Saying Yes to the Mess

by M. Kate Quinn

  Angie hugged Rylee and walked past Darius, but not without first giving him a narrowed look. Go, Angie.

  When she was gone, Rylee pressed her hands to her hips. “Look, I don’t know why you bothered. If you’re here to apologize, you can save it for someone who gives a crap.”

  “I did not do that voice-over.”

  “Yes, you did. I recognized your voice. I’m not an idiot.”

  “I did the early part of the footage, yes, the part where I talked about helping your store and helping you with taking over your grandmother’s legacy. But that other stuff was all Jake. He’s an ass, but, unfortunately, he’s the boss and there’s nothing I can do about him. I’ve already given him a piece of my mind about it. But there’s no pulling it back. People are buzzing about the upcoming episode online and on the show’s website. They can’t wait for it to air.”

  “Well, bravo to you. Can you go now?”

  “I’m sorry.” Darius took a deep breath.

  She could see his chest rise and then fall. Her heart tugged, and she admonished it for reacting to him. When he took a step closer, she put up her hand. “No. Darius, I mean it. It is what it is. Just go.”

  “Okay. I’ll go. But not before I say this. Rylee, I’ve spent every day, every minute of every day since we’ve met trying to keep myself from thinking about you, wanting more, asking myself what if. What if there were no contract in place? What if we were free to do what we wanted? What happened between us was not a one-night lapse in judgment. I think you know that, even if you’d never admit it now. I like you. I really like you. And I hate this whole mess we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

  Rylee’s insides began to unclench. She moved her hands to the knot of her robe’s sash, as though hoping the tightness of it around her body would keep her from melting into a puddle.

  Darius took a step closer, and she did not stop him.

  “This is not what I signed up for when I came on board for the show,” he said in a low voice, an intimate tell-you-a-secret sound. “I wanted to help people. Now that I really see what’s going on around Sycamore River, I’m especially sure my original idea was a good one. I didn’t count on the part of this TV show that would twist the truth just to get good ratings. And more importantly, I didn’t count on meeting you.”

  “Please stop.” The whisper escaped her lips. Her heart wanted to believe. It really did.

  “I’m not the bad guy, Rylee.”

  She could not respond. There was a lump in her throat the size of a fist.

  They shared a long look, and in that suspended moment all she wanted was her arms around him. She wanted to untie her robe and let it fall away. She wanted his fingertips on her skin, his lips on hers. But that was impossible.

  “I, uh, want you to go.” She filled her lungs with air and exhaled. “Just be gone, Darius. We’ll film the fashion show and then just be gone. Can you do that? If you’re not the damn bad guy, can you please just do that?”

  His Adam’s apple rose and fell in a swallow. His eyes were intense, dark, shiny, raw with something she couldn’t read, yet it stole her breath.

  Darius looked away. “Friday, then.”

  All she could manage was a nod, and in a breath he left. She was alone, just as she’d wanted to be all night. But now it was not solace that coursed through her blood. It was Darius Wirth.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Days had gone by, and still Darius couldn’t stand to give Jake more than a few syllables in response to his questions or comments. The more Jake pontificated in his usual spew, the more Darius saw him for what he was. A snake. Jake the snake.

  The two of them sat in Jake’s office going over the upcoming schedule for the final shoot at Rosie’s Bridals, the fashion show.

  “The reaction from that commercial is exploding all over social media. So you can stop pouting and thank me.”

  “I talked with Kit from Rosie’s, and they are getting freaked about not receiving the delivery of the samples.” Darius kept his eyes on his tablet. “Rylee got on the horn with the shipper, and of course they told her the order went out.”

  Jake chuckled without looking up from his tablet. “Putting our wacky shopkeeper in a tizzy, are we?”

  “She needs time to catalogue the dresses and go over her runway commentary.”

  Jake looked up and grinned. “This is going to be great.”

  Darius could not speak around the fist in his throat. His mind pelted him with his own words. I’m not the bad guy.

