Home Again with You

by Liza Kendall

But all Billy said was, “I don’t know that she’ll have you.”

  Ouch.

  “I’m sorry about the circumstances,” Rhett added. “We didn’t . . . plan . . . any of this. It just happened.”

  Billy’s eyebrows snapped together. “We are not going to talk about how any of it happened,” he said darkly. “We are only going to talk about what happens next.”

  Rhett nodded. “I want to marry your daughter.”

  “Why?” Billy asked baldly.

  “Well, uh . . . among other things,” Rhett stammered, “I want the baby to have a father.”

  “What other things?”

  “Because I—” he blurted. Did he love Jules? It was . . . possible. He loved being with her. He loved the way she had of staring right into him, as if she could see everything inside and how it ticked. Why it ticked.

  He loved her rooster-tail hair. The way she threw back her head when she laughed. The passion she had for animals. How she kept her wallet in her boot. The way she looked buck naked on a saddle . . .

  That sounded a lot like love.

  Rhett realized he’d gone too long without saying anything. “I—”

  Billy’s mouth tightened, and he exchanged a meaningful glance with his wife.

  “I care very much about Jules,” he said at last. “I want to take care of her. I want—”

  “Your sister told Billy you had enough forethought to buy our daughter a ring,” Helen said. She looked at her husband.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Maybe he’s given this more thought than we realized, Billy.”

  Thank you, Lila. “Yes, well, yes . . . I just need to know what size—”

  “It’s a six,” Helen said.

  Billy shook his head and sat down heavily.

  “Sir?” Rhett flailed. “May I have your permission?”

  His would-be father-in-law looked upward toward the heavens. “Again?” he asked softly.

  “It won’t be like that,” Rhett said. “I can promise you. There will never, ever be a need for Jules to defend herself from me.”

  Helen made a soft noise of distress.

  Billy folded his arms across his chest and stared at him. “I know. I do know that.”

  “Sir,” Rhett said yet again to Billy. “May I please have permission to marry your daughter?”

  The older man looked at Helen again and sighed. “You can ask. But of course what she says in reply is up to her.”

  Chapter 29

  Jules stood in Don Qui’s stall the next day, absently rubbing his furry ears as he listened to her rave like a madwoman. She was a madwoman. She had told Rhett Braddock to shut up when he’d asked her to marry him. “Even for me, Don Qui, that’s a new low of gracelessness.”

  Don Qui rubbed his face on her shirt, nodding his head up and down.

  “Thanks for agreeing,” she told him, frowning.

  He nibbled at her hair.

  “Dude, it may not have conditioner in it, but it’s not hay.”

  He snorted.

  Rhett Braddock asked me to marry him. And I said no. What woman in her right mind turns down Rhett Braddock?

  Me.

  “He doesn’t love me, Don Qui,” she said, blinking furiously to keep tears at bay. “He’s just doing the ‘right’ thing, which is wrong.”

  Don Qui eyed her with sympathy.

  “It sucks,” Jules added, eloquently. “And what kind of man would ask me for a date after this? Huh? Ugh. He’s going to want to talk baby logistics . . . This is horrible. Can you and I just run away together? Sell apples or tamales from a cart?”

  Beast gave a woof from outside the stall.

  “Of course you can come, too,” she told her. “Of course.”

  Rhett had asked her to meet him this evening at Jean-Paul’s, and Jules didn’t even own a dress. Well, not a nice one. She did have a floral polyester item that advertised itself as a dress, but looked like ’80s wallpaper gone terribly wrong. Her mother had bought it, of course. She’d said thanks and hung it in solitary confinement in the closet.

  She really didn’t want to wear it to Jean-Paul’s. But she couldn’t go in jeans. Which left her two alternatives: Slime out of the date altogether, since it was bound to be uncomfortable and filled with emotional and conversational landmines. Or go see Amelie.

  Mia wasn’t good with clothes; Sue wouldn’t want Jules to go on any dates with Rhett. Amelie was her only hope.

