by Shirley Jump
He glowered at her. She glowered back.
Brad opened his mouth to speak again, but Parris wasn't going to listen to another personal attack. She'd had quite enough of that, thank you very much. She thrust out her arms and shoved him as hard as she could.
Too late, the words he'd started to speak permeated the anger in her mind and she realized he'd been saying he was sorry. Before she could do anything to stop it, he stumbled back, arms wheeling, and fell into the Gulf.
Again.
Whoops. Not the best way to repay him for rescuing her.
Parris peeked over the pier and caught Brad's reddened face and narrowed eyes. His ball cap had fallen off his head and was floating away, just out of reach.
He didn't seem sorry anymore. In fact, he looked pretty mad. From the boat, Gigi let out several barks.
"Do you, ah, need some help getting out of there?"
"Not from you!" He started swimming for the ladder.
"Listen, I'm really sorry. I acted without thinking. If there's any way I can ever make it up to you—"
His answering glare told her he wasn't interested in any favors. Probably better to leave. She had a feeling he didn't want her Within ten feet of him right now.
"Well, thanks for the ride. And hey, look at the bright side," Parris said. "If a squid happens by, you'll be in the right place!"
Chapter Two
Brad Smith wasn't a fisherman, but he was one of the few men Merry figured could stand toe-to-toe with Parris and win. She closed her magical cell phone, blessing the powers that allowed her to keep tabs on her matchmaking efforts from afar, and settled back in the deck chair.
Getting Parris a happy ending wasn't an impossible task. But it wasn't going to be an easy one, either. Still, she'd done quite well with Jackie and Steven, and Ruthie and Diego, who would be celebrating their marriage soon. Maybe this wasn't out of her reach.
And maybe Miss Prissy Parris could learn a lesson or two about life, love and acceptance out of the whole thing. A real happy ending.
Yes, Bradford Smith and Parris Hammond. It could work. Right?
Brad stepped out of the shower and swiped the steam off the mirror. He stared at the reflection before him and realized a hard, sad truth. Parris Hammond had a point. One he'd done a good job of ignoring until she'd gone and brought it up.
There wasn't a hell of a lot of difference between Brad the sea-roughened marine biologist and Brad the cleaned-up version. He still looked like something that had washed up at low tide with the kelp and dead crabs.
Aw, hell. The meeting with the research foundation was only ten days away. His research was good and solid, the specimens he'd collected well preserved, but the biologist… well, Brad had to admit he'd gotten a little rough around the edges lately.
He rubbed his beard. Okay, a lot. Jeez, no wonder Parris Hammond had recoiled from him like a third-grader from brussels sprouts.
Problem was, Brad wasn't the kind of guy who cared a hell of a lot about appearances. His own or other people's. Hell, he worked with squid all day. That alone was a clue to his regard for the company he kept. If there was an uglier animal on the planet, he'd yet to see it. But it had been enough to garner a comment from Parris, so maybe it was time he did something about himself.
He left the bathroom of the studio apartment connected to his research offices and went into the main lab. Jerry, his assistant, and the only one he could still afford to pay now that his first grant had just about run out, sat at the counter, making notations in the log.
"Jerry, tell me the truth. You think I need a little help in the, ah, appearance department?" Brad asked.
Jerry looked up from his work, cast a quick glance at Brad's T-shirt and khakis and shrugged. "The squid don't care what you look like and neither do I. Or are you asking me for some other reason?"
"Yeah. That research foundation thing. If I go in there, looking like this, I doubt they'll take me seriously."
The fish didn't care if he showed up in a tux and tails or a duck costume when he went out to do his research. But if he went into the meeting with The National Aquatic Research Foundation looking like something Jacques Cousteau had dragged out of the depths, he had zero chance of getting that grant and continuing his funding. If there was anything a committee liked, it was a good-looking scientist they could parade in front of the media. That and someone who sounded like they were professional, on the ball—and ahead of the research curve.
"Well," Jerry said, running a hand through his red hair. "You could use a new look."
