“Here?” There were no clothes in the window, only a bouquet of exotic flowers in a Chinese vase, set against a draped cloth. “Is it a florist’s shop?”
“Not exactly. It’s called Fleur’s.”
Tara recalled seeing the name in one of the magazines at Denise’s salon. A former designer for a Paris couturier, the woman now custom-fitted her creations to a select clientele, by appointment only.
Tara wondered when Fleur had begun designing for men. She also wondered why Chance wanted her opinion of his new clothes, since he had such unerring taste.
Inside the shop, they found themselves in a plain waiting room. A receptionist asked their names and announced them through an intercom.
They had barely sat down when Fleur herself emerged. Strong-boned and graying, she introduced herself to Chance and Tara in a softly accented voice.
If she hadn’t met Chance before, that meant he hadn’t yet selected his clothes. Tara wondered how this aristocratic designer would react on learning her creations were to be evaluated by a woman in a discount-store suit and scraped heels.
Fleur led them to an inner room, more spacious and better lit than the waiting area. On a side table sat a silver coffee service and a selection of pastries.
“Not knowing mademoiselle’s tastes, I made a few selections from my collection.” The designer indicated a half dozen exquisite creations displayed on mannequins.
Even though she knew a mistake had been made, Tara couldn’t help staring longingly at the array. In addition to a rainbow-hued formal gown with a high collar and plunging neckline, there were floating dresses and suits of varying lengths. She also noticed a clingy pantsuit styled like a tuxedo but made of an opalescent fabric so delicate, it might have been cut from a cloud.
“What do you think?” Chance asked in a low voice, his head tilted toward Tara.
“They’re incredible,” she said. “But these are women’s clothes.”
Fleur raised one eyebrow. “Indeed,” she said. “That is what I design.”
“But I thought—” Tara shifted her attention to Chance, and saw his suppressed amusement bloom into a grin. “We’re shopping for me?”
“As my personal assistant, you need to be properly attired at the dinner”, he said. “Naturally, I will absorb the cost.”
Objections flew in and out of Tara’s brain like gnats at a picnic. She couldn’t possibly accept. These clothes must cost a fortune. If anyone heard about this, they would jump to the wrong conclusion.
Of course, if people heard—which they surely would, sooner or later—that she was the mother of his child, they were going to jump to those conclusions anyway.
“Oh” was what came out, barely audible.
“If I may say so, mademoiselle has the perfect figure for fashion.” Fleur lifted a soft, midcalf-length suit with a scarf-collared jacket from the display and held it close to Tara. The fabric had pink overtones glimmering with hints of blue and yellow. “This is very flattering. Also, I would suggest trying the tuxedo. These are the new colors for the season. A veritable rainbow, n’est-cepas?”
Tara wished she could spot a price tag so she would know exactly how much Chance was going to be set back by all this. Then she realized that the idea of a price tag had probably never entered Fleur’s mind.
“I suppose I could try them on,” she said.
Chance made himself at home on the couch close to the refreshments. “That sounds like a plan.”
The dressing room turned out to be almost as large as the salon. A seamstress and Fleur assisted Tara, removing her garments with practiced ease and fitting her into the calf-length suit.
It was a bit large, but a few swift tucks by the seamstress made it fit. Tara nearly asked whether alterations were included in the price, then bit her lip. This wasn’t the kind of establishment where such things mattered.
She knew Chance put great emphasis on image for his business, but was he really willing to pay—how much? A thousand dollars? More likely ten times that, Tara reflected with a gulp.
Maybe he could return the outfit for partial credit after the dinner. But she doubted it.
As Fleur added a perky hat that provided an air of casual sophistication, Tara realized the woman reflected in a trio of mirrors would do Powers Financial Corporation proud.
She had high cheekbones and fine skin, with a touch of haughtiness offset by her wide eyes. It wasn’t really Tara, but some alternate version whom even Fleur regarded with admiration.
