The host seemed surprised. This must not be the scandalous conversation he’d been hoping for when he’d brought Blake on the show. Ivy had a hard time disguising her surprise as well. She wished she knew what the hell was going on.
“Now, Blake, you just heard Ivy’s new song. What do you think about it?”
“I think it’s the best thing she’s ever written,” he said without the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Do you think she wrote this one about you, too?” the host pressed. “That naughty little minx will never admit what song is about what guy.”
At that, Blake smiled. “I don’t know if it’s about me or not. I think every red-blooded man in America would like to think that song is about him. Who wouldn’t want the love of a beautiful, talented woman like Ivy Hudson?”
A few men in the crowd cheered and the audience applauded along with them.
“I have to say, though, I really identify with this song. Ivy and I have had our ups and downs like any couple. I’ve been a jerk on more than one occasion. I would be thrilled to know that despite that, she still loved me, because I’ve never stopped loving her, either. I am very much in love with Ivy Hudson and have been since I was sixteen years old.”
The audience reacted with an audible “aww,” followed by more applause. It was a little surreal to have some kind of Greek chorus following the drama of her love life.
“Wow!” Jimmy said. “I think that’s the first time I’ve had someone declare their love for a guest on my show. Ivy, what have you got to say to that?”
That was a really good question. She glanced at Blake beside her. He was smiling nervously, his eyes pleading with her for an answer that didn’t make him look like an ass in front of all these people.
“I’d say he picked a fine time and place to tell me that!” Ivy laughed nervously. What was she supposed to say? That she loved him? She did, but they had some serious issues to talk over first.
“There’s something else I’d like to tell her, if you don’t mind, Jimmy.”
“Be my guest,” the host said, beaming with excitement.
Blake stood up, then lowered down onto his good knee in front of her. Ivy’s heart started beating with the rapid fire of an automatic rifle. Her mouth dropped open as Blake reached into his lapel pocket and took her hand in his.
“Ivy,” he began, “you are the most important woman to ever be a part of my life. I didn’t realize how miserable I was all these years without you until I had you back. We’ve only had a short time together again, but it’s been more than long enough for me to realize that I want to have you in my life from now on. I don’t care where we live or how we make it happen, but I need you. I love you. And I want you to know that I would never do something to deliberately hurt you, despite what you might think.”
Ivy looked into his blue eyes and saw the sincerity of his words reflected there. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, too. But was she a fool if she did? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice . . .
“Nothing happened with Lydia,” he mouthed silently. Neither the cameras nor the microphones could pick it up. Blake squeezed her hand. “I swear it.”
He opened the ring box then. It wasn’t the standard jewelry-store type of box. It was an older, carved wooden jewelry case, like something from another era. Inside, nestled in velvet, was a large diamond cocktail ring. It was a peculiar style, obviously vintage. There was a large round diamond in the center surrounded by a ring of platinum in a Grecian-style square wave design. That was surrounded by another ring of smaller diamonds that continued down and around the platinum band itself.
It was a one-of-a-kind ring, and yet it was hauntingly familiar. Where had she seen it before?
“This was my grandmother’s engagement ring,” he said.
Ivy suddenly remembered seeing the ring when she had tea with Miss Adelia at the mansion. She had always worn that ring, even years after her husband passed away. Ivy would’ve sworn that his grandmother would be buried wearing that ring.
“When I told her I loved you, she took it off her hand and gave it to me. It brought her and my grandfather nearly fifty wonderful years together. I’m hoping that you and I will have that, and many, many more. Ivy Grace Hudson . . . will you marry me?”
For the first time since she walked out onstage that night, the entire room was silent. She could’ve heard a pin drop if it weren’t for the distracting tattoo of her heart rapidly pounding in her ears. The rhythm of it was remarkably similar to the “ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod” spinning through her brain. He’d just proposed to her on television. On television!
And yet, it didn’t make a bit of difference where they were or who was watching. He could’ve proposed in his fishing boat on Willow Lake without another human around for miles. She loved him. Despite everything, she loved him and he loved her. She wanted to marry him.
“Yes!” she shouted, surprising even herself with the volume and enthusiasm of her response. Her hand was shaking like a leaf as Blake slipped the ring onto her finger. Once it was secure, she grinned and leaped out of her chair and into Blake’s arms. The crowd roared with applause and cheers that blocked out anything she and Blake might have wanted to say in the moment. That was okay. What she wanted to express didn’t require words.
Her lips met his. She didn’t care if there were cameras or people watching. Nothing mattered but returning to the arms of the man she loved.
“Another first, ladies and gentlemen!” she heard the host say over the applause. “A marriage proposal on my show. And of all the guests—Hollywood dating hellcat Ivy Hudson! This is going in the highlight reel, folks.”
Reluctantly, Ivy pulled away. They were on a television show, and eventually they needed to cut for commercial. Once she got off that stage, she could kiss and hug Blake all she wanted to. They settled back into their seats with Blake still holding her hand.
“You’d better be good to your fiancée, Blake,” Jimmy said. “I hear she can write a pretty mean song about the guys that break her heart.”
