toasty from the morning sun, and thrust her unpainted left hand toward the manicurist.
Although she'd spent the past week at her parents' home (they were in London, making it an ideal time to visit Palm Beach), Cornelia had continued her now monthlong campaign of contrition for posing next to Theo Galt. Days after the Townhouse party, when Wyatt hadn't returned her phone calls, she'd e-mailed him a Patrick McMullan snap of the two of them, a reminder of how good they looked together. No response. Then, before leaving for Florida, she'd pounced on Margaret as she left his building, pressing into her hand a small package for Wyatt containing the handkerchief he'd forgotten at her place the first night they'd kissed at Socialista. She hoped it would spark memories of their private after-party. Apparently, it had not. Finally, after too many unreturned calls and e-mails, she'd been reduced to raiding her father's wine cellar. And still all she'd gotten in response was his stupid text!
"Still bumpy," she whined, holding the nail two inches away from the manicurist's face. The young Hispanic woman had been sent by an agency that delivered manicurists, masseuses, acupuncturists, and yoga instructors to Cornelia's door, which kept her from having to mingle with the hoi polloi.
"I don't see any bumps, Miss Rockman," the woman answered. "I've redone the nail three times. I think it looks perfect."
"Excuse me?" Cornelia's nostrils flared slightly. She jumped up from the chaise longue and stretched her legs, casting a shadow over the shallow end of the pool. "I'm not paying for a mani-pedi that looks like it was done by a blind chimp." Mentioning the chimp reminded her of her anthropologist ex-boyfriend, of course, which made her even more irritated.
"Okay, I can redo--"
"Nor do I have time to sit here watching you botch it up again!"
The manicurist sighed. "That's fine, Miss Rockman. See you again the same time next week?"
"I suppose. But tell Esmerelda no tip. I check the petty cash, you know." The woman began to shuffle toward the house with her heavy kit. "Just because I'm a Rockman doesn't mean I'm an ATM!" Cornelia yelled after her. Her mother, Verena, had always warned her about people--from men to manicurists--looking to "get theirs." Gold diggers. Parasites. Verena knew something about the profile: she'd married Cornelia's father when she was a twenty-three-year-old Scandinavian swimsuit model and he was a sixty-two-year-old senator with a heart condition. Against all odds, Cornelia's father was now past ninety, and Verena was a smokin' fifty-two-year-old rumored to have men in many ports.
Shameless , Verena would say if she knew about Cornelia's current situation. It was not the woman's role to woo, she would scold. Men--even rich, powerful, intelligent men--were easy to manipulate, if you knew how. Knowing how was the art of being a woman, and Cornelia's efforts had been kindergarten-level finger painting.
But then she'd never expected Wyatt to put up such a fight! Most men would have overlooked Cornelia's minor lapse in judgment at that stupid party, and every man she knew (except Wyatt, apparently, the one she now wanted more than ever) would've taken her back at the first whiff of an apology.
Cornelia arranged herself in the lounge chair again, adjusting the top of her minuscule white bikini. The view of the water, contrasted with the cool pink facade of her parents' home and the gently swaying palm trees dotting their property, evoked such an air of prosperity and peace that there were days when Cornelia didn't reach for her antianxiety medication more than twice. Today, unfortunately, was not one of those days.
Her marriage to Wyatt Hayes was inevitable, thought Cornelia, reaching over to take a sip of her mint-laced iced tea. That was the conclusion she'd reached last winter, resting on this same slate blue chaise, the morning after she and Wyatt were reintroduced at a cocktail party on the
Although she'd spent the past week at her parents' home (they were in London, making it an ideal time to visit Palm Beach), Cornelia had continued her now monthlong campaign of contrition for posing next to Theo Galt. Days after the Townhouse party, when Wyatt hadn't returned her phone calls, she'd e-mailed him a Patrick McMullan snap of the two of them, a reminder of how good they looked together. No response. Then, before leaving for Florida, she'd pounced on Margaret as she left his building, pressing into her hand a small package for Wyatt containing the handkerchief he'd forgotten at her place the first night they'd kissed at Socialista. She hoped it would spark memories of their private after-party. Apparently, it had not. Finally, after too many unreturned calls and e-mails, she'd been reduced to raiding her father's wine cellar. And still all she'd gotten in response was his stupid text!
"Still bumpy," she whined, holding the nail two inches away from the manicurist's face. The young Hispanic woman had been sent by an agency that delivered manicurists, masseuses, acupuncturists, and yoga instructors to Cornelia's door, which kept her from having to mingle with the hoi polloi.
"I don't see any bumps, Miss Rockman," the woman answered. "I've redone the nail three times. I think it looks perfect."
"Excuse me?" Cornelia's nostrils flared slightly. She jumped up from the chaise longue and stretched her legs, casting a shadow over the shallow end of the pool. "I'm not paying for a mani-pedi that looks like it was done by a blind chimp." Mentioning the chimp reminded her of her anthropologist ex-boyfriend, of course, which made her even more irritated.
"Okay, I can redo--"
"Nor do I have time to sit here watching you botch it up again!"
The manicurist sighed. "That's fine, Miss Rockman. See you again the same time next week?"
"I suppose. But tell Esmerelda no tip. I check the petty cash, you know." The woman began to shuffle toward the house with her heavy kit. "Just because I'm a Rockman doesn't mean I'm an ATM!" Cornelia yelled after her. Her mother, Verena, had always warned her about people--from men to manicurists--looking to "get theirs." Gold diggers. Parasites. Verena knew something about the profile: she'd married Cornelia's father when she was a twenty-three-year-old Scandinavian swimsuit model and he was a sixty-two-year-old senator with a heart condition. Against all odds, Cornelia's father was now past ninety, and Verena was a smokin' fifty-two-year-old rumored to have men in many ports.
Shameless , Verena would say if she knew about Cornelia's current situation. It was not the woman's role to woo, she would scold. Men--even rich, powerful, intelligent men--were easy to manipulate, if you knew how. Knowing how was the art of being a woman, and Cornelia's efforts had been kindergarten-level finger painting.
But then she'd never expected Wyatt to put up such a fight! Most men would have overlooked Cornelia's minor lapse in judgment at that stupid party, and every man she knew (except Wyatt, apparently, the one she now wanted more than ever) would've taken her back at the first whiff of an apology.
Cornelia arranged herself in the lounge chair again, adjusting the top of her minuscule white bikini. The view of the water, contrasted with the cool pink facade of her parents' home and the gently swaying palm trees dotting their property, evoked such an air of prosperity and peace that there were days when Cornelia didn't reach for her antianxiety medication more than twice. Today, unfortunately, was not one of those days.
Her marriage to Wyatt Hayes was inevitable, thought Cornelia, reaching over to take a sip of her mint-laced iced tea. That was the conclusion she'd reached last winter, resting on this same slate blue chaise, the morning after she and Wyatt were reintroduced at a cocktail party on the
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