  Jake leaned in close. “This will be perfect. You’ll see. Turns out this screwb…uh, this Rylee person has kind of captured something in people. Pity, I’d guess. So don’t sweat it. The samples will get there, and we, you specifically, are going to come out like the hero, as usual.”

  Jake’s usage of the word pity gnawed at him. He shouldn’t be feeling protective about Rylee, but he did. And he hated that viewers were playing right into Jake’s intention for the disparaging commercial that continued to air.

  The image of her that night in her apartment crowded his mind. The way she stared at him with discerning eyes. He could read what those green eyes of hers were saying, and unfortunately, he had to concur. He was an ass. But the connectedness to her was unrelenting. He felt it. She felt it. He knew. Maybe this latest disappointment should have severed it, but it didn’t. Not for him, anyway.

  “I’ll be glad when this is a done deal and we lock in the second season,” Jake said.

  “Yeah, well, that’s one thing we can agree on.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  By Wednesday the gown samples had still not arrived. Rylee got the same answer from the designer every time she called. They were shipped. Their paperwork said the dresses were delivered to her door. It made no sense. The designer said the shipment had been signed for but they couldn’t read the signature.

  She picked up her phone and dialed Darius’s number.

  “Rylee, hi.”

  “Look, I know you already told Kit yesterday that you’re not worried about these gowns not being here for the shoot, but I’m borderline ballistic. I think we should cancel.”

  “We’ll be fine, Rylee.”

  “How can you keep saying that? Darius, there are no gowns. You can’t have a bridal fashion show with no bridal gowns. Comprendo? I say pull the plug.”

  “First off, there’s no pulling the plug. It would be a breach of contract. I know you were concerned about writing up your commentary on the gowns, so take the info off your order sheet.”

  “That’s all well and good, but it still doesn’t produce dresses.”

  “Look, the guys are going to come to your shop first thing tomorrow morning to film the setup, film the models arriving and you and your staff talking with them about the fashion show lineup and the delay in the dresses and such. I have an appointment at my father’s nursing home first, and then I’ll be at the store to go over things with you. On camera, of course.”

  “Of course,” she spat. “My agreeing to be on your show was supposed to help Rosie’s Bridals, and it’s going to wind up burying us. Congratulations.”

  She pressed the Off button. One good thing about this whole mess was that soon she’d never have to see Darius Wirth again.

  ****

  As soon as he walked through the front doorway of The Memory Center, Darius knew something was up. And as he made his way down the quiet corridor, medicinal smell crowding him, Toni from the finance department met him by the elevator. The look in her eyes told him there was news. He didn’t hear any of the greeting that came from her mouth, and the response he uttered barely registered. What he did hear with crystal clarity was her next statement.

  “Hilltop Manor in Chester has an available room for your father.” Toni touched his arm. This was a nice, caring woman who knew Darius’s trepidation about moving his father. “We have to act quickly, Darius. These rooms get snatched up fast.”

  The elevator arrived, and he let the cab sit there empty
while he just stared at Toni. He knew this day was coming, and the place in Chester having a room for Pop was not a bad thing. He just felt as if he was letting the old guy down. This was Pop’s home. These people knew him, really cared about him. Every single person in this place knew Pop’s name. That said something.

  “How long do I have before I have to give the go-ahead?”

  Toni screwed her mouth sideways. “None.” Then she brushed a hand up and down his arm. “I’m sorry, Darius. I know this is tough. But your father will do well at Hilltop, and the affordability will allow you to rest easy.”

  “Okay.” What else could he say? There were no choices left. None.

  ****

  Pop was up and in the reclining chair beside his bed. His hair was damp and combed back over his crown. Dressed in a navy-blue sweat suit, he looked clean and almost bright eyed in the morning light. Darius’s heart lurched when his father met his gaze and cracked a jagged grin.

  “Hey, Pop.”

  “Darius.”

  His heart whirred when the old man remembered his name right off the bat. He went over and sat himself on the newly made bed. “How are you today?”

  “I ate.”

  “Yeah? What’d you have?”

