oeuvres turned Jane’s smile up a notch, and she popped a bubble of golden osetra against her teeth with the tip of her tongue. Malcolm patted her knee under the table. Mr. Doran and Blake clinked their champagne glasses, and little Ariel admired her metallic-purple manicure.
“Now Jane,” Cora McCarroll announced, setting her fork down
“Here Jane, try these next.” Lena bustled in and dumped a whole mound of clothes on the chair in the corner. Jane sighed and settled in for what was shaping up to be a very long day of playing dress-up.
Chapter Fifteen
“C hampagne? ”
“God, yes.” Lynne Doran sighed waspishly at the waiter. “For everyone, I should think, after that god-awful weather.”
Jane resisted the urge to point out that they had been outside for a grand total of thirty seconds—fifteen from the front door to the car, and another fifteen to the door of La Grenouille. The rest of the day had been spent indoors: the library and newly discovered indoor pool for her, the game room for Ian McCarroll, and the den for Malcolm’s father. Blake Helding had rounded up all the thirtysomething men for a card game of some sort. His wife, Laura, had her manicurist make a house call, much to the delight of Ian’s little sister Ariel, although the rest of the children had favored a wild, five-story version of hide-and-seek.
All three branches of the family had done whatever it took to avoid having to actually step outside in the subzero temperatures and driving sleet, but their reservation at La Grenouille—Jane’s “official” welcome party—had forced their hands. Andrew McCarroll had been on the phone for half an hour trying to bribe the executive chef into coming to the mansion to cook for them in-house, but eventually had had to grant that the chef’s objections (“ambiance,” “supplies,” and “sous-chefs”—he didn’t bother with “a restaurant full of other customers”) were probably valid. Jane suspected that if Lynne had been the one on the phone, they would all be dining in after all, but Lynne and her twin cousins, Belinda and Cora, had locked themselves in the west-facing atrium on the eighth floor with strict instructions that no one should interrupt their “girl time.”
And now here they were, all twenty-odd of them, tucked into a private room.
“Isn’t Jane sick of French food, though?” Ian piped up from the end of the long, flower-adorned table. He wore a preppy light blue Brooks Brothers button-down and tan cords. “Isn’t that what she, like, ate at home?”
Before Jane could mention that her version of French cuisine was hardly five-star, Malcolm saved her the trouble.
“If she’s willing to put up with all of us at once, she should get something familiar out of the deal.” He ruffled Ian’s hair and took a sip from his champagne flute. Jane did the same, minus the ruffling. The bubbles tickled her nose.
“It’s really lovely,” Jane offered sincerely. The cozy space was covered in so many dense sprays of flowers that she had felt as though she had walked into a garden. Recessed French windows led to balconies that were so inviting she could almost forget about the hostile weather on the other side. She had been a little anxious about being the center of attention twice in four days, but the lush private room and champagne had worked wonders on her nerves.
As Lynne prattled on to Belinda about invitations, and Ian told Malcolm about his Fantasy Football team, a crew of waiters delivered to the table artfully arranged plates of foie gras and blinis with caviar. The rich hors d’oeuvres turned Jane’s smile up a notch, and she popped a bubble of golden osetra against her teeth with the tip of her tongue. Malcolm patted her knee under the table. Mr. Doran and Blake clinked their champagne glasses, and little Ariel admired her metallic-purple manicure.
“Now Jane,” Cora McCarroll announced, setting her fork down
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