On the other hand, she couldn’t stop thinking of the other uses to which that money could be put Ten thousand dollars was enough for a down payment on a condominium. It would make a great start on a college fund for Harry. Or she could back Denise in opening her own salon.
But it wasn’t Tara’s money, it was Chance’s. He had already promised to set up a trust fund for Harry, and as for those other things…well, they weren’t going to make his business look good at the annual dinner.
Swallowing hard, she complied with Fleur’s suggestion that she model the outfit. Holding her head high and hoping her pink cheeks didn’t reveal too much of her inner conflict, Tara strode out of the dressing room.
Chance was setting his coffee cup down when he spotted her. He seemed, for a moment, to stop breathing.
Then his gaze traveled from her jaunty hat down the flowing lines of the suit, touching her shoulders, breasts, hips and legs before returning to her face. Blinking a couple of times as if caught off guard, he gave a small nod of approval.
But did he really like it? Tara didn’t know what his reaction meant. She felt his intensity in every snap of her nerve endings, but maybe she was misled by her own prickly awareness of the man.
She wished, this once, that she could be inside his mind the way she had been when they first met, experiencing his thoughts instead of guessing at them. He was deliberately blocking her, of course, she told herself as she made a turn around the room. That was for the best, to keep each other at arm’s length.
If only they hadn’t met the way they did, and then come back together with so many issues between them. The pure masculine appreciation shining from his face was something Tara wanted to relish. She wanted them to be simply a man and a woman.
But what good would that do? They couldn’t allow themselves to fall in love, she told herself as she retreated to the dressing room. She wasn’t convinced it would be dangerous in the way Aunt Cynda believed, but it would certainly threaten her peace of mind.
Never again did she want to make herself vulnerable to a man’s disapproval the way she had been to her father’s. Her self-reliance had been won at a high cost. As she changed into the cloud-colored tuxedo, Tara wondered if she would ever trust a man enough to marry him.
She cherished every moment she spent with Chance. But the distance he resolutely kept between them was her margin of safety. For different reasons, neither of them dared cross it, and that, she decided, was for the best.
Yet when she stepped into the salon again, and saw the tenderness with which he watched her, she felt less certain. Depths of emotion turned his eyes to silver, and the amusement on his face had been replaced, for one unguarded moment, by yearning.
“Which do you prefer?” she asked.
“They’re both amazing.” His voice had a hoarse note.
“The tuxedo is more businesslike,” she said.
Fleur chuckled. Until that moment, Tara had almost forgotten her presence. “How differently people react! One of my customers is purchasing that suit for her wedding.”
“For a bride?” Tara regarded herself in the oversize mirror and realized the slim lines and pale, iridescent material would make an offbeat but charming picture at the altar. “What a clever idea!”
“Is the groom wearing a black gown?” Chance teased.
“He’s Scottish,” said the designer. “I believe he’s wearing the traditional kilt”.
“That settles it,” Tara said. “I’m wearing the skirt a
nd jacket. No way am I going to the annual dinner as a bride!”
“I have to admit, I did like that outfit better,” Chance admitted. “Or if you prefer one of the dresses—”
Tara sensed that Fleur had instinctively chosen the two creations that best suited her. “No, we’ve made the right choice.”
The seamstress took additional measurements in the dressing room, and Fleur promised to have the suit delivered within a week. “And the hat, as well?”
“Why not?” Tara said.
“And may I suggest some shoes…”
By the time they were finished, the suit and hat had been augmented by slippers and an evening bag. Tara refused to let herself think about the cost.
She emerged onto the street feeling giddy. “Thank you,” she told Chance as he guided her back to the car. “That was very generous.”
“Pure selfishness,” he assured her. “I’m the one who gets the pleasure of looking at you. Now we’d better hurry. We just have time to pick up Harry.”
Usually Rajeev handled that responsibility. “Why? Are we going somewhere?”
