Reid set the satchel down on the nearest kitchen counter. “He’s not so bad.”
Something brushed against him and he nearly screamed like a girl. He looked down to see a huge tabby cat with its tail flying at full mast, rubbing its face against Reid’s leg. The cat twisted its surprisingly flexible body around his calf and let out a meow that sounded like its vocal cords had been scraped along a cheese grater. On closer inspection it appeared that the cat was missing an eye…and a hind leg.
“That’s Spartacus,” Darby said. “Unoriginally named but he makes up for it with personality. Now he has some deficit in the looks department.”
Uh-huh, you didn’t say. “Another rescue?”
“Yep. Spartacus wanted to be the neighborhood gangster cat, but he just didn’t have the skills to back up his size and was constantly getting brought into the clinic. He also wasn’t smart enough to look both ways before crossing the road. So when he was hit and his owners had the choice between expensive surgery to save the leg or taking the leg off, they declined both and wanted to euthanize him. I couldn’t let that happen.” She crouched down to stroke a hand along the cat’s spine, giving him a perfect view of cleavage under the V-neck of her tee shirt.
“You’re a bit of a softie.” His gaze was drawn across the creamy pale skin covering her breastbone to a small raised ridge of smooth reddened skin on the right of her upper chest. Blood thundered in his ears.
There was no mistaking a portacath scar. At some point in the not too distant past, Darby must’ve had chemotherapy.
A crackle of ice sped through his veins and froze his tongue solidly against the roof of his mouth. She didn’t appear to notice his reaction and headed for the kettle.
“Tea or coffee?” She flicked the switch and the kettle began to hiss quietly.
The cat plonked his wide load by a food dish, and crunching sounds added to the awkward silence a moment later.
He swallowed hard enough that his stomach muscles came into play and followed it with a deep breath. “Tea. Peppermint if you’ve got it.” Maybe that’d help unfreeze his tongue and settle his gut.
“Sure. I’ve got the good stuff, too. Last Christmas Mum gave me one of those fancy infusers and enough boxes of different teas to fill a cupboard.” She hooked a cardigan draped over the back of one of the kitchen chairs and slanted a glance over her shoulder at him as she slid it on. “Why don’t you set out the samples and final designs on the table?”
Pinkness still tinged her cheekbones as she buttoned the shapeless thing up to her chin.
Maybe she had noticed his reaction after all.
The desire to blurt out the question bubbling like bile in the back of his throat plagued him the whole two minutes it took to remove the sketches and fabric samples from his satchel. Darby kept busy asking if he wanted plain peppermint or if he’d prefer peppermint and lemon or maybe even a rooibos choc peppermint, then fussing with measuring out leaves and adding just the right amount of hot but not boiling water…all the while keeping her back to him in the small kitchen.
Finally, she set the infuser and a mug in front of him and retreated to the far end of the table with her own mug. She twisted the top button of her cardigan, worrying it until Reid expected the button to pop off with a cartoon sproiiing. Unless Darby had the eyesight of an eagle and the ability to read his handwriting sideways, she wouldn’t be able to see his detailed sketches and notes.
He waited until her gaze flicked away from the cat still chowing down as though it were his last meal and back to him.
“You won’t be able to see anything from there,” he said. “I don’t bite.”
“Oh. Okay.” She stood, slid her mug along the table, and took the seat beside him. “Better?”
Better for her to see the sketches, not better for him to suddenly have the scent of citrus and sun-warmed exotic spices in his nose. Somehow his nose had bypassed any doggy odor transferred to her clothes and focused just on Darby. Who smelled good enough to lick. He couldn’t blame Duke for having a crack at her.
Not trusting his vocal cords to produce a reply that didn’t sound like a pimply teenage boy with his voice breaking, Reid nodded. He nudged the first sketch—Cinderella’s ball gown—over to her. While she studied it in silence, running a fingertip down the pencil lines of the sketch, Reid filled his mug with peppermint tea and tried to avoid thinking about Darby’s scar. Of how she hadn’t mentioned she’d been…unwell. That was one of the words his mother had used with acquaintances to describe her condition in the early days of her diagnosis, not wanting to burden people with the blunt truth.
