A Broken Kind of Beautiful (28 page)

Arabella waved from across the room—shiny black hair hanging straight down her back, fingernails painted lime green, athletic build, killer arms. Maybe thirty, give or take a few years. Ivy tucked the tip of her pen beneath her chin and looked closer. Nice jaw line. Not a gorgeous face, but then most models didn’t have gorgeous faces so much as interesting ones. Ivy was an exception. Arabella obviously loved wedding dresses. She’d never make it in New York, but what about a fashion show in Greenbrier?

“Over half these women look like grandmas,” she mumbled.

“It’s Greenbrier’s first fashion show. Can you blame them for wanting to be a part of it?”

Ivy flicked her pen at Arabella. “What do you think about her?”

“She lives with her father—Doc Armstrong—in one of those big antebellum homes off the strip. Kitchen manager for Hoppin’ John’s Café. Nice. A little quirky. I think she’d be a good model for you.”

“I like her face.” Ivy scanned the rest of the women. Young. Old. Somewhere in between. Sneaking not-so-subtle glances in her direction, all twittering with excitement. And why—because they wanted to be models for a day? Didn’t they realize? One small-town fashion show—or even a big city one—wouldn’t change a thing. At the end of the day, they’d still be the same.

“Ivy?”

“What?”

“Seriously … are you okay?”

The events from their crabbing adventure on Thursday slurped through her memory.
“God speaks to everyone … Nobody wants you … Juliette’s more obsessed with having Davis than you … God speaks to everyone … God wrote those words for you …”
She shook the words away and attempted to rally. “Never been better.”

“You want to go outside? get some fresh air?”

His questions and the compassionate way he asked them made her want to pull out her hair. She didn’t need sweet and concerned. Those emotions wouldn’t get him to New York. “Fresh air isn’t what I need, Dave.”

He pulled at his jaw—tan and scruffy from a day-old beard. “Did something happen over the last couple days? I mean, you were actually having a good time on Thursday, or at least it seemed like it. But now you look like you’re either going to punch me in the face or get sick.”

“Thanks.”

“Come on, Ivy. What’s bothering you?”

“Did you think a day of playing in the mud would make everything better?” She stood. “Jumping in the marsh and watching butterflies and listening to your sister quote the Bible isn’t going to fix me, okay?”

He touched her elbow. “Ivy, wait …”

She jerked away.

He held up his hands, showing her his palms. “I want to know why you’re upset.”

There was no way she could explain it to him when she couldn’t tease it apart herself. Her mood was the result of a whole jumble of things—Bruce’s phone call, Sara’s card, Marilyn’s flowers, Davis treating her like a lady when they both knew she didn’t deserve it—for heaven’s sake, why couldn’t he act like a normal guy?—Annalise dying, that stupid box of pictures. If only one of those things had gone differently, maybe she wouldn’t be in such a rotten mood today. She wanted to spill all the if-onlys onto the floor and stamp them with her feet. But she couldn’t. And treating Davis like a heel wouldn’t solve a thing.

She rubbed the back of her neck, then ran her fingers through her hair. “Ignore me. I’m tired. I have a headache. And I don’t like the idea of turning all these women away. We only need seven models.”

His face softened. “You won’t crush their world by turning them away. They’re just fixing to have some fun and chew the fat. That’s all.”

She looked at all the smiling, excited women. Had she ever, even once, looked that way on a go-see? Ivy shook her head and looked at the ground. No. Not once. Getting turned away might not crush them, but it had always crushed her.

25

Davis straightened the collar of his polo shirt and opened the front door of Marilyn’s home. He came to pick up Sara and Ivy for the oyster roast. Joe Bodgen had one every year in mid-August at the marina, before the kids of Greenbrier went back to school. Davis promised to meet Connie there and discuss the fashion show so she could run a story in the paper. Between that and stealing some time on the evening news, this fashion show might actually turn into a pretty big deal.

Preparing himself for Ivy’s dark mood, he stepped inside the foyer as two long legs appeared at the top of the stairs. A few steps later and the rest of Ivy came into view. All five feet ten inches of her. Wearing dark khaki shorts cuffed at the hem and a flowy-looking white top that dipped over one of her shoulders. Her hair was pulled up into a messy bun, she wore long navy-blue earrings, and she carried a pair of shoes in either hand. “Your sister’s sick.”

Worry had him stepping forward.

