“Yes,” she said, looking around for her camera-toting shadows. “I think I’d better go while I can.”
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Blake said, cupping her elbow to lead them through the crowds to the exit. “I don’t want one of those creeps following you out there in the dark.”
“Thank you.” They made their way out of the fairgrounds and into the big, grassy lot where all the cars were parked.
“It’s not entirely altruistic,” Blake admitted as they neared her rental.
Ivy fished her keys out of her purse and unlocked her door. She pulled it open and tossed her bag inside before she turned back to him. “What’s in it for you?” she asked. “Another kiss?”
Blake shook his head. “We can’t have that with all those reporters roaming around. I made the most of my time on the Ferris wheel for a reason. But I did want to ask you a question.”
Ivy smiled coyly, feeling the strange rush of youthful romance coming back to her. “And what’s that?”
Blake planted his hand on her car and leaned in. “I wanted to know if you would go to the prom with me. Again.”
Chapter 11
“What about this one?” Pepper held up a hot pink taffeta bridesmaid’s gown. “It’s got a big bow on the butt.”
Ivy wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t care if it is a retro prom, there will be no bows on my ass. I don’t need it to look any bigger than it already is.”
Earlier Friday afternoon, Ivy had picked Pepper up and they drove to Birmingham to scope out a few thrift stores. There wasn’t much of a market for vintage fashion in Rosewood, so this was their only hope. They had to find dresses and fast, because Ivy had to be back in Rosewood by five to judge the beauty pageant.
She hadn’t given much thought to what she would wear before, but now that she had a real date for the prom, things had gotten a little more serious. She plucked a turquoise dress off the rack. It was floor-length with big, puffy sleeves and a sweetheart neckline.
“Ugh,” she groaned, putting it back on the rack. “This may be impossible. Eighties fashion was just . . . wrong.”
“It was fun,” Pepper corrected. “You’ve got to get into the spirit of it. Big hair, loud clothes, fun colors, chunky accessories . . .”
“Spirit,” Ivy muttered under her breath, continuing to search through dress after dress. She was the “prom queen” for the night. She would be in a million pictures, and plenty of those would end up on social media sites. Theme or no theme, she didn’t want shots circulating of her in a dress better suited for a hoedown.
“So, are you going to tell me what happened at the fair?” Pepper said at last.
Ivy was surprised it had taken her that long to ask. They’d had a fairly long drive in the car from Rosewood. Instead of discussing last night, they’d chatted about giving Ivy true eighties-style hair, which frightened her immensely. Her locks had never been teased before, much less hit with an entire can of Aqua Net.
“What do you mean?”
Pepper crossed her arms over her chest with a sour look on her face. “I saw you two get off the Ferris wheel. You can’t lie to me. Something happened up there. Now spill.”
Ivy sighed and returned her attention to the rack. “We kissed at the top. No big deal.”
Pepper nodded thoughtfully. “So you kissed and then he asked you to prom.”
“Wait a minute,” Ivy frowned. “Where did you hear that?”
“From your mama,” Pepper replied.
“And how does she know? I didn’t tell anyone about that.”
Pepper sighed. “We work in the beauty salon, Ivy. Your mama and I know everything. From what I gather, your mama heard it from Miss Vera, who heard it from Miss Francine. Apparently, Blake went into Petal Pushers first thing this morning and ordered you a corsage.”
Ivy’s eyes grew wider at every link in the gossip chain. Well, that was just great. Who needed the press sniffing out news when the Rosewood seniors had it under control? “A corsage, really?”
“Yes,” Pepper said. “A wrist corsage with white roses, baby’s breath, and pink ribbon.”
Ivy’s mouth fell open. “That’s the exact same corsage he gave me for his senior prom.” How had he even remembered that? It had been more than eight years ago.
Pepper watched her reaction curiously. “Interesting. So he not only asked you to prom, but he ordered you the same corsage. Sounds like a big deal.”