I’ve been unwell. Under the weather. A bit off color.
The memories slipped to sepia and he returned to the present as Darby nudged her shoulder against his, tapping a fingernail on the sketch. “What do you think about taking that layer of ruffles off and leaving the hemline plain?”
The exact same comment he’d made to MacKenna when she’d sent through the finalized costumes. He angled his head to tell Darby as much then jerked to a halt, his face only inches from hers. His scalp pricked as she stared up at him, wide-eyed. This close to her the sprinkling of freckles dotted across her nose stood out in stark relief and her eyes made him think of the summer he hiked to Nelson’s Blue Lake and saw himself reflected perfectly in the crystalline purity of the water. And, oh hell—her upper lip was formed with an understated cupid’s bow, but her bottom lip had a just-kissed rosy color and looked wickedly bitable.
Hadn’t he only just told her he didn’t bite? Liar. He wanted, in that moment, to taste that tempting lower lip of hers and then kiss her until Darby was driven to bite him.
She blinked—or was it a wink?
“Reid?”
Judging by the unflirty tone of her voice, it was a blink. As casually as he could, he leaned back in his chair and took a sip of tea—which burned the roof of his mouth. He winced, but at least he was safely out of the danger zone where he’d nearly done something incredibly dumb.
“You’re happy with the final fabric choices?” Reid used the question as an excuse to break eye contact and pass her the larger swatches of fabrics he and MacKenna had finally agreed on.
“Yes.” She made no move to touch them so he set them down on the table. “You saw my port scar, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Guess you figured out I have—I had—cancer.” She slouched a fraction in her chair, as if the two words had the weight of granite slabs settling on her shoulder blades. “Breast cancer.”
“You never said anything.”
It was the best he could manage because his mind whirred like a mouse on a wheel. But his best was nowhere near good enough, as the pit in his stomach reminded him a split second later. A woman he’d just met was under no obligation to reveal something so personal, so what exactly was he accusing her of?
“Damn. Ignore me and my big mouth,” he said.
“It’s fine. I try to wait until at least the fifth conversation with a person before I drop the C-bomb into the middle of it.” One side of her mouth curved in the corner, but the hint of a smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Fair enough.” Not the most eloquent response.
They sat in silence for a few moments, then she said, “I was diagnosed with stage one, grade three triple positive breast cancer when I was twenty-four—four years ago.”
“That’s young.”
“Yeah. Lucky me.” Her teeth dug into her lower lip. “Over the next eighteen weeks I had six rounds of chemo”—she straightened her spine and shot him an assessing glance—“then instead of radiation to reduce my chances of recurrence, I had a nipple-sparing double mastectomy with full reconstruction. I didn’t want to take any chances of the bastard coming back.”
Neither had his mother. And yet, it had.
Blood thudded thickly against his eardrums. The kitchen’s air thinned to Everest heights as the walls decorated with a collage of photos closed in on him. Pictures of Darby
hugging Duke. Of Darby with a Siamese cat on her lap—the one he’d seen perched imperiously on the roof of the car in her driveway. Of Darby with waves of long, rich-as-treacle hair, laughing. Of Darby, now with short pixie hair, with her arm around a frail woman’s shoulders. A woman who wore a pink paisley headscarf.
“I’m making you think of your mum, aren’t I?” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Actually, he’d been thinking of Darby. Feeling his way through a quicksand of empathy and admiration that she’d come through the fires of hell in one piece. Convincing himself that the sharp pangs of attraction he felt for her were now blunted to a dull edge. He hesitated, searching for a finessed response as she riffled through the sketches and selected one, drawing it out for examination.
“Shall we talk about Ugly Stepsister Number One’s ball dress?” she asked brightly. “I think some extra sequins are in order. What do you think?”
Confession time over. He was good with that.
Reid rolled his shoulders with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “As long as you’re sewing them on, you can have as many damn sequins as you like.”
But what he really thought was:
I think I may’ve saved myself a boatload of trouble by keeping my mouth and hands off you.
