Family by Design

by Callie Endicott

  “And business partners,” he added. “But I’m not a man who’s made that many friends, so it’s awkward for me to know how to proceed. Regardless, I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. We’re even.”

  Rachel wasn’t innocent enough to think the two kisses were equal. She hadn’t had much time to participate in the first one, while he’d eagerly increased the intensity of the second.

  Was that one of the frustrations smoldering in his subconscious? Rachel hadn’t reacted when he’d kissed her the previous Friday, but she also hadn’t had time to react. Today she’d kissed him and he’d kissed her back with great enthusiasm.

  Déjà vu, Simon thought. He hadn’t felt this out of his depth and self-questioning since he was fourteen and smitten with the daughter of his father’s chauffeur. They’d giggled nervously through their first and only kiss. But they had never shared a second because when Richard Kessler learned his son was consorting with an employee’s child, he promptly fired the man. Image was everything to Richard.

  The injustice still galled Simon.

  “What are you thinking?” Rachel asked softly. “You look upset again.”

  He smiled wryly. “You’re getting too good at figuring me out.”

  “Beware, that’s one of the risks of having friends. They see beneath the surface—even when we don’t want them to. And they tell us things we don’t want to hear, but need to.”

  “I suppose. My mind was wandering. I was thinking about the chauffeur who my father fired, just because I had a crush on the man’s daughter and took her to a movie. Mr. Carson was a great guy. He didn’t deserve that.”

  “Did you ever try to find him?”

  “Right after I started my own company. He’d left his old address and the forwarding order had long since expired.”

  Rachel pursed her lips. “How about searching on social media?”

  “Hardly. I’m not exactly a fan.”

  She circled around the desk to her computer. “Fan or not, social media is an essential tool in business these days. Friends and families also love it for sharing news and pictures. One of the things I appreciate is that it also can help reconnect old friends, depending on the information entered. What was Mr. Carson’s first name?”

  “Harry. He’s originally from Savannah, Georgia. He always hoped to move back.”

  Rachel entered the name and spent several minutes navigating through the hits she’d got, clicking on various names, shaking her head, then moving on to the next. Finally she clicked on one and gestured to the screen. “Is that him?”

  Startled, Simon stared at a group picture that included an older Harry, along with a woman standing next to another man and two children.

  “That’s him. And I’m sure the woman is Selena.”

  Rachel clicked on a link and pulled up another page, then another. “This is Selena’s Facebook page. She’s now Selena Mitchell. It says she’s an engineer, married with two children.”

  “What did the other page say about Mr. Carson?”

  Rachel navigated around the various screens and smiled. “He went back to school and got a degree. He’s the supervising horticulturist at a botanical garden in Savannah, Georgia. It’s owned by a philanthropist and open to viewing five days a week. He’s also won several awards for developing new breeds of orchids.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Relief went through Simon. He’d always felt responsible for Mr. Carson being unfairly terminated, but apparently he’d landed on his feet—no thanks to the Kesslers.

  “If you sign up on Facebook you could send him a message,” Rachel suggested. “You don’t have to display your last name if you don’t want to. It could show Simon K, or you could use an entirely different screen name.”

  Simon wasn’t sure how Mr. Carson would feel about getting a message from his ex-employer’s son, twenty-plus years after being fired. “It’s a little late, but maybe I could send him a check to help compensate for what happened.”

  “Why don’t you just talk to him?”

  Simon was having trouble making up his mind about Rachel. “Are you sure? In my experience, money usually smooths out the rough spots.” As he said it, he saw her put a hand on her leg again. Sometimes it seemed to be an instinctive gesture, and sometimes...

  “Let me tell you a story,” she said. “You asked why I don’t use the elevator much. Since you looked me up on the internet, you may have read about me getting hurt on a modeling set a number of years ago.”

  He nodded, recalling the stories he’d seen. For the most part he’d skipped over them. Being someone who valued his own privacy, he hadn’t seen a need to know the details. “I saw some headlines, but it wasn’t pertinent to my research, so they didn’t interest me.”

  There was doubt on Rachel’s face. “The injuries were to my face and left leg. I spent a year and a half in and out of hospitals having surgeries. The plastic surgeon was brilliant, and so was the doctor who rebuilt my jaw. I didn’t want to look different and they succeeded. A few faint scars remain, but my jawline is the same and the marks are easily covered with makeup. See?”

  She pointed to the left side of her face, as if daring him to look closely. Simon wasn’t an expert, but he could imagine how hard it would be for anyone to deal with extensive facial injuries.

  When he didn’t step closer, Rachel dampened a tissue with a water bottle and began swiping it over her jaw.

  “Rachel, don’t,” Simon protested. A few scars couldn’t make her less beautiful, but it had to be hard for her to reveal something she carefully concealed each day.

  “Why shouldn’t you see?” she asked impatiently, coming around to the front of the desk again. “Some of the paparazzi got into the hospital dressed as doctors and sneaked pictures after one of my surgeries. Then they used Photoshop to make me look like Frankenstein’s bride and sold them to a scandal rag, the kind that’s displayed at every grocery checkout in the country. Imagine how fun that was for my friends and family.”