“It is not a big deal,” Ivy said a touch too quickly. “He was pretty much my date anyway, us being king and queen and all.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t have to ask you. You could’ve just done your job and gone home. Add the corsage. With the kiss. Girl, there’s something happening there.”
Ivy turned her attention back to the rack. She snatched out a short dress in dark green and held it up. “You need to wear this one,” Ivy said, hoping to change the subject. “It would look good with your red hair.”
Pepper inspected it with a shrug, letting the uncomfortable conversation drop. For now. “What about the huge bows? It has one on each shoulder and one very unfortunately placed near the crotch.”
“Your crotch is not that low.” Ivy passed the dress over to the other side of the rack. “I had issues with bows on the butt. This one is fine. Wear that.”
Pepper threw the dress over her arm and went back to digging. “What about you, though? We need to find something worthy of the prom queen.”
“You know, I may have to call my stylist in LA. He can overnight a gown to me. In West Hollywood, Enrique can probably find the perfect mix of style and tacky that will look good on me. He knows better than I do.”
“Oh my God!” Pepper exclaimed. “I. Have. Found. It!”
Ivy looked up to see what Pepper had uncovered this time. The strapless dress was made out of a metallic blue lamé that shifted between bright blue, midnight blue, and black in the light. It was gathered around the waist with a giant lamé rose at the left hip. It flowed down into two asymmetrical ruffled tiers that were edged in black lace. If that dress was in her size, it was so hers.
“It’s a six!” Pepper declared proudly. “Go try it on.”
Ivy took the dress and gave it a closer inspection. “Okay, but you’ve got to try on that green one.”
They slipped into the dressing rooms and attempted to change in the too-small makeshift space of the thrift store. “Are you ready?” Pepper asked.
“Yes. We come out on three.”
“Okay. One, two, three!”
Both doors flew open and they rushed out to see each other in the dresses.
“I hate you,” Pepper said, planting her hands on her green-taffeta-covered hips.
Ivy frowned. “Why?”
“’Cause you look like a hot rock star even in an awful eighties prom dress.”
“You look hot, too,” Ivy said. “That’s a great color on you. Grant is going to love it.”
Pepper flushed bright red. “You shut up!” she said. “I am not going with Grant Chamberlain.”
“Well, who are you going with?”
“Brian,” Pepper said. “He’s the manager of the electronics store.”
“Skinny Brian Green from the chess club?”
Pepper got flustered at Ivy’s all-too-accurate guess. “That was a long time ago,” she sputtered. “He’s really filled out. These days, I appreciate a guy who can set up my router.”
“Sexy,” Ivy teased. “But what if Grant asks you to dance?” she said with a sneaky grin.
“I’ll tell him what I told him in school—I don’t dance with freshmen.”
Ivy laughed. “You say that now. When he’s in a powder-blue tuxedo, you might not be able to resist him.”
“He might not even be at the dance, you know. He is a fireman. They’re on call a lot.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Ivy hummed thoughtfully. She was glad to finally have the conversation focus on someone else’s love life for a change. “I’ll
see to it that you don’t sneak out and set a fire in the dumpster so he has to leave, okay?”
“Put your clothes back on,” Pepper snapped, disappearing into her dressing room.
“One scoop of butter pecan in a sugar cone, please.”
Nash placed his daily ice cream order and moved to the register to pay. He’d become persona non grata at the diner, the pizza place, and the nice restaurant, but word of who he was hadn’t made it to the ice cream parlor yet. The woman who worked there was about his age. She always had a cheerful smile for him and never pried into who he was or why he was in town. He took his ice cream to sit by the window and watch people moving around the square. In a rental car across the street, he could see Larry and Ted from Celebrity Weekly magazine. They were eating sandwiches from the deli inside the grocery store. Apparently they’d been booted out of all the restaurants, too.
Nash was all for healthy competition, but he much preferred Rosewood when there weren’t seven other reporters there nosing in on his story. It was his own fault—he’d posted the tape that tipped off her location, but it had been worth it. He’d made a mint selling that video. He’d make even more if he could get some shots of Ivy and Blake together romantically.
