She shoved the last bottle in the cupboard, closed it, and clicked the lock in place. “I hope you have your magic wands charged and at the ready, ladies,” she muttered. “I have a feeling I’m going to need every trick you’ve got.”
Chapter 3
I think you turn here,” Lucy told Grady, looking at the map to Glass Slipper that had been included with her boot-camp packet. “Almost there.” She shot him a fast smile.
Grady saw right past the smile to the nerves beneath, but then he’d always been able to read Lucy Harper like a book. His fingers tightened slightly on the wheel as he turned down the majestic, oak-lined drive. He knew from doing a little on-line research that the private road wound its way back to a stately Potomac manse that had once been home to a state senator, the late Way Favreaux. His widow, the genteel southern magnolia, Aurora, had joined with two of her oldest and dearest friends—Mercedes Browning, former New England girls school headmistress, and Vivian dePalma, former Hollywood fashion maven and dresser to the stars—to open Glass Slipper, Incorporated, their self-termed “life makeover” business, several years before.
Grady still thought the whole thing was ridiculous.
“I appreciate you driving me.” Lucy folded and refolded the map, plucking at the corners with her stubby nails, as they slowly progressed down the winding private lane.
“They provided you with a gilded pumpkin carriage—excuse me, I mean, a limo,” he reminded her.
Her lips flickered briefly in a smile. “I know.” She reached over and laid her hand on his arm. “And I know you and Jana still don’t really approve of this. I wanted a last-ditch chance to explain. For all the good it did me.”
He heard the dry tone, shot her a brief smile. It was hard not to. What you saw with Lucy Harper was what you got. He wished more people were like that. “Shoot me,” he said, honest with her as always, “but I’m not sorry that I think you’re fine the way you are.”
“Thank you.” Then she made a gun with her fingers and clicked the mock trigger. “You’re being such a guy about this.”
“At least I get that much credit,” he muttered as the car emerged from the tree-lined drive into a huge circular driveway. The mansion, the outbuildings—or “private guest cottages” as they were called on-line—along with the surrounding manicured and landscaped grounds were even more impressive in person. A sprawling ode to Victorian elegance, the entire place dripped with southern charm. Probably just like its current owners, he thought, imagining the “godmothers” (as they’d been dubbed by former clients in their gushing and endless tributes) as a trio of aging pageant directors whose vision of an ideal world included a tiara for every highlighted and hairsprayed head. That world was so not the Lucy Harper he knew.
“All you guys have to do is shower, shave, and rub a towel over your hair and you consider yourselves presentable to the world,” she explained. “It’s a little more complicated for the opposite gender.”
Not seeing a parking lot or additional signs indicating a visitors entrance, he simply parked in front of the fieldstone path leading to the big house itself. Then he shifted in his seat and looked directly at Lucy for the first time since picking her up at her Alexandria apartment forty-five minutes earlier. “And sometimes the opposite gender has a tendency to overcomplicate things.”
“Oh, sure, like you don’t enjoy the mascara-enhanced batted lashes, the perfectly painted lips, hair that looks like a weekend of wild sex—”
“Guys aren’t all that hung up on war paint and hairspray.”
“Please. You might not care to know the particulars of how that war paint goes on, but you like the results. Men are visual creatures. Well, maybe not you. You seem to appreciate personality over cup size, but trust me, you’re the diamond in the rough there. And I mean ‘rough.’ A wilderness full of rough.”
There was no point in asking her why she didn’t just go for the so-called diamonds. He knew the answer to that. And it had a lot to do with the proverbial pot calling the kettle black. She didn’t want to hear about that.
“Most guys can’t get past what they see to find out if there’s anything else worth investigating,” she told him. “Much less take out to dinner, or home afterward for dessert.”
No, but neither do you, he thought, wishing for the umpteenth time he’d locked himself in his lab all night. It was all Jason Prescott’s fault. Again. “So, by transforming yourself into Hooter Barbie, you think the Neanderthals will take you out to dinner and be mesmerized by your scintillating wit and sharp mind?”