  When she was done, Simon saw two indistinct lines that would probably only be noticed if someone was looking for them and knew what they might be. He traced the marks with the tip of his finger, knowing they represented a huge amount of pain.

  “There is nothing in the world that could take away from how gorgeous you are,” he said. “My mother used to spin tales about fairies dancing in silver glens and how human males would desperately chase them, hoping for love. You remind me of those stories.”

  He kissed the faint marks, then her mouth, not caring that he was again doing something he might regret. A hint of gardenias filled his senses and it was like a magical potion. When he finally lifted his head, he saw Rachel was breathing as raggedly as he was.

  “You just made the count uneven again,” she whispered.

  “It isn’t a contest.”

  “And I’m not a fairy, much as the idea appeals.”

  Simon reluctantly stepped backward. It would be helpful to remember he wanted friendship and a business relationship with Rachel, nothing else. “All right. Is there a point to the story you were telling me?”

  “Uh, yeah. In addition to the scars, my leg has never fully recovered. I also ended up somewhat claustrophobic from being bandaged so often.”

  The elevator.

  He was disgusted with himself and his big mouth.

  “Rachel, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything about the elevator. It was insensitive.”

  “No, it’s fine. Anyhow, my agent put out feelers when I was close to returning to modeling, but nobody was interested. They said it had been too long and the public would only be thinking about my injuries, not the product being sold.”

  Simon couldn’t see the point she was getting at, but he was convinced she rarely talked about the accident, the same way she rarely mentioned having bee
n a model. “So your career as a model was over.”

  “Yeah. I got a check from the insurance company as compensation, but a part of me resented that money. It didn’t heal my leg and I still needed makeup to cover the remaining scars.”

  Simon nodded. “You’re also living in the Carthage, instead of a country house, which is what you’d prefer. I’m guessing that’s because it would be hard for you to manage the yard, at least by yourself.” He didn’t know why he’d added the last part, possibly because he’d had a mental flash of them taking care of a garden together, which was absurd. He’d never done yard work in his life; his fee at the Carthage included maintenance of the private garden area attached to his condo.

  Rachel stuck her chin out. “I’m not talking about now. I’m talking about how I felt getting that check. What I really wanted was a sincere apology from the workers who were responsible. Mr. Carson might feel the same.”

  Essentially Rachel was saying that money wasn’t always the answer. Mr. Carson was doing well in his new career, but maybe he’d appreciate someone saying they regretted the events of the past. A check might even seem to trivialize what had happened.

  “I understand.”

  “Yes, but having said all of that, it’s also important to point out that you aren’t responsible for your father’s behavior and apologizing isn’t your job.”

  Simon wasn’t convinced. As much as he wanted to be a better man than Richard Kessler, he wasn’t sure he’d succeeded. The concept of paying things forward was great, but maybe there were times to pay things backward, as well.

  “I’ll give it some thought,” he promised. Then something else occurred to him. “Rachel, forgive me for being insensitive, but your marriage—”

  “I don’t think Hayden could handle the end of what he saw as a storybook life,” she interrupted in a flat tone. “But it wasn’t just that. We discovered we had almost nothing in common besides our work.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s in the past. It’s all in the past.”

  Simon seriously doubted that was true. Everything he’d learned about Rachel suggested her scars influenced how she saw herself. “Are you sure? All experiences leave scars. Yours are just slightly more visible.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Yeah, and your scars have hardened your view of people. I’ll keep mine, thank you very much.”

  “Take it easy, I wasn’t trying to start an argument. And I’m not disagreeing. The last thing I want is for Livvie to see the world the way I do, so I’m working on it.”

  “Fine.” She reached across the desk for a file folder. “I’ve added to the list of designers for consideration. It would be a good idea to consider hiring one who does children’s clothing. Their portfolios each show a flair that might meld well with Liv’ing Creations.”

  He accepted the folder. “I’ll take a look. Incidentally, this morning I told Janine Jenkins that her next collection will be the last with Liv’ing Creations. She’ll get a decent severance package, provided she satisfactorily completes her responsibilities for everything in progress at the moment. Her termination letter will simply say we’re taking the design house in a new direction and wish her well.”

  Rachel’s eyes softened. “That’s very generous, Simon. It must have been hard not to get angry with her.”

  “You have no idea. I may not have been clear enough with Miriam Timmons, but my original discussion with Janine was specific. She knew she wasn’t doing what I’d asked and even admitted it—she actually thought our meeting was to congratulate her for putting the design house on ‘the right track.’”

  “Ouch. That wasn’t very bright.”

  Simon grimaced. “I was pretty steamed, but I didn’t want to react the way my father would have, so I let it go. As I said, I’m working on it.”

  “What about Ms. Timmons?”

  “Her employment is still in question. I explained how unhappy I was that Janine Jenkins has veered so far from the spirit of my wife’s designs. Miriam instantly turned defensive and declared she couldn’t be blamed for the falling sales. No matter what I said, she didn’t seem to understand that my concerns aren’t about sales, they’re about Liv’s legacy.”

