“Nice.” Marty snorted. That was an understatement.
Maria sighed. “That guy he was there with was pretty nice to look at too. Hopefully we’ll run into them both again soon.”
That elicited another snort of derision from Marty.
Life—or at least her love life—would be easier if she could be more like Maria. If she only cared about things on a surface level and not about what values were hidden beneath.
Even if Marty wasn’t looking for anything long term, how could she get past the fact that Peter—sexy though he was in a geeky sort of way—turned a blind eye to the words and actions of the most bigoted, and purportedly the most ignorant, senator on the Hill? She couldn’t.
Not even for just a night of hot sex with a man who was indisputably nice to look at.
She had a feeling Maria wouldn’t understand that so she decided to change the subject. “What are you doing in the office on a Saturday?”
Maria wrinkled her nose. “I forgot the files I was supposed to bring home to work on over the weekend. You?”
“I’m meeting Clark here.”
“Ooo. Who’s Clark?” Maria’s face visibly brightened.
Marty shook her head. “Relax. It’s not like that. He’s that freelance photographer who works with us sometimes. I’m sure you’ve seen him around. We’re going to walk over to cover the Greenpeace rally at the park.”
She’d figured if she was going to go for personal reasons anyway to show her support for the organization, she might as well cover it for the paper too. It was perfect. She’d write the article and submit it with Clark’s photos.
Folder in hand, Maria looked disappointed that Marty and Clark’s rendezvous was just for work and there wasn’t a romance afoot.
“Oh. Oh well. At least it’s a nice day for it. Have fun. See you Monday.” Maria wiggled her fingers in a goodbye wave.
Marty couldn’t care less about the weather. There could have been a hurricane outside and she still would have attended the rally. It was that important. To her. And to the world.
She didn’t get into that with Maria and instead called, “Bye,” as her coworker flounced her way toward the door and out of the office.
Glancing at the clock, she realized the photographer wasn’t supposed to meet her for another twenty minutes. She had time to make one quick phone call to her cousin. And she wasn’t going to let herself feel at all guilty using the office phone for a personal call, and an international one at that.
First, she didn’t get paid near what she was worth, or even close to what her male coworkers in the same position earned. And just as important, she’d be turning her vacation to Athens with her cousin next week into a work trip when she wrote an article about what was happening with the Greek economy and submitted it when she got back.
With that justification in mind, Marty reached for the desk phone. She dialed all the many digits in the international number, impatiently watching the rotary phone’s dial slowly spin as entering the country code, then the area code and then the number, one digit at a time, seemed to take forever.
Finally, the task was complete.
She listened to the ringing on the line through the receiver cradled on her shoulder until she heard, “Jamie Blandford.”
The greeting was delivered in the crisp British accent of her cousin.
“The Earl of Sunderland is answering his own phone? What, are all the servants in the palace busy?” she joked with the cousin who was a year younger than her, but you’d never know that from his title.
The Vanderbilt family tree was a sprawling one and in fact extended all the way across the Atlantic to England when Consuelo Vanderbilt married the Duke of Marlborough.
“Dear Marty. You’re behind, cousin. I became Marquess of Blandford years ago.”
“Oh, well, forgive me, Marquess, for my misstep.” She hoped her sarcasm came across clearly as she shook her head at the intricacies and unnecessary pomp of the English peerage.
It was hard enough having been born into the American side of a family such as hers, given all the assumptions and stereotypes that came with it. She wouldn’t want a title even if someone wanted to give one to her.
“You’re forgiven.” Jamie laughed. “But only if you’re calling to confirm you’re coming on the yacht with us.”
“I am indeed.” She did not add that the deciding factor in her saying yes to the invitation was because they were sailing around the Greek isles. She couldn’t pass up the chance to be there in person to write a story about the struggles that country was experiencing.
“For the whole month?” he asked.
She cringed. Not only could she not take off a month from the paper, she didn’t want to.
“No. Sorry. I can’t get off for that long. But I’ll be there for nearly two weeks.” She ended the sentence with a cheery lift in her tone of voice, hoping it would soften the news that she was actually only staying for ten days.
Jamie groaned and she knew he was judging her for choosing to not live with either of her parents or survive only off the money from her trust fund. He didn’t get why she had taken on the responsibilities of holding down a full-time job and paying rent for an apartment in D.C.. It had long been a point of contention between them.
“Take it or leave it,” she offered.
“It will just have to do then. Henrietta will be there. And Christina as well, of course.”
He was referring to his sister, Lady Henrietta Spencer-Churchill. And Christina Onassis, their Greek stepsister from their father, the Duke of Marlborough’s second marriage to Tina Onassis. The two women would round out the international flavor and ostentatiousness of the trip.
“And Christina’s husband?” she asked.
“She’ll be on holiday without her husband. He’s on his way out, I’m afraid, but don’t tell her I said that.”
She laughed. “Never.”
“So, is there a special man in your life?” Jamie asked. “You’re welcome to bring him. Give us all a chance to look him over.”
Marty let out a derogatory burst of air. “I don’t have the time nor the inclination to get tied down to a man right now. I’m focused on my career.”
He sighed. “Thereby proving that you work too much. Anyway, when are you flying in? We’ll send a car to the airport to fetch you.”
Marty relayed her flight information and by the time she hung up with her cousin, the freelance photographer had arrived for their prearranged walk to the rally.
The strange dichotomy that was her existence was not lost on her. From a conversation with the future Duke of Marlborough about their vacation in the Greek isles on the Onassis yacht, to attending a local rally for Greenpeace with a young freelancer . . . It was the perfect day in her opinion. Her life was certainly not boring and that was just the way she liked it.
Happy and eager to get going, she grabbed her oversized shoulder bag containing her pen, notebook and a small portable battery-operated tape recorder and they headed out for Franklin Square.
There was already a crowd gathered when she and Clark arrived. Marty glanced around, taking in the diverse people assembled. And standing a head above most, one tall familiar figure stood out from among that crowd.