“‘Hooter Barbie’?” She laughed. “Okay, since when do you hang out at the boobie bar?”
“I’ll have you know that I can be just as turned on by a pair of big knockers as the next Neanderthal.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head, clearly thinking he was kidding. In her mind, he was apparently above such an earthy male response. He didn’t bother to correct her. What was the use? One of the things he most appreciated about their friendship was that she was so easy to talk to. Always had been. Where Jana was quick with an opinion and never shied away from defending it, popular or not, Lucy was the opposite. She was open and guileless, never meaning to offend. She was the first to laugh at her mistakes and quick to smooth over those of others. She didn’t let him off the hook when he didn’t deserve it, but always came up with a tension-deflating, smart-ass comeback when he did.
And because he valued her friendship above all else, this was the one topic he’d never broached with her. He didn’t plan to start now.
“Well, I’m not here to get big knockers.” She glanced down. “Even the fairy godmothers aren’t that good.” Grinning, she said, “Anyway, this isn’t Extreme Makeover. I’m just going to learn how to, you know, enhance the positive.” Then she rolled her eyes and slumped back in her seat. “God. Who am I kidding, right?”
And that was the paradox of Lucy Harper. Such a confident smart-ass one minute, then that flicker of sincere vulnerability the next. Never failed to draw him in. Yeah, he thought, like a fly to the web. Christ, what a pair they were.
He blew out a deep sigh and reached for her hand, tugging it between his even when she tugged back. “I can’t believe you’re wheedling this out of me, but you know I just want you to be happy. With yourself, or whatever it is you think needs improving. Both Jana and I want that. We just don’t want you setting yourself up for disappointment, that’s all.”
Lucy stared at him with those frank hazel eyes of hers. “I’m not a teenager anymore. This isn’t a whim. Okay, so coming here might have been. But I’ve wanted to fix this . . . I don’t know, this feeling that I don’t match up, for a long time. I just had no idea how to go about doing it. I tried convincing myself that I should settle for what I’ve got. But after a while, that began to feel an awful lot like copping out.” She shifted her hands so she now held his. “If you want to improve your mind, you take another class, right? Well, I like my mind just fine. I want to improve whatever it is that keeps people from seeing the real me. Only it’s not as simple as signing up for another college course.”
He just sighed. She’d never get it.
“Worst case is I find out this is all there is. That this is the real me people are seeing. And then I guess I accept it and go from there. But I have to know I tried. Can you at least trust me that this is something I have to do?”
Grady rubbed his thumbs along the outside of her hands. “Yeah. I just wish you didn’t feel so incomplete.” Because it made him feel like he’d failed her somehow.
“I know you think this is a shallow endeavor, but—”
He shook his head. “Like you said, it’s what you have to do.”
She smiled. “A ringing endorsement.” She pulled him forward and gave him a resounding kiss on the cheek. “But I’ll take it.”
On impulse he hugged her. Not that he didn’t ever hug her. He did all the time. Just not when he was feeling . . . well, like he was feeling at the
moment. “Just come back the same Lucy Harper I know and love, okay?” he murmured against her hair. Then sat her back and quickly shifted the tone. “Or Jana and I will be forced to confiscate your secret decoder ring to the Up with Homely People Club. Not to mention the ‘Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful, Hate Me Because I Can Program My VCR’ T-shirt.”
Lucy laughed. “Don’t you mean, ‘not beautiful’?”
Grady’s smile shifted to one of pure affection. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I got it right.”
“Aw, Grady,” she said, her bottom lip wavering just a little. Then she reached out and punched him on the arm. “Don’t pull that ‘special moment on Friends’ thing on me right now. I don’t want to meet the godmothers with tears leaking down my cheeks.”
He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “Make up your mind, will ya? Hey, dry your eyes fast.” He motioned behind her with his chin. “The pageant directors triumvirate is approaching.”
“‘Pageant directors’?” She turned to look out her window, and gasped. “It’s them.” Glancing back at Grady, she made a tsking sound. “‘Pageant directors,’ honestly. You’d better behave.”
