Windswept

by Julie Carobini

  "Oh but it does. You looked so smashing in it, Sophia. Really, you did. And I'm sorry I didn't show you the picture first." She turned to Meg. “Seriously, if you ever do the same thing to me, I'll kill you." She swung her gaze back to Sophia. "But I can't say that I'm unhappy at the way it's turned out!"

  "I'm glad you're saying this," Wade said, "because Sophia doesn't have an Instagram, so I'm hoping you'll be willing to post a few more photos for her. I have a strategy to try to keep the momentum going all the way until Fashion Week."

  "In New York?" Meg asked Sophia. "Are you going?"

  Sophia shook her head. "No, no. Raven will go. She always does that for me. My booth is small, but it works well enough. She'll be there to take appointments and process orders on the spot."

  Liddy released a wistful sigh. "I love New York. Will be a long time until we can go again. You know, with the baby and all."

  Meg clucked her tongue. "For heaven's sake, you can take a baby to New York."

  "Uh, five hours in a cramped metal can with a poopy baby? The other passengers would love us. No thank you."

  Meg shrugged. "Just pass around some of those apology baggies that other parents bring on the plane. Those are always a big hit."

  "Yeah, until the first gut-piercing cry when there's still half of the flight time left."

  Wade scowled. "So will you help, Liddy?"

  "I can pay you," Sophia said.

  Liddy snapped out of her fake fight with Meg and turned to catch Wade's even gaze. "You have to ask?" Liddy waved him off. "Of course. I'll do anything—and everything—that I can to help. And don't even think of paying me anything." Beau Junior started to wail so Liddy reached over and plucked him from Sophia's arms.

  If only she could shut her eyes, pull Christian's comforter back over her, and fall asleep to the sound of waves following their course. But this was real. She had come to the Sea Glass Inn not knowing if her fledgling design company could be revived. If she were honest, Sophia wasn't sure she even wanted that. Her designs had brought her a smile in her darkest moments, but now, her hobby-turned-business had sprouted wings that she had neither designed nor foresaw.

  She had always worked hard to create an aesthetic pleasing to the masses. Something tried. And true. She'd decided long ago that experimentation was for others—not her.

  Until, that is, Meg and Liddy had spotted the dress she'd toiled over for herself years ago. Her stepfather had been right—it was too short. Too loud. Oh, but how she loved slipping the soft fabric over her frame that first time. She'd stood in front of her mirror, the one leaned up against the wall of her bedroom, and examined it at all angles so she could pin those places that needed work.

  "So do you think you'll be able to get it into production quickly?" Meg's voice interrupted her memories. Her sister-in-law watched her with anticipation.

  Sophia licked her lips, thinking. Could this be the answer to the inn's problems? If what Raven predicted became true, her long-discarded dress had the potential to be her biggest seller yet. She didn't dare to dream of numbers, but maybe, just maybe, the little red dress could help her brother in ways she had not imagined.

  The idea centered her, and the tension that she had carried with her all morning began to dissipate. Perhaps it was providential that, at the last minute, she'd taken the long-forgotten dress and tucked it into the suitcase she'd brought with her. Not to mention the very real surprise that the dress still fit her so well.

  She smiled at her sister-in-law. "It will take some work to re-create the pattern, but yes, I think I can do it."

  Meg lunged toward her and grasped her hand. "I want to help in any way I can—I'll do whatever you need, so please use me."

  Sophia glanced around the table. Three willing faces—and one precious baby boy—met her gaze, giving her the motivation to start again.

  Chapter 8

  A week ago, Christian found himself shivering on Sophia's deck, awakened by the surf. The thought of that night warmed him to his toes. Except for the occasional whir of a sewing machine, he had hardly seen or heard from her since. Christian glanced over to her suite, knowing what he'd find, yet hoping to be wrong. Sure enough, Sophia's deck lay empty. As far as he could tell, her slider door had not clicked open once all day. Maybe in days.

