by Myra Johnson
“Get an invitation to a certain society lady’s Fourth-of-July barbecue? It arrived by special courier three days ago. And if he wasn’t already a basket case, he sure is now.”
Mrs. Klein’s scrambled eggs started clucking beneath my sternum. “What did he say? Is he coming?”
“I doubt if he even knows yet. Julie, Micah’s a mess. Since you left, work on the resort has virtually stopped. I’ve spent the last several days stalling contractors demanding to know when they can put their crews to work and expecting to get paid while waiting for Micah’s go-ahead.”
“I don’t understand. What’s the holdup?”
Sandy remained silent for several long seconds. “I think he’s having second thoughts about the whole thing.”
“The whole—you mean the new resort?”
“Tearing down the old one, building the new one. It’s like he’s completely lost interest.”
My fingers caught in the tangle of curls at my temple. “What exactly has he been doing for the past week?”
“Mostly just moping around, mumbling, shuffling papers. And cursing. A lot. I need a fire extinguisher for my poor blistered ears! If it gets any worse, I may have to quit . . . if he doesn’t fire me first.”
“Fire you? Why?”
“Well, if he’s not planning on going ahead with the resort, he doesn’t need an administrative assistant for the project.”
I hiked up my straight gabardine skirt—propriety be hanged—and sat cross-legged on the comforter. “If you lose your job because of me—”
“Hey, you have no control over what’s happening. It’s just something that has to play itself out.” Another pause. “So how is it there? Really?”
Inhaling a shaky breath, I described life at Channing Castle—everything from the nightly four-course dinners to all the servants and staff crawling out of the woodwork every time I so much as blinked. Even told Sandy about my run-ins with Felicia Beaufort, including those nagging suspicions about her and Lawrence Channing.
“Hmmm, maybe the Lord meant you to find Renata for purposes you haven’t even suspected yet. Julie, as much as we all want you home with us, I think—”
I switched the phone to my other ear. “Oh, Sandy, tell me everything that’s happening back home.”
I listened hungrily as she filled me in on the doings in Caddo Pines—seeing Grandpa in church last Sunday, stopping by the Swap & Shop to say hello. “Oh, and your grandpa hired Clifton part-time to help out around the shop. You wouldn’t believe what it’s done for Clifton’s work ethic. Having somebody believe in him like that, he’s like a completely different guy.”
“Good ol’ Grandpa. Clifton’s working there can only be good for both of them. And did you see Brynna and the pups? And Sneezy—is he doing okay?”
“They’re fine, all just fine.” She gave a sympathetic laugh. “I’ve been wondering how you stand it being separated from your pets. I heard Renata hates dogs.”
Sandy’s statement reminded me how I’d ended up here in the first place. “Renata’s afraid of dogs, I’m afraid of water. Even without the DNA results, there’s plenty right there to make me believe I’m Jenny Pearl.”
“Maybe so, but you’re still Julie Stiles to me. You always will be. Don’t forget it.”
I choked up again. “You can take the hick-town girl out of the flea market, but you can’t take the flea market out of the girl. Is that what you’re trying to say?”
She didn’t laugh. “Even Cinderella had to come home from the ball eventually.”
“Until the glass slipper confirmed her identity.” I wasn’t real sure where we were going with this analogy, but I desperately hoped Renata would turn out to be more like my fairy godmother than an ugly stepsister.
As for Prince Charming . . . ?
I closed my eyes and let my thoughts carry me back to that last morning in Micah’s arms. His bristly-soft beard grazing my forehead, the spicy scent of his aftershave, the cottony texture of his shirt against my cheek.
Sandy exhaled sharply. “Jules, I hate to cut this short, but I need to get back to work, or Micah really will fire me.”
I swung my legs off the side of the bed. “Are you going to tell him you talked to me?”
“Do you want me to?”
I pondered the idea. “Yes. Tell him I’m doing okay. Tell him I haven’t forgotten what he told me. Tell him I . . . miss him.”