“I know!” Blake said with a happy laugh. “Believe me, I know!”
“The talented and newly engaged Ivy Hudson and Blake Chamberlain!” Jimmy announced to the crowd. “When we come back, we’ll chat with the pint-size star of Kiddie Commando—Ty Mason!”
The crowd applauded again and Blake and Ivy were free to make their way off the set. They disappeared backstage, hand in hand. Hidden in the dark folds of the stage drapery, Blake swept her into his arms again.
“Nothing happened. Not a damn thing. Lydia was trying to break us up once and for all. That woman will go to any length to make you miserable.”
“Like what? More than just the usual spitefulness?”
Blake sighed. “Yes. Like spooking your horse at the parade. Like planning that whole thing Saturday night so you would catch us together. But nothing happened. I had just reached out to push her away when you walked in. I wouldn’t have done that to you twice, Ivy. I’ve beat myself up for six years over the first time. It would mean a lifetime of penance to do it again. And I certainly wouldn’t have put you on the spot like that, proposing, if I had anything to hide from you.”
Ivy wanted to believe him. So badly. “I love you, Blake. Whether or not I should, I do. And I want to believe you. I want to marry you. But I want to be smart about this, too. Let’s not get married right away. I’d like us to have a long engagement so we can really get to know each other as we are, not just as we were.”
“So we’re tentatively engaged pending the successful completion of my trial period?” He smiled when he said the words, which made Ivy feel better about the suggestion. “I’m all for that. I will do whatever it takes to win back your trust.”
“Thank you.” Ivy leaned in and kissed him, snuggling comfortably into his strong arms. It would be hard for her
not to want to rush into marrying him, but she knew they both needed the time. “I also think we need a while to figure out how all this is going to work.”
“As long as I’m with you, I think it’s going to work out just fine. My grandmother said we were meant to be together, and I believe her. I wouldn’t have hung my neck out there like that if I didn’t.”
“So, the show didn’t fly you out here?”
“No, I came on my own but didn’t know how to find you. I called your phone, but Malcolm answered.”
“Stop right there,” Ivy said. Her mind was still whirling with everything that had just happened, but at least some of the puzzle pieces were fitting together. This was no stunt organized by the show for good ratings. This was the carefully orchestrated romantic interference of her best friend.
When she turned to look backstage, she spied a smug-looking Malcolm waiting for them. She took Blake’s hand and led him over to where Malcolm was standing. “Malcolm . . .” she said in a warning tone.
He immediately threw his hands up. “I am only partially responsible for all of that. I just got him on set. Okay, well, I got him on set and I got everything okayed by the show’s producers. And I gave him the idea. But that’s it.”
Somehow she doubted that, but she was incredibly grateful for his romantic interference.
Ivy wrapped her arms around Blake’s waist, looking up at him with a smile curling her lips. They were in love and getting married. That decided, there were still a million variables to figure out. Where would they live? What would they do? How would they make this work? “So now what?” she asked.
“Well, you still need a couple of tracks for your new album, right?”
Ivy frowned in confusion. “Yes.” How did that relate to anything?
Blake looked down at her, his blue eyes crinkled with mischievousness. “Then you’d better take me back to your house so I can help inspire some brand-new songs.”
Don’t want to leave Rosewood just yet?
Be on the lookout for
Feeding the Fire,
the second book in the Rosewood series
by Andrea Laurence
Coming spring 2015 from Pocket Star Books!
Chapter One
“You know, there are days when I’d consider setting my house on fire if I thought that sexy thing would show up and save me.” Vera Reynolds eyed the passing fire truck as she made her uncomfortable declaration.
Pepper heard a lot of things working at Curls, the only hair salon in Rosewood, Alabama. Probably more than she wanted to hear, really. In any small southern town, the beauty parlor was one of the best places to get the pulse on the local happenings. She didn’t need a subscription to the local paper. Clark Newton did a good job running the Rosewood Times, but frankly, anything he reported was old news to her by the time it hit the front page.
Pepper and her boss, Sarah Hudson, the owner of Curls, were always kept fully abreast of town gossip. If people didn’t sit in her chair and talk about their own life’s drama, they’d come armed with information about someone else’s. At any point in time, Pepper knew all about the town romances: who was dating who, what husbands were stepping out on their wives, and who had consulted with Norman Chamberlain, the only lawyer in town, about a divorce. She knew which Rosewood Garden Club member had sabotaged another member’s prize fern, who was in a spat over property lines, and who spent the night in the drunk tank of the local jail.
It was a small town, low on actual crime but always high on drama. Although there was nothing she could do to keep from hearing the gossip, Pepper tried very hard not to spread it. She knew how easily that could come back to bite her. Instead, she liked to play the role of salon-chair therapist. They talked; she listened and made thoughtful noises while working on their hair.
But sometimes, like today, she just didn’t want to know. No good could come of it, especially when Miss Francine and Miss Vera were in the shop. They always scheduled their appointments together, which usually meant double the trouble.
