That Special Smile/Whittenburg

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  “What should we wear, Max?” Juliette moved past Sylvie and stepped outside. “Sylvie worries about things like that, you know.”

  “Does she?” His tone was gently curious as his gaze swept over Sylvie with unnecessary attention to detail.

  She closed her eyes and divided her annoyance equally between the two people standing in front of her. Then she opened her eyes, touched the rim of her glasses, and silently mimicked the answer she knew was coming.

  “Wear something casual,” he said, and she smiled. Casual, she thought, just about summed up Max McConnell.

  “I can hardly wait.” Juliette reached behind her for the doorknob, urging Sylvie out of the house ahead of the closing door. “I have a new outfit that will knock your socks off. I found it when I was out shopping for….”

  “Surprise us, Julie. All right?” With a last lingering smile Max turned and began walking across the narrow yard between the houses.

  Sylvie watched him and thought he ought to swagger a little to justify her opinion of him. But he didn’t. His stride was even and controlled and had an affect or her that couldn’t be termed casual. She could think of several terms that were applicable, but casual was definitely not one of them.

  “He’s interested, Sylvie.”

  Juliette sounded unusually confident and Sylvie turned in surprise. “Of course he is, Juliette. I told you he’d come around.”

  “Oh, Sylvie Anne, sometimes I think you know even less about men than the average twenty-year-old. Max is interested in you, not me.”

  Sylvie considered the idea while she adjusted her glasses, but the only conclusion she reached was that the idea wasn’t worth considering. “Well, if he’s hoping to be included in my fantasies, he’s going to be disappointed.”

  Juliette didn’t smile. “I don’t know how I could have raised you to have such a bad attitude toward men. Honestly, Sylvie, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were scared of getting involved.”

  “There’s no need to get worked up about it. I told you Max just isn’t my type.” Sylvie tucked her handbag in the crook of her arm and started toward the car.

  “He isn’t safe, you mean.”

  Stopping abruptly, Sylvie released an intentional and audible sigh of annoyance. “I meant, and I mean, he isn’t my type.”

  “You shouldn’t tempt fate with that kind of remark. After all, you’ve only seen him in terrycloth. If you play your cards right, you could see him naked within the week.”

  “Juliette! Honestly. Give me the car keys. I’m driving.”

  Juliette grinned. “No one drives in downtown Eureka Springs if they can help it. And we can. Come on, we’re walking.”

  Sylvie had a sudden longing to see the bustling, busy, and cultured efficiency of Boston, where the men wore pinstripe suits and where she could ignore her sister by simply not answering her calls.

  But with a last, lingering sigh and a certain amount of good grace, she fell into step beside Juliette.

  Chapter Three

  Sylvie spent the better part of the afternoon wandering through the hallways, doorways, and alcoves of Hannah Lee House.

  Juliette spent the same amount of time talking, pointing out work already completed and areas still needing attention. Sylvie listened attentively, or pretended to do so, as she formed her own judgments about suitable decor and arrangement of rooms. The house was lovely, an old Victorian with quaint charm. By the time she had heard – for at least the seventeenth time – the plans for finishing the renovation work begun by the late Mr. Erikson, Sylvie’s attitude was on the upswing.

  She had never been involved in a retail clothing business, but that didn’t worry her. If Juliette had been blessed with luck when it came to affairs of the heart, Sylvie had been blessed with an aptitude for success.

  The dress shop, featuring high-end vintage clothing from past decades, would open in March when the tourist season began, and it would be a successful venture. Sylvie had no doubts about that. But she was realistic enough not to underestimate the amount of work that would be required during the coming months.

  As she watched Juliette roam dreamily from room to room, touching the walls, then the woodwork, then the walls again, Sylvie resolved once more not to carry more than her fair share of the responsibility this time. Juliette was fond of imagining the finished product, but she tended to ignore the production line. And she was very good at leaving the details to someone else.

  “It’s wonderful, isn’t it, Syl?”