~~~
By the time I made it down to breakfast Saturday morning, the house was buzzing with activity. I watched a crew battle a stiff breeze as they attempted to erect a gigantic canopy at the far end of the pool on the only flat stretch of the Channings’ rolling lawn. An extended-cab pickup had towed a massive barbecue trailer onto the property, parking it next to the canopy. Billowing white smoke carried the savory aromas of beef, chicken, and pork slow-cooking over mesquite coals. My taste buds, trying to wrap themselves around a toasted bagel, were thoroughly confused.
As I sipped a latte Lindy Klein had whipped up from the hissing cappuccino maker, her mother handed me a note from Renata stating that both Isabel and Yvette would be waiting for me in my room.
Naturally, Renata wanted me primed, painted, and polished for command performance number . . . ? By now I’d lost count.
And I still had no idea whether I’d be seeing Micah this afternoon, or what I’d say to him if I did.
As I pushed open the door to my room, Isabel looked up from the ivory settee at the end of the bed. “Good morning, Miss Julie. Are you ready for your fitting?”
Something white and feminine lay across her lap. Her sewing basket rested on the coffee table atop one of those massive photography books that normal people can barely afford, let alone take time to look through. This one contained photos of actual coffee tables. I never knew there were so many different ways to photograph them.
I sprawled in an armchair across from Isabel. “Actually, I really liked that red, white, and blue outfit I had on the other day—or is it a huge faux pas to be seen wearing the same thing twice in the same decade?”
Isabel cast me a sympathetic frown. “You are not so happy here, Miss Julie?”
I gave a harsh laugh. “What’s not to like? Anything I want or need, all I have to do is ask. I’m living like a princess—and dressing like one, thanks to you.” I beamed her an appreciative smile. “Too bad Yvette hasn’t been able to tame my mane. I’m sure this mop is a colossal source of embarrassment for Renata.”
“No, Miss Julie, that is not true. I have never seen Mrs. C happier than since you arrived.”
“Do you mean it?” I clasped my hands between my knees. “About Renata being happier?”
“I have never seen her smile so much in all the years I have been working for her.” Isabel stood, shaking out the white dress. “Please try this on. Mrs. C ordered it especially for you to wear today.”
Maybe my being here was making a difference after all. If Renata could finally be at peace with the past, if she was ready to reconcile with Micah so that both of them could be free of their ghosts, then I could certainly deal with whatever high-society awkwardness it caused me.
I carried the dress into the giant closet-slash-dressing room and slipped out of my jumper. And I admit, wearing the slim-fitting white embroidered Oscar de la Renta, the ruffled hem skimming my knees, I did feel like a princess.
When I modeled the dress for Isabel, she gave a satisfied nod. “I do not believe anything needs to be altered, Miss Julie. The fit is perfect.” She went to the closet and retrieved a pair of stiletto-heeled sandals with ankle straps. “Here, you should wear these.”
I didn’t remember the shoes among the ones Felicia had picked out for me, but apparently Renata had special-ordered them to go with the dress. I grimaced. “I normally don’t wear heels. I’m tall enough as it is.”
But Isabel insisted, so I reluctantly slid my feet into the shoes, and she knelt to fasten the ankle straps. Again, a perfect fit.
Wobbling on the s
piky heels, I turned to view my reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door.
And I gasped.
Even before Yvette plied her talents with makeup and hairstyling, I couldn’t believe how amazing I looked—how amazing I felt. It was more than the way the winter-white dress complemented my skin, more than the lacy trim accenting the narrow waist and kicky hem.
Nope, it wasn’t the dress at all. I couldn’t take my eyes off the lean, toned look of those mile-long legs. If I’d known heels could have that effect on my bearing, I’d have been wearing them all along. And to think, I used to make fun of the Miss America contestants mincing across the stage in swimsuits and stilettos—like anyone would ever wear heels to the pool.
Wow! Now I understood. It’s all about the legs.
I swiveled one way and then another, striking various poses before the mirror while Isabel watched with a knowing smirk.
Yvette arrived, and by the time she finished with me an hour later, I really could have passed for a runway model. This time she didn’t bother trying to tame my curls, but pinned my hair into an artfully tousled updo, leaving strategically selected ringlets framing my forehead and temples.
