Page 33 of The Best of Friends

“She helps me. There’s a difference. She’s practically part of the family.”

“So I’ve heard. But what does she get out of the arrangement?”

She dismissed the question. “We have a history with Jayne. You were gone for much of it, but she’s been close to us for years. She moved in after her mother died. We’ve been very generous to her. We paid for most of her college.”

A four-year college that Blaine had insisted on, Elizabeth thought grimly. She’d felt that community college was enough, but Blaine said Jayne was to get a four-year degree. At least she’d been practical. Nursing might not be glamorous, but she would always be able to make a living.

“What do you think of Tiffany?” she asked.

“Not my type.”

Pleasure made her smile. “I didn’t think so, either. But have you met Tara? She’s a lawyer. Very pretty. I’ll introduce you.”

Jayne passed by the tables. As they’d been set up since the previous afternoon, there wasn’t much to check. The caterers had worked Elizabeth’s parties before and knew what to do. She went by the three bars and made sure they had plenty of supplies, then ordered a club soda for herself and headed back to the kitchen.

“You look busy,” Blaine said, stepping into her path.

She smiled at him, then raised herself on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Welcome back. I heard the French have a problem with fog.”

He chuckled. “Only in Elizabeth’s eyes.”

“How was Paris?”

“Familiar.” He pointed to her cast. “How are you? Should you be here, working?”

“I’m scrutinizing appetizers and checking out the champagne. It’s hardly work. I’m fine.”

“I like the cast. Very bright.”

“It’s a fashion statement.”

Blaine had always been kind to Jayne. He was traditionally aloof, keeping long hours at his office and disappearing into his study after dinner. After her mother had died and Jayne had moved into the house, she’d kept her distance from Blaine, partly because she didn’t know him and partly because she hoped he wouldn’t notice she was around. She’d been a little afraid he might spot her and ask her to leave.

One Sunday afternoon when everyone else had been gone, Blaine had seen her skulking down the stairs and invited her to play chess with him. She knew the basics, but little else. He’d been patient as she stumbled through the game. The next Sunday, the same thing had happened. Over time, their weekly afternoon session had become a tradition.

Blaine had been the one who’d encouraged her to think about college and her future. He’d read her English term papers and offered suggestions. And when she’d graduated from college, he’d quietly given her a check that had covered the down payment on her small condo. While they’d never discussed it, she had a feeling that Elizabeth didn’t know about that particular gift.

“Oh, Jayne. That looks painful.”

They were joined by Marjorie Danes, a middle-aged widow who had been an acquaintance of the family for years. Elizabeth had never liked her, claiming Marjorie lacked style, imagination, and anything close to a brain, but Jayne had always thought she was kind and generous. Unfortunately for Elizabeth, snubbing Marjorie wasn’t an option. She’d gained her fortune the old-fashioned way, inheriting it along with everything her very rich husband had left her. She might not be the center of the Beverly Hills social scene, but her name meant something, as did her presence.

“I fell,” Jayne said, holding up the cast. “Apparently, I’m breakable.”

“We all are, and it only gets worse as one gets older.” Marjorie smiled at Blaine. “How are things in the jewelry business? Smuggle in any fabulous jewels lately?”

“I leave the smuggling to others.”

“You should ask me to smuggle for you. Ever since I turned fifty, I’ve become completely harmless. I pass through customs without anyone even noticing. Total strangers offer to help me with my shopping bags, as if I’m too feeble to manage on my own.” She touched her graying light brown hair. “I think I look like everyone’s grandmother.”

“That’s not true,” Jayne said quickly, although the truth was Marjorie cared a lot more about comfort than fashion. Not that Jayne blamed her, but in the world of the superrich, it was an unusual trait.

Marjorie might be aging gracefully, but she was still aging, with lines around her eyes and mouth and a faint but noticeable sag to her neck. In a community where every woman over the age of thirty had had a little something done, Marjorie stood out. Jayne was sure her tweed jacket had cost plenty, but it wasn’t new or particularly stylish, and her handbag looked like something the queen might carry.

“A very beautiful grandmother,” Blaine said gallantly.

What Jayne wanted to tell her was that she was the most approachable person in the room, but she wasn’t sure Marjorie would take that as a compliment.

“If only that were true,” Marjorie said. “I prefer to think I wear my beauty on the inside. It’s much cheaper that way—I don’t have to spend nearly as much on night cream.”

---