  The sparkle in Juliette’s eyes, the excitement in her voice, rattled the windows of Sylvie’s doubts, chastening her for even thinking of past mistakes and negative possibilities.

  “It’s wonderful, Juliette.” From years of conditioning she gave the reassurance she knew her sister needed. “I think you’re going to have a thriving business. It will take a lot of work, but from what I could see of the town, the type of clothing store you have in mind should fit right in.”

  “I got the idea from this woman I met in Fayetteville. You should see her shop, Sylvie. She has some vintage couture gowns that are so beautiful they make my head spin.” Juliette circled the front room, smiling as if she were taking a curtain call. “But I told you about that, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Trailing her fingertips over the wall covering, Juliette assumed the graceful movements of a ballerina. It reminded Sylvie of the hours she had spent in learning to dance. Juliette’s interest in ballet had consisted mainly of choosing the best color and perfect fabric for her costumes.

  Sylvie caught a strand of hair and anchored it behind her ear as she turned to look at the street through the front window. “Now that I’ve seen Hannah Lee House, I think I should at least take a look at the rest of the town. You’ve been telling me for months that Eureka Springs is a lovely place, but on the way here, you walked so fast I didn’t have a chance to see much of it.”

  “I walked fast? My God, Sylvie, I thought you were in training for a marathon or something.”

  “Just trying to keep pace.”

  “Funny, I thought you might be in a hurry to put as much distance as possible between us and Max.”

  Sylvie arched her brows in skeptical question. “That would be a wasted effort, considering how eager you were to accept his dinner invitation.”

  “How could I turn down a celebration in your honor, Sylvie Anne?” Juliette’s expression was her own unique blend of devilry and innocence. “I was only thinking of you...and how much you’d hate to have to cook tonight.”

  “Well, you can think of me when you explain to Max why I won’t be joining the two of you for dinner.”

  Juliette shrugged with an artful indifference. “Afraid of the competition?” she asked. “Even after I told you Max isn’t interested in me?”

  “Is that supposed to give me a head start in the race for his attention?” Sylvie tucked her purse into place with a snap of her elbow. “Thanks, but I’d rather sightsee now and have a headache later.”

  ‘Well, no one deserves a headache more. Stay home if you want, Sylvie Anne, but you know sulking doesn’t suit you.”

  Ignoring the blatant attempt to shame her into changing her mind, Sylvie walked to the door and waited, perfectly comfortable with her decision.

  Juliette drew a deep, very audible breath and made one last survey of her domain. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of sightseeing. We’ve got plenty of time before our, I mean, my date with Max.” She walked to the door and waited for Sylvie to precede her outside. Then she closed the door, gave the stained-glass inset a loving pat, and turned the key in the lock. “It’s just as well you’ve decided not to come with us, Sylvie. It would probably be embarrassing for you to sit there while I tell Max how you used to worry about being so skinny and underdeveloped.” Her pause was slight and sly. “How you still worry.”

  Sylvie smiled with benign frustration. “You were born too late to blackmail me, my little sister. I, on the oth
er hand, know things about you that Max McConnell would give his left tennis shoe to know. But I really don’t think he can do without the shoe.”

  “Sylvie, Max doesn’t want to know about me. He’s not, N-O-T, interested. Besides, I’ve been thinking about this all afternoon. And I don’t think I’m all that interested in him either.”

  “Well, let me congratulate you on your good judgment.” Sylvie started to walk in the direction of the shop next door, only to stop when she realized Juliette wasn’t beside her. Turning back, she felt a definite twinge of conscience. Juliette had sucked in her lower lip. a gesture Sylvie knew well. It meant she felt strongly about the subject, whatever the subject of the moment might be, and she was preparing to defend her position.

  “I don’t know when you developed that chip on your shoulder, Sylvie Anne Smith, but I don’t like it one bit. Max is one of the nicest, most attractive, most dependable, most...honest men of my acquaintance.” She gave her blond curls a boisterous toss. “If you don’t deep-six that attitude before dinner, you’ll be lucky if his interest in you lasts through the salad.”

