Her New Year's Fortune Page 12

  She also could have pointed out that she was actually a few minutes earlier than the time Yvette had given, but didn’t. Adding to the aggravation on her mother’s face wasn’t anything she relished doing. “You look very pretty, Mom.” And her mother did, wearing a buttery yellow dress that looked lovely with her still-dark hair.

  Yvette made a face. “This old thing,” she dismissed. “I wanted to go into the city to a proper dress boutique, but simply didn’t have time.” She shook her head and her shoulder length hair didn’t have the nerve to budge beyond its ruthless layer of hair spray. “Doing all of this for your father hasn’t been easy, you know.” She gestured with the plate still in her hand for emphasis.

  “I’m sure,” Sarah-Jane murmured. She looked around at the festive cloths covering round tables scattered around the pristine yard and the elaborate buffet set up behind her mother. “It all looks beautiful, though.”

  Yvette sniffed. “It’ll do.” She handed the plate to Sarah-Jane. “You might as well eat something.” She didn’t move off as Sarah-Jane took the plate and began filling it. “Have you seen Barbara Curtis? Honestly, that woman can get away with wearing the most outrageous colors. But then I suppose when you’re a size 2, anyone can.”

  Sarah-Jane added a few slices of cheese to the grapes on her plate. She wanted to save room for some ribs once they were off the grill. She’d run an extra five miles that morning just so she wouldn’t have to feel guilty if she indulged at her dad’s party. “I haven’t seen her yet.” She skipped over the corn bread muffins tumbling artfully from a tipped basket, and glanced around until she spotted Barbara.

  The stylish woman was wearing hot pink jeans that hugged her skinny hips and an equally vivid orange sweater that was hanging precariously on the points of her tanned shoulders. Sarah-Jane looked back at her mother. “I think you look nicer.”

  Yvette made a face. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sarah-Jane. Women like you and me can never compete with someone like Barbara. I blame my mother. It’s her side of the family we take after. At least I was lucky enough to find your father.” She looked at the plate in her daughter’s hands and sighed dolefully. At the amount of food there, Sarah-Jane assumed. “Thank goodness he at least taught you how to save money even though you’ve decided to waste yourself on that little knitting shop of yours. You are still putting money away for the future, aren’t you?”

  Heaven forbid if she’d actually added coleslaw or corn bread to her plate, Sarah-Jane thought. “Yes, I’m still saving plenty of money.” Aside from her shopping spree at Charlene’s, of course.

  “That’s something I suppose.” Yvette heaved a sigh. “Try not to spend too much time eating,” she finally said. “There’s plenty to do in the kitchen if you want to make yourself useful.” She twitched at her skirt and headed off across the grass, calling gaily to a couple who’d just entered through the side gate.

  Ignoring the pain that had formed in the center of her forehead, Sarah-Jane found a seat at one of the tables with the neighbors who lived across the street. They greeted her cheerfully and after a few minutes visiting with them, she threw away her plate, told her dad that people were anxious to get at his grilled masterpieces, and headed into the kitchen. Her mother’s snide comment aside, she really was happier there being useful rather than trying to be a social butterfly she wasn’t.

  And in the kitchen is pretty much where she stayed—making trays, cleaning trays, reloading trays—until several hours later, she could see through the windows over the sink that the party was wrapping up.

  “Hey there, Sarah-Jane.” Martin, her father’s “young” associate at the bank and the bad kisser, came into the kitchen while she was wrapping up the leftovers. His smile was practically a leer as he leaned against the counter next to where she was working. Sarah-Jane barely gave him a glance. “Hey, Martin.” She couldn’t for the life of her understand why her mother had bothered to serve fancy little finger sandwiches when there’d been plenty of other things to choose from. But then, Sarah-Jane wasn’t the cul de sac’s version of Martha Stewart, either.

  Martin was still standing there. “Can I get you something?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He reached out and dragged his finger down her arm. “You’re looking good, Sarah-Jane. Real good. What have you done to yourself?”

  She pointedly moved out of his reach, wondering how many beers he’d consumed. He had one can clutched in his stubby-fingered hand. “Do you want a finger sandwich?” She picked up the plastic container she’d been stacking them in and held it between them.