  Less than twenty-four hours after his spontaneous campout with Jackson's sister, Christian had wandered out here with his laptop and imagination, keen on stirring up the creativity that he'd found in abundance only a short week ago. Unfortunately, he'd found himself vexingly empty ever since.

  Christian looked up, scanning the horizon, desperate for a sighting of ... anything. But all he found was ... nothing. He pounded the glass table, rattling his computer and further jostling his thoughts. Where had she gone? The sea creature who had swum through his thoughts and onto the page had, for whatever reason, chosen not to surface again.

  He ran his eyes over his manuscript, scrolling up and back down again, landing on the dreary vastness of white space. If she doesn't show soon, he thought, he'd be stuck with a story that had no end. Christian drummed his fingers on the tabletop. A grunt left him and he fired up some music on his computer, attempting to set the mood. He pictured her in his mind's eye, a matriarch of sorts from an underwater land. She was about to surface. He could feel it.

  But first ... Facebook. Marci had apologized profusely for her slip. The publisher that had once employed her had released new covers regularly and without fanfare. It hadn't occurred to her that he, as an independent author now, might have something different planned—a big reveal. How could he stay irate with someone who had the best of intentions?

  Still, Marci had promised to take down the cover right away, and though he'd meant to double-check, he'd been distracted until now. He pulled up her page, scrolled down, and ... check—no cover anywhere in view.

  He was about to sign off and get back to work when something familiar caught his eye as he scrolled by. He scrolled back up.

  "What ... how?"

  His cover, the same one that had been removed from Marci's page, appeared on the screen with an ad below it—and he'd been tagged.

  CJ Capra is back! The Burns Golden Agency is pleased to announce our association with the bad boy himself, bestselling author CJ Capra. Coming soon: Is she real or legend? Find out in The Spell.

  Christian pushed himself from the glass deck table, his chair falling behind him. If raking a hand through one's beard could draw Facebook's attention to an egregious post, that "ad" would be gone by now. His jaw clicked as he unclenched it.

  He picked up his phone, a string of words not fit for tender ears at the ready. Though his fingers hovered above the number keys, he stopped and slammed the phone back down on the table, thankful not to hear glass cracking as he did.

  Burns knew he would call—knew he'd react with a tumult of emotion. He'd be there on the other end of the line, too, with his own string of words, ready to strike back.

  Well. He wouldn't bite. Not this time. If his time in seclusion had taught him anything, it was that self-respect flourished in the soil of self-control. And though his confidence had been battered as of late, he was in no deficit of self-respect.

  The familiar ring of his phone jerked him from his rumination. Burns. He smiled. The man couldn't take the waiting, apparently, and had called from his office's second line—the one Christian hadn't blocked—to gloat. He listened as the phone rang and rang, but he made no move to answer it. Instead, Christian grabbed his laptop, turned on his heels, and headed through his suite and out the front door—leaving his cell phone behind.

  He found a shady spot beneath a midsize queen palm to write, far enough from the screams and plunges of the inn's swimming pool, but close enough to sense the lightheartedness of families playing in the sun. Christian needed something to buoy his otherwise glum countenance.

  He opened his computer. In his mind, he saw her swimming in a looping fashion, readying herself for the battle building ons
hore. She drifted onto sand, the moisture from her magnificently long body wicked away. She stood strong and beautiful, her eyes like lit celadon.

  "Can we talk?"

  Christian's chin jerked up. "Hey, Jackson."

  Jackson sat on one of the cushioned chairs across from Christian. "How's the book coming?"

  "Good. I'm pleased."

  "So it's helped, you being here."

  "I'd say. Definitely."

  Jackson nodded, his eyes not quite focused. "I suppose you'll be moving on once it's finished. Have you figured out where you'll be going yet?"

  Christian paused. They had never talked about when he might leave. From what he understood, he'd had an open invitation to stay at the inn for as long as he needed. But, of course, he didn't want to take advantage of his friend's generosity ...

  "We've been friends a long time."

  "Yep."

  "Know things about each other that neither should probably repeat."

