The Man Plan

by Tracy Anne Warren

  What about her painting? Was she making any progress crammed in such a tiny space?

  What about food? Was she eating right?

  Was she carrying the pepper spray he’d sent over in case she was mugged?

  He was worse than an overprotective brother and mother hen rolled into one.

  Last night she’d had enough.

  When he called, she’d refused to speak to him, leaving Josh to make an excuse. Heart aching, she’d shut herself in her room, sat on her bed in the dark, and cried.

  So much for her great plans. They all seemed to be crashing down around her feet, including the one that had seemed the simplest of all—finding a job. She’d never dreamed getting work would be so hard.

  Apparently, three years of liberal arts education, with a major in art history, didn’t count for much. She’d sent résumés all over town, but so far nada. No one wanted her artistic skills. And to her chagrin, she discovered she was overqualified for the most basic of positions. They wouldn’t hire her even as a waitress or a cashier.

  “You’ll leave, honey,” one crusty old manager had told her as he’d handed back her application. “Why should we train you so you can leave?”

  “You’ll be bored and quit in a week,” another one said, ears closed to her pleas to the contrary.

  Go back to college.

  That was the refrain she’d been hearing a lot lately.

  Finish your education.

  Well, I’m not going back to college, she thought, one fist squeezed tight at her side. And she wasn’t giving up on her dreams, not any of them. She’d vowed to be independent, to make her own way, her own life. To succeed and prosper at her art. And to win the heart of the only man she would ever love, even if she had to get over the hurdle of him refusing that love. Even if he was an infuriating hardhead who made her want to clobber him and kiss him all at the same time.

  No, no matter how desperate and dark things seemed, she wasn’t quitting. She couldn’t afford to quit; she had far too much to lose.

  She sighed and came to a halt in front of a boutique window. She sighed again as she gazed at the beautiful designer dress on display, arranged like a slice of sky over an improbably thin mannequin.

  Maybe she’d go inside to cheer herself up. She’d just browse, she promised, nothing more.

  What could it hurt to look?

  A small metal bell on the door tinkled as she let herself inside.

  Soft and feminine, the clean, pastel decor wrapped around her like a comfortable breeze, her feet sinking into plush camel carpet as she crossed farther into the space.

  Artsy glass shelves and shiny metal racks held an array of merchandise, organized into neat rows, projecting a stylish rainbow of textures and hues. A pair of large cream-colored armoires, painted in the French provincial style with masses of flowers and curling vines and leaves on their fronts, stood in opposite corners, stocked with chemises and scarves, jewelry and other small accessories. A trio of changing rooms were tucked away to one side, a counter and register on the other.

  A refreshing hint of beeswax polish lingered in the air, while classical music played at a discreet, soothing volume.

  The shop stood empty with the exception of a single female customer who disappeared into one of the fitting rooms. Ivy drifted toward a row of silk blouses and began to peruse the trendy collection, wondering where the shop’s clerk was.

  She was eyeing a smart little skirt that would be perfect for her sister Brie when the other customer emerged from the fitting room.

  “Excuse me,” the woman said, approaching. “Could you help me with this dress?”

  Politely, Ivy turned to face her.

  Pretty, dark-haired, well-groomed. Mid-forties, if Ivy guessed right, with a creeping spread through the middle that ruined what had once likely been a splendid figure. The frown on the woman’s forehead spoke to the vulnerability all women experience when trying on clothes, the naked uncertainty and critical self-doubt.

  “I’m sorry,” Ivy said. “I don’t work here.”

  The woman hesitated for a second. “That’s okay. You’re a girl. What do you think?”

  Reluctant to express an opinion but feeling pressured, Ivy skimmed an assessing look over the garment and the woman wearing it.

  Too youthful, was her first thought. Too short and tight around the hips. Although the poppy orange color was both vivid and flattering to the woman’s complexion.

  Gracious, what to say?

  “Well,” Ivy began, “that shade is fantastic on you, brings out the roses in your cheeks. And the material is lovely, silky and sophisticated, but . . .”