  So at lunchtime, Jules got into her wreck on wheels, inhaled its familiar animal scents, peered out the drool-smeared windows, and puttered over to Main Street.

  She looked left and then right to make sure nobody saw her going in, and then slunk through the door like a thief. Well, she tried, but the darn bells on the door jingled to announce her presence.

  Amelie came out of the back right away, her incredible hair twisted up and falling from the knot on her head in an elegant spray that danced around her ears. “Jules?” Her dark eyebrows climbed almost to her hairline. She was a vision in a pale yellow lace minidress that set off her flawless dark skin to perfection.

  Jules scuffed the toe of her rubber barn boot on the polished wood floor. “Yeah, I know. I’m about the last person you’d expect to see in your dress shop.”

  “Definitely.” But her smile was wide and warm. “How can I help you, chérie?”

  Amelie had gone to fashion design school in Paris. Jules still wasn’t sure how she’d ended up in Silverlake, with Jean-Paul the only other French speaker in town. But here she was.

  “I have a dinner date at Jean-Paul’s tonight,” Jules said darkly, as if she were going to jail. “So, I need . . . like, a skirt. I don’t think I can afford a whole dress.”

  Amelie’s beautiful sculpted lips quivered as if she was trying not to laugh. But there was nothing mean or judgmental about the amusement. “I see. Well, I do have some skirts. But I also happen to have a sale going. Technically it starts tomorrow, but . . . I own the place, so I can make an exception for you.”

  “Really? That’d be great. Thank you.”

  “So I’m quite sure that we can find a whole dress for you. In fact”—Amelie took in her figure with a professional glance—“I have something that will be stunning.”

  Jules dug down into her boot, trying to reach her wallet.

  “Do you . . . have an itch?” Amelie seemed mystified.

  “No, no. I just need my wallet,” Jules reassured her.

  “Ah. Of course. Julianna, come to a dressing room. We will need to slip those boots off anyway. They will ruin the lines of the frock . . .”

  “Can I wear flip-flops with it?” Jules wanted to know.

  “Let’s start with the dress,” Amelie said diplomatically. “Then we will get to the trimmings.”

  Trimmings? As if she were a Christmas tree . . . Jules wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Amelie looked at her watch, hung up the dress they’d selected, and said simply, “It is time.”

  “It is time for what?” Jules looked at the criminally expensive navy silk sheath that Amelie had tucked and gathered and then somehow gotten her out of. She also didn’t quite believe the story that it was 75 percent off.

  “For your salon appointment. While you are being coiffed, I will make these alterations. Then I’ll meet you at—”

  “Coiffed?” Jules repeated. “What is that?”

  Amelie smiled good-naturedly. “It means someone does your hair. In your case, Edwynna at A Cut Above.”

  Jules was confused. “But I didn’t make an appointment.”

  “I know. I made it for you. And Edwynna made another: Right after you see her, you’ll go to Glam Gal for your mani and pedi.”

  “My what?” Jules asked. “No way. I don’t do my nails . .
. and I can’t afford all of this stuff!”

  “It’s taken care of.”

  “By whom? Why?”

  “You’ve been selected by the Silverlake Sirens for a makeover, darling.”

  “Who are they?”

  “An anonymous group of ladies here in Silverlake who stage fashion interventions.”

  “Since when? I’ve never heard of them. This feels like a setup,” muttered Jules. “I think the entire town somehow knows about this date at Jean-Paul’s with Rhett.”

  “Do you think so? What a theory.” Amelie shepherded her to the door and pointed down Main Street at A Cut Above. “There. Run along now.”

  “Just because I’ve never set foot in there doesn’t mean I don’t know where it is,” Jules grumbled. Then, feeling strange and awkward and deeply grateful, she gave Amelie a hug. “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome. I’ll catch up with you at Glam Gal, yes? When I’m done with the alterations.”

  * * *

  Edwynna, with her blue-violet eyes and cascading black waves of hair, looked like a plus-sized young Elizabeth Taylor with hair extensions. She hustled Jules into a chair, trapped her in a black cape, and took her hair out of its rubber-banded knot on top of her head. “Please lose this look. It’s a crime against humanity and nature, too.”

