“Sure, you can.” She patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll go with you. And when we’re done, we’ll each have a piece of chocolate. The good stuff. Every day. What do you think? Deal?”
“Every single day?” Mark’s eyes narrowed.
“You got it, buddy.”
The excitement in Mark’s voice for Deirdre’s small affection stirred the guilt that slumbered in Isaac’s belly. Isaac could have put more effort into figuring out his brother. He could set aside more time to be with Mark.
“And you’ll go with me, DeeDee?”
A nip of envy joined the gnaw of guilt.
“I told you I would,” Deirdre said, “so I will.”
“Every day? Even when you’re too busy?”
“Deirdre isn’t here on weekends, buddy.” Mark’s caution saddened Isaac. “But I’ll go with you then.”
He could do that. He could rebuild Mark’s trust in him.
“You will?” Wonder and longing, disbelief and hope, infused Mark’s voice. He was so used to being relegated to the sidelines. Deirdre was changing that, and Isaac was grateful.
“Absolutely.”
“And you and DeeDee will have chocolate with me, too?”
Mark sounded as if it was a thought too good to be true. More guilt twisted inside Isaac.
“Of course, I will.”
“And you, DeeDee?”
“I bought it for you, Marco.” She was suddenly occupied with searching through her bag for something.
“But you have to have some too, don’t you? One piece a day? After exercise?”
Deirdre opened her mouth as if to argue again, but at the expression on Mark’s face, she stopped. She looked down, then inhaled and touched the young man’s arm.
“Of course I’ll have chocolate with you.”
*
DeeDee had eaten more chocolate in the past few days than she had in the whole previous year. She smoothed her sweater over the waistband of her jodhpur-style leggings, testing for any sign of weight gain.
One piece a day wouldn’t pack on the pounds, would it? She could do that. For Mark.
And for Isaac too.
Turns out, the strong, silent type could flirt. Not very well, of course; no one could compete with DeeDee when it came to flirting. But she was delighted at Isaac’s attempts.
She didn’t want to think about why.
“Mark,” she said, “why don’t you go into the other room and watch TV for a while? I need to talk to Isaac.”
He’d displayed admirable control after chomping down that first bite, making a show of letting the truffles melt in his mouth. But he was getting fidgety now. It looked as if his good nature had had enough.
“Okay,” Mark said.
The second the boy was gone, Isaac turned to her. “That,” he said, “was amazing. You have a way with him. Are you sure this isn’t the sort of work you’d like to do?”
Shock robbed her of speech but just for a moment.
“What are you saying, Ike?” She took a step closer to him. “Could it be that I’ve exceeded your expectations? That the incompetent, ill-suited applicant has turned into a paragon of virtue and skill?”
His eyes darkened, and he crooked one eyebrow. “Virtue? Really?”
“Skill, then.”
“We never did talk about that résumé of yours. What other skills do you have that you didn’t list?”
He touched her arm, running one finger up to her shoulder, then down again to her elbow. She shivered, but couldn’t make herself pull away.
“You mean, besides the multiple doctoral degrees, commendations, and of course, the sainthood?”
“Yes, besides that.”
Suddenly, his joking touched a nerve. He was fully aware that she had no other skills. She was an out-of-work model and an even less-successful actor. She had exceptional bone structure, she knew how to dress, and she thought fast on her feet.
“I have an excellent sense of the ridiculous.”
“Ah,” Isaac said. “That explains the handbags.”
“Each one chosen to perfectly complement my outfits. They catch the eye, you must admit.”
“They do that.”
The way he was looking at her made something in her chest grow hot and tight, like she was standing under a klieg light in a sheer dress and granny panties. She had no need for his sympathy, had no intention of fishing for compliments, and only wanted only to turn the conversation back onto more comfortable ground.
She shrugged. “Mark likes me; that’s why it works between us.”
Isaac looked at her for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to argue with her.
“That’s the remarkable thing,” he said. “You’ve formed a relationship with him. I’ve seen him interact with a lot of people who look at him like a problem, a project, a task to be managed, handled. You treat him like…”
“A St. Bernard puppy?”