  "And I never have."

  Jackson cracked a smile, though it did not appear to reach his eyes. "Nor have I."

  Christian's brain scrambled, trying to come up with something meaningful to add to this cryptic conversation. Between his agent's threats and his need to finish this book without interruption, he didn't have a lot of brain power left to force out of Jackson whatever it was that needed cajoling.

  But he tried anyway. "Is everything okay with you? Have you been working through the issues with the hotel? I've seen your, uh, consultant around.” He almost used the word "lurking" but thought better of it. “So, I hope that's a good sign for you."

  "Wade's been a tremendous help in us getting our footing again. Having him come onboard has been a sobering—and humbling—experience."

  "How so?"

  Jackson sighed and sat back. "Like I said, you and I have been friends for a long time. You know how I was as a college student. Cocky, impatient, full of myself ..."

  "Go on."

  Jackson cracked a half smile. " I've grown up, not by my own choice. Have had to learn some things in the hardest way." He speared Christian with a look. "Do you understand what I mean?"

  Christian set his laptop aside. "We all have things in our pasts we regret. So, yes, I think I do."

  "Good. Good. To answer your question, having Wade here has taught me that it's okay to get help, to not rely on myself to have all the answers. I've benefitted from his years of experience."

  "I'm glad to hear it."

  Jackson jabbed him with another pointed look. "Wade has become like family and I hope to have him around here for many, many years to come."

  "Sounds cozy."

  "Why is everything a joke to you?"

  Christian cocked a brow toward his friend. In a few short sentences, Jackson had reiterated the length of their friendship and pressed Christian about his departure date. Then he waxed poetic about his father's former business consultant. Was he the only one that found this at least somewhat comical?

  He sensed, however, that this was not the time for laughter. "Just trying to lighten the mood. Sorry things have been so ... intense around here lately."

  Jackson pursed his lips and nodded, but added nothing else to the conversation. Though Christian felt certain his friend had much more to say.

  Sophia looked up from her worktable, noting the myriad boxes spread across her parlor room floor, their top flaps open. She had intended to purchase temporary shelving, unpack everything, and set up the perfect workspace.

  There had been no time for that. Not after Liddy's post had, as they'd all suspected, gone viral. How many views now? Ten thousand? Twenty? She'd lost count. All she knew was that Raven's phone continued to ring with potential buyers wanting information. Would she be at Fashion Week? What is the price point? Size range?

  And the bloggers. Several wanted interviews and permission to share photos. They wanted the dress in different colors, too. The recognition of her high-spirit dresses had thrown a hook around her recent obscurity and tossed her into the public arena more than ever before, flapping unsteadily as sure as the hem of a skirt lofted on an updraft.

  Sophia let out a breath that she had been holding. Several times a day this week she'd had to remind herself to breathe.

  She'd started this project with much uncertainty, but as she found her grounding and her focus, confidence grew. Starting with day one, when she'd laid the old dress on the wide and long table that Jackson had given her to use. The pattern no longer existed, so she would need to create one. She started by pulling pattern paper from one of the shipping boxes, allowing that familiar smell to fill her senses. It smelled like work and creativity ... home.

  Carefully, she pinned the seams of the dress then laid muslin on top of the fabric. With chalk, she rubbed the pattern onto the muslin and then laid the muslin over the pattern paper. Using a tracing wheel, she transferred the pattern onto paper, then took measurements and made appropriate adjustments.

  In between the recreation of her pattern, she'd had to shop for fabric and other supplies and, well, eat. She'd even had to borrow Meg's garment rack. But now, as several samples of her dress hung on that rack in the middle of her room, a mixture of pride and gratefulness came over her. And hope. While she continued to fight off a niggling of dread, of revisiting the past, she also came to think of the production of these dresses as a way to help her family.

  That fact alone helped her press on.

  Sophia straightened in her chair, wincing at the tightness of her lower back and the tension in her shoulders. On her feet, she padded over to the slider door and flung it open, allowing the day's sea breeze inside. She breathed in a potent combination of salt and air and earth, the freshness of it renewing her muscles, her nerve endings.

