Lydia Lane

FROM ONE GIRLFRIEND TO ANOTHER…

Dear Charlotte,

Just a note to let you know that you and Zoey aren’t the only two to find your first love—I’ve found mine!

Only, he doesn’t know it, of course. And I’m not telling. He’s a lawyer now—still has a “bad boy” motorcycle, though—and he’s got a darling little girl. Guess who introduced us? His ex!

Zoey, as usual, is giving me plenty of advice. I hope you’re having a wonderful time in Bermuda and I’m so looking forward to the three of us getting together when you return. See you soon!

Love,

Lydia

Dear Reader,

Just what is “keeping house”? In the barest sense, it means keeping a family safe, secure and healthy by providing the essentials of warmth, shelter and food. But beyond the physical necessities of life, “keeping house” also means providing for grace, beauty, hospitality, friendship…. The list goes on. Not just sustaining life, but what makes life worth living.

A home is much more than a house.

Lydia Lane wants to do all these things, only she doesn’t have a family to practice on. She decides to turn her knowledge into a business, teaching the “homely arts” to others. One of her first clients is Sam T. Pereira, the “bad boy” she’d once secretly loved with all the passion in her fifteen-year-old heart.

Now a street lawyer and a divorced single dad who works out of his house so he can spend more time with his daughter, Sam can’t believe how his buddy’s little sister has grown up. He decides he doesn’t just want her turning his house into a home; he wants her in his life.

I hope you enjoy the story of Lydia and Sam as they discover that true love can happen to people who care deeply about the things that give life its meaning—home and family.

With Lydia’s story, we end the three girlfriends’ search for their first loves. Zoey chases her man down (or so she thinks); Charlotte accidentally falls for hers all over again and, to turn the tables, Lydia’s first love finds her.

Warmest regards,

Judith Bowen

P.S. I love to hear from readers. Write me at P.O. Box 2333, Point Roberts, WA 98281-2333 or check out my Web site at www.judithbowen.com.

Lydia Lane

Judith Bowen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Linda Earl,

loyal, generous, enthusiastic—always an inspiration

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

“AMBER!” Sam slapped the pizza box onto the coffee table in the family room, pushing aside the week’s accumulation of newspapers and comic books. He whistled loudly, then yelled up the stairs. “Mommy’s show is on and the pizza’s here.”

He flicked the channels on the big-screen television until he got to TownTV, Channel 14, and the familiar opening medley of his ex-wife’s late-afternoon talk show, “What’s New with Candy Lou?” Her name was Candace Penelope Downing, no Lou at all, but the producers thought the rhyme sounded better.

“Yippee!” His daughter raced into the room with her friend from three doors down, Tania Jackson, right behind her. Amber carried the microphone from the play karaoke set that had been a Christmas present. Tania never said much. The two girls, both eight, were practically joined at the hip, and now they skidded to a stop as one, each grabbed a slice of pizza—the two largest, of course—and scrambled onto the oversize recliner where they settled down happily. Nothing to wipe their fingers with. Should he bother? Yeah, might as well, even though the whole room was due for a major cleaning.

“Who’s Mommy got on today?” Amber asked, her mouth already stuffed with Hawaiian pizza. Sam was so sick of Hawaiian he could scream. Oh, for a lacing of hot peppers and anchovies. Feta cheese and Greek olives—he could dream, couldn’t he? Cappicola or, damn, even oysters!

“Don’t know, honey.” Sam dropped a couple of paper towels on the arm of the girls’ chair and then settled into the other recliner with his slice of pizza. Come to think of it, he was sick of pizza, period. “We’ll see.”

Watching Candace Downing’s show with his daughter was a ritual Sam tried not to miss. Amber lived with him. The single women who drifted in and out of his life and the regular visits from Amber’s grandmother and his sisters didn’t provide enough feminine influence, in his opinion. This—watching Candace’s show once a week—was supposedly one way of maintaining maternal contact. Candace’s idea, naturally.

What kind of world was that—where you had to catch your mother on afternoon TV if you wanted to see her?

Sam shook his head and told himself to pay attention.