They’d kissed on that Ferris wheel, he just knew it, but he couldn’t get a shot. It was smart to go up there to do it. The angle was awkward, and even with a telephoto lens, he could only get half of Blake’s head in the photo. There was no way to prove they were kissing.
The prom was the perfect opportunity to catch them together, but damned if there wasn’t a strict press ban at the event. If he wanted to go, he’d have to get a date and buy a ticket. It was couples only.
Nash had to get in there somehow. He licked his ice cream and turned back to look around the parlor for inspiration. His gaze fell on the woman at the counter. He would guess she was about forty. She was short and on the chubby side. She wasn’t unattractive, but she was plain. She didn’t wear a lot of makeup or do much with her hair. Her name tag read CHERYL.
He watched Cheryl reach over the glass barrier to hand a cone to another patron. There was no ring on her left hand. That didn’t surprise him.
Nash finished his cone and waited until the shop was empty. Making his way back to the counter, he smoothed his hands over his blond hair, gave Cheryl his best smile, and leaned against the glass case.
“Sorry to bother you again, Cheryl.”
She smiled and shook her head. “It’s no trouble, that’s what I’m here for. What can I do for you?”
“Well, first, I’d like a bottle of water. I’m Nash, by the way.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Nash.” Cheryl reached into the refrigerated unit and pulled out a bottle of water. “That will be a dollar fifty. What else can I get you?”
“Well,” Nash began, handing over the money, “this may sound crazy, but I was wondering if you had a date for that Retro Prom tomorrow night.”
Cheryl’s dark brown eyes widened for a moment, a touch of pink rising to her round cheeks. “No, I don’t. I wasn’t planning on going.”
“Neither was I,” Nash lied. “But then I was thinking about it and I realized that I never went to prom in high school. I didn’t go to any dances, really. I wasn’t very popular with the ladies, so I missed out on all that.”
Cheryl shook her head. “I find that hard to believe. You’re such a handsome and polite fellow.”
“You know how high school is. I was in an awkward stage. I was smart and quiet. I didn’t play sports or hang with the cool kids. It seems silly to pass up the opportunity to go to a Second Chance Prom when it’s presented, you know? I mean, it’s even an eighties-themed prom, and I graduated in 1988.”
“So did I,” Cheryl said with a smile. “I know what you mean. I didn’t go to my prom, either.”
“What do you say we go together? I know it’s short notice, but I think it will be a lot of fun.”
There was a glimmer of wary excitement in Cheryl’s eyes that made Nash feel a little guilty. This wasn’t the lowest thing he’d ever done to get a story, but it was pretty close.
“I don’t know, Nash. I don’t even know your last name. Are you from around here?”
Nash reached across the counter and held out his hand to her. “I’m Nash Russell.” Cheryl shook his hand, her tense posture relaxing just slightly. “And no, I’m not from around here, but I will be here for a little while longer. Look at it this way—I’ve been coming in here for your ice cream for days now. You’ve known me longer than Cinderella knew Prince Charming, and they had a great time at the ball.”
The last trace of hesitation faded away and Cheryl beamed brightly. Nash should’ve known she was the kind of woman who loved fairy tales and kept waiting for her prince to come. He was certainly not her prince, but hey—he’d spring for the dance tickets. That was something, right?
“Shall I pick you up at seven?” Nash said with a wide, hopeful smile.
“Okay. Seven it is.”
“This pie is awful,” Maddie said.
Blake had to agree with his little sister. It might be because this was the fortieth pie he’d had to try tonight, but he just wasn’t feeling it.
“The filling is watery and has no flavor,” Maddie continued. “You can barely tell it’s apple. The crust is mushy and has none of the flaky texture it should have.”
Mayor Gallagher was sitting at the table with them. “This tastes like my mother-in-law’s apple pie,” he said before pushing the plate away. “The difference is I don’t have to eat any more of this one.”