"What do you suggest? I chuck my wardrobe and go shopping for some black silk pants and bow ties?"
"Uh, I dunno. I'm not exactly the one to ask." Jerry patted the front of his Real Men Belch T-shirt.
"I see your point."
"What about your mom? Isn't that the kind of thing moms live for? To dress up their kids like their own personal Barbie dolls?"
Brad got to his feet and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter. After sitting there in a hot pot all day, the liquid had metamorphosed into something dark as night and almost unrecognizable as java. "Calling my mother is not a good idea."
"That's right. She's not exactly the president of your squid fan club, is she?"
Asking his mother for advice would be inviting her opinion, something Brad had learned long ago wasn't in his best interests. "Right now, my mother is all wrapped up in the charity auction at La Torchere. She's raising funds for the aquarium she wants to build."
"Well, that's support for what you do, isn't it?"
"Building cages for sea life instead of supporting the study of them in the wild? No, I wouldn't call it support." Brad took a long gulp of coffee, ignoring the bitter taste. "All she wants me to do is serve on the Board of Directors. She doesn't want me actually getting my hands dirty."
Jerry put on a bright face, clearly seeing Brad's mother was a sore point to be dropped. "Then what you need, my friend, is a girl. Preferably one with style." Jerry tapped his chin with a pen. "Do we know any of those? Not Lucy. She does that thing with eating her hair. Mary's okay, but I'm not sure she can see with those glasses. And Kitty is always wearing those red socks with purple shorts. Even I know your socks shouldn't be brighter than your shorts." Jerry put up a finger. "Wait a minute. There's Susan. She's gorgeous, well acquainted with whatever it is they talk about in those fashion magazines, and—"
"My ex-fiancé."
"I forgot that detail. Guess you don't want to call her for help?"
"I believe she's on her honeymoon right now. With husband number two."
"Oh. Yeah. Timing might be bad." Jerry sighed. "Well, that's the end of my list of people who know how to mix and match." He spun a formaldehyde-filled jar of preserved squid on the counter. "I don't think these guys are going to be any help. You're on your own, buddy."
"I know a woman," Brad said finally. "And she wears that designer stuff you see in the magazines."
"Jackpot! Where'd you meet her?"
"She, ah, sort of climbed into my boat when I was out there today."
Jerry looked at him askance. "Uh-huh. A beautiful woman just happened to climb out of the sea and into your boat. Like a mermaid. Next you'll be telling me they're running unicorns at the horse track."
"She fell off Lady's Delight. You know, the boat for the resort? I was there, so I picked her up."
"Was she cute?"
"I wouldn't call her cute, but rather…" He thought a minute. "Sassy."
Jerry grinned. "Sounds interesting."
"She was. In a way."
"So, you gonna call her?"
Brad rubbed at his chin again. The shoe Parris had left in his boat sat on the back counter, like the proverbial glass slipper waiting to be fitted on the right foot. "Yeah. Maybe make a personal visit."
Jerry grabbed a research journal, flipped to a blank page and took up a pencil. "Wait, let me make a note of this." He scribbled the date at the top, then the time.
"A minor miracle is happening in front of my eyes, I thought I'd document it for posterity."
"Minor miracle?"
"Workaholic Brad is calling a woman for a date. Hey, you might actually have something besides squid on your mind for once."
"I am not calling her for a date. More a—" he glanced again at the pink sandal "—consultation."
Jerry tossed the journal and pencil to the side, then sat back down on the stool. "You spoil all my fun. How's a guy going to live vicariously if you don't live at all?"
Parris took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her hair, stopping outside The Banyan Room to look in the mirror and check for the twentieth time that no seaweed or trace of her ocean adventure remained. Everything was as it should be. After a quick shower and change of clothes, She looked capable. Smart. Like she could handle this.
In other words, like a fairy tale. Truth was, Parris wasn't sure she could handle this. But she wanted to. Wanted to prove she could.