  “But? But what?” the woman pounced. “Be honest. I detest fudgers.”

  Ivy drew a breath. “But the style doesn’t suit you. The cut makes the material pull around your hips and puts too much emphasis on your waist.”

  The woman turned to view her image in a nearby floor-length mirror. “You’re right. Makes me look like a sack of meal.”

  “It’s not that bad. Something without much of a waistline, though, might be better, and more tailoring. What’s the dress for, by the way? Anything special?”

  The woman heaved a sigh. “My daughter’s engagement party. I need to look like a mother-of-the-bride, but I don’t want to look like a stodgy old crone either.”

  “You’re in no danger of that,” Ivy reassured.

  She thought about Madelyn and her mother, what they’d wear, and aimed for something in between. She walked over to a rack of dresses, began to flip through. She chose two, both of them sheath dresses, one in a deep rose, the other in violet.

  “Oh, I couldn’t wear either of those.” The woman pointed a finger at the purple dress. “I’d look like a giant eggplant in that.”

  “Either color should be beautiful with your hair and skin tones. Try them on and see. What can it hurt?”

  Obviously reluctant, the woman reached out for the dresses, muttering to herself as she disappeared into one of the fitting rooms.

  She emerged a short while later in the rose dress, a bemused expression on her face. “I was certain it would be awful, but it’s rather pretty, don’t you think?” She did a small turn, moved to the mirror to study herself again.

  “Oh, I like it.” She smiled.

  Ivy smiled back. “It’s great. Very stylish. Slimming and elegant.” Unlike the last dress, this one hit her just slightly above the knee, showing off a pair of very shapely calves. And without a waistline, her figure problems disappeared, leaving the illusion of a perfect silhouette.

  “It is lovely, isn’t it?” The woman made another admiring turn and pirouette, checking out her reflection.

  “Hmm. Now, let’s see you in the violet.”

  With much more confidence this time, the woman disappeared back into the fitting room.

  Ivy strolled over to one of the armoires and studied the selection of printed scarves. She had several draped over one arm when she heard a loud throat clearing.

  She turned. “Wow!”

  If the rose had been pretty, the violet was fabulous. Rich and vibrant, it was everything she’d imagined and more.

  “You look fantastic,” Ivy declared.

  The woman beamed, then giggled. “I know. I can’t believe how great this dress is, and all because of you. I can’t remember the last time I felt this special, this sexy.” She traced a hand over the material. “I’m going to buy both. Wear the rose one to my daughter’s party and save this for my husband. It’ll knock his socks off.”

  They shared a laugh.

  Having fun, Ivy held out a gauzy blue and purple silk scarf. “What do you think of this to accessorize?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Weinstein, please forgive me for neglecting you.” A short, trim woman in black rushed out from a room in the rear of the shop, a harried, apologetic expression on her face. “I hope you’ve been finding what you need. I’m here alone today and was caught on the phone with one of my suppliers. My usual girl, well, she
quit this morning, no notice. And I can’t get ahold of my other girl to save my soul.”

  Mrs. Weinstein paused. “Oh, that’s all right.” She motioned toward Ivy. “This delightful young woman has been helping me. She’s a real gem. If you were smart, you’d find some way to hire her.”

  Ivy flushed lightly at the compliment.

  “I’m going to take this dress and one other,” Mrs. Weinstein informed the saleswoman, “and anything else—” She broke off, gazed at Ivy. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Ivy.”

  “And anything else Ivy suggests. Now, let me see those scarves.”

  The saleswoman stood back while Ivy helped Mrs. Weinstein finish shopping. Once the woman retreated into the dressing room, the saleswoman sidled up to Ivy.

  “Twenty-five percent off anything you’d like, Miss . . . ?”

  “Grayson. Ivy Grayson.”

  “Nora Gardner.” She held out a hand. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m the manager here.”

  Ivy shook the older woman’s hand.