“—a new and unusual business. Do you really teach people like me how to polish silver?” Candace’s high-pitched giggle had always bothered him. Sam frowned; he’d seen that woman before, Candace’s guest.

“—if you happen to own silver. Many people, of course, don’t. But the service I provide helps busy Toronto families learn some of the skills involved in running a household efficiently and well. There can be a lot of satisfaction in knowing that the people you love are being taken care of—”

“I’ll take your word for it!”

“So many of the homemaking arts our grandmothers knew have been lost over the years. These skills used to be passed down as a matter of course from mother to daughter. I learned a lot of them from my great-aunt. Since the sixties, our mothers have been too busy forging careers outside the home to worry about housekeeping skills, so, over the last few decades a lot of know-how has disappeared. Often, today, there’s no one to ask. That’s where my company, Domestica, comes in. We can teach you the skills that will make your home a sanctuary in a hectic world.”

“How intriguing. Literally turning a house into a home, you mean?”

Sam glanced around the family room. It looked like a tornado had been through. It always looked like a tornado had been through when his mother was away, which she was, or he’d lost another cleaning lady, which he had, just before Christmas. He could go for some of that sanctuary business….

“That’s right.” The woman on the screen gave his ex a cool look—one that was very appealing, Sam thought—and slowly crossed her legs. Long, slim, very nice legs, he noted, pizza slice halfway from his plate to his mouth. He frowned. He definitely knew this woman from somewhere. A client? No way!

“Homemaking skills are important but sadly undervalued in the modern world. Once, a good housekeeper kept her drains scalded and her kitchen clean to preserve her family’s health. Today, with vaccinations and chlorinated water, we don’t have to worry so much about those kinds of germs, but good housekeeping skills can affect your health even today.”

“They can?” Candace was all attention.

“Yes. For instance, did you know that a properly made bed will contribute to a good night’s sleep? And wouldn’t a good night’s rest make a stressed-out day a little easier? Science proves—”

“You mean you don’t just toss a duvet over the sheets, grab a coffee and race out the door? That’s what I call making the bed!”

Sam was sure Candace thought she was speaking for the entire civilized world. He was intrigued. A well-made bed…

“Yes. A properly made, properly aired bed is comfortable, clean and allergen-free, all of which adds up to a more restful sleep. Our grandmothers knew about the benefits of fresh air in the bedroom. The pillow should have a zippered microfibre cover to prevent dust mites, a source of allergies, from passing through. Over that, a pillow cover and a nicely ironed pillowslip, preferably pure cotton or linen—”

“Ironed?” Candace squealed. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

Her guest smiled but did not reply and Candace leaned forward in a phony confidential way that Sam had seen many times before. “Okay, besides ironing tips, what else does your company offer us? Can you teach kids anything? And dads? I mean, if you can, lots of moms out there would be thrilled to hear about it.”

“Certainly.” There was that calm, assertive look again, a look Sam found incredibly appealing. The woman oozed sensuality and icy cool competence at the same time. “I’ve taught Boy Scout troops how to iron their own shirts, pack their own tasty, well-balanced school lunches and polish their own shoes. I’ve conducted executive retreat weekend workshops on cooking—”

“Cooking, too?”

Candace’s guest nodded. “Yes, cooking. In fact, Domestica offers a personal chef service as an addition to our homemaking workshops. You’d be surprised how many people want me to organize their kitchens, shop for their groceries and prepare a week’s worth of nutritious meals they—”

“Lydia Lane!”

“What, Daddy?”

“Lydia Lane,” Sam repeated, feeling a little rush of blood to his knees, a sensation he hadn’t felt for quite a while. It was the well-made bed that had done it. He’d pictured this tawny goddess sprawled out on that well-made bed…. “Daddy knows that lady, Amber. Remember my friend, Steve Lane? We went fishing with him and Uncle Avie last summer and Uncle Avie accidentally caught that mud turtle?”

“Oh, yeah. Yuck.” She turned to her friend. “We let him go back in the water.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Steve’s little sister Mommy’s talking to.” That was it.

“Oh. Isn’t Mommy pretty today?”