When her younger sister Jackie had left her in charge of planning and hosting this huge charity auction worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to go off to marry Steven, Parris had, at first, felt angry and put upon. Then, as the days passed, she'd begun to feel energized by the challenge. As a woman who'd never taken the opportunity to be anything more than a society princess, this was new ground.
Exciting ground. And yet, at the same time, terrifying territory because her footing was unsure. The auction was the first big event for Hammond Events and Consulting, the company their father had given them as a sort of test and as his convoluted way of bringing his two daughters together.
With Jackie living among the cow patties and horseflies in connubial bliss at Steven's Florida ranch while Parris did all the auction work, togetherness wasn't happening. And with all the donor problems they'd had in recent weeks, Parris wasn't so sure the auction was happening, either. She wanted this to work out, more now than ever. In the past few weeks, she'd seen the opportunity the auction presented to make something of her life. Of herself.
Toward that goal, she had to convince the Phipps-Stovers to make a donation. She squared her shoulders, flicked a piece of lint off her suit and took in a breath.
Merry Montrose, the resort's manager, came up to her before Parris could enter the restaurant. "How are you, Miss Hammond? I heard about your awful accident."
Parris bit back the momentary thought that Merry had somehow been the one doing the tripping this afternoon. "I'm fine. Just surprised no one heard me fall in or turned around when I started screaming."
"Oh, you know how those excursion boats are. So noisy. And at my age, the hearing's not so good."
Merry leaned closer, her blue-violet eyes zeroing in on Parris's. When she was younger, she must have been gorgeous, Parris decided.
"I heard you were rescued."
"There was a man in a boat who fished me out."
"A true knight in shining armor?"
"I wouldn't call him that." She didn't know what she'd call Brad Smith, but "knight" wasn't the word that came to mind. "I don't believe in those kinds of things anyway."
"What kinds of things?"
Oh God. The woman was going to stand here all day and delay Parris from her meeting. But because the auction was being held at the resort, Parris couldn't afford to offend the manager.
"Fairy tales," Parris said curtly, trying her best to end the conversation. "All the Brothers Grimm did was warp a lot of impressionable young minds."
"Do I detect some bitterness?"
Nosy old woman. Parris didn't answer. She wasn't about to get into a conversation about her personal life with the resort manager. Lately the woman had seemed to be quite the busybody, as if she had some kind of personal stake in Parris's life. Maybe she fancied herself a matchmaker. Parris didn't need help from her to find Mr. Right. She didn't even have time for Mr. Right. She had a career to build, not a relationship to find.
Merry had turned and was looking through the oval glass in the doors that led into The Banyan Room. "There's a happy ending in there."
Parris peered through the glass, too. Inside, the Phipps-Stovers were sitting at a table for four by the fireplace, sipping champagne and eating the strawberry-topped cheesecake Parris had arranged as a special treat. Brian Phipps-Stover fed his wife a bit of cheesecake. Joyce giggled as she slipped the bite into her mouth.
God save Parris from newlyweds.
Didn't they know what was going to happen three weeks, three months, three years—maybe even three hours—from now? The little charade of happiness would stop and everyone would show their true ugly colors, turning happily-ever-after into a-nightmare-a-day.
Parris had watched her parents' marriage self-destruct. She'd seen her own fall apart before she'd even come within fifty feet of the altar. Happy endings were a con perpetrated by couples who pretended to live in harmony while they tucked the fights over bills and in-laws out of sight when company arrived.
"Everyone can have a happy ending," Merry said, as if reading Parris's mind.
"All I want is a happy auction." Parris excused herself, then pushed on the doors and entered the upscale restaurant. She glanced at her watch. Only three minutes late. If she hadn't had that conversation with Merry, she would have been on time.
Parris pasted on a smile and crossed to the Phipps-Stovers, trying to stomach the endearments of "pookie" and "truffle lips" that echoed between them as they finished off the last of the cheesecake.
"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Phipps-Stover. It's a pleasure to meet you in person," Parris said, extending her hand. "I'm Parris Hammond, co-owner of Hammond Events and Consulting. I believe you've already talked with my sister Jackie."