“Well, it is Friday.” Chance unlocked the car and held the door for her. “And we have been invited to a special event.”
Today seemed to be Chance’s day for surprises. Tara doubted he could top their visit to Fleur’s, but she was willing to play along.
CHANCE KNEW he was driving the sports car a shade too fast on the way to pick up Harry, but he needed to take the edge off. He’d been stretched thin ever since he saw Tara in those sensuous clothes.
The impulse to buy her a fabulous outfit had seemed innocuous at the time. But the air between them had been charged from the moment they entered the salon.
This past week had turned into a mixture of joy and agony. Being close to Tara and yet unable to touch her had left Chance with energy so tightly bottled, he feared he might explode.
At least he’d had the distraction of helping Harry explore his gifts. Practicing mind control to prevent squirrels from running into the street had amused them both, and saved at least one creature’s life.
It was too bad there existed no aptitude test for wizardry. Chance suspected his son would score off the top of the chart. Fortunately the boy had been raised with a strong sense of values.
Now, in front of the school, Harry waited beside a thin boy wearing glasses, whom Chance recognized as his friend, Al. They were grinning and joking with other children.
Harry’s eyes brightened at the sight of the sports car, and he ran over. Tara barely had a chance to lean her seat forward as he scrambled pell-mell into the back.
“Can we go by the video store and see if there are any new games?” he demanded. “Can we stop at the bookstore and see if they have the new Goosebumps?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” said Chance. “How about going to a carnival?”
“A carnival?” Tara asked.
“My old school is a few miles away,” he explained. “It’s a private school, and this is the annual fund-raiser. It occurred to me we could swing by there and maybe catch a ride on the Ferris wheel.”
“It occurred to you?” said the car. Since undergoing a tune-up and oil change the previous week, it had quit nagging, but now it apparently felt free to inject its whiny voice into the conversation. “Excuse me, but didn’t you program the directions into my map two days ago?”
“I wish Al and Sammi could hear this!” Harry leaned over the seat back. “I bet they’ve never been in a talking car!”
“And with luck they never will be, either.” Chance switched off the computer’s voice. “The reason I wanted to drop by is that my great-aunt Cynda has volunteered to staff the fortune-telling booth. I thought it would be fun to see her in action. Besides, she’s dying to meet Harry.”
“The fortune-telling booth? I thought she didn’t have much success at seeing the future,” Tara observed.
“She doesn’t. That’s what makes her perfect for a school fair,” Chance pointed out. “She can tell people what they want to hear, and they’ll go away happy.”
“But it isn’t honest,” said Harry.
“Everybody knows fortune-telling isn’t real.” Tara stopped with her mouth ajar. “I mean—things like that usually aren’t real. And even Chance can’t foresee the future, can you?”
“Thank goodness, no.”
“I think it would be neat!” cried Harry.
Both his parents reacted at the same time.
“You haven’t—” began Tara.
“Don’t tell me you’ve started to—” said Chance.
They exchanged glances. “You can’t see the future, can you?” Tara finished for them both.
“Me?” said their son. “I wish I knew what was going to be on the math test next week! But I don’t”
The school, tucked away on a quiet street, looked much as Chance recalled it. Stucco buildings dating to the 1920s sprawled across a tree-shaded campus, which, this afternoon, had turned into a riot of color and motion.
In addition to the Ferris wheel, he spotted a roller coaster and half a dozen other high-speed rides, along with a carousel and a small railroad that wound its way about the grounds.
Booths sold food and souvenirs, while one tented section was set aside for games. Shooting galleries and ring tosses never seemed to lose their appeal, even in the age of computers.
As Harry led the way, skipping onto the grounds, Chance wondered if he should consider transferring his son here. Not only Chance, but his cousin Lois and several other relatives had attended West Oak Academy.
He decided a decision could wait, perhaps until junior high. After all, the boy had made friends and begun putting down roots at his current location.