Chapter 6
The Boobie Sisters met monthly at Saint Anthony’s City Church, which was tucked between a bar and a bakery. Tricky if you happened to attend an AA or food-addiction meeting there during business hours. Convenient if it happened to be your turn to spring for donuts that month. And as it was Darby’s turn to provide six fist-sized portions of fat and sugar and salted caramel bliss to their informally named subgroup of breast cancer survivors, the location was a good thing.
The heavy wooden door of Saint Anthony’s cracked open as Darby hiked up the stairs with the donut box. Marianne, the minister’s wife and provider of the wine sneaked into the prayer room while her husband was off ‘ministering,’ poked her head out of the doorway with a mock glare.
“Hope you’ve got a good reason for keeping the girls waiting?”
Um, how about on the drive there she’d nearly rear-ended a Mercedes while slowing down to peer into Next Stop, Vegas’s window display, hoping to catch a glimpse of Reid?
Instead of admitting that, Darby slipped past Marianne into the darkened church. “I already got a lecture from Erika about making her keep the bakery open five minutes after closing.”
“In German or English?”
“A mixture of both, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t curse me out in German this time.”
Marianne laughed, the evening sun streaming through Saint Anthony’s stained glass windows dancing over her warm brown skin. “You know she’d be terribly offended if we didn’t stop by for her donuts as it’s her way of saying thank you.”
“I know. That’s why I stayed with her an extra ten minutes.”
Darby dipped her head for a moment, as did Marianne. Erika’s mother, Mrs. Keller, or Mutter as she insisted everyone called her, was part of the bigger support group of men and women cancer sufferers who met together at Saint Anthony’s. She’d also joined Marianne, Darby, and the three other women for the more informal Boobie Sisters meetings, even though she barely spoke a word of English. She just loved being a part of their little fellowship, and the seventy-two-year-old could drink wine like nobody’s business.
Mutter had passed away five weeks ago, peacefully, in her sleep.
Marianne reeled Darby in for a one-armed hug. “Well, we’re glad you finally made it.”
Darby followed her friend down the aisles past lemon-furniture-polish-scented wooden pews toward a door that led to the church’s kitchen, hall, and offices.
Jill, Brenda, and Raelene were already halfway through their first glass of wine when Marianne and Darby entered the prayer room. The three women stood and one by one hugged Darby. Although only Marianne belonged to the Saint Anthony’s parish, the five women—who used to be seven when Mutter and Sandra had been part of their group—had sent more than a few prayers heavenward while in that room.
Darby curled into one of the squashy-cosy armchairs, her spine doing a mind meld with the cushions as she finally relaxed. Here, with these women, she didn’t have to put up an everything’s awesome front.
All of them had walked the walk and could talk the talk.
All of them had looked the Grim Reaper in his beady black eye after their diagnoses.
And all of them had shot him the bird and said, “Not yet, Sunshine.”
“Update on the costumes?” Jill asked.
Ever the former PA, Jill would’ve been leading the Lynch Darby for Tardiness Brigade. She was the hurricane force behind Sunflower House fundraising, due to her mad organizational skills and a teensy bit of OCD, which made her a super popular guest at Darby’s house because there wasn’t a duster or a cleaning cloth invented that her friend couldn’t resist getting busy with.
To prevent blushing like a schoolgirl, Darby refused to picture Reid in her mind’s eye while she formulated her report. “Reid messaged me to say he’s finished the initial paper patterns for all five costumes and he’ll cut the mock-ups on Tuesday night. I’m going to his workshop after work on Wednesday to help sew them.”
“You got two nights to bring your rusty skills up to scratch, then, girl,” Raelene said. “I’d offer to help but my sewing skills are on par with your laboratory skills.”
Raelene, a fifty-nine-year-old high school science teacher, was the oldest member of the Boobie Sisters now.
Darby grinned. “Maybe you could cook me up something in your lab to help me get through the evening.”
Raelene pointed a finger at her. “Don’t tempt me to go all Breaking Bad on yo ass.”