  Sylvie realized she’d lost count of the number of sighs that had escaped her in the past few hours. But whatever the total had been, it was now one more. “Juliette, Max is not interested in me. You’re imagining something that doesn’t exist.”

  “My imagination has never been that good.” Juliette caught up to Sylvie and set a leisurely pace as they walked along the sidewalk. “And even if it were, even if I imagined that odd look in his eyes, you ought to make sure he gets interested. How often does a man like Max come along?”

  The question was so melodramatic that Sylvie laughed. “So seldom, Juliette, it scares me to think of it. Why, with just a little bit of luck, I might have missed the experience altogether.” Sylvie turned her teasing smile toward the window of a confectioner’s store.

  “One day lightning will strike you, Sylvie Ann. Someday, you’ll get what’s coming to you.” The dire promise faded away as Juliette sniffed the air like a connoisseur of fine scents and stepped forward to enter the shop. “Come on, I want to introduce you to some truly wicked fudge.”

  Max was forgotten for the time being, and as Sylvie followed her sister and the aroma of chocolate into the store, she resolved to buy enough candy to keep him off of Juliette’s one-track mind.

  During the next hour Juliette nibbled her way through three different assortments of sweets and refrained from mentioning Max at all.

  Sylvie wasn’t even tempted to sample the candy, but twice she came within a breath of asking a question about Max. It was an unsettling sensation to realize that there were things she wanted to know about him. And it was even more unsettling to realize it would be impossible to bring up his name now without putting Juliette right back on the track of a conversation that was better left derailed.

  The rest of the afternoon passed in an enjoyable discovery of the shops and craftsmen that made the town a popular tourist spot, but Sylvie’s feeling of disquiet lingered. She had a distinct sense of looking for something that eluded her. When Juliette stopped in front of a toy-filled shop window shortly before four o’clock, Sylvie knew what she’d been looking for.

  The Attic was a small store, gaily painted in bright, primary colors. Through the glass panes Sylvie could see a room full of whimsy, a fantasy land of toys that she shrewdly guessed would tempt adults as much as, if not more than, children. So this, she thought, was the business side of Max McConnell.

  “I knew if you chose the stops on our sightseeing tour, we’d get to Max’s shop eventually,” Juliette said sweetly. “Now that we’re here, we may as well go inside. That way you can explain to him in person why you’re too chicken to go out with him tonight.”

  In reply Sylvie leaned closer to the window, cupping her hands around the tortoiseshell frames at her temples to press against the glass and block the sun’s glare. Her effort was rewarded with an enchanting display of dolls and dollhouses, wooden trucks and trains, a miniature carousel and a full-size carousel horse.

  It had been years, Sylvie thought, since she had been anywhere near a toy store. But the tug of enchantment was still strong. Her fingers chafed with the desire to touch everything, and her mouth curved with happy childhood memories.

  She looked up and found herself gazing into two incredibly blue eyes. As Max watched her, a sudden, warm pleasure whispered through her senses. Then it was gone.

  As if he knew exactly what she was experiencing, Max smiled confidently and motioned her inside. Juliette was already through the doorway when Sylvie straightened and debated the possibility of not going in. But the idea was ridiculous – who could resist a toy store? So with a quick adjustment of her glasses she entered the toy store.

  The interior was just as gingerbread bright as the exterior, and the carousel horse drew Sylvie forward. Juliette had obviously seen it all before, and she walked to the counter where Max stood, explaining with each step how Sylvie had wanted to see where he worked.

  Ignoring the imaginative fantasy Juliette was spinning, Sylvie reached out to touch the smooth, painted surface of the carved horse.

  ‘Be careful.” Max came around the side of the counter as Sylvie glanced at him in surprise, her fingers hesitating an inch away from the horse’s wooden nose. “He’s no ordinary wooden horse. He’s magical.”

  Sylvie shook her head.

  Nonsense.

  She was surrounded by nonsense. First Juliette and now Max. In outright defiance she placed her hand on the horse’s head. “What kind of tricks does he do?”

  Max’s lips slanted with wry amusement. “No tricks, just magic. He’s a wishing horse.”