“Sure is, baby,” Sam muttered. Was she? Of course she was. Not that Candace Downing did anything for Sam anymore. Their four-year marriage had been friendly but not passionate. Their divorce was cordial and they were on good terms, always keeping Amber’s interests foremost. In fact, he’d been relieved when Candace had decided that if he was cutting down his corporate law practice—where he had a chance to make something of himself, in her opinion—so he could expand what she described as his “street people” practice, she was calling it quits. She’d always regretted leaving her barely hatched TV career so she could marry him and have his baby a year later, and she decided to give it her best effort again before her looks and energy were gone. Candace liked society and parties and grown-ups, she informed him. She found full-time care of a three-year-old just too…too trying. Sam always thought it ironic that the pinnacle of her renewed career so far was this snoozer of a talk show.

Their daughter, Candace had reasoned, would do just fine with him. Lots of kids had day care and nannies and were brought up perfectly well by single dads. Sam could afford help. Candace would take Amber on weekends whenever she was in town, and on holidays and shopping trips to New York and Montreal when she got a little older. That would be fun—a real mother-daughter experience. Sam working out of a home office; Candace pursuing her media career. It couldn’t be more perfect, she declared.

Perfect. Sam glanced around. The room was a disaster. The carpet and upholstery needed cleaning. Amber’s jeans had holes in the knee. Why didn’t she put on a new pair or tell him when she needed to buy some? The fridge was empty—again. The Christmas tree had turned brown; Sam had forgotten to put water in the receptacle. There was still some balled-up Christmas paper behind the tree, jammed into a corner along with a whole lot of dust. The last housekeeper had left before the holidays and Sam hadn’t had the heart to look for another one yet. How many did this make this year? Three? Four? Five?

Several glass ornaments had fallen onto the carpet, bowling balls for Punch, the cat, who belonged to Tania but spent as much time at their house as he did at home. Only one string of lights worked. And now—Sam groaned—someone would have to take down the damn tree and get rid of it and store all the little decorating doodads—

Someone meant him.

He ran his hands through his hair and picked up the empty pizza box to carry through to the kitchen, which was another kind of disaster. Why hadn’t he listened to his mother’s advice and just gone to one of his sisters’ houses for Christmas? Let his brother-in-law worry about Christmas trees. But, no, putting up a tree every year for his kid was something he figured he should do.

His daughter deserved some family traditions and it was up to him to provide them. No mom around, and a dad who wasn’t doing the world’s greatest job of running a household on his own. But this was his family, even if it was just him and Amber. If that meant dead Christmas trees, and Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners at the Royal York Hotel, so be it. For Easter they usually went to his parents’ place, along with his sisters and their families. He couldn’t have managed without his mother’s help and while he appreciated her tremendously, she could be…well, quite ornery about doing things her way. Candace would have said pushy.

Now his parents had gone to Portugal for six weeks, visiting relatives, and look at this place! Straight downhill. It was exactly what Lydia Lane had said, he didn’t have the faintest idea where to start. Or how to do anything. Taking care of a house was a hell of a bigger job than he’d thought and he had renewed respect for his mother and other women like her, who always seemed to know exactly what needed to be done and when.

Sam had been doing his best for the past four years but this single dad business wasn’t working out the way he’d planned.

Perfect? If only!

THE TOWNTV BUILDING, a redbrick, three-story converted warehouse, was on a quiet street on the edge of the Danforth-Pape neighborhood, not far from Lydia’s loft.

In the second-floor Studio A, “What’s New with Candy Lou?” was just finishing up. The program was taped in the morning for broadcast at five that afternoon. Lydia’s appearance had been followed by a puppeteer who specialized in pet birthday parties—he did mostly animated bones and mice—and a playwright whose first play, “A Time to Laugh, a Time to Cry” was opening New Year’s Day in a tiny local theater.

Aptly titled, no doubt, Lydia thought skeptically as she dug through her change purse for a subway token. That wasn’t fair, she reprimanded herself; she’d try to see the play for the sake of the starry-eyed author. Her aging minivan had been making weird noises and she’d left it at the garage to be checked out. Fingers crossed—her budget was extremely tight right now. There was no room for repairs on top of the mortgage payments, not unless business picked up and that was highly unlikely at this time of year. People would be getting their Christmas credit-card bills soon and paying someone to reorganize their households was not a top priority.