This conversation was veering dangerously off course. She didn’t know how to handle compliments that didn’t involve her looks.
Isaac laughed. “He’s kind of like a puppy, isn’t he? Affectionate, clumsy, always looking for approval. But no. You treat him like a person. You see him.”
DeeDee understood what it was like to be invisible. The body who wore the clothes, the skin that showcased the product, a collection of features and limbs and movement.
“I see him as a messy person. There’s a map of Texas in ketchup on that sweatshirt. He could use new clothes, Isaac.”
“Are you volunteering to take him?” A shudder ran over Isaac’s shoulders. “Because let me tell you, that’ll show you a different side of him.”
“I’m an excellent shopper.”
“I suppose you would be.” He looked perplexed. “You have a natural gift with Mark, Deirdre. I’m lucky to have found you.”
“It’s not rocket science. I’m just being nice to him.” Nervous laughter bubbled up. Such a simple thing. If only she’d learned it years ago. “I’m lucky that most people are basically superficial.”
“You’re more than what you look like, Deirdre. It’s what a person does that matters. And I appreciate what you’re doing. With Mark, I mean.”
Chapter Seven
“Is it still morning sickness if it’s three in the afternoon?”
DeeDee looked around the Copper Mountain Chocolate Shop, wondering what it would do for Sage’s business if her sister ralphed on the floor. She and Cynthia were seated at one of the small tables off to the side of the shop, but they were still within view of the steady stream of customers coming and going.
After the successful taste testing of Sage’s products with Mark yesterday, DeeDee wanted to keep a supply on hand, so she’d arranged to meet Cynthia here, where she could kill two birds with one stone.
She wished she’d gone out to Anders Run instead, where her stepsister could be as green as she liked in the privacy of her own home.
Cynthia held up a finger and breathed through her mouth as what looked like another wave of nausea passed over her. Then color flushed into her pale cheeks and a sheen of perspiration broke out on her forehead.
“They say it’s a sign of a healthy pregnancy.” Cynthia blotted her skin with a paper napkin. “Now, where were we?” Her cheekbones stood out prominently, sharply visible through her almost-translucent complexion. Heroin-chic, very eighties. Not a good look for Cyn.
“Are you sure you can concentrate? Maybe you should go home and lie down. With a bucket.”
“I’m fine.” Her voice softened. “But once more, I’m so grateful for your help, DeeDee. I know it’s not what you planned… coming back here like this…”
Her gaze was warm with sympathy, and DeeDee shifted in her seat. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks with heat. “Maddie told you.”
“Don’t be mad. We’ve all been worried. Besides, I had a feeling things weren’t quite as great as Joanie kept saying.”
Oh, please God, no. “Does she know, too?”
Mom’s pity would be intolerable.
Cynthia bit her lip. “I haven’t said anything. Neither has Maddie. I think she’s guessed, though. Are you very sad, being back here again?”
She sounded wistful, and DeeDee’s heart twisted.
“I miss New York, but I’m happy to be near my family again, Cyn. I needed the change. Working with Mark is certainly… different.”
Uncomfortable, too. Challenging.
She thought of her triumph at getting Mark outside, willingly, with her. His joy at earning the single truffle afterward.
Isaac’s surprise at Mark’s compliance.
The pride that had tickled her at the accomplishment.
Cynthia reached out and patted DeeDee’s hand. “It agrees with you, DeeDee. You look great. I mean, you always do, but now… you’re more relaxed.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re an exemplary human being, overflowing with the milk of sisterly kindness. Speaking of which, can I get you a hot chocolate?” Anything to get back to the subject at hand. “Maybe it’ll settle your stomach. Maddie says it cures everything.”
Cynthia narrowed her eyes at the copper pot behind the counter, from which the most delicious aroma of cocoa and vanilla emanated.
DeeDee took a small sip of her own cocoa, wishing she hadn’t ordered it because now that she’d tried it, there’d be no going back. “It must have a million calories. But oh man, it’s so worth it.”
