When he got to the last, Mr. Griff turned around, those bushy eyebrows now raised. “Seems to me, it wouldn’t be much work to get a few more ready for the auction. The church could use the money, and so could the kids. They have so little as it is.”
Just like Jolie had had.
Yeah, well now she’d have a hell of a lot once she sold her book. Cookbook. Hell. He was an idiot.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Wonderful! And here—” Mr. Griff held something out with the auction flyer. “Promise me you’ll take a look at this. You might find it very interesting.”
“Fine, Mr. Griff.” Anything to get the man out of here so he could get out of here. And on with the rest of his life.
Alone.
Again.
***
Four and a half weeks after her life as she knew it (and wanted it to be) collapsed, Hark The Herald Angels Sing greeted Jolie as she opened the stained-glass door to the uber-plush office of Domestic Gods & Goddesses. She’d been helping out at Bella’s while Bruno was recuperating, but he was going to be back and she was now on a mission to get her degree done in record time, so it was time to become employed again.
But not, God willing, for very long. Once she got her degree, she was going full steam ahead with her pastry shop. No more of this chef-for-hire business. No more hoping to earn her way into someone’s life by providing meals for them. No more being on the outside looking in.
It was time for her to begin her life on her terms, no questions asked. And hopefully there wouldn’t be any questions asked.
Unless Todd had reported her? That’d been merely one of the reasons it’d taken her four and half weeks to show back up here.
Jolie straightened her shoulders. Time to face the music—Christmas carols notwithstanding—and take charge of her life.
“Yes, dear?” The little old lady—honestly, bluish tinge to the white hair, stooped and frail, wrinkles to rival a Shar Pei’s—greeted her from behind a polished cherry desk. The cream, satin-striped walls around them screamed Upper Crust, as did the Tiffany lighting and the bay window large enough to drive a truck through, with its draped golden window treatments and bird-luring crystal-clearness.
“Hi. I’m Jolie Gardener. I finished my last assignment and am looking for another one.”
“Oh. Well, yes, I mean, no, I mean… Oh, dear.” The lady—Angela, Jolie remembered—rose from her chair, hands trembling as she pushed it under the desk. “Just a moment, please.”
Angela patted the little bun on the back of her head, adjusted her lavender sweater over her shoulders and the slight hump on her back, then scurried toward an office in her orthotics, glancing back once before disappearing inside the room.
What on earth was going on? Had Todd actually told them what had happened? After all his privacy issues, he’d aired this dirty laundry? Was there going to be a lawsuit?
Oh, no. She hadn’t thought about that. Jolie tugged on the hem of the white blouse she’d paired with a functional gray skirt and matching pumps. What if he was suing her and she had to pay back all the money? And what if the agency didn’t want to send her on any more assignments? She’d never get tuition money then.
Jolie ran her fingers over her hair, slicking the strands back to the clasp at the nape of her neck. Maybe she should find another line of work. One where no one would know about the book or sleeping with the client or whatever other rules she’d broken with this assignment. God, when she screwed up, she really screwed up. Something she’d obviously inherited from her mother.
She was considering cutting her losses and leaving when the door on the right clicked and, to the accompaniment of soft Muzak—harp it sounded like—a gray orthotic emerged, followed closely thereafter by the rest of Angela. No surprise there. What was a surprise was the guy who followed her.
First off, he was huge. Arms-that’d-do-a-lumberjack-proud huge. Blond and built like Atlas. Or Hercules. She never could keep all those Greek myths straight, but whichever celestial being was the big, muscular guy, this one was him personified, down to the most beautiful face a man had ever sported this side of pretty. Was he the inspiration for the “Gods” part of the agency’s name?
Of course there was the smile to match, two slashes of dimples on each side, and blue eyes the color of heaven on a spring day. Boy, if someone stuck him on the cover of a romance novel, he could’ve sold more books than Fabio ever did.
But she wasn’t here to notice the hotness factor of the man who employed her. She’d tried that once and it hadn’t worked out so well.
Second, she hadn’t had a meeting with the manager when she’d taken the assignment with Todd, so why was she meeting him now?
“Hello.” A mammoth hand clasped hers, enveloping it like a warm blanket. “Ms. Gardener, is it?”
“Yes. Jolie Gardener.”
“Please, have a seat.” He pulled out a chair for her at the conference table in front of the bay window.
“Thanks, uh, Mr… ?”
“Please call me Raphael.” He smiled and steepled his hands in front of him after taking the seat next to her, his linen pants brushing her bare calf like a feather. “So, what can I help you with?”
That didn’t sound accusatory. Maybe this was SOP when finishing an assignment. “I’m here for a new job. My last one is finished.”
“Is it? Which assignment was that?”
“Um, Todd Best.” Just saying his name was torture.
“Angela, can you bring me the file, please?”
Angela pulled a file folder from the cherry credenza and handed it to him. Raphael scanned a few of the pages while Jolie tried not to glance over the top.
Raphael glanced up. “We have no record from the client saying you’ve completed the job.”
So Todd hadn’t reported what happened. “But I did. The job’s finished. He doesn’t need a personal chef.”