  Jules gulped. “Why?”

  “Because you are way, way too pretty to look like Olive Oyl got put in a blender with a rooster.”

  Jules wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “It’s that bad?”

  “It’s not good,” Edwynna said cryptically. “Now, I’m not tryin’ to be mean, here . . .”

  It just comes naturally?

  “If it’s all right by you, I’ll trim the ends and shape your hair all over, leaving it long but tapering it so that it’s sleek and falls naturally.”

  “Uh. Okay. That sounds good. Because I won’t do a lot of messing with my hair. The horses and Don Quixote don’t care. Neither do I.”

  “Didn’t you get any Southern girl genes from your mama?”

  “Not one.”

  Edwynna, who wore black platform sandals with triangles cut out of the wedges, took in Jules’s rubber riding boots, without saying a word. But her face said it all. U-G-L-Y.

  Jules tried to look at them through Edwynna’s eyes. Okay, so they weren’t so lovely. Maybe she should go by the saddlery and see if Sue had any cowboy boots on sale. Though she’d just put the dress and accessories from Amelie on her credit card . . .

  Edwynna hauled Jules into the back, tipped her backward into a chair, and stuck her head in a sink to shampoo her hair.

  “Thank you for taking me on such short notice,” Jules said. “Amelie probably told you it’s a date or something, but it’s not. Rhett and I are just meeting to discuss some stuff.”

  Had Edwynna just rolled her eyes?

  No. Jules was just upside down and had misread her expression. That was it.

  “Oh no. Of course it’s not a date. Especially with Rhett being so gruesome and backward and all.” Edwynna smiled.

  Gruesome? “Oh, you’re kidding around,” said Jules.

  “I never kid around,” Edwynna said, doing something heavenly to Jules’s scalp. “It wouldn’t be prudent.”

  “Wow . . . if you keep massaging my head like this, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll just stay here all night.”

  Jules had been worried about feeling sick, and anticipated that going through all these motions might make her feel worse, but the coddling was actually having the opposite effect. Particularly when she wasn’t staring at herself in a mirror, noticing that her face was slightly fuller than she recalled it being the last time she’d bothered looking.

  But all too soon, it was over, and Edwynna hauled Jules back to her station. Then, in a flurry of combing and snipping, she transformed her. And then aimed some product and a blow-dryer at her hair and transformed her some more.

  Suddenly, Jules had bangs and tapered layers and a flowy sort of mane. Her eyes looked huge framed by the new look. She gaped at herself.

  “Oh, my stars,” Edwynna exclaimed when she finally holstered her blow-dryer. “I have outdone myself! You look gorgeous.” She bent forward, grabbed a can of hair spray, and asphyxiated Jules with it.

  When Jules could breathe again, she opened her eyes to see the stylist rummaging in a drawer. “Okay, I did promise GiGi at Glam Girl that she could do your makeup, but I cannot resist . . . I’ll just do your eyes and she can do the rest.”

  Before Jules could yell for help, Edwynna swooped down upon her with an eyeliner pencil. “Hold still.”

  She made some mysterious moves with it and then produced a palette of eyeshadow and a tube of mascara.

  “I don’t really wear makeup,” Jules protested.

  “Tonight you do.”

  “But I don’t want to look like a clown—and this is just a meeting . . .”

  Edwynna grabbed her chin, which made it difficult to speak. She clearly wasn’t listening, anyway, so Jules gave up.

  “Voilà,” the stylist said at last. She clapped a hand to her heart, a neon pink tube of mascara trapped beneath her palm.

  Jules stared at herself in the mirror. She closed her eyes, opened them, and stared again. “Who is that? It’s not me.”

  Edwynna laughed and then looked at her watch. “You got two minutes to get to Glam Gal. So scram.”