“Boy, remind me to not answer the phone next time you call for a favor.” He got a better look at the trio of older women as they closed in on his car. “Wow, I take it back about the pageant thing. What the hell is that one on the right wearing, anyway? No wonder their pictures aren’t up on the website.”
Lucy’s attention darted from the godmothers to him. “‘Website’? What were you doing on the Glass Slipper website?”
“Making sure you weren’t being sold into white slavery.”
“What?”
Or worse, that they’ll make you into something you’re not. The world has enough Debbie Markhams. It only has one Lucy Harper. “Smile, they’re here.”
The tall, severe-looking one reached for the door handle. Grady guessed that one was Mercedes. She reminded him of the sort who’d left ruler marks on more than a few sets of knuckles.
“Welcome to Glass Slipper. Ms. Harper, I presume?”
Lucy nodded, smiled nervously, went to step out of the car . . . and began choking.
Grady reached over and undid her seat belt for her.
Smiling sheepishly, she looked back at him. “Thanks. For everything.”
He nodded.
“I mean it. I’ll be fine, you know.”
“I know,” he lied.
And then she was stepping out of the car and into the waiting arms of her Barbie Boot Camp drill sergeants. They’d been through the stress of puberty, peer pressure, the drama of high school, the freedom of college, and somehow becoming responsible adults anyway, all with their tight bond still intact.
So it was silly to worry about a two-week beauty camp. And yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d finally crossed a boundary that would change things between them forever.
He watched her walk down the stone path, praying he was wrong. Halfway down, she tripped and went sprawling into the grass. Ah, Luce. Grinning and shaking his head, his hand was already on the door. He’d been her rescuer for so long, he was out of the car without another thought. But before he could take another step, he watched Lucy scramble to a stand. She shoved her hair from her face, and he could tell by her goofy smile that she was making fun of herself, deflecting the embarrassment he knew she was really feeling.
He sank back against the car as the godmothers helped Lucy brush off her pants before continuing down the path and up the stairs. And he realized that his resistance to this idea wasn’t about her getting hurt. It was about him getting hurt.
If she gained enough confidence, she might abandon the security their friendship provided. And that might mean she no longer needed him.
Welcome to Glass Slipper,” Aurora said, gesturing to the sprawling Victorian with the deep, shaded porch that wrapped around the house. “We’re so glad you’re here.”
Still recovering from her less-than-graceful entrance, Lucy forced a smile and nodded, but furtively she was scoping out the grounds. Other than a few people bustling along the shaded walkways that led from the house to the cottages tucked back beneath the oak trees and azaleas, she didn’t see a single soul. The bustlers were all wearing matching linen blazers, discreet headsets, and carrying clipboards, so she assumed they were employees. What she didn’t see were any other guests. They prided themselves on maintaining the privacy of their guests, but this was ridiculous. Surely she wasn’t the only one who’d spent her entire savings on summer makeover camp.
“Let’s go inside and I’ll introduce you to Audrey. She’ll be your personal director during your stay,” Aurora was saying. “She’ll explain the program to you, schedule your first round of appointments, then see that you’re settled into your room.”
“Thank you, Ms. Favreaux,” Lucy said. “I’m excited to be here.” In truth, she felt like she was going to throw up. What in the hell had she gotten herself into? She glanced over her shoulder, but Grady had already driven off. Why hadn’t she listened to him?
“Aurora, please,” the older woman once again assured her.
“‘Aurora,’ ” she repeated with a brief smile. “Your place here is beautiful.” She’d received a glossy pamphlet full of background material and instructions on what she was supposed to bring with her. “The photos don’t do it justice.”
“Why, thank you, dear,” Aurora said, a pleased smile creasing her perfectly preserved face.
