Windswept

by Julie Carobini

  Sophia moved through the building sure of one thing: She was ready. She smiled a greeting here, offered a nod there, as she made her way back to her section of the showroom.

  As she turned a corner, a flicker of something caught her eye. She looked again, more closely this time, the sight familiar—yet not the same. The mannequin with the halo was no longer wearing her birthday suit. Sophia's heartbeat began to accelerate and she changed directions. She no longer moved toward her own space, but instead, she headed for the dress-wearing mannequin. Steps away now, sweat sprang through her pores as if she had contracted a sudden illness.

  Sophia now stood toe-to-toe with the mannequin that wore a dress so similar to her own design—she could have sworn she had created it herself.

  Sophia found a spot away from the crowd in the corner stairwell. She holed up there to think things out, but instead, she was thirteen again, in her room, piecing together a satin blouse from a pattern she'd created on her own.

  Her stepfather opened her bedroom door and stuck his head in. "You up here all alone again?"

  "Yes, Papa."

  "C'mon down. Sun's out, and you should be too."

  She had turned around to see his face. She'd know if he were earnest just by looking at him.

  Eyes bloodshot.

  Mouth hanging open.

  That wide crevice that developed between his eyes whenever he was cross.

  Nothing earnest about him tonight.

  "Better yet," he said, "you run on downstairs and help your mother with the dishes, you hear?" He drew out every utterance of the letter "s" a beat longer than was normal …

  The showroom stairwell door swung open with a bang, pulling her out of the memory. A couple of set-up guys grunted in her direction, bounding around her to the next floor. Their footfalls reverberated through the stairwell.

  Tension shot through her back and she dialed up Wade.

  "Sophia! How is the showroom? Are you all set up?"

  "Not exactly." She explained what she'd encountered—a dress so much like hers, like the one she wore in the photo. "I'm not sure how to handle this, Wade. I'm not prepared ... I never considered that someone would do this. The showroom opens in a couple of hours. What should I do?"

  "Hmm. This is quite typical. There are snakes in every garden. I'll put a call in to Liddy so she and I can brainstorm over how to fix this."

  She bit her lip and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "You think that will work? What else can I do?"

  "Move on. After this show, people will have moved on anyway and you'll be able to start fresh on a new ad campaign for your next line."

  But she didn't want to move on yet. She'd worked hard on this line and something inside of her wanted to defend it.

  "It's business, Sophia. And this kind of thing happens all the time. Next time we'll be more prepared for this type of thing. Maybe we'll embed something hidden in your clothing, something no one knows about. You'll see."

  "Yes, okay. That sounds like a ... like a good idea."

  "Feel better?"

  "A little."

  "I thought so. I'll get on damage control over here—will ramp up your presence over the next few hours. You'll get through this, Sophia. Trust me."

  She wanted to trust him, but how could she when she didn't quite trust herself?

  Chapter 12

  Christian held the wet razor in front of his face. The man eyeing him warily in the mirror was still somewhat of a stranger, though in the past year or so they had become better acquainted.

  He puffed out his bearded cheeks then released his breath. His father used to lather his face on Friday evenings before he escorted his mother out on their weekly date night. Always thought that rather formal, but as Christian spread old-fashioned shaving cream over his newly trimmed beard—he'd trimmed it first so it would be simpler to shave all the way off—he realized that his father had been on to something. So chivalrous, you are! His mother had always said that when his father would emerge from the bathroom, his skin as soft as a baby's behind. He smiled at the memory.

  His phone rang. Jackson.

  Not the most convenient time, but whatever. "Hey," he said when he picked up, careful not to smear his phone with too much shaving cream.

  "You're in New York?"

  Christian hesitated. "I'm here for a meeting, yes."

  "A meeting. Right."

  He ran the razor under the flow of water and tapped it on the edge of the sink. "Didn't realize I needed to inform you of my plans."

  "When they involve my sister, I suggest you do."

  "I'll remember that."

  "Are you kidding me? You expect me to believe that you happen to be in New York—during Fashion Week—and it has nothing to do with Sophia being there too? Johnny said you and she were toasting to the trip!"

  Christian sighed, exasperated. Spies everywhere. "Hey, yeah, I know it sounds strange, but you don't know what I've been up against with my book lately. My old publisher called for a meeting, so I decided to come out here and deal with a situation before life got more complicated."

  "I know all about complicated." Jackson swore. "You promised, man."

  He heard the pain in his friend's voice, a distinct sadness mixed with frustration. Christian hated to be a part of it, yet also knew that his motives where Sophia was concerned were pure. Even from the beginning. "It was coincidental."

  "Right. Listen, I told you ... Sophia's been through a lot. We all have. Leave her alone."

  "I haven't seen her ... and I don't plan to." He didn't mention that he and Sophia weren't exactly on the best terms right now anyway. Not after she'd chewed him out for deigning to tell her not to criticize herself so much.

  "One more thing. I think it would be best if you moved out of the inn. I hope you understand."

