But everything was different now, and she’d opened a vent on thoughts and feelings she hadn’t ever put into words, and James’s quiet attention was loosening her lips. As she talked, her thoughts came together, making sense of a dynamic she hadn’t been able to sort out yet.
“I agree that my ideas back then were pretty stupid, but I couldn’t really be blamed. My world was small. I was patterning myself after movie stars who started their own clothing or makeup lines—women who wanted to be taken seriously in the business world, but went about it in a stereotypically girlie way. But that was all I saw. I mean, we’re in Montana, and if you aren’t in the beef industry, there aren’t a lot of role models.”
“And your mom?” he asked.
“A beauty queen before me.” She felt the bitterness in the words. “Mom was amazing, but she was someone who ran more on heart and less on intellectual examination, you know? There’s nothing wrong with that. She was artsy and beautiful and described her feelings with colors. And maybe Dad wants me to take after her more... I don’t know. But while I got Mom’s face, I got Dad’s brain. And he’s never really accepted that.”
Her father had used pet names with her mother, too: Beautiful, Gorgeous, Sunshine, Lover... The last one had embarrassed Isabel, but that had been what their home was like—two beauties doted on by a proud man.
“Did you notice what he called Britney?” she asked.
“No...” He frowned. “I didn’t.”
“He called her by her name.” She swept her hair away from her face. “Me? I’m Princess, Sweet Pea, Cupcake, Sugar, Sweetie Pie...and do you know why?”
“You’re his daughter?” he asked.
“Exactly.” She took a sip of her latte, as if to punctuate the point. “I’m his daughter. Britney gets to be Britney. I get dumbed down to the name of a plush toy.”
A small part of her was relieved that he hadn’t recycled those old endearments that he’d used on her mother the way he had the diamond necklace—that something had remained sacred—but Britney’s retention of her name irritated her in a whole new way.
James chuckled. “A little more than a plush toy, but I see what you mean.”
Fine, the toy part was dramatic, but she was sick of being patted on the head. She’d kept her distance in New York, putting together a life of her own. Her father may have bankrolled her apartment, but accepting that gift had soothed her father’s conscience and he’d given her some space. Her friends from work thought she was silly to be so annoyed with her overprotective father, and they’d joked that they’d gladly take her place, but they didn’t understand what that entailed. Those strings were tighter than anyone imagined.
“And it isn’t because I want to spend his money,” she went on. “Well, my money now, since he signed it over. Britney does nothing but spend his money. It’s because he knows that I want to do something more, and he honestly doesn’t think I’ve got what it takes. And that’s what hurts the most. He uses words like Princess and Sweet Pea, but underneath all that is his true opinion of me, and it isn’t high.”
“He’s pretty old-fashioned,” James agreed. “And his views on women could probably use some updating, but he does love you.”
“With a stranglehold.” She smiled coldly. “Just like his business.”
James was quiet for a moment. “He can’t actually stop you, you know.”
“I know.” Sadness welled up inside her. “But this isn’t about having my way. It’s about having his respect. I can get the former easily enough, just not the latter.”
She was definitely saying too much. She didn’t know where all this talkativeness was coming from, but she’d been on her own with these issues for too long. And back in Haggerston, she was more isolated still.
“I should stop talking now,” she said, and laughed uncomfortably. “That all just sort of came out, didn’t it?”
“I don’t mind.” James took a sip of his coffee. “There’s more to you than I thought.”
“Thanks.” She smiled wryly. “I think. So enough about me. What about you?”
“What about me?” he asked, raising a brow.
“Why law?”
“I want to help,” he replied. “I’ve seen too any people get tilled under, and I wanted to stand up for the underdog.”
“Like me?” she asked, eyebrows raised. He’d seemed to take an interest in her since she’d arrived in town, and if anyone counted as an underdog right now, she was pretty sure that she did.
“You?” He laughed. “No, not you. You’re hardly an underdog, Isabel.”
“What makes you so sure?” she asked. She certainly felt like she’d lost her glossy position here in town. She’d gone from stunning beauty to ordinary woman, and she had to fight for every ounce of independence she got.
“You’re wealthy, Izzy.” That was what people had called her in high school—was that how he still saw her? How many times had she been reminded that she was rich? She came from money, so she had no right to complain.
She blinked. “Money isn’t everything. I used to be rich and beautiful. Now, I have access to some money, but it isn’t as glamorous as it looks. Trust me.”
“But it smooths over a whole lot,” he replied curtly. “Even after that accident, you’re no underdog.”
She found herself annoyed with his pronouncement. He hadn’t been through the pain that she had. He hadn’t been laid up in a hospital for weeks, thankful not to be paralyzed. He hadn’t lost what she’d lost.
“I hardly think you can judge that,” she said quietly. “I’ve been through a lot.”
“Sure you have. So has everyone else.”
She eyed him skeptically. Was there a monopoly of suffering—anyone who’d endured less than a POW didn’t count?
“Well, you seem to be doing okay for yourself,” she said. “You’ve climbed enough for my father to notice you and you’re under thirty.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he admitted. “But we all have our pain. I lost my cousin in Afghanistan the year after high school. He was like a brother to me. Do you remember Andrew?”
