In Love Again Read Online Free PDF Page A

had realized it was much easier to shut down twenty years of one’s life than it had been to build it. The thought was far less depressing than she’d anticipated.
    On that final trip to Scotland, she’d packed up two large suitcases of clothes, half of which Bronte and Sarah had summarily removed from the luggage during her stopover in London. The three of them had been at Northrop House in Mayfair, trying to sort out what Claire would need for her new life in New York.
    “That’s hideous,” Sarah said about her favorite brown jumper.
    “You’ll never wear that in New York,” Bronte said about her much-loved yellow mackintosh.
    “Those are the color of puke,” Sarah said about her dearest wellies.
    “What the hell is that ?” Bronte cried.
    The item in question was one of her great-grandmother’s bed coats. It was a pale blue lacy thing, of no sartorial use whatsoever. It was just old and pretty…and had been worn by the Queen Consort, Mary of Teck. And Claire loved it.
    “Give me that!” Claire demanded.
    “It looks like a spider got wasted on blue gin fizz and wove it in a drunken frenzy,” Bronte said.
    Claire held it close to her chest, then gently refolded it. “This stays.”
    “Okay,” Bronte laughed. “It’s nice to see a touch of defiance, but you might want to reserve your stubbornness for one of your mother’s Worth gowns.”
    Sarah squeezed Claire’s shoulder and whispered, “It’s lovely, Claire.”
    That had been two weeks ago. Now Claire was wishing she was Mary of Teck, sitting in an enormous tester bed eighty years ago at Sandringham Castle, ringing for hot chocolate in her pale blue bed coat. Alas.
    She took a deep breath of Manhattan air and got into the taxi alongside Bronte.
    “Okay. So, obviously, I can’t go in with you,” Bronte began her pep talk. “But Boppy is totally expecting you, and you should basically just throw yourself at her feet.”
    Claire looked mortified.
    “Not literally!” Bronte laughed and grabbed Claire’s hand. “Just offer to do whatever needs doing. You have such perfect taste. I mean, look at you. You’re always so perfect.”
    Claire cringed at the sound of the dreaded word. Perfect . Her mother was perfect. Her mother had demanded perfection. All that proper posture. Proper forms of address. “I am so far from perfect. I’m a wreck.”
    Bronte switched gears. “Look. Shake it off. You’re going in for your first job interview…of your entire life. I get it. It’s huge. But you’re also a grown woman. You have had parties for hundreds of people in your home. You have raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for charities. You obviously know how to deal with difficult people, between your soon-to-be-ex-husband and your mother—” Bronte caught herself. “Sorry!” She swore quietly under her breath. “I’m trying so hard not to snipe.”
    It was Claire’s turn to play the comforter. “Oh it’s fine, Bron. I know Mother has given you a horrible time of it. She’s better now, since she’s with Jack, but she is just…rigid.”
    “She is that. I think she’s wonderful with Wolf though,” said Bronte, referring to her beloved sixteen-month-old son.
    “She is. She’s spoiling him. Watch out. Can you imagine what she’ll be like with twin girls? The clothes!”
    “That’s what grandmothers are for, I think.”
    “I think so too.” The taxi stopped at a red light a few blocks from their final destination. “So, just talk to Boppy. You know her style. You’ve read her books. She’s a classicist like you.”
    “Is that what I am?” Claire wondered.
    “Yes!” Bronte laughed again. “Get your story straight. Everybody needs a little mission statement. Yours is all about the bones. You’ve got history. You’ve got structure.”
    “You make me sound like one of the properties in the National Trust.”
    “You’re worse than Eeyore! Cut it out with all this sad sack nonsense. I’m trying to elaborate on your