Aurora seemed the softest of the three. Her makeup appeared as airbrushed in person as it did in her brochure photo, disguising the wrinkles without appearing troweled on; from her perfectly penciled auburn eyebrows, to her carefully lined and painted, deep rose lips. Her hair was an amazingly natural-looking strawberry blonde, all swept up in a loose bun on top of her head, with curled tendrils at her forehead and trailing along her neck. She wore a flowing caftanlike dress of gauzy silk, with a swirling pattern of russet and gold. That, along with the benevolent smile and southern accent, gave the impression she sort of floated along on the cloud of White Shoulders she’d doused herself with. Somehow, on her, it wasn’t overpowering.
No, that description belonged to the shortest of the three, Vivian dePalma. Lucy knew from what she’d read that Vivian was the former Hollywood fashionista and dresser to the stars. She just wasn’t sure what stars Vivian had dressed. Cher seemed an obvious choice. Or Elvis. Her hair was a theatrical red, cut in an equally flamboyant asymmetric style, above-the-ears short on one side, the front dipping over her brow in a dramatic sweep toward a chin-length bob on the other. Her lips matched her hair in tone. So did her eyebrows, in terms of flamboyance. Her snug black suede suit was ruthlessly cut to fit her short, fireplug frame and showed a scary amount of cleavage for a woman over sixty, but the heavy mantle of gold and onyx around her neck and dripping from her ears somehow made it work.
Then there was Mercedes, tall and lean, and the only one whose hair remained its natural color. The vivid steel-gray-and-white upswept do was actually flattering to her pale skin tone and subdued makeup, but her natural expression seemed permanently severe, even when she was smiling. Might be the patrician features. But it was probably more about the dark Beatrice Arthur eyebrows. One look from her made Lucy want to hide her knuckles. And she’d never even been taught by nuns.
“Audrey will have someone show you around the house and grounds later on this evening, but first we’d like you to come in and enjoy a light tea with the three of us.”
Lucy glanced from Aurora to Vivian, who were both smiling approvingly, to Mercedes, who was merely smiling. “That sounds wonderful,” she lied, surprised by the offer and nervous about what a “light tea” with this trio would entail. She hadn’t expected such personal treatment.
She knew they catered to a pretty exclusive clientele, had even hoped to glimpse a Capitol Hill wife or two, but she was an elementary-school teacher. Aka Nobody. The camp was pricey, but she had the distinct imp
ression from the magazine article that their purpose in hosting it was to allow the Everyday Woman to avail herself of their otherwise too-expensive services. She was Charity Barbie.
So, rather than flatter her, their attention made her feel wary and a little nervous. Lucy Harper didn’t rate red-carpet treatments. Didn’t they have an empire to run? Surely they didn’t do this with every client. Could it be she really was the only pathetic idiot to sign up for this?
There was no polite way to ask (and she wasn’t really sure she wanted the answer, anyway), so she was left trailing Aurora as they climbed the wide steps to the veranda and entered the house through a matched set of gorgeous oak doors, each inlaid with oval-shaped stained-glass windows.
“Right this way,” Aurora said, sweeping her arm in an elegant arc, motioning Lucy forward with her heavily ringed fingers. “We serve tea out back on the veranda.”
Lucy followed Aurora, so overly conscious of the two women behind her—Were they sizing her up? Staring at the way she walked? Making mental notes on her hideous hair and fashion sense?—that she could hardly do more than take in her surroundings. The open, two-story foyer had a tile floor set in a swirling circular pattern, with a beautifully restored round walnut table placed at its center. The table bore a towering arrangement of perfectly blooming flowers beneath a stunning crystal chandelier. The hallway leading from the foyer was a polished, dark inlaid wood; the walls were painted a deep leaf green below walnut wainscoting that matched the floors, and papered with a light cream magnolia linen pattern above.
Paneled walnut doors, also with inlaid stained-glass ovals, lined one side of the hallway, but because of the wavy, colored glass, she couldn’t see what went on behind any of them. They passed two sherbet-colored-blazer-clad Glass Slipper employees in the hall before entering a short service hall leading to yet another set of doors—this pair was French in design, with louvered white jalousies covering the glass panes—before leaving the house once again.
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