She had no idea how the show had gone but she hoped it brought in some new business. Every little bit of publicity helped. She’d watch the interview at home later, when the show aired. She and who else? Who watched afternoon television between Christmas and New Year’s Eve? Anyone with any kind of life was busy with holiday activities, going away somewhere warm with a lover, skiing for the week with the family in Vermont. Something a little more exciting than going to the after-Christmas sales by herself. If only Zoey and Charlotte weren’t so busy right now…

This week she had two small jobs and then Charlotte’s wedding was coming up on New Year’s Eve, next Monday. That, at least, was something to look forward to.

“Oh, there you are!” Candace Downing slipped into the cloakroom, closing the door behind her. “I was hoping you hadn’t gone yet—did you catch the rest of the show?” Her eyes were sparkling and her hands fluttered.

Lydia nodded. She’d been curious to see the puppet guy. How weird was that—doing a puppet act for pets? Plus, she was always looking for interesting party acts so she could recommend them to clients who asked, an old habit from her days with Call-a-Girl, the little do-everything business she and Charlotte and Zoey had run when they were in college. She’d met Zoey Phillips and Charlotte Moore ten years ago when they all worked at Jasper Park Lodge in the Alberta Rockies the summer after high-school graduation. That fall, they’d started Call-a-Girl. Cutting grass, shoveling snow, catering birthdays, house-sitting, walking dogs—they did anything to pay the bills.

Now Charlotte was getting married at City Hall on New Year’s Eve, Zoey was marrying some cowboy from out West just before Valentine’s Day—and Lydia was cooking no-fat meals for a ladies-who’d-rather-lunch breakfast club and organizing closets for an industrial tycoon who’d bullied her on her fee to the point where she’d nearly turned down the job even though she needed the work. You could see why these people got rich; they never let go of anything.

“You wanted to see me?” Lydia smoothed on her gloves. Bright, bright red, to match her cashmere beret from Holt’s, a pre-Christmas sale present to herself.

“Nice gloves,” Candace said.

“Thank you.” Lydia smiled.

“Listen, have you got time for a coffee?” Candace glanced at her watch. She was a small woman, much more petite than she appeared on television. Thick dark hair, blue eyes, very pretty.

“Sure. Why?” Lydia was mystified. She’d done a good interview with Candace Downing, she thought. The invitation to be a guest on her show was welcome, particularly during the slow holiday season. She’d expected a bit of a put-down for the work she did with Domestica—she often got one—so had been prepared with her answers. Lydia believed passionately that her work had a positive effect on people’s lives. Had she made a convert? Maybe. Candace probably wanted to hire her. Some people were so furtive about it. As if aspiring to a well-run household should be some kind of…of secret!

“Let’s go down to the caf,” Candace said, opening the door again. “I’ve been thinking about what you said on the show. I may have a client for you.”

They both ordered lattes in the cafeteria that served the building and the neighborhood and took a seat by the window. Although it was late morning, they were the only people there. It was Boxing Day, December 26, and Lydia assumed most office staff in the area had the entire week off between Christmas and New Years.

“You ever do longer jobs—you know, a couple of weeks, maybe months if necessary?” Candace stirred her coffee vigorously. Lydia had the impression that Candace did everything full-tilt.

“No, but I’d like to find something like that,” Lydia said. “A longer job would allow me to prove that the things I do can make a real difference to a real family. You can’t adequately judge results doing a weekend closet job.” She eyed her companion over the rim of her coffee cup. “Depends what it is, of course.”

“I’m thinking of my ex.”

“Your ex?”

Candace’s blue gaze met hers steadily. “Yes. His life is one big mess. I wouldn’t mind so much, but he’s raising our daughter and I worry about her. His mother helps out a lot and she’s very Old World— Portuguese—not that I have anything against the Portuguese, of course. But she’s very—” Candace gave her a girl-to-girl look “—you know, quite persuasive, and I’m worried that Amber isn’t getting the type of influence she should have….”

“How old is Amber?”