  He didn’t give the sandwich points so much as a glance. “Why don’t we get out of here? Go somewhere we can be alone?”

  She barely controlled a shudder of distaste. “Like your place? Won’t your mother be there?”

  He blinked. “I have my own room. She’ll leave us alone.”

  The man was simply oblivious. “It’s my father’s birthday, Martin,” she said patiently. “I’m not going anywhere.” Certainly not with him.

  She tried to move past him toward the kitchen door, but he stepped in her way, wearing a sulky pout that only children who were a fraction of his age could get away with. On him it looked simply ridiculous.

  “You’re not getting any younger, Sarah-Jane. Don’t you think it’s time you took off the clamp holding your knees together and got yourself a boyfriend?”

  Ugh. “I have a boyfriend,” she said and felt no compunction whatsoever with the exaggeration. Wyatt wasn’t her boyfriend. Not even close, considering he hadn’t even kissed her, much less given the slightest attention to the state of the knees she’d kept closed since the humiliating high school prom debacle. But she’d like to think he was something of a friend. And he was certainly male.

  And if he didn’t like a situation, he just said so, instead of wearing a ridiculous, petulant pout.

  “A boyfriend!” Yvette pushed at Martin from the opposite side and he stumbled forward toward Sarah-Jane, who pivoted out of the way on the soles of her wedgey sandals. “You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend, Sarah-Jane.”

  On the heels of Yvette was Sarah-Jane’s father, and she could see his surprised expression, too.

  She wanted to pull the apron she’d wrapped around herself to protect her pretty dress right over her head.

  “Who is he?” her mother demanded, hands on her hips, staring at Sarah-Jane as if she recognized her claim for exactly the falsehood that it was.

  “Wyatt Fortune,” she said calmly, and idly pondered the fact that all of her untruths seemed to be related to him. “Wyatt Fortune is my boyfriend.”

  “Fortune?” Yvette’s voice rose an octave. “Not one of the Fortunes.”

  Maybe later Sarah-Jane would be ashamed of the delight she took in the stupefied expressions facing her—particularly her mother’s. “Yes, Mother. One of those Fortunes.”

  But all she could do now was enjoy the moment.

  Chapter Eight

  Felicity was rolling on the couch, peals of laughter rolling out of her mouth. “Classic,” she managed breathlessly. “I wish I could have seen your mother’s expression!”

  Sarah-Jane grimaced a little and moved her overnight bag from the chair where she’d dumped it to the floor so she could sit down in its place. She still had a headache, but it had lessened considerably once she’d spoken her piece and left Houston to come back home to Red Rock where she belonged. She hadn’t even spent the night there, but had driven straight back.

  She and Felicity had arrived at practically the same time, since her friend had put in a mammoth work session at True Confections.

  “I shouldn’t have told her he was my boyfriend, though. It wasn’t true.”

  “Too bad. He’s a man. He’s a friend. And it stumped your mother, which is entirely worth a little exaggeration. If it even is an exaggeration.”

  “Of course it is!”

  Felicity sighed noisily, but didn’t argue. She sat up and rubbed her hands together. “Tel
l me exactly what you said to her.”

  Sarah-Jane lifted her eyebrows. “It’s a little alarming how much delight you’re taking in this.”

  Felicity waved her hand, dismissively. “I’m taking delight in the fact that you stood up to your mother for the first time in your life!”

  And how shocked Yvette had been, too, Sarah-Jane thought. “I didn’t exactly stand up to her. While she was still shocked that I was seeing a Fortune, I just told her that I wished she was happier with my life.”

  “And...?” Felicity’s eyes were wide.

  “And...that I wished she was happier with hers.”

  “And what’d she say?”

  Sarah-Jane shook her head. “Not a single thing. She just stared at me as if she’d never seen me before.”

  Felicity clapped her hands together once. “And that’s exactly what she needed to do. See you with fresh eyes!”

  Sarah-Jane pinched the bridge of her nose. “Still, I probably should have stayed the night there.”