  “But—I must owe you some money—”

  “No money. You are a walking advertisement for my services. The other half of Silverlake will be here within a week.” And Edwynna used her phone’s camera to take several pictures of Jules. “The girls are not going to believe this transformation!”

  Jules wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or offended by this statement. But she “scrammed,” as directed, and found herself next in Glam Girl, surrounded by curious stares and bottles of nail polish.

  Chapter 30

  Rhett sat with his new Pet Rock at the best corner table in Jean-Paul’s, nervous as the proverbial long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. He opened the black velvet box for what had to be the hundredth time and looked at the rock, which winked coldly back up at him.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Of course it didn’t answer back.

  Was it too rectangular? Was it too big? Would she rather have a yellow gold setting than a platinum one? He didn’t know. The rock seemed offended that he wasn’t sure it was right. Its sparkle seemed a little malicious.

  He snapped shut the box and shoved it back into his pocket. He checked the time: 6:57. Would Jules be early? Or on time? Would she be late? There were only those three mathematical possibilities, unless he wanted to get into seconds or minutes.

  A horrifying thought hit him: There actually was a fourth possibility. Jules might not show up at all. He looked around the restaurant, at what seemed like miles of white tablecloth and silver and glowing candlelight. At the greenery studded with more upscale, Venetian jesters that was woven through the banister that led to the private room upstairs, tiny lights gleaming from it. It wasn’t just limited to the stair rail—there was greenery strung everywhere human beings could string it, studded with other types of Venetian masks. It looked beautiful.

  Then he had another horrifying thought: What if this place was too fancy for Jules? What if she’d have preferred Whataburger? What if—

  And then a stunning stranger walked gingerly into Jean-Paul’s on a pair of skyscraper heels. She wobbled a little as she approached the maître d’ stand and grabbed on to it for support. If the woman hadn’t had her hair swept into an elegant updo with tendrils of hair trailing romantically past her ears; if she weren’t wearing a navy silk sheath that showcased her curvy little body; if a diamond solitaire on a slim chain hadn’t been lucky enough to encircle her lovely throat . . . he’d have sworn that t
he woman was Julianna Holt. But Jules would never be dressed like that.

  Not-Jules turned his way when Jean-Paul himself beckoned her, and tottered a few steps before lurching toward his arm. Jean-Paul caught her and braced her, murmured something.

  And Rhett sat back in his chair with his mouth falling open, like some kind of yokel. A hummingbird could have flown in and built a nest before he closed it again, remembered his manners, and got to his feet.

  “Jules?” he said as she slowly, proudly, put one foot in front of the other without a single wobble all the way to the table.

  “Thank you,” she muttered to Jean-Paul.

  “But of course,” he said, beaming. He and Rhett engaged in a brief struggle over who would pull out her chair and Rhett won.

  Jules sank into it gratefully, and Rhett realized that she’d been in excruciating pain from the shoes.

  Jean-Paul consoled himself by putting her napkin into her lap, handing them each a menu, and dubiously giving up the wine list to Rhett, as if he wouldn’t remember which champagne to order.

  “Amelie says these instruments of torture on my feet were invented by men for men,” Jules groused. “You idiots can have ’em back, if you ask me.”

  Rhett couldn’t help it. He threw back his head and laughed. This vision was, indeed, his very own Jules. At least, he hoped she would be, with a little help from his friend the Pet Rock.

  “All this”—Jules gestured to herself—“and you laugh at me?”

  “You’re gorgeous,” Rhett said.

  She blinked and then went pink in the face.

  “You just happen to be funny, as well,” he said, charmed. “It’s a winning combination, I promise you.”

  “Huh.”

  “Champagne, please, Jean-Paul. The Bollinger Vieilles Vignes Françaises.”

  “Of course, sir. Right away.”

  “I probably shouldn’t—” began Jules.

  “One glass will do no harm,” Jean-Paul reassured her.

  She was clearly mortified. The entire town knew their business and probably knew what was about to unfold here as well. He wouldn’t be surprised if noses started pressing up against the front windows. “Uh—well,” she said, at last. “Maybe just a sip.”