She froze, the memory of her math tutor coming back. But he’d been more than a tutor... Their romance had surprised her as much as it had him. He’d been lanky with hair like a dust mop and the sweetest smile. She hadn’t told anyone because she knew it couldn’t last. It was doomed right from the start—he wasn’t from the right people. It got ugly at the end.
“Yes,” she said. “I do. He died?”
He should have been married with kids by now. And he’d been the type of guy who would have made a good husband to some girl around town. She could imagine him with a couple of little girls and a doe-eyed wife.
“What happened?” she asked, the image of the adult Andrew evaporating.
“Afghanistan happened,” he replied bitterly. “He was trying to save a buddy, and he got shot. He never made it back.”
“He was a nice guy,” she said. That was an understatement—he’d been really special. He’d been smarter than the football players she normally got involved with. It was sad that he’d died so young. “I’m sorry.”
“He was a hero. A real hero. You can’t replace people, Isabel. You might have lost your looks—and I’m really sorry for how painful that accident was—but you didn’t lose as much as you could have. Everyone’s lost something.”
The muscles in James’s clenched jaw rippled. They sat in silence for a moment, and Isabel rolled his words over in her mind. He was angry, that much was clear, but why he should be mad at her, she had no idea. She was used to having men fawn over her, brush aside her weaknesses—at least before. James wasn’t like that.
“You think I’m spoiled, don’t you?” she concluded.
“A little bit,” he agreed.
Anger simmered up inside her and s
he shook her head. “So because I survived, my hard times don’t count?”
“I didn’t say that.”
She shook her head irritably. Did he blame the wealthy for his cousin’s death? Was this a political stance? And how could the death of a soldier in Afghanistan make her own disfiguring accident any less horrible?
“So what are you saying then?” she demanded.
“I’m saying that you’re not as hard done by as you think, and while everyone else might be inclined to feel sorry for you, I don’t.”
“I didn’t ask for your pity,” she snapped.
It was then that she remembered something that she hadn’t thought about in years—sitting in Andrew’s basement across from another young man with that same unsympathetic glare. Jimmy Someone...his dad had been a mechanic, and Isabel had just dented her brand-new car.
“What?” James seemed to sense a change in her.
“You fixed my car, didn’t you?” she asked quietly. “Back then—in high school. You’re the Jimmy who knocked that dent out for me.”
The door to the coffee shop opened and closed behind her, though she didn’t bother turning until she heard the low rumble of a familiar voice.
“Izzy Baxter, is that you?”
She swallowed her irritation at the interruption and turned to see who’d come in. Mike Gum was an old friend, a friend she’d almost gotten romantically involved with once or twice after breakups, if she had to be utterly honest, and she hadn’t seen him since high school graduation. He was now a slightly portly man with a broad smile and a tan.
“I thought that was you!” Mike said, nodding to James. “How about a coffee?”
She looked back toward James. He gave her a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’ve got an early morning tomorrow anyway. Have a good time,” James said curtly and picked up his briefcase.
“That was you, wasn’t it?” she repeated, unwilling to be put off.
“Yeah. That was me.” He gave her a nod and strode out of the coffee shop without a backward glance. She watched him go, hoping he’d turn back, but he didn’t.
She had met him back in the day—he’d even done her a favor. She remembered how relieved she’d been that Andrew had a cousin who could make her problem go away, and that had been all she’d cared about. How could she have forgotten? No wonder he thought she was spoiled.
We talked about me the entire time, she realized with a stab of embarrassment. There was a time when that would have been the status quo, but she hadn’t wanted to talk about herself tonight. She’d actually wanted to know more about James, and then she’d started blathering on.
“So, Mike,” she said. “How are you?”
She had to stop monopolizing conversations.
* * *
JAMES LOOKED THROUGH the window at Isabel’s back, her glossy dark hair coiled up into a bun, and her pink dress blending softly into the creamy skin at the top of her back.
He shouldn’t have told her about Andrew. It brought up too many old memories for him, but once he started talking, it all just seemed to spill out of him. He hated that—talking when he should just keep his mouth shut. Professionally, he could keep secrets. In his personal life, he’d always been pretty tight-lipped, too. So what was it about Isabel Baxter that made him talk about things he’d rather keep private?
But she’d remembered him—at the last moment. He’d been wondering if he’d made any impression on her at all back then. Not much of one, apparently. Still, she’d realized who he was, and that was oddly gratifying.
What was I thinking? He got into his truck and slammed the door. He started the motor, the growl of the engine rumbling comfortingly beneath him. Maybe this was what Andrew had felt like in the army—surrendering himself to something bigger, something big enough to swallow his own pain. The rumble of a hemi engine certainly didn’t compare to a US Army tank, but it was something.