  “Why? Did you want to? Do you think it would have mattered to your dad?”

  “No. And no, again.” Her father had a regular golf date every weekend. Nothing, not even the fact that his daughter was visiting, would get in the way of it.

  “So, I repeat, why?”

  “Because...” She thought for a minute, and couldn’t come up with a single, good reason. “I still feel guilty.”

  Felicity’s expression sobered. She leaned over and grabbed Sarah-Jane’s hands. “Sarah-Jane, you are one of the kindest, most loyal people I’ve ever known. For years I’ve listened to the way your mother has cut you down and your dad has either not noticed, or not cared enough to stop her. You’ve continued being a better daughter than they deserve. You’re a grown woman and you spoke your mind for once. Don’t go backtracking on that by feeling some misguided sense of guilt.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t,” she cut her off. Then she pointed toward the doorway leading to the kitchen. “Something was waiting for you on the doorstep when I got home from the shop tonight.”

  Sarah-Jane looked over and saw a small cardboard box sitting on the kitchen table. “What is it?”

  Felicity lifted her shoulders. “You tell me. It has your name on it.”

  She pushed out of the chair and went over to the table, studying the box. It had no mailing labels or stamps.

  There was nothing to indicate the box was from Wyatt. Nothing except the squiggle of excitement shimmying through her belly and her name written in slashing, bold letters across the top of the sealed box. But she’d seen Wyatt scrawl his signature more than once. And she recognized it now.

  “Here.” Felicity handed her the kitchen shears. “Open it.”

  Sarah-Jane sliced open the tape and folded open the top. Lying inside among a nest of crumpled white tissue paper was a perfect little brown bird.

  She felt her heart blooming against the inside of her chest as she slowly lifted the bird from the paper. It was small enough to sit on the palm of her hand.

  “It’s a candle,” Felicity whispered almost reverently. She touched her fingertip to the small wick that Sarah-Jane hadn’t even noticed.

  Sarah-Jane could only nod. Her throat had closed up tight and her legs had gone so weak that she pulled out one of the chairs and plopped down on it. She picked up the plain white folded card that had been placed beneath the bird and opened it.

  Saw this and it reminded me of the birds in Sarah-Jane’s park. —W

  Felicity read the card over her shoulder. “If you don’t fall in love with him,” she breathed, “would you mind terribly if I did?”

  Too late, Sarah-Jane thought. She was afraid Felicity was much too late.

  “You have to call him,” Felicity said suddenly.

  Alarm streaked through her. “It’s nearly midnight.”

  “So?”

  Sarah-Jane shook her head with a mile more decisiveness than she felt. “He’s not expecting me back until tomorrow night.” But you did promise to call him when you returned, a sly voice inside her head reminded. “He’s not going to care if I wait until tomorrow.”

  Felicity pointedly stroked her finger over the inquisitive angle of the little bird’s head. “Oh, really? Want to talk about how he’s just a friend?”

  Sarah-Jane folded her fingers gently around the beautifully detailed wax candle and pushed out of the chair. “Oh, fine,” she huffed. But it was an act.

  Felicity knew it.

  Sarah-Jane knew it.

  Even the little wax bird probably knew it.

  “I’ll call him upstairs.” She headed through the living room again, latching her free hand through the strap of her overnighter along the way.

  “I won’t bother asking you to give him my regards.” Felicity’s laughing voice followed her. “Somehow, I think you’ll fill the time with more interesting things to talk about.”

  Sarah-Jane quickly closed herself in her bedroom, closing off whatever else Felicity could say.

  Something was churning inside her and she sank down onto the foot of her knit-bedspread-covered bed, staring down at the sweet little bird cradled in her hand. Oh, Wyatt. What are you doing to me?

  There was no answer. Not from the bird, at any rate, and eventually, Sarah-Jane toed off the pretty high-heeled wedgies that she’d worn with her dress and pulled her cell phone out of her purse.

  Before she could lose her nerve, she found his number and quickly hit the button.

  Despite the late hour, he answered on the second ring. “Sarah-Jane? Is everything okay?”