It would be useless to try to temper Harry’s high spirits until they’d sampled a few rides, so for the next hour the three of them flew, bounced, zoomed and shrieked their way around the grounds.
Finally, after downing pizza and com on the cob, they headed toward the booth area. Signs advertised an astrologer, a palm reader and Madame Lucynda and her crystal ball.
“Does she really have a crystal ball?” demanded Harry.
“Well, yes.” Tara had worn a faintly amused expression since they arrived. To Chance’s surprise, she hadn’t even objected to riding on the roller coaster. “At least, it’s a ball, and it appears to be made of glass, so I suppose it qualifies.”
“How does it work?” the boy pressed.
“That all depends on Cynda,” Chance said.
“It’s a way to help her focus?” In their practice sessions, his son had quickly grasped the usefulness of specific exercises and objects as an aid to concentration. “I get it.”
A teenage couple emerged from the blue-and-graystriped tent as they approached. “She’s terrific!” the boy said. “She told us we were meant for each other!” The kids walked off beaming, arm in arm.
Chance felt a twinge of envy for such uncomplicated happiness. But then, he had nothing to complain about, he reflected as he slipped one arm around his son’s shoulders and, taking Tara’s elbow, guided her inside.
Red light from a scarlet-shaded lamp gave a cheesy air of mystery to the interior, where the crystal ball sat atop a paisley-covered card table. Behind it perched Aunt Cynda, forming an exotic picture with her sharp black eyes, long Gypsy dress and oversize turban.
“Wow!” said Harry.
“Impressive,” murmured Chance.
“Oh, bosh,”said his great-aunt. “I look like a refugee from Halloween. Lois found this getup at a costume shop. You’d think a woman who works for a special-effects company could do better than this, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s a pleasure to see you again,” said Tara.
“And you, too, of course.” The woman fixed her gaze on Harry. “This little urchin would be your son, I take it? Fine young fellow. I think I’ll take him back to my cottage in the woods and fatten him up, shall I?”
“That’s from Hansel and Gretel!” H
arry didn’t look in the least intimidated. “That’s make-believe! Can’t you do anything real?”
“I’m sure Aunt Cynda tells very good fortunes,” reproved his mother.
“Did you buy tickets?” asked the lady, adjusting her turban. “It’s for a good cause, you know. The library needs new computers. I remember when children read books, don’t you? Now it’s all CD-ROM and bits and bytes and the Internet”.
“I like to read,” said Harry. “But I like the Internet, too.”
“That’s the gift of youth,” said his great-great-aunt. “To put complex truths in a nutshell. Well, boy? Step up and let us see what the future holds.”
Tara peeled a ticket from her roll and handed it over. As Harry plopped into a chair and stared at the crystal ball, Chance noticed Tara stiffening.
He wasn’t aware of letting down the guard between them, but he sensed her thoughts. What if tragedy lay ahead? What if they learned something they didn’t want to know?
Aunt Cynda had never seen anything accurate yet, but it didn’t seem polite to say so in front of her. Besides, she had figured out their past lives as Valdemar and Ardath.
Maybe that was why Chance, too, felt a tremor of apprehension as his great-aunt began to speak.
Chapter Thirteen
“You like baseball”, said the fortune-teller.
As Harry nodded, Tara nearly laughed at her own misgivings. It was a safe bet that any six-going-on-sevenyear-old boy would fit that statement.
“And squirrels”, Cynda added.
Tara’s amusement evaporated. She remembered her son chattering about keeping a squirrel from running in front of a truck, and wondered if anyone had mentioned the incident to Cynda.
“An important event will occur soon”. The older woman frowned into the glass, which had turned from clear to milky. Tara wondered what had made it do that.
“My birthday!” said Harry. “It’s in July”.
“No. Sooner.” Cynda tapped the ball. “It’s on the fritz again, darn it. Ah, there we go. I see people dancing. Do you like to dance?”
“No, but Rajeev and Vareena do,” said the boy.
Daddy Warlock Page 16
