“Your granny was correct on both counts.” Sal guided me through the arched center portico and into a courtyard with another fountain in the center. This one of Aphrodite rising from the waves.

Sal took me down a side path to a wide lawn. Here, the main house spread its wings into two sprawling sections. I gazed around, catching glimpses of the interior through several sets of french doors.

Before the house lay the pool, surrounded by formal gardens that were cleanly trimmed. On the other side of the lawn, a separate path started at the foot of a massive eucalyptus tree and wound upward into the hillside, where there was another bungalow.

“It truly is an estate,” I blurted out.

“Rosemont is one of a kind,” Sal said. “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”

We both stared at the deep-blue ocean touched with pinpoints of golden sunlight far below. Then Sal exhaled a happy sigh and gestured to a table set up under a large portico that ran the length of the house. The round table and four chairs looked as though they’d been plucked from a society wedding—shimmery-pink tablecloth, a full set of old and grass-green china, crystal glasses, low bouquets of plump blush-colored peonies. There was even a crystal candelabrum.

“Wow.”

“We like a little drama with our parties,” Sal said.

“This is a party?” No, I was not going to look around for him.

“Honey, every meal should be a party—don’t you think?”

“Yes, Sal, I do.”

“Have a seat. Amalie wanted to greet you but received a phone call from France.” Sal gave me a slanted smile. “Relatives. Can’t ignore them.”

“That’s all right.” Good Lord, there was a delicate crystal butterfly set at each plate. Tucked in between the wings of one of the butterflies was a little card with my name scrawled upon it. Who was this woman?

The rest of the butterflies were without names, so I took my seat. There were three others open. And no, I was still not going to wonder about him.

That’s right, Em. Just let it go.

As soon as I sat, Sal fussed over me. “Do you want anything to drink? White wine? Champagne? Club soda?”

“Thank you, but I’ll wait for Amalie.”

“I’ll tell her you’re here.” In a ripple of gold silk, Sal glided back to the main house.

I was now a ball of twitchy nerves. For years, I’d struggled to make it in the acting world, putting up with a lot of shit that still made my skin crawl, although I’d turned away from things I just couldn’t make myself do. Many times, I’d reflect upon my life, and it seemed unreal, made of glass or spun sugar.

My fingers twitched within the folds of my skirt as fear and nerves swirled inside me. I didn’t want to think about failure. Or loss. But it was hard, sitting here on this wild and lonely stretch of earth, not to feel like maybe this was my charmed life’s last gasp.

“Ah, there you are,” exclaimed a husky but very feminine voice.

A statuesque brunette woman who could be anywhere from age fifty to seventy strode toward me with a wide smile on her vividly pink lips. Dressed in a bubblegum-pink silk pantsuit and silver rhinestone slippers, which should have looked ridiculous but somehow came off as retro chic, she was stunningly beautiful. And her eyes were the exact shade of Lucian’s. But whereas his were mostly cold and standoffish, hers sparkled with sly cunning and wry humor.

I liked her instantly. “Hello.”

I stood to greet her, and she enveloped me in a warm hug and a cloud of Chanel N°5 before kissing me on each cheek.

“It is so very good to meet you, my dear.” She stepped back, holding on to my wrists, and surveyed me with bright eyes. “You look like your grandmother.”

“So I’ve been told. Thank you, Mrs. Osmond, for letting me stay here.”

“Call me Amalie. And you are very welcome.” She gestured to our seats and then took one. “In truth, you are doing me a favor as well. This house needs a breath of fresh air. Sal and I were becoming quite bored.”

No mention of Lucian. But I wouldn’t—couldn’t—ask. This was his grandmother. And something told me if I showed the slightest interest in his whereabouts, she’d be all over that—either to warn me off him or matchmake.

“This place is utterly gorgeous,” I told her.

“Isn’t it?” She looked around with a happy sigh. “It belonged to my second husband, Frank. Venture capitalist. Which meant a lot of money but far too much stress. Poor dear’s heart gave out on him three years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am too. He was a nice man. Not the love of my life but a good companion.”

I tried to think about marrying someone only for companionship and was horrified to realize I’d been living with a man who I tolerated as a person but whose looks were what attracted me the most. At least Amalie had settled for someone she liked. I’d been taken in by a handsome face and a similarly famous background. I had become that person. And I didn’t like it.