“How many are left?” Blake asked. He was ready to get out of here. He had a football game tonight, and after that he and Grant were meeting at the family house to go through their dad’s old tuxedos. There was no sense searching for one at a store when they could just raid his stash. Norman Chamberlain was a lawyer with plenty of money, but he was so tight he squeaked. There was no way he’d parted with any of the suits he’d worn over the years.
“Last one,” Estelle Townsend announced as she returned to the room with a tray of small plates. Estelle was the owner of Rosewood Cakes and Cookies. She was also Maddie’s boss. Miss Estelle had personally organized the annual bake-off since it was added to the fair schedule in 1979. As a “professional,” she was not eligible to compete, so it made the most sense for her to oversee the event. The same went for Maddie, who was pegged as a judge instead.
For as long as Blake could remember, Miss Estelle had owned the bakery in Rosewood. She’d made every birthday cake he’d ever eaten and baked the wedding cake of nearly every married couple in Rosewood.
The Piggly Wiggly did have a bakery counter, but no one dared come to an event with cookies or cupcakes from anywhere but Miss Estelle’s shop. The past few months, people had gotten even more excited about visiting the store. Maddie had brought her new arsenal of skills to the shop, filling the glass cases with a selection of éclairs, tortes, French macarons, and fruit tarts on top of the already decadent cookies, cupcakes, and breads.
“This is entry forty-one, an apple-pear crumb-topped pie.”
Miss Estelle put a plate in front of him with a tiny sliver of the pie.
Blake looked down at it. This one was far superior to the last pie just on sight. Even so he had to force one last bite into his mouth. It had a nice, buttery crust and a sweet, crisp crumble on the top, and the fruit had the perfect texture—not too hard or too soft. It might not be the best pie of the night, but it was top five. At least he was ending the contest on a high note.
On the other side of the Jaycees building, forty-one anxious bakers were waiting to hear the results. He wanted to turn in his scores and leave, but he still had to present the trophies.
Estelle came back a few minutes later to collect their forms. “Just give us time to tally these up and we’ll announce our winners.”
Blake, Maddie, and Otto gathered up their things and headed out front. A crowd of ladies were gathered there, the usual sus
pects by Blake’s estimation, with the exception of Lydia in the back. As far as he knew, she didn’t bake. She’d told him once that she was an executive chef. Apparently doing pastry was beneath her, somehow.
She was in the back row by herself, so she hadn’t come to support anyone. And her eyes were glued on him. It seemed she wanted to get to him when she knew Ivy wouldn’t be around.
Estelle walked up to the microphone and quieted the crowd. “Thank you, everyone, for participating in our thirty-fifth annual bake-off! I’d like to thank each of our judges for dedicating their time and their taste buds to our competition tonight.”
The crowd applauded and Blake smiled and nodded his head appropriately. He noticed Lydia wasn’t clapping. She was just watching.
Estelle turned around to the trophies. There were four of them on the table behind her—for best fruit pie, best cream pie, best custard pie, and best overall. Blake didn’t know why all these women bothered to compete every year. Vera Reynolds always won. Always.
Estelle announced the winner in each category and Blake handed them their trophies with a smile. Vera, as expected, won best fruit pie for her famous apple pie. She also won best cream pie for her coconut cream. That had been Blake’s personal favorite, but he knew it wouldn’t beat her apple for best in show. People went mad over her apple pie. The best custard went to Mayor Gallagher’s wife, Marilyn.
After a few moments of mock suspense, Vera received her trophy for best in show, and a polite round of disappointed applause followed. Everyone got up out of their seats at once. Blake scanned the room for Lydia, but he’d lost her in the chaos. He tried to take advantage of the commotion and make a dash for the back door.
It was nearing dusk as he walked out. He was almost to his truck when he noticed a shadowy figure leaning against the driver’s door.
“You’re a hard man to pin down, Blake Chamberlain.”
Blake paused several feet from Lydia, well out of her touching range. He’d managed to avoid her since their ill-fated kiss at the gas station. “Evening, Lydia.”
Facing the Music: A Rosewood Novel Page 14