He put the truck in Reverse, and the wheels crunched over the gravel as he pulled out of the parking lot. Somehow he felt like he owed this to Andrew—to remind the girl who’d so cruelly crushed him that he’d existed, and he’d been worth something. He was a war hero, killed in the line of duty. Andrew had always been the heroic type—taking on more than he had any right to try for, Isabel included. James could recite by heart that last letter that Andrew had sent him:
Hey man, how are things in college? You wouldn’t believe the size of the spiders here. I keep finding them in the shower—enough to make a guy avoid bathing for life. I can’t even describe what it’s like. It’s hot—always hot. You breathe in dust constantly. We cough up brown stuff. At least it keeps me from thinking. I think too much over here.
Happy birthday. Hope it’s a good one.
Don’t take the shade for granted.
The streets of Haggerston were deserted, and he stopped at an empty intersection before easing forward again. He thought he knew what had been taking over his cousin’s mind—or did he? Had the war managed to squeeze out the humiliation and heartbreak of his senior year? He wasn’t sure if it was kind to hope for that or not. Maybe it was more merciful to have a man’s heart broken than put the horrors of war into his soul.
Isabel might think that she was hard done by, but the Baxters rolled over everyone in their paths, and they never seemed to notice the bump in the road. Isabel certainly hadn’t seemed to notice what she’d done to Andrew. He was a nice guy. That was all she remembered?
He was her legal counsel, nothing more, and he regretted opening up that part of himself. He hadn’t spoken about Andrew to anyone in more than a year. It was easier to just bury all of that deep inside him. Opening up tonight had taken off the pressure, and it all came out. He should have kept his trap shut.
He pulled his truck onto the highway. The gas tank was full. He’d drive out his frustration tonight. It was safer than talking. Pretty much anything was safer than talking right now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING, Isabel stood in the center of her new store, a to-do list in hand. She’d already spent several hours scrubbing out the kitchen, scouring the oven and stove top and soaking the filter from the exhaust fan in a tub of hot, soapy water. Her muscles ached. Sunlight filtered through the windows, making soft, warm squares on the hardwood floor.
In her mind’s eye, she could see the shop fully dressed and ready for customers. There would be ceiling-high shelves in the corners, but along the walls she wanted low counters where she could have different displays at fingertip level. She also wanted to take advantage of the natural light in this shop—a rare luxury in retail spaces, but since this shop was on a corner, she had windows on two sides of the store.
Her mind was still on James this morning, however. She’d forgotten him—used his talent and his father’s garage, and then promptly forgotten about his existence. She hadn’t been that blind to the people around her, had she? He thought she was spoiled. That irritated her. She’d worked hard to get as far as she had, and just because her father had money didn’t make her less human than anyone else. But she hadn’t exactly been at her best last night, either. She’d been angry with her father and focused on herself. She hadn’t wanted to be like that. She’d wanted to make up for her earlier gaffe of not remembering him, but he hadn’t given her the chance.
A shadow stopped at the window and she looked up. It was the science teacher at her old high school, Miss Maitland, looking inside. She looked older, more tired than Isabel remembered. After the woman spent that many years teaching high school, Isabel couldn’t blame her. Isabel smiled, waved, and Miss Maitland gave her a quick nod and hurried on. There was no wasted friendliness there, not that anything had changed since she got back. People acknowledged her presence, just didn’t look glad to see her. Was that her imagination? It wasn’t like Miss Maitland had been a favorit
e teacher or anything. Maybe she hadn’t even remembered Isabel. Still...
She turned back to the work at hand. Her father was right that there was very little room for wasted dollars in this business, so she was doing as much as she could herself. She’d hired a local contractor to make the basic store outfit—shelves, counters, display cases. But there was one piece she wanted to work on herself—an antique sideboard. She wanted the look and feel of Baxter’s Chocolates to be a cross between old-world charm and sensual indulgence.
The sideboard—an elegant chest with a marble top—sat under a plastic tarp along one wall. It was a large piece of furniture, about six feet long and two and a half feet deep. Two men had carried it into the shop an hour earlier, and after a quick trip to the hardware store for supplies, she’d promised herself that she’d get the sanding done, at the very least.
She pulled the tarp off and ran her hand affectionately over the smooth, green marble. The wood finish was cracked and peeling on the sides. She’d known the moment she saw it that she’d buy it, and it hadn’t taken too much haggling to get it down to a price she could live with.
Isabel tugged on the mammoth piece of furniture, and it didn’t budge. She braced herself and tried again, but it moved only a couple of inches. These old pieces were made to last—like boulders.
There was no way she’d be able to work on the base with it sitting against the wall. She attempted to pull the drawers out, but there were stops that kept them from coming out all the way, and she frowned at the sideboard in frustration. There were some days that she sincerely wished she had a few employees to order about instead of having to do everything herself.
She glanced at her watch. It was after eleven. She ran through the people she might be able to call, and there weren’t many. Most of her friends had moved to Billings for work, and those who had stayed in town—besides Carmella and Mike Gum—hadn’t been her biggest fans. Apparently, Miss Maitland was part of that group. There’d been a time when she would have poked her head out the door and crooked her finger at the first man to walk past, but not anymore. It wasn’t only her lost looks, either, that held her back. Other people had lives and things to do that had nothing to do with her.
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