Cynthia chewed the corner of her lip for a moment, then sighed. “I’d love one, but I better stick to herbal tea. So, about our problem.”
Problems, plural, as it turned out. DeeDee set down her mug and looked over Cynthia’s notes, wondering what on earth she’d gotten herself into.
Or rather, how Cynthia had thought pretzels and soda would be sufficient refreshments at a fashion show. Pregnancy brain? Lack of experience? This would never work.
“Fundraisers like this should be elegant,” she explained. “There ought to be small plates of beautifully designed finger foods. Champagne or signature cocktails to drink. Spring flower arrangements on the tables. The whole event should be a decadent, indulgent, beautiful experience.”
“But it’s a fundraiser. If we spend all our money on refreshments and decorations, we’re defeating our purpose.”
DeeDee’s mind raced. “What designers are you working with?”
Cynthia smiled. “It’s not that kind of show, DeeDee. We’re getting clothes from local retailers, evening wear from the bridal salon, and everything else from Copper Mountain Chic. It’s a shop run by Sandra Reynolds; you’ll love her. The woman oozes style. And she’s as nice as she is beautiful, too. She’s thrilled to be participating.”
“I’m sure. Okay, that takes the pressure off. Haute-couture events require a certain élan. In Marietta, though, we can keep things simple.” She jotted some notes.
Cynthia lifted one eyebrow. “Do you mean to be condescending?”
DeeDee looked up. “No. I’m just stating facts. What kind of garments are you showing?”
“Everything.” Cynthia shrugged. “We want to make this accessible. Work clothing to business attire to prom and bridesmaid dresses, all for ordinary people with average bank accounts.”
This was like no fashion show DeeDee had ever been involved in. But all the better. It wouldn’t take much to impress their benefactors and encourage them to open their pockets for Building Tomorrow.
“We still need refreshments,” Deedee said. “Have you considered asking the Graff Hotel to contribute appetizers?”
“Even their discounted rate is too high.” Cynthia grimaced. “I was going to ask Sage to contribute chocolate, but she’s already run off her feet with Easter orders, I can’t add another thing to her to-do list. I know she’s been trying to squeeze in a baby shower for Portia, too.” She slapped a hand over her mouth, looked cautiously over at the counter, then wilted with relief. “Thank goodness Dakota’s working today. I can’t believe this pregnancy brain. I’ve never ruined a surprise party before, and I definitely don’t want to do it this time.” She put her head in her hand.
“Is it a surprise?” DeeDee asked. Maddie had mentioned that Sage’s niece wasn’t comfortable talking about her condition. Surprise parties were tricky. In this case, it seemed like a disaster in the making, but that was for Sage to sort out.
“I don’t know, but regardless, I can’t ask anything more of Sage.” She swallowed. “Now, there’s something else. It’s about the m-models. I ran into a little… s-s-snag.”
DeeDee glanced up. The stutter was a bad sign. “What do you mean, a snag?”
“Well…” Cynthia was looking green again. “My plan was to contact Maya…”
“Maya Parrish? She’s still in business? I can’t believe a tiny local agency like hers could survive out here.”
“She’s Maya Gallagher now.” Cynthia held up a palm, her eyes closed. She pressed a knuckle against her top lip, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply for a moment. “And it’s hardly a tiny local agency. She runs a thriving headhunting firm for models and photographers. It is Internet based, so she has clients all over.”
A surge of dread rippled through DeeDee’s own stomach.
Overflowing with hubris, DeeDee had refused to consult the former model for career advice before flying off to New York, considering her own ambitions far loftier than that of someone who’d settled in Marietta, Montana.
“But I left it too late,” Cynthia continued. “None of Maya’s people are available. She thought she might have one or two, but even those didn’t pan out.”
“One or two models? You’ll need at least a dozen to keep the show rolling.”
This would never work.
“A dozen? Oh dear. Maybe you could talk to Maya yourself? Ask for some suggestions? Can’t you play some kind of professional-courtesy card?”
Yeah, ask Jon how DeeDee played that game.