Raphael closed the file and handed it back to Angela. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but we can’t place you on another assignment until the client has signed off that he no longer needs you.”
Some of her sinking-heart feeling must have shown on her face because he studied her a minute longer before glancing back at Angela. “The form, please, Angela?”
He took the form, then slid it across the table. “Really, it’s not terrible. Simply have the client sign this, stating that he no longer needs you, and we’ll close the file. It should set you back only a day or two, no longer. Then we can have you off on a new adventure just like that. Piece of cake.” He snapped his fingers.
She wanted to tell him it wasn’t going to be that easy. First she had to find the courage to see Todd, then humble herself to ask him to sign the paper, and then pull her shattered psyche back together. Yeah. Right. Piece of cake.
She tried one last plea. “Can’t you make an exception just this once? Please? The man doesn’t need anyone to cook for him, most especially not me.”
Raphael shook his head. “I’m sorry, but we can’t. Those are the rules.”
“Please? Sometimes rules are meant to be broken. It’s not like they’re etched in stone, right?”
“Actually, yes, some of them are.” He coughed. “I’m sorry, Jolie, but until we get that form signed by Mr. Best, we are unable to place you anywhere else.”
She mumbled a “Thank you,” dragged the form off the table, and left, all the while contemplating how to accomplish the feat with minimal re-opening of the scar tissue around her heart.
She still hadn’t figured it out when she reached Melanie, who, like Scarlett’s faithful friend, was back up and running, albeit with some heavy-duty damage to her bank account. Which meant she had no choice. It was either Todd or poverty. Or going through another round of background/reference-check-time-suck with another agency and hoping they didn’t contact this one for references.
She was still considering poverty.
A large, yellow flyer flapped beneath Mel’s windshield wiper. Jolie
hated those things. Lose ninety pounds in ninety days, or Earn fifteen hundred bucks in fifteen minutes. Yeah, right. If life were that easy, everyone would be thin, rich, and Paris Hilton. Talk about a shame.
But this flyer, however, wasn’t about any of that stuff. It was—
Oh.
An art-show benefit for St. Gabriel’s Church and the main contributor was going to be—
Todd Best.
Todd was doing a show.
In public. Tomorrow night.
She glanced between the two pieces of paper in her hands. One Todd needed to sign and the other showed her where he was going to be—in public so there didn’t need to be any gut-wrenching explanations or confrontations. Just a simple, “Hello, Todd, would you mind signing this so I can get on with my life as you obviously have with yours?” That shouldn’t be too difficult, right?
One could hope.
Though she hadn’t really been having such great luck in the hope department lately.
Or ever.
***
“I’m not going.” Jolie held the dress against her chest and studied her image in the mirror.
Yes, you are.
Great. Naughty Girl was back from vacation.
You definitely should go.
Jolie checked out the dress again. Conservative black. Simple.
Safe.
“Go away.” The dress had been a post-Todd-days pick-me-up. She’d just never thought she’d wear it to see him.
Todd.
Oh, God. She had to go.
That’s my girl.
Jolie tried to ignore Naughty Girl, because, really, this had nothing to do with Naughty Girl and everything to do with Jolie and who she was. Who she’d always wanted to be.
From the moment she was old enough to realize her mother was calling the shots and they were all near-misses, she’d known she’d wanted to make her own decisions, wanted the chance to forge her own trail through life.
Well, she’d had that chance and look where it’d gotten her. She hadn’t made the best (no pun intended, but somehow it fit) decision with the manuscript. Yeah, her mom’s loser genes had shone through, but she couldn’t blame everything on her mother. She’d known what it’d do to him if he ever found out, even if the story wasn’t supposed to be for anyone but her.
Damn it! He needed to know that. Then, if he still opted out of what they’d had, it was on him. But she wasn’t going to try to sell that manuscript and he had to know that. She needed to explain it to him.
She’d make him let her explain it to him.
Just like those Regency heroines, it was time for her to take her fate into her own two hands.
And make that lemonade she was so fond of.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Normally, Jolie wasn’t a stand-in-line kinda girl. She had too many other things to do than wait for things when they’d be on eBay soon enough. But for Todd, for him, she would stand in line.
Many people had come out to see Todd’s work. She would have hoped the buzz in line would have been for St. Gabe’s, but it was all about him. A few young ladies even had the audacity to question if he had a new woman in his life.
If only.
Finally, it was her turn to enter the church hall. White fabric hung from the ceiling—perfect backdrops to showcase Todd’s use of vibrant colors. It was one of the things he’d been known for. If the colors on his palette—and then on her and the drop cloth—were anything to go by, he was still using them.
She caught snippets as she wound her way through the maze of tables set up to take donations. She’d write a check later because she was too close and too curious to stop.
Simply beautiful, elegant and winsome, great depth, and elemental were the descriptors being bandied about. He’d probably had a slew of models traipsing through his studio to earn those kinds of accolades. Though, really, he could’ve painted a sack of potatoes and made it look elegant and winsome.
Or grapes. Sour ones.
Someone offered her a glass of champagne and she took it, needing the fortification with the paper from Domestic Gods & Goddesses burning a hole in her black clutch—except it brought to mind the bottle she’d left with the groceries that last day.