  * * *

  THOUGH RACHEL HAD defended the other woman, she couldn’t help wondering why Olivia Kessler had hired Miriam in the first place.

  Luckily the phone rang before she could say something Simon might take the wrong way. It was Chelsea notifying her that Lydia Kravitz, her ten-thirty appointment, had arrived. Lydia was an actress whose performance Rachel had caught at a local repertory company. Her stage presence had been so engaging, Rachel had made contact with her to learn if she already had an agent.

  Rachel told Chelsea she needed a few minutes and put the receiver down. “Sorry, I have someone waiting.”

  “Of course. I’ll get going, but I’d like us to continue working together, especially on the ‘Me and Mommy’ collection. Shall I talk to Chelsea about setting up more meetings?”

  “She knows my schedule better than I do.”

  When he was gone, Rachel took out a mirror and bottle of foundation and quickly smoothed a small amount on her jaw. What had possessed her to melodramatically reveal her scars to Simon?

  The whole exchange held a surreal quality, as if it had happened to someone else. She’d kissed him? What had come over her? Then he’d kissed her. Again.

  Most of the time, dealing with Simon was akin to a precarious game of baiting the tiger. He had claws and teeth and she’d felt them today before everything had got weird.

  At least he wasn’t stupid. He might have been angry, but when she’d shot a few home truths at him, he’d backed off and talked rationally. This time. He’d also held up a metaphorical mirror and challenged her perception of how well she’d left the past behind.

  Rachel was tucking the makeup back into her desk drawer when a soft knock sounded on her door. She squared her shoulders and fastened a smile on her face before opening it.

  It was time to get back to work.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MATT WAS FRUSTRATED by Pepper’s behavior. He’d taken her harness off, but even when she was off duty, she didn’t respond to other people unless she perceived them as a threat. Today, the moment Gemma had arrived, she’d begun whining unhappily. Now she put her forefeet on the instrument console, apparently to look into the live studio where Gemma was reading.

  “Down, girl,” he ordered.

  With another unhappy whine she dropped to all fours, but instead of seeking her bed under the table, she put her head on his leg and whimpered. It was her way of saying, I don’t think everything is okay.

  Gemma’s performance was off, so Matt stopped the recording and flipped the two-way mike switch.

  “Sorry for interrupting, Gemma. Pepper is upset. She thinks something is wrong.” As soon as he said it, he winced. How professional was it to bring up his guide dog’s emotional state? “Are you okay? Your voice isn’t as a strong as usual.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t say anything for a moment. “Sorry, I’m a bit sore and achy today. I’ll try to do better.”

  “Maybe you’re coming down with the flu. We should wait until you’re feeling better.”

  “It isn’t the flu. I fell on my parents’ front steps this morning when I went out for the newspaper. It was frosty and I didn’t realize how slippery they’d be.”

  The things she’d revealed about her father’s drinking instantly made Matt wonder if she was hiding something. A drinker, frustrated by a health crisis, might strike out at the nearest target.

  “Are you sure that’s all?” The question came out harsher than intended.

  “I don’t know what you mean. Maybe Pepper is unhappy about my wrist being wrapped. I sprained it when I fell.”

  “Have you been to the emergency room?”

 
; Gemma laughed. “It wasn’t that serious. I have bruises on my hip and my knee, and an even bigger one on my pride.” The ease in her tone suggested there was nothing more to the tale.

  “I’ve read it takes a year to get over a really bad fall.”

  “I read that, too. But does traditional or holistic medicine make the claim? Because I’d love to find someone to restore my energy balance, or whatever hitting the ground disrupts.”

  Matt chuckled. Gemma could be fun when she relaxed and wasn’t self-conscious. “I’m not sure. Maybe both of them. Has your brother, the doctor, got home from New Zealand? He should be able to help.”

  “Drake will be back in a few days.”

  The sound of something being dragged came through the speakers. Aside from the reading stand for the manuscript, the only furniture in the recording room was a stool, reminding Matt he hadn’t offered Gemma a seat. She’d turned it down in the past, so it hadn’t occurred to him to offer it again, but she had to be sore after taking a tumble.

  “I don’t think it’s quite the tourist season in New Zealand yet,” Gemma continued, “but Drake found someone willing to act as guide on every well-known hike in the country. Then they were delayed by weather. His phone got soaked, which is why he couldn’t get in touch with us earlier. I also think he didn’t try that hard, so you must be right that he welcomed the chance to get away from everything.”

  “Not quite the tourist season? Oh, that’s right, the seasons are reversed down there. We’re heading into winter in our hemisphere, and it’s their spring.”

  “So Drake tells me. He’s always wanted to visit New Zealand. Now he’s setting his sights on Australia—even told me that when he called. Mom won’t appreciate the thought of him trekking into the outback. If he doesn’t return safely, none of us will hear the end of it.”

  Matt chuckled. “Maybe she can talk him out of going.”

  “More like he’ll convince her that it was her idea. Drake can charm bees out of their honey. He can’t do any wrong in her eyes, unless you count going to another country and being out of cell range.”