Brenda, a mum of two teens who were better behaved in school than Raelene, the group suspected, just rolled her eyes. “Never should have lent her that DVD boxed set.”
Narrowing her eyes beneath the All Blacks beanie that covered the dark fuzz growing back on her scalp, Raelene smiled carnivorously at Darby. “Does this mean you get to pin Hugh King into his costume pants?”
“With my luck, I’d probably stab him in the family jewels by accident,” Darby said.
Marianne poured herself and Darby a wine. “At least you’d be memorable.” She passed a glass to her.
“If that boy had spent half as much energy remembering the periodic table in my classes as he did girls’ phone numbers back in the day, he could’ve had a career in the sciences instead of bumming around pubs with his guitar.” Raelene’s mouth puckered as she reached for the largest donut.
Brenda frowned. “There’s nothing wrong with the arts, Rae, and Hugh always smiles and thanks me when he goes through my checkout line. He’s a lovely guy, I’m sure.”
Raelene and Marianne exchanged a covert glance over their wineglasses, with the older woman snorting softly before she bit into the donut, sending a puff of powdered sugar flying.
Jill’s gaze arrowed across the coffee table to Darby. “At the risk of sounding like a teenager, has he noticed you’re alive yet?”
Kinda. Sorta. But although he’d smiled at her a couple of times at rehearsals, he hadn’t suggested again that she stop in to see him perform. Or asked her out on a date. Now who sounded like a teenager? Except teenagers probably didn’t call it dating anymore.
“Of course he’s noticed her,” Brenda jumped in loyally before Darby could answer. “How could a man not notice how smart and kind and funny our Darby is?”
“Not to mention sexy as hell and totally doable,” Marianne added.
Brenda pressed her fingers to her mouth and raised her eyebrows—or at least the ridge where her eyebrows had been and were slowly growing back. “Are you encouraging Darby to engage in sinful behavior?” Then her round face split into a grin and she giggled. “Shame on you, a minister’s wife and all.”
Raelene finished chewing and waved a dismissing hand. “Oh, that’s nothing. Wait ’til you get an
other wine into her.” She switched her hawklike gaze on Darby. “But seriously. You can do better. Now tell us about Reid Hudson.”
The sudden subject switch, while Darby was still coming up with a response to the you can do better statement, befuddled her, and she gaped at Raelene for a moment. “Reid?”
“Yes, Reid,” said Raelene. “You got a funny look on your face when Jill asked you about how the costumes were coming along, and before you got here we all agreed that the man could measure us up anytime. Except Jill, since she likes girls.”
Jill rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t stop me agreeing that the man’s spot on the hotness scale isn’t too shabby.”
“Yeah, he’s totally doable,” Marianne said impishly.
“Um,” Darby said with a little wriggle, pretty sure the couch cushions beneath her were heating up. “Well, I think he likes girls, too.”
Jill tapped her nose. “Could’ve told you that if you’d asked. My gaydar didn’t go off when my sister used Next Stop, Vegas for her wedding.”
“Anyway,” Raelene said, hunkering into the tell us everything position and rubbing her hands together. “He came over to your place a couple of days ago, didn’t he? Is that when you found out he likes girls?”
Darby pressed her lips together for a moment. “Not exactly. He spotted my port scar and it got a little weird.”
“Weird how?” Raelene asked.
“Just…awkward weird.” Darby’s hands curled into fists on the armchair. She wasn’t sure if the awkward-weird part was that she’d thought for a moment Reid was going to kiss her or she was a little disappointed he hadn’t.
And how did she explain the gut-deep sinking feeling she’d had when Reid’s expression changed from an initial open warmth with a hint of male appreciation to one of wary distance? For the rest of the thirty minutes he’d stayed discussing costume planning, he’d quickly regained his composure and stepped away from his previous ‘guy on the edge of losing it’ that’d she’d seen after she told him she’d had breast cancer. But his smile no longer contained any hint of sensuality, and his eyes avoided any part of Darby from the neck down—as if her breasts were two bombs that could be triggered by any heat in a man’s gaze.
Love Everlasting Page 6
