by JoAnn Ross
“Well, still, you’ll want to look your best. Do you even own a dress?”
“Of course I do. Really,” Charity insisted when Amanda arched an auburn brow. She saw no point in mentioning that she’d donated all her city clothes, most of which she’d bought in a futile attempt to live up to her fiancé’s family’s lofty social standards, to Goodwill and Bottomless Closet, a charity that helped needy women get back on their feet by providing professional-looking clothing for job interviews.
“Let me see.”
Feeling thirteen years old again, when her mother had dragged her shopping for a respectable confirmation dress, Charity led her to her bedroom, opened the closet, and took out the yellow sheath she’d bought to wear to Cole and Kelli’s wedding at Bon Temps.
“Not bad,” Amanda allowed. “Actually it’s quite lovely and the color, while I’d certainly never attempt it, flatters your coloring.”
Charity’s relief at having escaped a shopping trip to Portland or Eugene was short-lived.
“Of course,” her mother tacked on, “it’s far too formal for a first date.”
“It’s not a date,” Charity insisted yet again.
Ignoring that claim, Amanda’s appraising gaze swept over her. “Fortunately, we’re nearly the same size. I have a lovely gauze skirt with an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse that would suit the occasion perfectly. And it’s a greenish blue watercolor silk that would bring out your eyes.”
What was it with so many people suddenly wanting to dress her up as if she were their own personal Barbie doll?
“I’m not the gauzy-skirt type,” she pointed out, running her palms down her jeans. “And didn’t peasant blouses go out with flower children?”
“They’re back. And surely you didn’t plan to wear something like that?” Her mother’s frown told Charity exactly what she thought of her usual uniform of jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers.
“I’m a vet. I don’t need to dress up to operate on dogs and cats.”
“I doubt you’ll have any reason to perform surgery on any animals at the Sea Mist,” Amanda countered. “What about a compromise? Wear a nice pair of white jeans with my top. That would look lovely with a sea-glass and silver necklace.”
“One problem. I don’t own any white jeans. They tend to show blood.”
“If you’re trying to shock me, Charity, it isn’t going to work. I was, after all, married to a surgeon who brought home videos of his work to study. Finding a nice pair of dressy jeans shouldn’t be difficult. We’ll go shopping tomorrow.”
“I have work tomorrow.”
“You also have to eat. We’ll shop on your lunch hour. Didn’t I see a boutique near that cute bakery?”
“Yes, the Dancing Deer Two. It’s run by two elderly women who recently moved down here from Washington, but, really, Mother—”
“Darling.” The tone was familiar. She was about to get the full diva assault. “Did I not explain that my entire life is crumbling around me and I’m about to be surrounded by little more than the ruins of yet another failed romance?”
“Let’s hope it’s not that fatal,” Charity suggested mildly.
“From your lips to God’s ears. Still.” She sighed. Dabbed at her eyes again. “I’m in desperate need of some retail therapy. And since I doubt there’s anything for sale here in this quaint little burg I’d feel comfortable wearing, the next best thing is to go shopping for you.”
When her mother actually seemed to brighten up at the prospect, Charity realized she was sunk. What could it hurt? She’d survived the shopping for the dress she’d worn to the wedding, hadn’t she? Then again, that had been easier. She’d merely called ahead and explained what she needed, and one of the owners of the boutique had it waiting for her on a rack behind the counter. It had been like having her own personal shopper.
“Please, darling.” Oh, that little tremor in the dulcet tones was good.
Charity had long ago accepted the fact that somehow she’d missed inheriting her mother’s fashionista gene. It wasn’t that she didn’t try while she was in high school. Not only wanting to win her mother’s approval, on those rare summer visits to her father in Los Angeles—where all the girls seemed to be blond and tanned, and looked as if they’d shown up from the Clueless and Legally Blonde departments of central casting—wanting desperately to fit in, she’d pore over Seventeen and YM and watch every episode of Beverly Hills, 90210, trying to decode the secret of what to wear. And, even more important, what not to wear.