Not long after she left, dear ol’ strictly-business Felicia rapped on my door. Same nondescript neutral-color pantsuit with sensible shoes, blond hair tucked into a braided chignon. Her only concession to fashion was the lacy camisole peeking out between the lapels of her jacket.
“Mrs. C asks that you to join her downstairs to greet the arriving guests,” she stated. Then her stunned gaze traveled up and down all five-foot-eleven-inches of me. More like six-foot-two with the heels.
I asked God to forgive me for taking pleasure in her unabashed envy. Staring down my nose at her, I said with my most charming smile, “Thank you, Felicia. Tell my sister I’ll be right down.”
“As you wish, Miss Stiles.” Touché. Glaring, she backed out the door and yanked it closed.
I didn’t realize how much she’d rattled me until I turned to check the mirror one more time and nearly fell on my keister. As I lunged for a chair, a taunting voice rang in my head: Julie Pearl Stiles, when are you going to get it? You can play dress-up all you want, but it will never change who you are inside.
CHAPTER 25
Christmas, 10 years earlier
Fort Worth, Texas
Micah stuffed sweaty hands into his jeans pockets and searched his fiancée’s gaze. “You’ve been quiet all evening, Tori. What’s wrong? Did I say something?”
“This—us—it’s not working.” Tori Varten crossed her arms over the tiny silver bells decorating her navy sweater and turned toward the blazing fireplace. “Think about it, Micah. Things haven’t been the same between us since that night.”
That night. The night he made the biggest mistake—no, make that the second biggest mistake of his life. The night he drove Renata home from the Arkansas Philanthropic Association gala and almost allowed his boyhood crush to morph into full-blown lust.
“I never meant to hurt you.” He touched Tori’s shoulder and felt her muscles tense as she edged away. “It’s just that Renata and I have this . . . unfortunate history together. Seeing her again brought it all back, for both of us. We needed to talk.”
“Talk?” Tori spat out the word. She whirled around and glared at him. “Yes, I’m sure that’s all you did. Too bad you don’t have the decency to talk to me. You don’t even love me enough to confide in me what this ‘unfortunate history’ is all about. Which of course leaves me to torture myself with ugly scenarios from my own imagination.”
Micah reached for the fireplace poker and stabbed at a flaming log until it split open and collapsed in a sizzling mass of red coals. Sparks popped and crackled and danced up the chimney. He wished his memories of the past would do the same.
“It’s better you don’t know,” he murmured. “Believe me.”
“So you’re choosing your private pain over our love, is that it? You’re going to let something that happened years ago come between us now?”
“I didn’t choose this pain,” he said, even as it gripped him once again. He clawed the back of his neck and sank onto the sofa. “I did something I’m not proud of. Can’t we leave it at that?”
Tori gave a heartless laugh. “Are you talking about what happened in the obscure past, or the night of the gala.”
“Tori, I love you. I’m telling you, nothing happened that night—”
“That’s bull! You’re lying to yourself, Micah.” Angry tears spilled down Tori’s cheeks. “Admit it. You’re really in love with her.”
“Renata? No! You’ve got it all wrong—”
“I saw the look in your eyes when you first saw her at the gala.” Brushing the wetness from her cheeks, Tori gave a disgusted growl. “You went trailing after her like a lovesick puppy.”
He couldn’t deny it, not completely. He’d idolized Rennie Pearl from the first day she befriended him that summer at the resort. How else could he explain the fatal lapse in judgment that had changed both their lives forever?
And yes, when she called his name at the gala, when he turned and looked into those seductive, gold-flecked hazel eyes, for one crazy moment he’d felt eight years old again. Only this wasn’t the old Rennie, the skinny teen with tousled hair and sun-reddened cheeks. Renata the woman—elegant, sophisticated, knockout gorgeous—sent his senses reeling.