  Christian nodded and a dollop of shaving cream dropped onto the counter. After his infamous and very public dust up, the media had painted him as a volatile, tortured artist. It was all baloney, but journalists—at least those who followed him around in the days following the incident—didn't care. B.S. sold.

  But Christian had believed Jackson when he'd said he knew that everything had been blown up out of realistic proportion. He thought Jackson had seen through the haze of half-truths and rumor, but apparently, he was mistaken.

  Christian forced himself to hold still. "I couldn't agree more. Now, if you'll excuse me, I was in the middle of something."

  Jackson was saying something when Christian hung up the phone. He stared a beat more at his white lathered face in the mirror. He looked ridiculous. Like an angry Santa Claus.

  He grabbed a clean washcloth from the counter, soaked it in hot water, and scrubbed every square inch of the shaving cream from his whiskers. He had changed his mind.

  Lisa Caldwell reminded Christian of myriad older women who had worked in the attendance office at his high school way back when. Her silvery hair was short and wavy, her face powdered in white, her lipstick a shade brighter than what a much younger woman likely would have chosen. And like those women he remembered, she spoke her mind.

  She fanned herself with a Playbill and talked nonstop about the humidity at this time of year. "I had purposely chosen this particular coffeehouse for its air conditioning, but it has woefully disappointed me," she was saying.

  They sat in white leather-look chairs that swiveled to take advantage of both the view of the coffeehouse's modern aesthetic and the sight of a bustling West Village through the windows. Regardless of the existence of AC, the soaring open ceilings and manufactured cool air were no match for the last vestiges of summer.

  "The lobby of my hotel is small," Christian said, "but I believe the temperature is much better. It's about a five-minute walk. Would you like to go there?"

  She flashed him a frown, her gold-rimmed glasses slipping down her nose. "Heavens, no. Five minutes in that humidity and I will be reduced to a puddle."

  He took another sip of his coffee, temp
ted to ask the barista for a couple of cubes of ice—something he had always regarded as sacrilege. They had been talking pleasantries for a half hour or so already—travel, coffee, the weather—so that Christian began to believe this meeting had been a big waste of time. Originally he was supposed to have met her at the publishing house's headquarters. He expected sweet talk and pressure, but now, he wasn't sure of anything.

  "Let me cut to the chase," Lisa said, finally. "Median Publishing would like to make you an offer on your new novel."

  "The same book you passed on last year."

  Her eyes flashed. "I'm aware. You realize, of course, that it was your actions that caused the pub board to pass on your last project initially."

  The blame game. He wasn't falling for it.

  "May I continue?"

  He nodded. "Please."

  She pulled a contract from her bag and laid it on the round table between them. "Here is the offer in writing. We, of course, will have to include Burns in this as he is the one who initially brought you to my attention."

  The swig of coffee in Christian's mouth turned bitter.

  "This includes a healthy raise in your advance and royalty percentages," she continued, "for which I'm sure you will be pleased. The language in the contract is standard, except for the clause about behavior." She paused to flash him a look above her glasses. "The pub board has added some specific language as it relates to you, my dear."

  Lisa really did remind him of those women who kept teens in line during high school.

  "Now." She stood the pages on end and gave them a good stack on the table. "Take a look. If you sign today, I have been authorized to offer you a bonus—something self-publishing could never offer you."

  He downed the last of his coffee. If he were to take this offer, he could relax a little, not worry about his next steps, but focus solely on writing instead—at least in theory. He knew that the publishing house would certainly make demands on his time outside of the actual writing of the book, though it would be helpful to him to have their team supporting his efforts.

  But her comment about the addition to his contract also meant reopening the sins of his past. How would they handle the probable pushback from the most esteemed reviewer of his genre? Did they have a specific restitution in mind? He glanced at the pages, the clause about his "behavior" tempting him to read through the entire document at this moment without stopping.

  "Of course, you will have to rethink the whole mermaid angle. Mermaids are out, my friend." She picked up that Playbill again and began whipping it closer to her face. "Witches are still in, though. We'll have one of our editors take a look at that aspect and advise you accordingly."

  A trickle of sweat broke out on Christian's forehead. He took the stack of papers and slid them into his satchel. "I'll look this over and get back to you."

  "Burns Golden has already publicly announced your project. Unless he is publishing it himself, I think you'll want to have a reputable publishing house to back you."

  "As I said, I will take some time to ... consider your offer."

  "It expires at midnight."

  Christian forced himself not to roll his eyes, her Cinderella-esque routine annoying. He stood and offered her his hand. "I have your number. It was a pleasure."

  Lisa stood as well, her expression unreadable. She took his hand, pumped it once, then walked out quickly ahead of him. Christian considered his options. He sat back down to review the contract while in his current frame of mind when a familiar figure hurried past the coffeehouse windows.

  Sophia.

  He slumped in his chair, though it took every ounce of willpower for him to do that. Every nerve ending screamed for him to run outside and stop her.

  But she wasn't speaking to him—and he was still angry about it.

  Wasn't he?

  And he'd made a promise to Jackson.

  Then again, had he? He'd said he had no plans to see Sophia while in the city, and given the unlikelihood of running into her in a place of this size ...

  "Christian?"