“Eight,” Candace replied. “Her nana is totally traditional. No offence, of course, considering what you do, but you know the type I mean? Cooks and cleans all the time? Believes a woman’s place is in the home looking after her man, garbage like that? She’s giving Amber the wrong idea about modern women.” Candace took a sip of her coffee, put it down and stirred in more Sweet’n’Low. She shook her head. “Very wrong.”

“What would you want me to do?” Lydia shrugged. “And surely your ex-husband would be the one to talk to?”

“Of course! Your Domestica thing sounds perfect, though. I’ll mention it to him. He takes my advice on most things to do with Amber.” Her expression was rather smug and Lydia wondered what kind of wuss she’d been married to. “He’s one of those guys who’s never done anything for himself domestically. Mama did everything. Ironed his shirts, picked up his socks, cooked his breakfast, tied his ties. Don’t get me wrong. I was never a great housekeeper—”

Candace laughed, looking thoroughly pleased to acknowledge her shortcomings in that department, which irritated Lydia. But she’d seen the attitude a million times before, especially with career moms like Candace.

“—but it didn’t matter. I hired people to do the nitty-gritties—and I have tremendous respect for someone like you who’s made a business out of it. Sam went straight downhill after we split up. And now, since he’s had a home office—whew! Seriously, you don’t want to know. Everything’s totally disorganized.”

“Where exactly do you see me fitting in?”

“Everywhere!” Candace leaned forward. “You could start with the cleaning thing, get that house of his sanitized. That’s number one. Then you could organize him. He’s totally helpless. He sends out all their clothes to a laundry, even Amber’s pajamas. They can’t keep a maid—they’ve had about half a dozen this year alone. Seriously! No one will stay. I don’t blame the housekeepers. These days they interview the clients, you know, not the other way around. They can get all the work they want at easier places.”

Lydia bit her lip. Sounded bad. “It would be a…challenge.”

“You could do it, I know you could. You’re smart, you’re organized, it’s your business, for heaven’s sake! Charge him as much as you want, he’s got money. Teach him how to shop and cook. You do that, don’t you? Yourself?”

“Yes. And I’ve got part-timers who work with me.”

“What clients do you have now—for food preparation, I mean?”

“A ladies’ breakfast club. That Raptors guy, Griff—”

“Not Griff Daniels! The basketball player? Is he as sexy as they say?”

“I guess so. If you like your guys seven feet tall.” Lydia made a face. “I don’t.”

“Hey, to each her own.” Candace giggled. “I’m going to try and get him on my show. Never mind that, you’ve got credentials, that’s the main thing. Sam can’t cook. They live on cornflakes, pizzas, Chinese takeout, Swiss Chalet. Or his mother brings food over. Isn’t that terrible? And I haven’t even got to the worst part yet!”

Candace studied her for a reaction. Lydia decided not to ask what the worst part was. “Listen, if things are so bad,” she began gently, “why don’t you have your daughter live with you?”

“Oh, no! That’s out of the question.” Candace breezily waved a well-manicured hand. “Sam and I made a deal when we split up so I could pursue my TV career. Anyway, he’s the better parent. I travel a lot and I have long hours, so I’m never home. Plus, well, you know—” she lowered her voice confidentially “—I like it this way. He’s a terrific father. Reliable, responsible. A natural. And Amber adores him. It’s just the chaos factor in his house, that’s all.”

Why, Lydia wondered, had Candace had split with such a prize? Obviously she wasn’t telling all. “Okay, I know there’s more—what’s the worst part?”

“The home office thing.” Candace set down her cup. “He used to do corporate law when we were married, but then he decided he didn’t like the hours, especially after Amber was born. So he cut back on the corporate stuff so he could do more of what I call street law.”

“Street law?”

“Hookers, ne’er-do-wells, B & E artists, old broken-down has-beens of one kind or another.” Candace shuddered delicately. “You name it. Waiters who’ve been robbed of their holiday pay by bosses, people who say they’ve been framed by the police, you get the picture.” Candace rapped her lacquered nails on the tabletop. “He won’t give it up. Feels sorry for those people. Luckily, he still has regular clients who actually pay their bills.”