A Baxter's Redemption

by Patricia Johns

  This wasn’t a Baxter sort of establishment, and maybe that was why Isabel had chosen it.

  It was two o’clock, and Isabel was due anytime now. He sat at a table near the back, assuming that Isabel might appreciate some privacy when it came to her business concerns. He’d been surprised that she texted him to begin with. He had a feeling that she didn’t trust him—whether that stemmed from her relationship with her father, or some “first” impression, he had no idea.

  After a milk shake at the local ice-cream shop—heavy on the cream—he’d taken Jenny back home and dropped her off. She seemed to be in relatively good spirits, but he always worried. Life wasn’t easy for Jenny. People didn’t always understand Down syndrome, and they oftentimes expected things from Jenny that she couldn’t deliver. She lived in a world that didn’t “get” her, and she was always trying to prove that she wasn’t any different. Except that she was.

  The front door opened and James turned to see Isabel step inside. She wore a white, breezy summer dress that scooped down in the front—not enough to sacrifice modesty—and flowed over her figure in the most flattering way. A broad, pink belt cinched her narrow waist, and she pressed a matching pink purse between her side and her elbow. She glanced around the diner, and a few truckers looked up from their meals admiringly. She still had it—the ability to draw all the attention when she walked into a room. She just didn’t seem to realize it.

  James stood and she smiled and headed in his direction. James sat when she did, and he gestured for the waitress.

  “What can I get you?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing.” She shook her head. “I’ve already eaten.”

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  The waitress came by and poured another cup for Isabel.

  “Anything else?” the waitress drawled. “We have some specials today—”

  “No, thank you.” Isabel smiled up at the waitress easily. “Coffee is fine for me.”

  The waitress retreated, leaving the two of them in relative privacy, and Isabel heaved a sigh. “Thanks for meeting up with me. I have a lease for you to look over.”

  “Oh?” James accepted the papers that she slid across the table, his trained eye moving down the page, identifying the typical clauses and subclauses of a commercial lease. He raised his eyebrows in interest and looked at her from over the pages.

  “You’re leasing the old bakery?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned back to the lease and perused the last of it. It looked like she’d negotiated a surprisingly low price for the place, too.

  “This looks pretty straightforward,” James said. “It’s a month-to-month lease—open-ended so that you can get out if your business fails or you want to take down your shingle, for whatever reason.”

  “No surprises in there?” Isabel asked.

  “Not one.” James handed the paperwork back and regarded her curiously. “Do you mind me asking what you’re planning?”

  She arched a brow. “So that you can report back to my father?”

  James leaned back in his chair. “If you were afraid of that, why did you ask to meet me?”

  She shook her head. “You said before that you were willing to keep my business private. Does that still stand?”

  “Of course.”

  She nodded. “Do you know how difficult it is to be watched all the time?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “It’s hard. People think that money brings freedom, but my father taught me early on that nothing comes without strings, and that money he signed over to me comes with so many strings attached.”

  “Only if you let it,” he said. “It’s in your name. You can do what you want with it.”

  Not exactly the advice Mr. Baxter wants me to give.

  “I’m willing to bet that my father wants you to keep an eye on me,” she said.

  James didn’t flinch, but he didn’t answer, either. They sat in silence, and he wondered if Isabel would say more. Her dark hair fell past her shoulders, and for a moment, her reserve slipped and he saw conflicted emotions in those big, dark eyes. Men had always fallen for Isabel, and it wasn’t only her beauty that drew them to her. She was gentler than she liked to let on, and he felt himself softening toward her despite his best intentions. She was like Helen of Troy—men would go to war for her. Andrew had gone to war early because of her...not quite the same thing, but a woman like Isabel could stir a man’s heart and shove him into battle. The end result for Andrew had been the same.

  “I’ve decided to open a chocolate shop,” she said finally, breaking the silence. “That’s why I’m renting the old bakery.”

  James pulled his mind back to the job at hand. George had given him a brief description of Isabel’s business ventures so far. Did she have what it took to start up a new business like this?

  “I didn’t know you made chocolate,” James said.

  “I imagine there is a lot you don’t know about me,” she said, a smile flickering across her lips. For a moment, he thought she might be flirting, but just as quickly, the playfulness evaporated. “And I have no idea what my father will say about it.”

  “You should ask him,” he said. He’d much rather that father and daughter hashed this one out alone.

  “I will.” She nodded. “Eventually. I don’t really want to listen to his depressing lectures right now.”

  George’s lectures could be a bit tedious—James knew this firsthand—but the man did have a great deal of business experience that his daughter could benefit from.

  “So you don’t think he’ll approve...” he guessed.

  Isabel sucked in a slow breath and held it. “He liked my chocolatier classes because he saw it as a hobby. I let him believe that. It was easier. He was more supportive that way.”

  “What did he want you to do instead?” James asked. “You’re his only child, right? The logical one to take over the business eventually.”