  “I’m greatly in your debt,” Nora declared. “Janice Weinstein comes in here at least once a month, tries on half a dozen pieces, and never buys a thing. You’ve made a real breakthrough today. You aren’t looking for a job by any chance, are you?” she added in a joking voice.

  Until that moment, Ivy hadn’t considered working in a store like this; she didn’t have any experience in sales. Then again, she’d actually had fun assisting Mrs. Weinstein—an apparently difficult customer she hadn’t found difficult at all. It would be like playing dress-up, only for real.

  Should she say something? she wondered. It was now or never, or the opportunity would be gone.

  “As a matter of fact,” Ivy said, “I am looking for work.”

  Nora Gardner’s dark eyes twinkled. “Really? Excellent. Once I ring up Mrs. Weinstein’s purchases, let’s have a cup of a tea and we’ll discuss your salary and hours.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Thanks for agreeing to see me.” James rose politely while Madelyn took a seat across the table from him.

  She sent him a quick half smile. “No trouble.”

  The waiter appeared and offered her a menu. He rattled off the daily specials, took her drink order, then moved away.

  She placed her menu to one side and looked at James. “I have to admit it was a surprise hearing from you. It’s been a long time since we had lunch together.”

  “Yes, it has,” he said. Long enough, he realized, to seem like a lifetime. “So, how are you?”

  “Fine. Same as yesterday when you called, though a bit more exhausted. The twins are teething and Hannah was up half the night crying, poor thing. But I’m sure you didn’t ask me here to talk about my babies.”

  “No.” Agitated, he picked up his teaspoon and stirred his coffee. Tapping the spoon twice on the rim, he set it back on the saucer with a clatter. “You have to do something about Ivy.”

  Madelyn raised an eyebrow. “Why? What’s she done now?”

  “You know what she’s done. She’s moved out—”

  “Here you go.” The waiter placed Madelyn’s glass of sparkling water on the table, together with a small green bottle containing a scant inch more. “Have you made any decisions yet?”

  “No.” James snapped, uncharacteristically irritated by the interruption.

  Madelyn sent a small, apologetic smile toward the hapless waiter. “If you could give us a little while longer, thanks.”

  “Of course.” The man shot James a look. “Take your time.”

  “So, you were saying.” She reached into the basket of rolls, chose one covered in sesame seeds.

  He took a breath. “I was saying that she’s moved out of a comfortable, secure apartment, into a sleazy hovel with those disreputable friends of hers.”

  “I don’t believe Ivy has any disreputable friends, but yes, I’m aware of her move.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” She broke the roll in half and reached for the butter. “The move was her choice, and despite a lot of anxious hand-wringing from our parents, she seems to be doing well.”

  “Well? Do you know she’s working in a dress shop?”

  “You make it sound like a bong shop, but yes, I know the place. Reflections is a very fine establishment.”

  “I don’t care how fine it is; it’s still a dress shop. Ivy’s better than some minimum-wage drudge job. She doesn’t need that. She ought to be using her God-given talents, not wasting her time toiling for pennies. She ought to be painting.”

  Madelyn ate a bite of roll. “From what she tells me, she is painting. As much as her schedule allows. And by the way, she makes twelve fifty an hour, plus commission.”

  “What?”

  “Twelve fifty an hour. A decent step up from minimum wage.”

  “It’s still slave wages,” he grumbled, lifting his cup to swallow a hasty mouthful of hot coffee. “But that isn’t the point. The point is she didn’t need to move. She ought to have stayed where she was. Where your parents wanted her to be. Where she was safe and sound and could have concentrated on her art instead of wasting her time in some ridiculous attempt to prove she can make it on her own.”

  Madelyn rested an elbow on the table, folded a fist under her chin. “Hmm, and why was it she suddenly felt compelled to do such a thing? She won’t tell me—always mumbles something about needing to put a little experience under her belt, gain a bit more maturity. You wouldn’t happen to know why, now, would you?”

  He fought the urge to squirm under the look she cast him. She always had been too smart for her own good.