Instead of responding to Miss Vera’s declaration, Pepper just worked at sweeping up the hair on the floor from Sheriff Todd’s trim. The man had almost no hair and yet he showed up for a cut every four weeks, like clockwork. Pepper felt bad actually charging the man for a haircut.
“What sexy thing? Who was that?” Francine Doyle asked. “I can’t see out the window with this dryer over my head.”
“It was Grant,” Miss Vera said.
“Who?”
“Grant Chamberlain!” she shouted over the noise of the dryer as pieces of foil flapped in her hair.
Pepper winced at the sound of that name. Unlike Miss Vera, she had been dodging Grant Chamberlain since high school. The scrappy little freshman had had the nerve to ask her to the fall formal her junior year. He wasn’t even old enough to drive them to the dance, but that hadn’t stopped him. For whatever reason, he’d decided he wanted Pepper, and no matter how many times she told him no, he’d always come back around a few weeks later with another proposal.
Dating a Chamberlain might be a feather in the cap for most girls at Rosewood High, but not Pepper. She’d tried to avoid that whole family, which wasn’t hard considering they lived in the antebellum mansion on Willow Lake and she had lived in a trailer off the highway. Life was hard enough being poor and unpopular. Dating a freshman her junior year would’ve earned her merciless teasing by the other kids at school. Even if he was a Chamberlain.
Pepper looked up in time to see Miss Francine’s lips twist into a grimace of distaste. “You are a dirty old woman,” she snapped. “That child is barely out of diapers.”
Pepper and Sarah shared a look of amusement, but didn’t respond. Sarah returned to working on Miss Vera’s hair with an almost undetectable shake of her head. Pepper went into the back room to dump the dustpan and get a couple of fresh towels.
“He’s old enough,” Miss Vera muttered, turning back to look into the mirror. With one finger, she pulled at some of the wrinkles on her face, tugging until she looked ten years younger. “I’m just too old. Hell, I wouldn’t know what to do with a hard-bodied man like that if I had one sitting in my parlor.”
Pepper turned off the dryer and checked the foils in Miss Francine’s hair. The heat had helped the color process faster and she was ready to have the dye rinsed out.
“And how would you know he’s hard-bodied, Vera?” Miss Francine asked on her way to the shampoo station. “Are you the Peeping Tom they’ve been talking about in the newspaper?”
“Very funny,” Miss Vera replied with a dry tone.
“Have they caught the peeper yet?” Sarah asked.
“No!” Miss Francine said. “From what I’ve heard, Sheriff Todd has had seven reports of someone peering in women’s windows at night.”
“That’s creepy,” Pepper said. “I need to keep my curtains pulled. Or finally install some blinds.”
“You should,” Miss Francine agreed. “But in the meantime, it still doesn’t explain Vera’s secret knowledge about Grant Chamberlain.”
“I’m no window peeper,” Miss Vera argued. “It just so happens that the fire station is across the street from Dotty Baker’s place. Every Wednesday afternoon, she has me over for tea. We sit on the front porch, eat cake, and watch them wash the fire truck. If it’s warm enough out, some of them will take off their shirts.”
Pepper muffled a snort, thinking about those two leering at the firemen every week under the guise of having tea. “Ever whistle or catcall?”
“Dotty did once,” Miss Vera said with a look of irritation pinching her brow together. “It spooked them. They didn’t wash the truck for two weeks after that. At least, not at their usual time when we were watching. I took them a plate of cookies and apologized for her uncouth behavior. You know, since she had that stroke, she gets away with murder. Stroke, my foot. Her family wishes t
hat was the cause of her big mouth. She’s always been like that. Anyway,” she continued, “they finally went back to washing the truck on Wednesday afternoons again and I told Dotty to keep her big mouth shut after that.”
Miss Dotty had an appointment for her hair tomorrow. Pepper always enjoyed having her in the chair. Miss Vera was right: Dotty told it like it was. Usually in the South, ladies danced around the more delicate subjects, especially in polite company, but not Dotty. She just laid it out there when no one else had the balls to say it. It made Pepper laugh.
“And why am I not invited to these tea parties?” Miss Francine asked.
“You’re always working at the flower shop.”
Miss Francine made a disappointed noise and crossed her arms over her chest. She owned and operated Petal Pushers, the local florist. You could almost always find her there, working on arrangements for anniversaries or sprays for Hancock’s Funeral Home across the street.
Pepper finished rinsing Miss Francine’s hair and wrapped her head in a fluffy white towel. That was fortunate, because Miss Francine couldn’t hear Miss Vera mutter under her breath to Sarah, “She’s also too judgmental. She’d take all the fun out of it. Old ladies like me have to get our kicks somewhere.”
By the time Pepper had Francine settled in the chair, Sarah had shifted the conversation in a new direction. “Have you ever considered dating again, Miss Vera?”
“Posh,” she grumbled with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Honey, I’m too old to start dating again.”
“I don’t think so. You’re still young enough to enjoy going out to dinner or a movie with a gentleman. Someone to go with you on walks through the park. Or maybe a little make-out session in the parlor,” Sarah added with a sly grin.
Facing the Music Page 28