Both Phipps-Stovers rose and greeted her in turn. "Is that Miss Hammond or Mrs.?" Joyce asked.
"Miss. I'm afraid I haven't been as lucky as you." Parris put a broader smile on her face as all three of them sat down. "I've yet to find a man who suits my taste."
"Luck hasn't much to do with marriage," Brian said, spearing a strawberry with his dessert fork. "I've had better luck in Vegas."
Joyce pursed her lips and cast him a sour look but didn't say anything.
"First, I wanted to thank you for your support of the Victoria Catherine Smith Memorial Aquarium Fund," Parris said. "It's a wonderful cause and your donation will enable us to showcase the wonderful marine life in this area for everyone to see."
"I like fish. They entertain me." Brian shrugged, popped the strawberry in his mouth, then took a sip from the flute of champagne.
"Darling, you sip the champagne, then bite the strawberry," Joyce said. "That provides the maximum epicurean effect."
"If I do that, pookie, I get seeds stuck in my teeth. I eat the berry first and then wash it down with champagne."
Joyce's smile strained against her cheeks. "Really darling, people will think you're uncouth if you do that."
Brian's gaze narrowed. He put down his fork and crossed his arms over his chest. "People? Or just you?"
Uh-oh. The bloom was already off the Phipps-Stover rose. Their union more resembled a bunch of thorns covered with a few lingering petals.
"Let's discuss what you're donating to the auction," Parris said, interjecting a change of subject be-fore the strawberries became the beginning of a food fight.
The Phipps-Stovers recovered their manners from somewhere off the floor and slipped back into proper society mode. Brian reached into the breast pocket of his suit and withdrew a checkbook. "If you'll just give me a pen—"
"Oh no, darling." Joyce laughed. "We aren't writing a check. That's so…impersonal. I thought we'd donate a piece of art."
"What piece of art?"
"That painting in the parlor. The one over the fireplace."
"My great-aunt painted that."
"Darling, it's just a bit risqué for our tastes, don't you think? I mean, all those orchids and lilies. It's…well, it doesn't send the right message."
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"Are you trying to say my aunt's painting is the equivalent of an HBO special?" He was half out of his seat.
Oh God. This wasn't going well at all. Parris had no idea what to do. The only event planning she'd ever done was RSVPing to a party invitation. She had to save the situation. But how?
"Your aunt was institutionalized, dear. For her overabundance of men." Joyce put on a tight smile and gritted her teeth. "Her paintings reflected her…needs, shall we say? And they certainly are the talk of the town. They'd fetch quite the price."
"My great-aunt was a Stover. That makes her someone to be respected, not gossiped about."
It looked like the Phipps-Stovers were about to come to blows. Parris wished for the hundredth time that Jackie was there to help her. But no, Jackie had to go off and get married. Granted, Jackie deserved a happy life, but still, couldn't it have waited until after the auction was over?
"I'm sure we can work it—" Parris began.
Brian got to his feet. "I'm through with this. Forget the whole thing."
"Please stay. I'm sure we can—"
Joyce rose as well. "I'm not staying, either. In fact, I'm not even staying on the island."
"Good. There'll be more room on the beach, considering all you do is take up sand and bake yourself to a crisp."
Joyce let out an indignant gasp. "I do not!"
"Before you know it, you'll look as old and wrinkled as that sculpture your grandmother dumped on us."
Joyce put a hand over her gaping mouth. "I cannot believe you said that. That marble bust of Great-Grandfather Phipps is an heirloom. A piece of history."
"It's a piece of—"
"There's an easy way to settle this," said a male voice Parris had hoped she wouldn't hear again.
She spun around and found Brad Smith standing a few feet away, a small bag in one hand. He was freshly showered and in a different T-shirt, but he still looked more like a California college student than a grown-up.
Both the Phipps-Stovers had stopped arguing, though. Either they were waiting with bated breath for Brad's solution or they'd been stunned into silence by the appearance of a beach bum in The Banyan Room.