He pounded a clenched fist against the plaid sofa cushion. She was doing it again, turning his life to shambles. He’d been crazy to believe the past could remain in the past. Crazy to believe something as horrifying and inexcusable as what he and Rennie had done could be permanently locked away in his mental safe-deposit box. Now his connection with Renata was coming between him and Tori, ruining perhaps his one and only chance for lasting happiness.
“Tori, please.” He rose, went to her, tried to pull her into his arms. “Don’t let the past destroy what we have. I love you.”
She pressed her hands hard against his chest. He could feel them trembling. “No, Micah, I can’t compete with your ghosts, past or present. It’s over between us.” Silent tears streaming down her face, she backed away. She slipped off her engagement ring, laid it his hand, and closed his fingers around it. “Good-bye, Micah.”
CHAPTER 26
Present Day
Four-inch heels may do wonders for a woman’s sex appeal, but they weren’t made for traipsing across a spongy lawn. I had to totter around on tiptoe to keep my stilettos from sinking into the ground and sending me sprawling. Once Renata released me from obligatory mingling, I filled my plate with a sampling of appetizers from the buffet table and abandoned the crowded party tent for the more stable surface of the terrace.
Extra tables had been set up under the lattice roof, with most seats already occupied. Avoiding the misting fans, I spied an empty chair and asked if I could join the threesome already seated at the small, square table.
“Please do. Lovely party.” The matronly-looking woman at my left lowered her sunglasses and peered at me beneath the brim of a massive straw hat. “Renata does know how to entertain.”
I smiled and unfolded my napkin. “Sure looks that way.”
“Tell me your name again, dear?”
“Julie Stiles.”
“I’m Madeleine Orbach, chairwoman of this year’s APA gala. And how are you acquainted with our hostess?”
I had no idea what APA stood for, and decided not to embarrass myself by asking. “I’m . . . a friend from out of town.”
“How nice.” She nodded to the other two guests, a balding man with glasses and a slender redhead in a tangerine halter dress. “Arthur, Caroline, have you met Miss Stiles?”
“I believe we were introduced when we arrived.” Caroline gave me a toothy smile. “Where’d you say you’re from, sweetie?”
“It’s a very small town. You probably never heard of it.” Renata had yet to make any kind of formal introduction of me as her sister, which made these conversat
ions extremely awkward.
Worse, I’d been keeping one anxious eye on the terrace doors in case, by some remote chance, Micah showed up. I honestly didn’t expect him to, but a furtive last-minute check of the RSVPs showed nothing beside his name. A hasty call to Sandy’s cell phone just before noon got only her voicemail. Maybe now would be a good time to run upstairs and check my phone to see if she’d returned my call. Finishing the last bite of a crabmeat hors d’oeuvre, I washed it down with a swallow of ginger ale.
I scraped my chair backward across the mossy flagstones. “It’s been nice chatting with all of you. I should probably go find Renata.”
“Oh, but you only just joined us.” Mrs. Orbach touched my arm, her jeweled rings glittering. “And look, Renata’s over there visiting away with the director of the Little Rock Wind Symphony. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if we kept you awhile longer.”
“Well, you know, I—I—” I froze, one hand grasping my glass buffet plate, the other gripping the arm of the chair. My mouth started doing that fish thing it does when I’m halfway between surprise and panic.
Micah.
He ambled through the French doors onto the terrace, slipping on mirrored aviator sunglasses as he got his bearings. He hadn’t noticed me yet, half hidden by Mrs. Orbach’s wide-brimmed hat and Caroline’s over-teased hairdo. And all I could do was drink him in—the seductive tilt of his head, the masculine curve of his bearded jaw, the lean lines of his torso beneath a navy striped shirt.
I felt a hand at my elbow. “Are you feeling all right, Miss Stiles.” Arthur, the bald guy. “You can never be too careful about crab, you know. I avoid it myself—seafood allergy. I break out in this horrible—”
“Excuse me, please.” I rose and started around the table.
Then my heel caught in a crack between the paving stones and this time I really did go sprawling. If Arthur hadn’t jumped to his feet and caught me, I’d have landed in Mrs. Orbach’s shrimp cocktail.