But fashion, she discovered to her dismay, never stayed static. Even as she tried to feel comfortable in floaty flowered prairie dresses worn with cowboy boots, the characters would suddenly switch to baby-doll dresses, bike shorts, and combat boots.
The acid-washed-jeans days were more comfortable, though she never added all the chains and midriff-baring tops. But when two of the actresses fell into a grunge stage, which made them appear to be channeling Nirvana, Charity threw up her hands and accepted the fact that her personal fashion style would always be “premakeover.”
She’d known Gabriel St. James was dangerous from the moment she’d first met him, but Charity never could’ve imagined, in a million years, exactly what danger he represented.
“I’m not getting out of this, am I?” Her mother might have the matrimonial behavior of a butterfly, but she’d never given up on her goal of turning her daughter into something less than a fashion emergency.
“Absolutely not.”
“I didn’t think so.” She’d also, given a choice, rather be tick dipped. But if it got her mother out of her diva funk, which was threatening to spiral downward . . .
A pod of white-winged pelicans flew past the window, headed out toward sea. Charity wished she could fly away with them.
16
The next morning Gabe discovered that while it might look like a walking mop, the foo-foo dog proved to be a chick magnet. Since he was planning to drive up the coast to Astoria, he wanted to make sure the mutt did its business before leaving town for the day.
Bad enough he was stuck with it. Worse that it had insisted on sleeping with him. He’d tried being firm, putting it back onto the floor every time it jumped up on the bed. But when he’d locked it outside the bedroom, it had added door scratching to whining until he finally decided he had two choices.
Shoot it.
Or give in.
Which was why he woke up with big brown eyes looking directly into his.
He fed it some of the kibbles the vet had provided, then put on the leash—which was red to match that plaid collar Charity Tiernan had put on it—and took it, along with a handful of paper towels and an empty plastic grocery bag, down to the beach.
Where what should have been a brisk, goal-oriented mile-long walk on a foggy coastal morning looked destined to take forever as seemingly everyone in Shelter Bay had to stop to pet the mutt. Many also complimented him on his wedding photos, which Cole’s overly efficient bride had already managed to post on their wedding Web site from her Hawaii honeymoon suite. He’d never liked talking about his work, which he figured spoke for itself. And he damn well didn’t want to be known for clichéd wedding shots. But for Cole and Kelli Douchett’s sake, he forced a smile and nodded at what he hoped were appropriate times.
Kids flew kites, splashed noisily in the surf, and built sand castles while protective parents hovered nearby, eyes constantly searching for impending danger, which was as foreign to Gabe, having grown up without supervision, as Afghanistan had been.
Dogs ran up and down the beach, to the edge of the water, then back again, their barks drowned out by the low roar of the waves and carried off by the breeze. Rather than straining at his leash to join them, the mutt pressed even closer to Gabe’s leg, glancing up every few steps to make sure he was still there.
Adèle Douchett and her husband, Bernard, walked along the tide line, holding hands like newlyweds. Every so often she’d bend down and pick up a shell, which he’d put in a bag he was c
arrying in his free hand. Watching them, Gabe felt an odd stir of something that felt almost like envy. Then immediately, ruthlessly, tamped it down.
Pelicans flew in formation, low over the surf, looking for fish, while seagulls whirled, their raucous screeching disturbing the morning peace.
One gull dropped a crab near Gabe’s feet. Although the mutt looked interested, he didn’t try to gulp it down. Which couldn’t be said for the other gulls, who landed on the sand in a frantic flurry of wings. Squawking wildly, they fought over the hapless crab like countries battling over a piece of land. The squabble was noisy and chaotic. A lot like war. Since he always had his camera with him, Gabe paused for a moment to capture the scene, thinking he might use it as a visual metaphor.
Several women were drawn to the dog, many making it all too clear that they were available. Feigning innocence, he continued to ignore the less-than-subtle invitations and forged on with his mission.
