“Fiona, did you know this was a dating show? What should I do?”
Fiona shrugged her shoulders. “I’m only the hired help.”
“Oh, Fiona, you’re much more than that, come on. What are you in the real world? A law student? Working in the financial sector?”
Fiona shook her head.
Chloe realized that Fiona wasn’t going to reveal anything about her twenty-first-century self. “I guess there’s no harm in trying the gown on—I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You’re quite lucky,” Fiona said. “I know a score of charwomen and scul ery maids ready to trade their lot with yours this instant.”
Chloe rubbed her temples. There it was again, that flash of her and a tal , dark, and white-cravat-throated someone, this time in a bal room under a candlelit chandelier.
The door swung open again. It was George.
“George!” Chloe cal ed out. “We need to talk.”
“We wil talk. We wil , Miss Parker. And not to worry. We’l edit out any naughty bits, for the American market at least. And soon as you’re ready I’l explain al the rules. Cheers!” He slammed the door again behind him.
Chloe shot up. “Naughty bits? What naughty bits?!”
“I dunno, Miss Parker. Dunno.”
Just as Fiona held up an equal y threadbare chemise to go under the gown, Chloe’s phone rang.
“See, Fiona, how modern technology interrupts our lives?”
It was Abigail. “Hi, Mom! Grandma told me not to tel you yet, but Dad took me out to lunch today.”
Chloe rol ed her eyes. After the plethora of times he’d been on the road, missing Abigail’s school plays and hip-hop dance recitals, Chloe was out of town for the first time since the divorce, and he’d swooped in on day one.
“Dad’s engaged,” Abigail continued. “He’s going to be married in September and the good news is I get to be a flower girl! I get to wear a pretty dress and throw the petals and ride in a limo and . . .”
Chloe leaned against the cold whitewashed wal to support herself. She didn’t even know that Winthrop was dating. He hadn’t even talked to her as to how to approach this with Abigail. “Are you sure about this, Abigail?” The gown loomed in front of her. White. Floor-length. Gown. The last time she’d worn one of these was . . . her wedding.
“I’l be right back, Mom. I need to look up satel ites on the computer, I’m doing a mock-up for my science camp. Here’s Grandma.”
A cameraman stepped closer and Chloe lowered her voice to a whisper. “Mom, I don’t have time now—”
Her mother plowed ahead anyway. “I just thought you should know that Winthrop wants to reopen the custody arrangement now that he’s engaged. His promotion to senior VP means he won’t be traveling al the time.”
Chloe clutched the ruffle on her blouse and both cameramen closed in on her. Winthrop wouldn’t dare put them al through another custody trial, would he? She wanted to shout, but just bit her lip for the cameras.
Fiona’s shoulders slumped, she set the chemise down on the chaise, and stepped over to the fire.
Chloe’s mom sighed. “You real y need to win that money over there, Chloe. Now that he’s promoted.”
Chloe turned her back to the cameras. “Everybody’s a senior vice president these days, Mom, that title doesn’t mean anything anymore.” The engagement and less travel would give him leverage, though.
Fiona stabbed the poker in the fire.
“I can’t talk long, Mom, but take good care of Abigail, and thanks—for everything.”
“Bye, dear. Here’s Abigail.”
“Mom, you’re real y going to like Dad’s fiancee.”
Chloe doubted that. “Mmm-hmm. What’s her name?”
“Marcia.”
“Marcia what, angel?”
“Marcia Smith.”
No chance of Googling or finding a Smith on any social network site. She’d never felt the urge to cyberstalk someone until now.
“She’s a very successful businesswoman Daddy says.”
Chloe’s eyelid twitched.
“She was in a magazine. She showed me.”
Chloe raised an eyebrow. “What magazine?”
“It was a funny name for a magazine, like fortune cookie. Oh, yeah.