  “Scrambled eggs. The fake kind.”

  Darius laughed. Even in his state of mind, Mitch Wirth could tell the real thing from the imposter. “So, Pop, I have some news. We’re going to move you to a new place. It’s called Hilltop Manor in Chester, and I think you’re going to like it.”

  “Move?”

  “Yeah, it’s not that far from here, actually.”

  “Why?”

  Why, indeed. What could he say that would make his father understand? “It’s time.”

  “Where’s your mother?”

  Darius blew out a long breath. With so much boomeranging around in his mind, he could explode.

  “I’m going to talk with the people in the office and get the paperwork all straight, and then I’ll come back and help you pack up. How’s that?”

  Martin Wirth stared him down with more perception in his gray-blue eyes than Darius had seen in a long time. Under that scrutiny, Darius felt like a mound of powdered-egg substitute.

  “Pop, look. I know you like it here…”

  Mitch nodded, but his gaze remained fixed.

  “And I wish you could stay. I tried. Trust me.”

  “We”—Pop’s head bobbled with an urgency to get his words out—“raised a trustworthy boy.” He planted a garish grin on his trembling mouth. “You do right.” His rheumy eyes misted over. “You do.”

  A tear stung the corner of his eye. He loved this old man.

  Chapter Thirty

  The entourage from Wirth More arrived right at nine in the morning. The guys with the cameras went to work setting up their lighting and such while Emma ushered in three tall skinny women Rylee assumed were the models for the nonexistent wedding gowns.

  “Hello, Rylee. Here are our models. Tiffany, Lara, and Maeve.” Emma waved a hand toward the towering women.

  Were those hipbones poking through a cable-knit sweater on that one girl? How protrusive were they if Rylee could see them through the wooly shroud? Wow. She regretted that bagel she’d indulged in this morning. “Hi, ladies,” she said. “Emma, any news on the samples?”

  Emma shook her head. “Darius will be here soon. He’ll have the scoop on them. Meanwhile, let’s go over the mechanics of the show. Where are your helpers?”

  Rylee didn’t like the dismissive way Emma referred to Kit and Freda, as if they were elves holed up in a tree busily baking chocolate chip cookies. These women continued to save her ass day after day.

  “Kit and the sales associates are back in the stockroom getting things ready.”

  “Okay, then, lead the way.”

  ****

  Darius took a tentative sip of his coffee. It was still too hot. The crowd at Jo-Jo’s had thinned now that it was well past the morning rush. He checked his watch. Almost eleven. Jake would be here any minute to discuss Friday’s orchestration with the sample gowns. The plan would go off without a hitch. It always did. Just when Rylee would begin an apology to the fashion show attendees, he would swoop into Rosie’s Bridals with the damn dresses. There’d be hoorays all around. Would Rylee see through it? See through him?

  He was reminded of that look on his father’s face earlier and the craggy words that had escaped from his throat. The only good thing about Alzheimer’s was that Mitchell Wirth didn’t have to know his son was not the trustworthy man he thought he was.

  First thing Monday they’d move Pop to the new place. The place hadn’t been all that bad when he’d visited it. Kind of old but kept up well enough. The problem, though, had been the staff, the residents, and the building’s size. The facility was huge, impersonal, like a factory that produced old folks. Nobody looked the least bit happy either, but maybe he’d imagined it. Or maybe Pop wouldn’t sense the discontent among the folks at Hilltop, but Darius would always see it. He saw the unhappiness now in his mind as he sipped his coffee. The obvious discontent gave him a burning sensation inside, as if he were drinking battery acid instead of the best java he knew.

  The front door opened with a gust of chilliness, and Jake stepped into the coffee shop. He spread his arms wide when his gaze landed on Darius. “Show time!” He plopped himself onto a chair at Darius’s table and tugged off his kid gloves. “Ready to do some hand-holding with the whack job?”

  “What did I tell you about calling her that, Jake?” Darius’s insides were on a slippery slope. Every word that came out of Jake’s mouth just slammed home all the more what a cruddy thing they were doing for the sake of ratings.