  Her eyes were red, the skin beneath them swollen, yet no tears. Her expression reminded him of a wild animal, both broken and fierce—like she might slay the next giant that stepped onto her path.

  "Fancy running into you here."

  "Not in the mood, Chris." She spun around and headed back out into the humid city.

  He rolled his eyes and went after her, against his better judgment. But though her body language screamed furious, she had shortened his name—something she'd done on her own and only in their most heartfelt, intimate moments. He couldn't let her just leave.

  Christian caught up to her, grabbed her by the hand, and gently tugged her back toward him. Inches apart now, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb a light touch on her cheek. Her eyes shone. "What's happened?"

  "I'm not speaking to you. And no jokes!"

  Slowly, he let her go and jammed his hands into his pockets. "We really going to stay angry with each other?"

  Her eyes flashed. "We were having a perfectly nice dinner when you had to pick a fight with Wade. What do you have to be angry with?"

  "You gave him the last slider."

  She grunted into the sky and turned her back to him. "I have to get out of here."

  He watched the rise and fall of her shoulders but said nothing. Nor did she go anywhere. They stood as a clump on that sidewalk, people filing past them at dizzying speed, her back still to him. When she didn't make a move to leave, he guided her around to him.

  The tears then began their tumble. "I'm an idiot."

  He shook his head. "Tell me what happened but without the name calling." A flash of something skittered across her face. Anger? Frustration?

  Her eyes closed now and she tucked her chin low. She was working hard to keep her emotions in check, it appeared.

  He lifted her chin with his forefinger and she flicked away a sprinkle of tears with the back of her hand. Her eyes snapped open, wide and clear. "You're here."

  "I am."

  "Why?"

  "Had a meeting, but we're talking about you right now, though. Tell me what has you so upset."

  "Someone has stolen my design. They are not doing anything to hide it—it's out in the open on a mannequin!"

  The words came at him like she'd sprayed them with a firefighter's hose. The Sophia he knew was quiet, almost shy. Enjoyed a nice laugh, though even her spontaneous ones had a gentle finish. This Sophia had fire—and he rather liked it. No, to be honest, he loved seeing this passion coming from her—though not the reason behind it.

  Her brows plunged. "What're you staring at?"

  He held her hands, not only to calm her, but to keep himself from getting pummeled. "I'm, well, I'm shocked for you, Sophia. Disappointed. Sad." He wracked his brains for more adjectives that described how he felt. For a writer, his vocabulary was seriously sucking right now. But she, on the other hand, with her set chin and red lips, was decidedly enticing. He hated his own guts right now.

  Her eyes implored him. "I-I don't know what to do."

  "What did Meg say?"

  "She—I haven't told her."

  "Then ... where is she?"

  "I left her there. I was just so ... so shocked that I ran out. Then I called Wade."

  Christian kept his expression bland. "What could he do?"

  "Oh, he's going to try to fix it, he said, by increasing our social media presence." She shrugged, as if she didn't have a lot of hope.

  "Then I ran again."

  Right into him. In a city of more than eight million people, Sophia Agli Riley ran out of a designer's showroom—even after calling what's-his-name—and into his arms. Something poetic about that ... though he'd have to keep that to himself.

  She let out a sob.

  Had he lost his mind? This wasn't about poetry, nor about the calling of his own heart. It wasn't about this mystical, magical moment that impossibly brought their two souls together.

&
nbsp; This was about Sophia's livelihood, the resurgence of a calling lost in the muddle of the past year's struggles—and he wasn't about to let her give up now.

  "You're too much of a fighter to give up now, Sophia. Let's go back."

  "That's where you're wrong. I'm not a fighter. Just the opposite." She sniffled, her cheeks blotched and beautiful. "I sew and I design because I've spent so many years hiding from the things I could not change. That dress ..."

  He waited, listening.

  She huffed a breath. "That dress caused me a mess of problems. I should have thrown it away years ago."

  "But you kept it for some reason. Why?"

  She looked away.

  "C'mon, it can't be that bad."

  She swung her gaze back to him, offering only a slight shrug. "Because it reminded me of both the best time in my life—and one of the worst."

  It wasn't what he had expected her to say. He didn't know what he expected—he'd really only wanted her to open up. Now he longed to know more, to understand the story behind her words, to know, in essence, her.

  And if he were to be unequivocally honest, she had shaken him. Could he want to be reminded of both the best times and the worst in his life, even if they were one in the same?

  "Sophia, you may not realize this now, but you are stronger than you think. You don't need anyone else to fix this for you. I have every confidence that you, and your sidekick, will figure out a way to woo people over to your booth." He paused and offered her his arm. "Let me walk you back."

  Though the expression on her face told him she was still miles away, Sophia hooked her hand into the crook of his arm. They walked on silently through the summer heat, navigating the throng and the occasional stench emanating from below the city streets. As they approached the showroom, they passed a public trash can.

  Christian carefully extricated his arm from hers. "Wait here a second." He jogged back several paces, wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and tossed the contract Lisa had given him into the garbage. He exhaled a relief-filled sigh and rejoined her. "Ready to go?"