She set the glass down.
“Have you seen him yet, Marsha?” One of society’s matrons giggled in a girlish stage-whisper to her equally matron-ish friend.
“No, Babette, I haven’t. There’s quite a crush around him. And who can blame all those young women? The man has returned to the land of the living looking vibrantly alive and well. If I were thirty years younger I’d be in that pack of she-wolves myself.”
Words Jolie did not need to hear.
Finally the corridor opened into the hall. Canvases hung in front of the white fabric, some on easels sprinkled throughout the crowd. He must’ve been painting non-stop since she’d last seen him. There had to be more than a dozen, each with a group of people ringing it.
The throng in the center of the hall told her all she needed to know. Todd was holding court center stage. Her heart sped up and she had to catch her breath.
He was here. She was here. Oh, lord.
She couldn’t face him. Not yet. She patted her upswept hair. Maybe she’d coast near the pictures and see who, or rather, what he painted, then work her way in from the edges to talk to him. Build her nerve up.
And to plan what she was going to say. “Hi Todd, I love you and never meant to hurt you” was kind of a big left hook to hit someone with.
A pianist tickled the ivories in the corner; champagne flutes clinked amid the little tinkling of artificial laughter as someone said something so witty and droll (insert heavy English accent.) All very chi-chi and hip. Upper Crust all the way.
“So vulnerable,” one lady murmured as she sipped her champagne, turning from the closest picture. “Quite lovely, really,” her date added.
Jolie stood on her tiptoes to see over everyone’s head. Nothing but frame.
“A wealth of feeling.”
“Better than he was before.”
“Who is his model?”
Well, the guy was back with a buzz. He was going to have a hard time keeping Mike off his case if the crowd’s reaction was anything to go by.
Jolie had no luck whatsoever getting close to the picture and the one little sip of champagne she’d had was bubbling in her stomach, making the butterflies there a little tipsy. She needed to get this over with. She’d catch the portraits on her way out.
She wormed her way into the groupies around Todd, her knees threatening to go on strike when she heard his chuckle. God, she’d forgotten how it vibrated through every nerve she possessed, lodging directly in the middle of her heart.
She reached into her clutch with shaky fingers and pulled out the crinkled Domestic Gods & Goddesses form, needing the tangible reminder of why she was putting herself through this pleasure/pain.
“The model’s lovely, Best,” an older man said with a whiskey-deepened voice. “Anyone I might know?”
“Now Jefferson, that’s part of the mystique. You know I never explain the nuances to my work.”
Except to her, but Jolie didn’t say it.
“She’s not real,” a woman by her elbow said. “That’s why, right, Todd? She’s your ideal woman, the one you’re searching for?”
Way to be sensitive, lady.
There was a curt silence. Jolie was hoping Ms. Foot-In-Mouth recognized her enormous faux pas.
“I could tell you, Margaret, but then I’d have to kill you.” Chuckles all around saved Todd’s heartache from becoming public and Margaret’s gaffe from dampening the mood. “But yes, she’s real.”
“So tell us, Todd.” That female voice was laced with way too many innuendos and husky come-ons than Jolie cared to count. “How do you capture that feeling? It’s intangible, yet you make her vulnerability a physical presence in the painting.”
Honestly, it sounded like she was sliding her phone number into his poc
ket as she spoke.
“Unfortunately, Buffy, I can’t answer that.”
Oh puh-leaze. The name sooooo fit Miss Come-On.
“I have no idea how I do it. One minute I’m trying to capture something about the subject, and the next, it’s there. I’ve simply got it.”
Why did this conversation sound familiar?
Jolie had no time to consider this as, all of a sudden, the crowd shifted and she was there, face to face with Todd.
He was dressed head-to-toe in black, and, oh how it made his green eyes shine like beacons from his face, calling her in. He’d lost some of his tan, probably from painting like a fiend to get these ready, but those shoulders were still as broad as ever and his hair had finally had a date with a pair of scissors. She was rather partial to the earlier “do,” though.
Everyone else was carrying on their conversations as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, but Jolie, she felt like she was Alice down the proverbial rabbit hole.
“Jolie.” Apparently Todd felt the same way. He took a step back, blocking the picture near him.
“Uh, hi, Todd.” She started The Big Apology, then was jostled by some overweight, over-champagned, be-ringed, art connoisseur wannabe. Todd reached out to catch her elbow, stepping away from the canvas.
Oh.
My.
God.
It was her.
She was the woman in the portrait.
“Jolie.”
He was talking to her, but she couldn’t pull her gaze from the painting. There was a strange buzzing in her head as it registered that it was her back to the artist, her long dark tendrils of hair clinging damply to her spine, the swell of her hip peeking out from a white cloth covered in different colored slashes of paint, the curve of her breast visible beneath her arm. A swath of hair covered her face, but she’d recognize the tip of her nose anywhere. Pink rose petals covered her fingers.
He’d painted her and now he was showing that painting to everyone.
Just as he’d said he wouldn’t do.
Just as he’d promised he wouldn’t do.
Beauty and The Best (Once-Upon-A-Time Romance) Page 29