  Abruptly, he wished he’d never brought her into this. What had seemed like such a good idea yesterday suddenly wasn’t. Frustrated beyond measure at the time, he’d wanted to enlist Madelyn’s help to see if she could do what he hadn’t been able to do himself. Force Ivy to come to her senses.

  He’d been stewing, he admitted, furious ever since Ivy’d stopped taking his calls.

  How dare she refuse to talk to me?

  In her whole life, she’d never refused him anything. Now that’s all she seemed to be doing.

  Refusing him.

  “So,” Madelyn continued, “what did happen between the two of you after I left that day? I never heard the details.”

  He scowled fiercely. “And you won’t hear them from me.” He turned his head, suddenly eager for an interruption. “Looks like our waiter’s hovering again. Perhaps we’d better order before he calls for the manager.”

  Madelyn gave him another knowing look, then opened her menu.

  Once they’d ordered and were alone again, she started in. “So, let’s have it. What’d you do to her?”

  “What do you mean, what did I do to her?” Before he could prevent it, a guilty flush crept up his neck.

  Her eyes zoomed right to the spot. “Other than that,” she amended. “I know she wasn’t upset about that. I assume you’re the one who broke it off.”

  “Of course I broke it off.” He sighed. “That night should never have happened. I should never have let it happen. Hell, I’d think you’d be relieved to know it’s over.”

  The blue of her eyes deepened. “I should be, shouldn’t I? So, what did you say to make her run?”

  “She didn’t run; she left. And I told you I wasn’t going to discuss details. Those’re between Ivy and me.”

  He tapped his fingers against the tablecloth. “All I’m going to say is, mistakes were made, mistakes that set her off on this foolish course of hers. If it weren’t for that, she’d still be living seven floors down from me. She’d still be painting, instead of working at some useless, dead-end job in order to prove something she doesn’t need to prove at all.”

  He reached out, grabbed Madelyn’s hand without conscious thought. “Meg, you have to help. You have to convince her to come back. It isn’t right, her living like she is. It isn’t right, her cohabitating with those men.”

  He released
her hand as a muscle ticked in his jaw. “The two gay ones are all right, I suppose. But it’s that dancer, that ballet dancer, I don’t like. And why the hell is he straight anyway? Who ever heard of a male ballet dancer who isn’t gay?”

  “How about Baryshnikov or Godunov?”

  Ignoring that, he rushed on. “You should see the way he looks at her, like a wolf ready to feast on fresh meat. He hit on her at that Fourth of July party. Did you know that? Got drunk and tried to lure her into his bedroom. And now she’s living with him. She thinks he’s safe, says he apologized. Apologized—ha. He’s just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to make his next move. I know men, and they have only one thing on their minds. Sex. He wants to have sex with my Ivy.”

  He crushed a small cocktail napkin in his fist, too preoccupied to notice the oddly arrested expression on Madelyn’s face.

  “You have to help me get her out of there,” he grated. “She isn’t safe. She’s trusting, far too trusting for her own good. She just doesn’t realize the trouble she’s in. I’ve tried to warn her, but she won’t listen to me. You’re her sister. Surely you can make her see reason.”

  A long silence followed before Madelyn spoke, her amazement plain. “You’re jealous.”

  Her words stung him like an electrical shock. “What?”

  “Jealous. You’re jealous. And what’s more, you’re in love with her.”

  He gave a hollow-sounding laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m nothing of the sort. I’m simply concerned for her.”

  “Hmm-hmm, right. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so thoroughly stirred up before, not even over me.”

  “Stop it, Madelyn. There’s nothing between Ivy and me but a longtime sibling affection.”

  “Oh, so you make a habit of sleeping with women you think of as your sister, do you?”

  He shot her a scorching glare.

  She ignored him. “Admit it, James. You love her.”

  “Hey, since when did I become the focus of this conversation?” he said, brushing over her assertion. “This is about Ivy. This is about getting her to move out of that rat-hole apartment she’s living in.”

  “This is about a lot more than an apartment. And when it comes to Ivy, you’re always involved. I’ve recently come to realize that.” Her voice lowered, softened. “She loves you, you know.”