  She glanced over toward the deck off of Christian's suite and rose onto her tiptoes. Empty. Disappointment whisked through her, though she hardly knew why. She had no time for small talk anyway, not with deadlines shining their glaring spotlight on her every move.

  When her phone rang, she nearly ignored it. Wade?

  "I'm glad you picked up," he said.

  "Just taking a break. A small one."

  He chuckled. "You're allowed that."

  "But it's back to work for me now."

  "That's why I called, actually. I'm going to be leaving LA soon to head back your way, and I thought I'd coax you out for a late dinner."

  Sophia peeked at herself in the mirror. Tendrils of her hair hung in disarray having escaped a hastily affixed hair tie. The half circles beneath her eyes betrayed her lack of sleep. And when had she last worn shoes?

  "I-I think I will have to pass tonight. Too much work awaits me."

  "Sweet, Sophia. You cannot keep up this pace, especially if you're not eating well. They say that stepping away from one's art for a time is the best way to stir up creativity." He paused. "Have I convinced you to meet me yet?"

  She stole another glance in that mirror. Could she spare the time to pull herself together?

  "Are you still with me?"

  She inhaled, aware of the hollowness of her stomach. "Yes, yes. Okay. I will meet you, but I cannot promise how I will look—or that my shoes will match."

  He laughed. "You're beautiful no matter what shoes you decide to wear. I'll see you in a couple of hours."

  Wade's call gave Sophia the motivation to whip off her hair tie and run a brush through her mane. She smiled, thinking of how he had pulled her out of that place that all artists go, the retreat of the mind. While the mind could be a fertile place full of rich soil and lush growth, she'd found hers could be rather dark. Dreary. Hopeless.

  She cleaned up her workspace for the evening, taking care to have a plan in place for the next day's work. Then she pulled herself together with fresh clothes, makeup—and shoes. The more she readied herself, the louder her stomach's cry. She arrived in the restaurant right on time and found a table near the window.

  Her waiter approached to pour her water from a pitcher. "W
ill someone be joining you tonight, Sophia?"

  "Yes, Ryan. Wade Prince should be here shortly."

  He poured another glass of water and set it across from her. "Would you like an appetizer? Spinach croquettes? Scallop carpaccio?"

  Her stomach leaped. "I would love the sliders."

  Ryan broke out in a smile. "Absolutely."

  Sophia took a sip of water and watched waves breaking in the distance. She wasn't unhappy Wade had talked her into this, though she did wonder if he'd be arriving soon. Unfortunately, in her haste to make it downstairs in time, she had forgotten to bring her phone.

  Ryan arrived with the sliders—she hadn't realized there would be four on a platter. She breathed them in. What was keeping Wade?

  "Been stood up?" Christian had appeared at her table, an iPad in one hand, the other hand shoved into a pocket.

  "I sincerely hope not."

  Christian slipped a look over his shoulder at the door, then swung his gaze back to her. "I was kidding, but if some guy's left you to sit here alone eating those delicious Kobe beef burgers, then he's a chump."

  "Join me, won't you? I'm sure he'll be here soon."

  Christian slid into the chair across from Sophia, his smile quirky and questioning. "His loss is, well, you know." He paused. "You've been hiding lately."

  "I could say the same about you."

  "Me? I've been here. But I haven't seen or heard anything from your neck of the hotel lately."

  "That is a relief. I was worried that my sewing machine may have been bothering you."

  His lips parted in recognition. Light from outside the window highlighted flecks of burnished gold in his beard. "So that was you whirring?"

  She wagged her head, trying not to laugh too loud. "Not me—my sewing machine."

  "They have you sewing the drapes now? If you want, I can talk to Jackson for you."

  She cracked up. "Now you know the real reason I've come to live here."

  He grinned widely at this. "I stand corrected."

  Sophia lifted the small platter of sliders. "Hungry?"