  “Hey, I’ll stop just as long as you remember she’s off limits to you, pal. I see the way you look at her. Personally, I don’t see it. She does have a great ass—don’t get me wrong—but I’m more of a blonde fan.” Jake got up to order himself something with a “Need anything?”

  Darius shook his head. He didn’t even know where Jake had those samples stashed. And just thinking about how Emma had waited like a burglar outside Rosie’s for the shipment made him ill. The coffee in his stomach sloshed around. This was all so ridiculous and for what? Admitting you were a fraud was no picnic. It was worse to know you were such with no good reason. Choices and consequences. Sometimes there was no good choice, yet one had to be made. Everywhere he turned, his hands were tied, as if choices were being made for him, forced down his throat like that mashed-up stuff his father had to endure at mealtimes.

  He was sick of it. Sick of disappointing the people he cared about. For the first time he admitted that that included Rylee. He cared about her. Somehow he’d make this up to her, and he didn’t give a shit about what that meant to the show.

  His heart banged hard in his chest with new conviction. As far as Pop was concerned, there was a choice. There was one way to keep him at The Memory Center, and as much as he’d tried to avoid such an unpleasant choice, he was going to do whatever it took.

  He picked up his phone and scrolled through a blur of names and numbers until he found what he was looking for. He hoped Armando Herrera was still an art collector in New York, and he hoped the guy still wanted the Mabel Alvarez painting.

  ****

  Rylee and Kit sat in chairs at the worktable in the supply room while Judy, the makeup artist from Wirth More, applied powder and blush to their faces with adept strokes of her fat brushes.

  “I’m going to miss this part,” Kit said, and Judy smiled. “How nice would it be to have someone swoop in each day and doll me up?”

  “If it means that much to you, I could slap on some gunk when you come to work in the morning,” Rylee jibed. “It’ll cost you a coffee, though.”

  “Ha,” Kit said. “You avoiding Jo-Jo’s these days?”

  “Um, you mean since that wretched video blasted the internet? Yeah. Staying clear of the coffee place. And don’t get me started on that, thank you very mu
ch.”

  “It’s just show shit,” Judy said in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning close with an eyebrow pencil. “Stay still a minute.”

  “Show shit. Nice. There’s a lot of that going around.”

  “Oh, you mean the samples gowns?” Judy turned her pencil around to the brush side and scraped it along Rylee’s brows. “Don’t worry. It’s just more bullcrap.” She stepped back to examine her workmanship. “You have such a great natural arch.”

  Rylee pushed Judy’s hand away when she came in with a shadow applicator. “What do you mean just more bullcrap?”

  “Oh.” Judy looked around and lowered her voice. “You did not hear it from me, okay? I can’t afford to lose my job.”

  “That’s fine. Just tell me what you meant.”

  “I heard from one of the assistants that the station manager—you know Emma, the one with the red-framed glasses—well, she apparently signed for the dresses when they arrived, and they’ve been holding them hostage someplace until the last minute to make a big splash for the fashion show. Boost ratings. When Darius gets here today, he’ll come up with some plan B scenario and give you the chin-up pep talk. It’s for drama. So when you shoot today’s footage, act like you don’t know it’s just show shit. Oh, and you can cry. The mascara is waterproof.”

  “Are you serious?” Kit jumped off her stool. “They’ve been messing with us?”

  “Oh God. Lower your voice, girl,” Judy said. She indicated with the end of a brush. “And get back up there. I’m not done with you.”

  Rylee remembered Rosie’s crazy apple-peeler machine that she used for making Thanksgiving pies. She could see Rosie with that look of consternation on her face as she cranked the handle while the apple, speared by a metal rod jabbed through its core, rotated around and around and the green skin peeled away in a coil. Her gut felt like that apple right now. All she’d ever thought about Darius Wirth peeled away and left her fleshy insides exposed, raw, and vulnerable to rot. What, oh what, would Rosie say about any of this right now? And, shit, what would she do?