  Just the sound of his deep voice in her ear made her feel warm inside. “Everything’s fine. Thank you for the bird.” Her thumb ran over the candle, feeling the ridges of each feather carved into the wax.

  He was silent for a moment. “You’re back early, I take it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Something go wrong?”

  She almost laughed, but there was a sudden burning deep behind her eyes. She could go her whole life happy without him ever knowing how little her own mother thought of her. “Nothing out of the ordinary.” She cleared her throat softly. “I just decided to come back early.”

  He was silent for a moment and when he spoke his voice seemed to have become even deeper. “Then I can see you tomorrow.”

  She tucked the phone between her cheek and shoulder and swiped her cheeks, nodding. Realized he couldn’t see that. “You could,” she said huskily.

  “Have I made it past your guard enough that I can pick you up at your apartment?”

  She smiled weakly. Heaven help her if he ever learned she had no guard against him at all. “Yes.”

  “Ten o’clock?”

  “Sure.”

  “Wear comfortable jeans.”

  “Okay, but what—”

  “Good night, Sarah-Jane.” He hesitated a moment. “I’m glad you like the bird.”

  She heard a click and her phone went silent.

  Dropping the phone onto the bed beside her, she clasped the bird against her chest and fell back on the bed, exhaling shakily. But after a moment, she set the bird aside and scrambled to her feet, racing down the hall to find Felicity standing at the sink in the bathroom, a toothbrush in her mouth.

  “He’s picking me up here at ten in the morning!”

  Felicity gave her a foamy grin. “Why ’r you s’ panicked?” she managed around the toothbrush.

  “Because he’s picking me up at ten in the morning,” she repeated as if it were obvious.

  Felicity held up one finger, turned and rinsed out her mouth, then patted it dry with a towel before looking back at Sarah-Jane. “What are you guys gonna do?”

  “I have no idea!” Sarah-Jane knew she looked wild-eyed. She could see her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “He just said to wear comfortable jeans. So what do I do?”

  Felicity’s grin widened. “Wear comfortable jeans,” she suggested.

  Sarah-Jane tossed up her hands and whir
led on her bare foot, heading back to her room. “Fat lot of help you are.”

  “Let me elaborate, then.” Felicity’s laughing voice sounded positively delighted as she followed her. “Wear the jeans you bought from Charlene. They’re the only pair in your closet that aren’t baggy on you. And before you argue, comfortable doesn’t mean baggy. Those jeans from Charlene’s are comfortable, aren’t they?”

  Sarah-Jane nodded. They were perfectly comfortable. “But my old jeans are—”

  Felicity spoke over her, cutting her off without mercy. “Ugly. And wear the blue sweater I gave you for Christmas.”

  “But that one makes my boobs look—”

  “—phenomenal,” Felicity interrupted. She plucked at her nightshirt. “It’s the kind of sweater that could make girls like me feel positively inadequate.”

  “There’s nothing inadequate about you in the least!”

  “I said could.” Felicity grinned. She crossed to Sarah-Jane’s closet and threw open the door to push through the hangers. She pulled out three other tops and hung them on the doorknob. “Those’d work equally well. Except for your Stocking Stitch polos that I figure you’ll never part with and the stuff you bought the other day, everything else in there ought to be donated as far as I’m concerned. And when Wyatt gives you a compliment—and he will—just bat your eyes and say thank you.” She turned to leave the bedroom, but stopped when she reached the doorway. “And one last thing.”

  Sarah-Jane looked from the closet to her friend. “What?”

  Felicity smiled wickedly. “Be sure whatever you’re wearing underneath is something you don’t mind being seen.”

  “Felicity!”

  Her friend just laughed and disappeared from the doorway.

  * * *

  She wore jeans. And the blue sweater.

  And she left her hair down just because when she pulled it in front of her shoulders it provided sort of a curtain over the clinging cashmere knit.

  And she was glad that Felicity had gone to work at the shop earlier, so she wouldn’t be a witness to Sarah-Jane’s nervousness that just kept building until she heard a knock on the front door at ten o’clock on the dot. She exhaled hard and crossed the living room, rubbing her damp palms down the seat of her jeans before pulling open the door.