  He was fishing here—he knew his boss’s opinions about his daughter’s business abilities, but maybe she didn’t.

  “I’ll pry the reins out of his cold, dead fingers. He’s never been one to actually think about his own mortality. As far as my dad’s concerned, he’ll live forever.”

  James smiled at her imagery, then took a sip of his coffee. “So in the meantime, you open your own business.”

  “You make it sound like I’m killing time until my dad dies,” she retorted. “First of all, he’ll live to be ninety-five, and probably have another wife after Britney. And secondly, this isn’t a hobby. I intend to prove to him that I can start a business, build it and make it flourish. I’m going to come out of this with a profit. He did it with Baxter Land Holdings, and so can I.”

  “Fair enough.” He eyed her with grudging respect.

  “So I have one more question,” she said. “Is there any legal reason why I couldn’t use the Baxter name for my business?”

  “No legal reason,” he said. “As long as the company name is different from your father’s.”

  “I’m calling it Baxter’s Chocolates,” she said. “And my father is going to hate that.”

  James was inclined to agree. “So why not call it something else?”

  “Because I don’t want to. My father is a Baxter and so am I. I’m no less a Baxter because I’m a woman, and I have every right to use my own name.”

  James laughed softly. “Miss Baxter, you are a force to be reckoned with.”

  For the first time, a smile lit Isabel’s eyes. “I certainly hope so.”

  “So here is the issue.” James pushed his coffee cup aside. “Your father would like me to give you legal advice about using your money. Do you want it?”

  She was silent for a moment, then she shrugged. “James, I’
d be an idiot to turn down legal advice when I’m starting up a business. As long as you don’t try to talk me out of my dream, I’m grateful for all the advice I can get.”

  “Great.” He smiled. “You have my number. Contact me anytime.”

  She gathered her purse and folded the lease. Then she held out her hand and shook his firmly. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Isabel walked briskly out of the café, every eye following her. She either didn’t notice, or was accustomed to ignoring the attention.

  Her father hadn’t given her enough credit, but neither had James, for that matter. He knew it went against his better instincts, but he was curious to see what Isabel did with herself now that she was back in town. Would she stay? Would she prove her father wrong and actually make some money off this venture?

  He wasn’t the type of man who wished anybody ill, but he didn’t trust her, either. While beauty was a great factor in her ability to manipulate men, so was pity. The minute she discovered that she had a whole new kind of power, she’d be back to her old tricks. She just hadn’t figured that out yet. His bet wasn’t on Isabel having changed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  FAMILY SUNDAY DINNERS had been of paramount importance when Isabel’s mother was alive. Her fight with breast cancer had been fierce, but after she passed away, George Baxter had insisted on continuing the tradition, claiming she would have wanted it that way. After Isabel left for college and George married the young second Mrs. Baxter, family dinners evaporated along with half the furniture and the painted portrait of his first wife. So when her father called on Sunday morning, asking if she’d come for a family dinner, Isabel felt torn between nostalgia and misgiving.

  Isabel stood in her miniscule kitchen, eating a bowl of strawberry yogurt with chopped banana. It was a favorite snack.

  “Family dinner?” she asked incredulously, her cell phone pinched between her shoulder and cheek. “Do we still do that?”

  “Yes, we still do that,” he retorted. “Be here at six. On the dot.”

  “And Britney is okay with it?” she asked, entertaining some images of her young stepmother pouting through the whole thing. She licked off her spoon and gave her yogurt another stir.

  “She’s fine. She likes the idea now that she’s pregnant.”

  Isabel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Okay. I’ll be there. Should I bring anything?”

  “Like what?” he asked.

  “Jell-O salad?” she asked teasingly. They had an aunt who used to bring Jell-O salad to every family gathering—wedding, funeral, picnic. It was a standing joke between father and daughter.

  “Change that to wine, and you have yourself a deal.”

  “Britney drinks while she’s pregnant?” Isabel asked.

  “No. Shoot.” She could almost see her father’s discomfiture. He was as smooth as ice in anything business related, but when it came to family affairs, he fell apart. “Whatever. You and I will drink it. Just come.”

  Isabel laughed aloud. “See you at six, Dad.”

  Hanging up, she stood still for a full minute, staring down at her cell phone. A family dinner with Britney. She’d endured a mimosa at lunch, and that was about as far as she cared to push things, but her father seemed to want something more... And what could he really expect? If he’d at least married someone older than Isabel, she’d have a better idea of what to do.

  It might not be as bad as it seemed, she thought wryly. She’d always liked family dinners—before Britney, at least. They were a good start to repairing her damaged relationship with her father. She turned back to her yogurt, determined to simply let the evening unfold without too much worry...if that was possible.

