stable the legendary rascal had had shipped stone by stone from Ireland; a Vermont red barn for which he’d had no discernible use; a marble bathhouse with Roman columns. There were two guesthouses and more gardens—informal, formal, vegetable, flower, herb, perennial, annual. Dani had had everything gutted, renovated, spruced up, modernized, restored—whatever was necessary, she did.
Risky, maybe, but what was the worst that could happen? She could fulfill her Chandler grandfather’s expectations and fall flat on her face.
She didn’t follow the road up to the main buildings now. Instead she headed straight along a narrow dirt road, onto a wooden bridge. She could hear the brook below her tumbling over rocks. The dirt road curved sharply to the right and opened into a clearing. In the middle stood her gingerbread cottage. She’d had it painted pink, mauve and purple, planted its front yard with a wild-looking mix of flowers. The area bordered woods that led to the far edge of the estate and Pembroke Springs.
Dani went into the cottage through the front door and shook off the nostalgia that had gripped her since arriving back in Saratoga. She sorted through her mail. There were more cards from friends congratulating her on the opening of the Pembroke, and there were more requests for media interviews. Please, wouldn’t she reconsider her aversion to reporters? Her marketing team had counseled that the judicious, well-rehearsed interview could be good for business. Dani had countered that business was fine.
On the bottom of the pile was the card from her aunt.
She’d been expecting it.
It was burgundy on cream—the Chandler racing colors—and addressed to Miss Danielle Chandler Pembroke, inviting her to the hundredth annual Chandler lawn party next Friday evening.
Dani was always invited. She just wasn’t expected to attend.
Twenty-five years.
She dropped the card into the trash and made herself a cup of chamomile tea, wondering if she should even bother going to bed. She knew she’d never sleep tonight.
“You and your kooky office.”
Dani grinned up at Ira Bernstein from the overstuffed couch in her office at the Pembroke. She’d been at work since dawn; it was now just before noon. She had her feet up on a coffee table of cherrywood and green-tinted glass she’d picked up at a yard sale in the Adirondacks. She liked to think of it as art deco. Ira insisted it was junk.
“Heard you were up prowling the grounds again last night,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“I was up early.”
“Stealing tomatoes, I understand.”
He did know how to inch close to the line. He was a stocky, healthy-looking man in his mid-forties, with iron-gray corkscrew curls and an unfortunate tendency to undermine his brilliance as the Pembroke’s manager with impertinence if not out-and-out insubordination. Eugene Chandler had personally fired him ten years ago from the staff of the Beverly Hills Chandler Hotel. Apparently Ira hadn’t displayed proper deference toward her grandfather, the chairman of the board. Dani could just imagine. She’d plucked him from a managerial job at a mid-priced chain hotel in Istanbul. He’d instantly fallen in love with the Pembroke.
He was also one of the few people who knew about his boss’s occasional bouts of insomnia. Thanks to Ira, Dani had nearly gotten her face knocked in when he’d set security on her a few weeks ago after a report of a prowler on the grounds. He considered the incident additional proof that he was damn good at his job: nothing slipped through Ira Bernstein’s fingers.
“You can’t beat a tomato fresh off the vine,” Dani said. “Is there something you need from me?”
He smiled, clearly relishing how far he could push and still not have her go for his throat. “Just wanted to let you know that two reporters have been by looking for you.”
“And you told them what?”
“That you’d been in a rotten mood for days—”
“Ira.”
“Took their names and numbers and promised I’d give them to you. I made no promises about what you’d do. However, here you go.” He dropped two scraps of paper on her table. “You can throw them away yourself.”
“Did they want to discuss the Pembroke or the sordid details of my personal life?”
Ira grinned. “There are no sordid details of your personal life.”
The man did grate.
When he didn’t get a rise out of her, he continued. “Both want in-depth interviews covering your professional and personal life in whatever detail they can get.” He waved a hand lightly. “They tried to bribe me for your dress size and brand of perfume, but I—”
“Are you like this with the guests?”
“I’m only cheeky with the people who sign my paychecks. A fatal flaw, I must admit. With guests I’m smooth as honey. Mind if I sit down?”
She motioned to a mission-style rocker she’d found in a dusty store off the beaten track in Maine. Ira groaned—she might have asked him to sit on a bed of nails. Her Pembroke office wasn’t nearly as weird as he liked to pretend. It was an odd-shaped room with twelve-foot ceilings and double-hung windows, its decor reflecting her unorthodox executive style. In addition to her chintz-covered couch and rocker, and maybe art deco table, she had a Shaker jam cupboard, two caned side chairs, a truly ugly brass plant stand in the shape of a screaming eagle and a turn-of-the-century Baldwin player piano she’d found squirreled away in the far reaches of the main house before she’d begun renovations. Since the house had sat empty for so long, she hadn’t been able to save all she’d have liked to, but what hadn’t succumbed to rot—structurally, cosmetically or in furnishings, or to termites, mice or plain disuse—had remained untouched virtually since Ulysses Pembroke’s day. Her architects had been delighted not to have to undo “improvements”—layers of paint, linoleum, wall-to-wall carpeting. Unfortunately that still hadn’t made their job easy or cheap.
“How was New York?” Ira asked.
“Fine.”
“None of my business, eh?” But his gray eyes had turned serious. “Look, Dani—”
“Out with it, Ira. What’s on your mind?”
He sighed. “People talk—and I hear things.”
“Such as?”
“Well, for starters, word’s out that you’re considering the purchase of a company in West Virginia that manufactures glass bottles.”
Dani slipped her feet back into her shoes, purple flats that didn’t go as well as she’d hoped with her straight cotton-knit dress, above the knee, ordered from a catalog and an entirely different shade of purple.
“Are you?” Ira asked.
“I wouldn’t say I was considering. I was just inquiring.”
“You don’t know anything about making glass bottles. Dani—look, I’m no expert on the beverage business, but seeing how the fate of Pembroke Springs and this place are tied together, I’ve been doing some research. From what I can gather, glassmaking companies are a dying breed. They’ve all been bought out by the big guns. This outfit in West Virginia is tiny by comparison. You could lose a bundle.”
“Now you sound like my bean counters.”
She’d listened to them rail about her tight cash flow for two days in New York. She figured that was what bean counters were supposed to do. Since she was a Pembroke, she worried that her tolerance for risk was perhaps dangerously high and expected straight talk.
“Ira, Pembroke Springs uses a lot of glass bottles.”
“I know, but that doesn’t mean you have to manufacture your own. I understand you could save a ton of money if you switched to a stock bottle—”
She