Call To Honor. Tawny WeberЧитать онлайн книгу.
jeans to eat in a friend’s kitchen, handed out hundreds to the homeless and adored a small boy named Nathan.
They’d met three years before when Harper worked for Lalique & Lalique as an interior designer and had decorated the house for Andi and her new husband, Matt Wallace. Since Harper had had an easier time melding the Spanish architecture with Andi’s modern tastes and Matt’s preference for Louis XIV and rococo than the couple had in combining their lifestyles, she hadn’t been surprised when their marriage ended before she’d fluffed the last pillow.
By the time Harper had helped Andi get through the packing of Matt’s stuff, the redecorating and the heartbreak, their friendship was as solid as the gold-toned granite countertop Andi was currently leaning against doing her impression of a Vogue ad for wealthy bohemians.
In contrast to Andi, Harper’s gold-streaked blond hair swept straight and choppy to just above her shoulders. Her silk tank was the color of peonies and her linen Capris wrinkle-free. And she was pretty sure her entire outfit, right down to the diamond studs in her ears, hadn’t cost as much as the other woman’s threadbare denim.
“Drink?” Harper offered, moving to the refrigerator. “I’ve got a nice Pinot Grigio.”
“Water’s fine.”
Uh-oh. Harper gathered what she needed from the fridge, including a bottle of water. She set it, eggs and cream on the counter, then grabbed a lemon.
She sliced it and added a squeeze and a twist to a cobalt-blue glass before pouring in chilled water.
“I take it last night’s party wasn’t as much fun as you’d hoped,” she guessed as she handed her friend the drink.
“It was a deadly bore. Same people, same drama. I’m pretty sure it was even the same food as Monique’s last gala. The woman is tapping people for a thousand dollars a plate—you’d think she’d try a new recipe or two.”
While Harper shredded sharp cheddar over the golden crust for the quiche, Andi regaled her with wickedly disparaging tales of the rich and famous.
“So there he is, this big shot banking CEO, in the coat closet with his pants around his ankles and his hands down the front of this woman’s dress. His sister-in-law, it turns out. But does Monique care about the scandal? About a dozen guests seeing her closet used for an upright quickie? Of course not.” Andi paused to sip her water, then gave Harper an eye roll. “Monique’s only concern was whether they’d wrinkled the coats they were doing it against. To which the CEO responded in a dismissive tone, if her guests didn’t have enough class to wear quality, they deserved a few wrinkles.”
“He didn’t.” Harper laughed, entertained as always by the adventures of the rich and spoiled.
“He did,” Andi assured her as she helped herself to more water. “And even that couldn’t liven up that snoozefest of a party.”
“You sound so jaded.”
“Sweetie, I am jaded.”
“No. You’re bored. You need a project. Actually, you need a career. But since you won’t do that, you really should find a project.”
“Not won’t. Can’t,” Andi corrected meticulously, her fingers tapping a quick beat on the counter. “Any income I bring in will impact my divorce settlement. That weasel cheated on me enough while we were married. I refuse to allow him to cheat me out of anything else.”
Harper couldn’t blame her. Matt was a complete dog. The jerk had been caught with his pants down twice in less than a year of saying his vows. Harper wasn’t sure if that betrayal had damaged Andi’s heart, but she knew it’d done serious damage to her confidence. For that alone, Harper believed he should pay.
Something Andi was doing her best to ensure. But it’d already been eight months and was looking like it’d be at least a year more before they settled. Doing nothing for that long would drive Harper crazy.
Still, Harper couldn’t complain. Not when the divorce settlement was the reason she was living in this gorgeous house with a huge kitchen.
Since she’d gained control of the California properties three months ago, Andi had rented the place to Harper for a quarter of its worth. If not for that, there was no way Harper could have afforded a house in the exclusive Santa Barbara neighborhood.
Oh, sure, over the last three years, Harper had made a strong name for herself as a visionary interior designer. But last year she’d risked it all—her savings, her security and, sometimes she thought, her sanity—when she’d left Lalique to go it alone. But she was making it work. Homes by Harper had an exclusive client list, a sterling reputation and a solid portfolio.
Most people had no idea that beneath her sophisticated demeanor, Harper was obsessed with saving for her son’s college fund, worried about being a year behind on her career goals and often frantic trying to be a good mom, raise her son to be a better man than what he’d come from and still find time to polish her nails.
Whenever she thought about trying to juggle it all, she remembered living on welfare, wearing church-donated hand-me-downs because her mom couldn’t afford to both feed and clothe her only child, and finding the safest route home from school in a neighborhood where drive-by shootings were simply shrugged off.
And that, she decided as she sprinkled more cheese over the vegetable mixture, was the only use she had for her past. As a yardstick for how far she’d come.
“I’m pretty sure you’re the first person to actually cook in this kitchen,” Andi observed, her words muffled through a mouthful of the apple she’d finally given in to.
“Now, that’s a crime against kitchens.” Harper broke a dozen or so eggs into a thick pottery bowl, added cream, then with a careless shake of a few spices, whipped it together. “I can’t believe you lived in this house for two years and never cooked.”
“I’d lived in various other places twenty-six years before that and didn’t cook in any of them, either.” Andi looked around the rich, airy space with its touches of red pottery, midnight-blue fabrics and cozy eating nook. Three low-backed stools bellied up to the sleek island with its prep sink and marble top. When Andi had lived here, that island was often decorated with fresh flowers or, more often, caterers’ supplies. Now it held a blown glass bowl in bleeding greens that contrasted sharply with the bright red apples.
“You suit the kitchen, this house, much better than I ever did,” Andi said with an easy shrug. “Not only because you decorated it. For all your sophistication, you fit in suburbia. As much as I tried, I never could.”
“You’re definitely more comfortable downtown than you were here. And your penthouse is a better showcase for your personal style.”
“The penthouse is closer to the dating scene,” Andi corrected with another casual shrug at odds with the discontented look in her eyes. “Speaking of dating...”
“We were talking about decorating, not dating.”
“Then let’s change the subject.” Andi leaned her elbows on the counter and propped her chin in her hand, still munching the apple. “You need to start dating.”
“I’ve dated.”
“When was the last time?” Andi challenged.
Harper had to think about that.
“Sometime late last year, since I wore my black knee-length boots and that gorgeous three-quarter-length peacoat I got on sale at Nordstrom.”
That Andi didn’t question that Harper filed her memories according to outfits was just one of the reasons they were such good friends.
“Did that date end in sex?” Andi inquired.
“No. It ended in the stomach flu.”
“The guy gave you the flu on a date?”
Laughing at Andi’s confused expression, Harper shook her