The sheriff, with whom Sax was seriously involved, drove by on the packed wet sand, patrolling the beach. She waved merrily at Gabe, rolled down her window, and paused to talk with him, her engine idling.
“Ha!” she said. “I see Shelter Bay’s most tenacious veterinarian did get to you, too.”
“I’m only keeping him a couple days,” he said, telling her what he’d told the SEAL. “Until she can find him a home.”
The laugh that bubbled out of Kara Conway was a direct contrast to the severity of her khaki uniform. “Good luck with that,” she said, echoing Sax. Waggling her fingers again, she continued driving.
“No one frigging believes me,” he grumbled at the dog, who’d begun digging for sand crabs during the brief conversation. He tugged on the leash, pulling the mutt from the hole he’d nearly disappeared into.
“Terrific. Now if I don’t hose you off, I’m going to have wet sand everywhere.” Including his bed and couch, because he had not a single doubt the mutt would find the most comfortable spot to hang out in while Gabe was looking for shots in hilly Astoria.
The mutt’s only response was a wild wag of its ridiculously fluffy tail.
“Oh, isn’t he cute!” a voice behind him said.
Bracing himself for yet another feminine come-on, Gabe turned and immediately recognized the baker from the wedding. Summer? Sierra? Some New Agey name.
“Sedona Sullivan,” she helped him out. “We met at the wedding.”
“You’re the cupcake baker.”
She laughed as she looked down at the pink T-shirt boasting a trio of colorful cupcakes with the Take the Cake logo. “What was your first clue?”
“Good advertising ploy,” he said. She looked as tasty as one of her cakes, with that pink shirt, white shorts, running shoes, and sassy blond hair. Just a few days ago Gabe would have been interested. Even yesterday he might have gone for it. Until another female with silky dark hair and mermaid green eyes had gotten, not just into his mind, but under his skin.
“It’s a lot easier to run in than wearing a sandwich board,” she agreed cheerfully. She bent down and ruffled the dog’s ears. “Though I’m probably going to have to rethink the design because I’m toying with the idea of adding pies to the menu.”
“Never met anyone who didn’t like pie.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking. What’s this darling’s name?”
“I don’t have any idea. . . . He’s not mine,” he responded to her quizzical look. “I just took him off the vet’s hands for a couple days until she can find him a home.”
She stood up and laughed just as Sax and the sheriff had. “I know the feeling. She’s got a homeless cat with my name on it. It’s like trying not to get run over by a bulldozer.”
“Or an Abrams tank.”
She glanced down at the dog again. “You know the old saying ‘Resistance is futile’?”
“From Star Trek.”
“Exactly.” She laughed again and ran a hand through her windblown hair. “Maybe Charity’s actually a Borg in vet’s clothing.”
Although he wasn’t attracted to her, at least not in the same way he was to Charity, Gabe liked the baker with the sort-of hippie name. He also realized that he was actually starting to enjoy himself for the first time in a very long while.
“I guess that means we could be in danger of assimilation.”
“Or more likely in danger of becoming pet owners.” She sighed dramatically, then glanced down at her watch. Gotta run. My assistant’s watching over things, but having been an accountant in a previous life, I’m a huge control freak, so it’s hard letting go.
“Besides, we open in thirty minutes, and I still have to run home and shower.” She patted his arm in a friendly, nonflirtatious way. “Good luck!” she said, unknowingly echoing Shelter Bay’s sheriff.
“You, too.” Gabe watched her run off toward the steps leading to the top of the cliff. And even as he admired the way her long, athletic legs ate up the sand, he had the feeling she was right.
Resistance undoubtedly was futile. Unless he dumped the dog over the vet’s fence and skipped town in the middle of the night—which even he wasn’t bastard enough to do—if he didn’t strengthen his resolve, he could be sunk.