  What a line, Sylvie thought, even from a man who owned a toy shop. “Well, what is he wishing for?”

  “Don’t be dense, Sylvie,” Juliette advised from her perch on the counter top. “You’re supposed to make the wish.”

  Which was ridiculous, but Sylvie realized she was the only one who seemed to recognize that. She lifted a resigned expression to Max. “Do I have to close my eyes and turn around three times first?” she asked dryly.

  “All you have to do…” Max’s gaze dropped to her fingers which were moving idly over the wood. “…is rub his nose three times and make a wish.”

  Sylvie couldn’t keep from laughing, although her fingers stilled of their own accord. “Did he come complete with instructions or are you just a clever salesman?”

  “I like to think I’m clever, but since I made McKeever, here…” He gave the horse an affectionate pat. “…I guess I can take credit for the instructions too.”

  Sylvie gave a sharp, appraising scrutiny to the wood beneath her hand. It was a beautiful replica, a carefully detailed carving, an exquisite piece of art. “You made this?” Her voice reflected her surprise, and the silence that followed was tinged with discomfort until Juliette saved the moment with a bubbly laugh.

  “Of course he made it, Sylvie Anne. Max makes all the toys in his shop.”

  Her appraising look, of its own accord, swung to Max. She realized her reaction was not flattering and that she ought to offer some form of apology, but she didn’t know how to do that without making the situation worse.

  “You made all of these?” she asked, her gaze surveying the room, accepting his talent as real, but wondering at some of the other pieces in the shop.

  “I take some things on consignment from other people. That dollhouse, for example.” He pointed to a three-story house with yellow wood shingles. “A professor at the University made it. He brings two or three dollhouses to me every year, and I have a waiting list three years out.”

  Juliette leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, chin propped in her hands. “Max is saving that one for his little girl.”

  For no apparent reason Sylvie’s stomach dropped.

  His little girl?

  She looked to him for confirmation, but he was looking at her sister with exasperated amusement.

  “Can
you repeat every word that has ever been said to you, Julie?”

  “Word for word, usually,” she agreed, with a display of her dimples. “Just ask Sylvie Anne.”

  Max’s blue eyes met Sylvie’s green ones and tension snapped taut inside her.

  She lifted her chin and straightened her glasses. “She doesn’t repeat everything,” Sylvie said. “As amazing as it seems, Juliette neglected to tell me you have a daughter.”

  Laughter rumbled deep in his throat. “Not so amazing considering that I don’t, actually, have any children. I happened to mention to Julie once that if I ever had kids, I’d go bankrupt. I’d want to give them every toy in the store. And that the first thing I’d wrap in a pink ribbon for my little girl would be that dollhouse.”

  “That wouldn’t be good for business.”

  His smile held steady, but only with a definite effort. “Maybe not, but what a boring world it would be if we only did what was good for us.”

  “I suppose that’s a comfortable theory, considering that it will never be put to the test.” Sylvie turned to the assortment of dolls that lined the shelves. In a matter of steps she had moved away from Max and his wishing horse and into another section of the store. A safer and saner section, she hoped.

  But Sylvie realized her mistake with her first careful look at the shelves. Here, too, was magic. The leftover magic of childhood memories and her own past delight in a Christmas doll. From the soft-sculpture, fuzzy-haired ragamuffin to the delicate porcelain face and hands of Cinderella, each doll was exquisite. Sylvie moved closer, her fingers reaching impulsively to touch the satin gown of one doll, the fur muff of another.

  Her gaze fell to a baby in a quilted basket. Its porcelain mouth formed a pout and its tiny hands were poised in a lifelike position. The christening gown was made of a gauzy white fabric, embroidered with lace and ribbon. The bonnet was layers of stitching with a narrow ribbon tie. Sylvie didn’t know a great deal about dolls, but she knew these were exceptionally detailed and beautiful.

  “I think she wants you to hold her,” Max said, and Sylvie’s hand fell to her side as he reached past her to lift the baby from the basket.