“Trust me, that’ll only make things worse.” She sighed. “There’s a slight chance I may have hurt Maya’s feelings when I left town.”
“Huh.” Cynthia dabbed at her forehead. Her lips had gone pale again. “Hurt in a you-didn’t-compliment-my-coffee sort of way, or in a you-set-fire-to-my-car kind of way?”
“No actual flames.” DeeDee wrinkled her nose. “Though there was a bridge-burning element to it.”
“You insulted her business, didn’t you?” Cynthia closed her eyes, breathing shallowly. “This is b-b-bad.”
DeeDee studied her mug. “You make it sound so ugly. It was more like… friendly ribbing between rivals.”
No. The exchange had been one sided, a careless display of ignorance from someone too blind to recognize the touch of a helping hand.
Cynthia’s chair scraped backward as she jumped up, a hand over her mouth. “Excuse me,” she muttered, fleeing to the washroom.
“I know the feeling,” DeeDee said to the empty chair. A fashion show with no models. Could things get any worse?
The bell above the door jingled.
“DeeDee!”
She looked up to see the wide-eyed, ecstatic face of Mark Litton, attached to his large, clumsy body as it barreled straight toward her.
“Mark, wait!” Isaac reached for his brother. But it was too late.
*
Mark’s jacket slipped through Isaac’s fingers, leaving him grasping at air as he watched his brother rush toward the delicate corner table where Deirdre sat.
Crap.
“DeeDee!” Mark yelled. “You’re here, you’re here!”
“Watch the floor; it’s wet.” The girl behind the counter wore an orangey apron over a deep blue shirt with her dark hair carefully braided away from her face.
And yes, the freshly mopped floor was slippery. Isaac was close, but not close enough to catch his brother as he ran past the yellow plastic warning sign. Mark’s running shoes, slick from their walk in the damp park, spun out beneath him and propelled him into Deirdre’s chair, knocking her over and
sending her mug of hot chocolate flying onto the floor.
Isaac bit back a curse.
“Whoa!” She tumbled backward and landed on her butt, legs splayed, her caramel-colored hair falling over her face. A button from her blouse flew off and bounced against the wall with a ping.
With a yelp, Mark landed heavily next to her.
Isaac was at his side in an instant, concern sharpening his voice. “Mark, are you okay? How many times must I tell you to slow down! Did you hit your head?”
Mark didn’t deal well with injuries. His pain threshold was low, and he hated hospitals.
“No. My butt and my arm.”
He held up his arm as if it were broken.
“Come on, buddy. You’re okay.” Isaac helped Mark to his feet. He’d stopped by the chocolate shop in hopes of getting to know more people in Marietta, but this was not the impression he’d hoped to make.
“I sorry, Isaac,” Mark cried. “I sorry, DeeDee.”
Deirdre pressed her hands against the floor, bringing her knees together and pushing her back against the wall. The blouse gaped, and Isaac could see the sparkling pink lace of her bra peeking out from the opening.
“No worries,” she said faintly, “but next time, how about a handshake?”
She was breathing hard, the movement making the fabric gape and flutter.
Isaac yanked his gaze away, righted the chairs, and pushed Mark into one of them. “Stay there,” he instructed.
Mark complied, but his breath was hitching in a telltale way that warned of an impending outburst.
“Sorry, Isaac. Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he wailed. One pant leg was streaked from the damp floor and hiked up to reveal mismatched socks. His hair was sticking up at the back and falling into his eyes at the front. His glasses were askew.
A small crowd had formed around them, blocking the doorway to the shop. Isaac cringed at the kind but curious strangers. No doubt they meant well, but he wished he could send them all away and shield Mark from the embarrassment and humiliation.
Isaac had wanted to build some relationships before everyone saw how difficult things could be with Mark. It was why he’d pulled out of the Valentine Quest at the last minute. The February event had sounded like a fun way to become familiar with their new hometown, not to mention the awesome grand prize of a vacation.
The Chocolate Comeback (Love at the Chocolate Shop Book 7) Page 7