17
The Dancing Deer Dress Shoppe Two had been established by identical twin sisters who’d moved down from Coldwater Cove, Washington. In their mid-eighties, they’d decided to retire and sold their popular Dancing Deer Dress Shoppe to a former software designer who’d escaped city life in Seattle.
They’d watched daytime TV, baked, and puttered around in their gardens for exactly six weeks when they realized they’d made a big mistake.
“We missed chatting with the people,” Doris Anderson had explained at their grand-opening party.
“And helping them find the perfect outfit,” Dottie had chirped in.
However, a deal was a deal, and the shop was no longer theirs.
“We could have opened up a second shop,” Dottie had said.
“But that wouldn’t have been fair to that lovely young woman who bought our business,” Doris had said.
“So,” Dottie had explained, “since Harold and Hayden have always been up for new adventures and love ocean fishing, they agreed to move down here so we could begin again.” Harold and Hayden were also identical twins. The couples had been married for nearly sixty years, an idea that seemed both impossible and wonderful to Charity.
Chatty, personable, and very good at their business, before they’d been in town a month, they’d become fixtures and their store was more than merely a place to buy clothing, but also, like Take the Cake, a convivial gathering place for Shelter Bay’s women. They’d even recently begun a weekly book club at the shop.
After being introduced to Amanda, the sisters fluttered around like eager birds, gathering up clothing from display racks throughout the store. Doris, who preferred earth tones in her own wardrobe, chose navy blue, brown, and olive green, while Dottie, who could often be found in brilliant scarlet or hot pink, dived into the bright hues and floral prints.
“This must be a special occasion,” Dottie said as she handed Charity a coral cardigan sweater printed with seashells.
“You don’t buy that many clothes,” Doris agreed, adding a pair of slim bark brown slacks to the clothing building up on the white louvered door of the dressing cubicle.
“Not that we’re complaining,” Dottie, whose personality was as bright as her choice in clothing, said quickly.
“Of course not.” Doris added a taupe blouse that complemented the color of the slacks. “After all, you certainly don’t need to dress up for work. And since you don’t have any social life to speak of—”
“Sister,” Dottie broke in. “You’re going to hurt Charity’s feelings.”
Doris tossed up both chins. “I was talking, Sister.”
“I realize that.” Dottie patted Charity’s arm. “But we don’t want to get personal. Though,” she admitted, “I won’t deny being curious.”
“She
has a dinner date,” Amanda informed them as she riffled through a woven basket of bangle bracelets. For the moment, at least, the cloud of depression had appeared to lift and her mother was in full shopping mode.
“A date!” Both sisters spoke at once.
“Oh, that’s so exciting!” Dottie said. “You’re finally moving on from that terrible, unfortunate incident.”
“Sister!” This time it was Doris’ turn to criticize. “Talk about getting personal!”
“It’s all right.” Charity reached for the handle to the dressing room. Although she’d never enjoyed shopping, certainly not the way her mother did, trying on all those clothes suddenly seemed like a very good idea, if only to escape this conversation. “It’s not as if my calling off my wedding isn’t pretty much the worst-kept secret in town.”
“I never believed the groom-to-be was good enough for her,” Amanda revealed. “And he was certainly way too stuffy.”
“Really?” Both sisters leaned toward her mother, eyes as bright as those of curious birds.
“Well, if you’ll all excuse me.” Shooting her mother a stern, warning look, Charity snatched the hangers from the door and made her escape.
On the other side of the door, she could hear Amanda deftly moving the conversation back to a safe topic as she set the twins to finding the perfect jewelry.
Sighing, she decided to begin with the white jeans her mother had added to the mix. They fit perfectly. As usual, Amanda’s eye for fashion was unerring.
Although it was unlike anything she’d ever worn in Chicago, or here, Charity’s eye was drawn past the maze of colors to a white sleeveless shirt with tuxedo pleating in the front.
She tried it on. And immediately fell in love. Except for one thing . . .
She walked out of the dressing room to find all three women waiting expectantly.
“Oh, it’s perfect!” Dottie clapped her hands.