  * * *

  AT SIX O’CLOCK SHARP, Isabel stood on her father’s doorstep, a bottle of sparkling apple juice in hand. She’d had a moment of generosity in the grocery store and had decided to get something they could all share, something she was seriously regretting now that she was faced with a wine-free evening with her stepmother. Isabel wore a pink summer dress with a full skirt and a cinched waist. She wore her dark waves up in a messy bun at the back of her head, and she tucked up a stray tendril as she rang the doorbell. There had been a time when she would have just opened the door and gone in, but that was back when this old house had been her home. Perhaps it was her new, tiny accommodations, but the house seemed ominously large these days. Too big. Too sprawling. Too empty.

  The door swung open to reveal her father, a surprise, since she’d expected to see the housekeeper. He ushered her in. He wore a pair of khaki pants paired with a dress shirt, open at the neck. His hair rose up in tufts on top of his head, and she smiled fondly.

  “It’s good to have you home, Princess,” he said, leading the way into the sitting room.

  “It feels different now,” she admitted quietly. “Where is Britney?”

  “Upstairs. On the phone with her mother.”

  Isabel attempted to hide her relief. It wasn’t often that she had time alone with her dad anymore. They sank into their old seats—her father in his leather armchair, and she took the end of the couch closest to him as she always had. They stared together at the mantel and the abstract print hanging above it, discordant colors splashed together.

  “Is that awkward?” Isabel asked after a moment.

  “What?” He glanced over, bushy eyebrows raised.

  “Britney’s parents are your age. Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes. But it doesn’t matter how they see me. Only how Britney sees me.”

  The comment was quietly honest, and Isabel felt her face heat. Did she really want to discuss this part of her father’s life? But they’d started, and she’d been wondering ever since the wedding...

  “Does she make you feel young?” Isabel asked.

  “She makes me feel loved.”

  “I love you, Dad.”

  “In a much different way.” He shot her a pointed look. “Can’t argue with that one, can you?”

  Isabel chuckled. “No, I can’t.”

  “So.” Her father pushed himself forward and leaned his forearms on his knees. “I heard that you’re thinking of starting a business with that money.”

  So this was the reason for the visit. Maybe the nostalgia she’d been nursing was wasted, after all.

  “Yes, I am,” she admitted. “I’ve just signed the papers for a lease.”

  He winced. “I’m sure James can find you a loophole to get out of that.”

  “Why?” she demanded. She’d known that he might disapprove, but it didn’t take the sting out of the unfairness.

  “It’s not a good idea, Princess. Trust me.”

  “You don’t even know what the idea is,” she retorted.

  “The chocolate shop. Britney told me.”

  A twist of distaste settled into her stomach. Of course Britney told him. She hadn’t expected her stepmother to keep a secret exactly, but she could only imagine the tattling kind of tone that would have dominated the conversation.

  “Dad, you signed the money over to me. Would you rather I used it to travel for a few months?”

  “I would rather you used it for plastic surgery.”

  His words were sharp, and she froze. She’d momentarily forgotten about the scars. His words were crueler than he probably intended, but she wouldn’t be put off that easily.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dad, but I told you before—I’m not going under the knife again.”

  “Okay, okay.” He heaved a sigh. “But still, it isn’t a good investment, Sweet Pea.”

  Isabel sighed. He did this when he wanted to cajole her into doing things his way. She became Princess and Sweet Pea, and he expected her to bow to his superior wisdom.

  “I�
�ve wanted to do this for years now,” she said.

  “It doesn’t make it commercially viable,” he shot back. “Wanting something and making money off of it are two different things. You’re so much like your mother...”

  “I’m actually a lot like you,” she snapped. “I only look like Mom.”

  Her mother had been a beauty queen, too. She’d been gorgeous, bright, cheerful and the envy of her father’s friends. Her mother had been the Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany’s when her parents married, and she’d aged with equal grace and ease.

  “Sweet Pea, you don’t understand these things. A chocolate shop is very romantic, and it sounds like a pleasant place to spend your days, but—”

  “Dad, I’m not an idiot,” she snapped. “And stop calling me Sweet Pea.”

  He looked ready to say something, then clamped his mouth shut. He leaned back into his chair.

  “And quit putting up that offended act,” she added. “I’ve watched you negotiate business deals for as long as I can remember, so I know your tricks.”

  “Money is a tool, Izzy,” he said. “It’s a tool to make more money. Without money—well, you don’t know what it’s like to be without money.” He smiled sadly. “Trust me when I tell you that this is a bad idea. I’ve been at this game longer than you’ve been alive, and a bachelor’s degree at Yale doesn’t make up for that.”

  He’d successfully swiped her one argument off the table with that last comment. She was proud of her degree at Yale. She’d wanted to get into a top school so badly that she’d even found her own tutor to get her math grades up in high school. It had gotten messy—she’d fallen for her tutor, and she wasn’t exactly proud of how she’d handled it—but she wasn’t the idiot everyone seemed to take her for. She’d had plans, goals, and she’d worked hard to achieve them. She’d earned that degree, gotten top grades and studied hard. Her father had paid for it, of course, but she’d worked for every A she got.