Ivy held up her arms. “Whoa there, Fido. No need to pop a blood vessel. It’s a minor head cold. Probably from that swim in the marsh.” She descended the final stair. “Marilyn made soup and brought home an entire medicine aisle from Walmart.”

He relaxed for a second before realizing what this meant. An evening alone with Ivy? He wasn’t sure he was up for that particular challenge.

“So that leaves me and you.” She winked, but something in her voice fell flat. She said and did the usual thing, but with an emptiness that tugged at his heartstrings. Whatever was bothering her this morning was still bothering her now. “Do you prefer your women shorter than you?”

“Say again?”

She held up a pair of flats in one hand, a pair of strappy wedged sandals that would add at least three inches to her height in the other, her brow cocked with a hint of challenge.

“What, you think I’m afraid to look you in the eye?”

“I’m sure a man of your stature isn’t used to it.”

A smile pulled in his cheek. She thought she had him all figured out. “Just because I’m not used to it doesn’t mean I mind it.”

“Ooh. I like a man with confidence.”

“Put on your shoes, Clark.”

“All right, wedges it is.” She set the flats by the closet and stepped into the others, wrapping and tying the straps around her ankles.

Davis waited for her to finish, then opened the door. “Ready for your first oyster roast?”

She took his elbow. “I’ve been ready my whole life.”

As they approached the marina they passed several people. A few men waved at Davis before gawking at Ivy. Even the women watched and whispered. Far worse than the stares, however, was the way Ivy responded to them, like she believed what they implied—that she was nothing more than a pair of great legs. Davis broadened his shoulders and straightened his spine as if making himself bigger might block Ivy from view. He should never have picked the wedges. With a tightening jaw, he led her through the crowd. Smoke, beer, and seafood mingled in the humidity as they stepped up to the oblong fire grate.

“So is there any special trick to eating an oyster at an oyster roast as opposed to a restaurant?”

“I think the same rules apply.” He pointed to the table past the grate, lined with lemon juice, malt vinegar, Tabasco sauce, sweet pickles, and saltines, and shuffled Ivy into the line. The crowd nudged him from behind,
squishing him closer, so only a thin strip of air separated his body from hers—a thin strip that hummed with electricity.

Settle down, Knight. She needs a friend, not another admirer
.

If only the self-talk would erase his attraction. Taking in a deep breath, Davis looked at the boats and yachts lining the wharf, rocking in the gentle waves of the Atlantic. “You ever gone sailing, Ivy?”

“Not technically.”

“How do you not technically go sailing?”

“I’ve been on a sailboat for a few photo shoots, but none of those boats technically took to the water and sailed.”

“We should fix that.” Maybe later tonight he’d take her out, help Sara along in her quest to give Ivy more of a childhood. There was nothing like the vastness of the sea or the power of the wind or the chirping of friendly dolphins to magnify the splendor of God’s creation. He ordered a bucket of oysters from Joe, helped Ivy pick out some condiments, and found Connie sitting at an empty picnic table. He led Ivy through the crowd and took a seat.

“Connie, this is my friend, Ivy Clark. Ivy, this is Connie West. She writes for the
Greenbrier Tribune
.” He hadn’t had a chance to introduce them during tryouts. Ivy had picked Arabella, Rachel Piper, and five other girls to walk in the show before claiming a headache and driving Marilyn’s Lincoln Navigator home.

“Hello, Ivy.” Connie’s cheeks dimpled with a smile. “You already know my two best friends, Rachel and Arabella.”

Davis used his knife to pry open one of the shells and tried not to cringe at the bittersweet tone of Connie’s voice. Apparently, she harbored some hard feelings about not getting picked.

“The town’s going crazy over the pair of you. Engaged cousins.” She clucked her tongue. “How about that for a front-page story?”

“We’re not cousins—”

“It’s a rumor—”

Davis and Ivy spoke at the same time.

Connie’s smile tightened. She set her chin in her hand. “I figured. Davis has always been more interested in intellectual types.”

The clamshell he’d been working on popped open and flew over Ivy’s head. He narrowed his eyes at Connie. “Ivy’s plenty intellectual.”

Connie batted her hand. “I didn’t mean it as an insult, Davis.”

Ivy stared with heavily lidded eyes—either unimpressed or bored with Connie’s games.

Davis shifted forward in his seat, ready to get the interview over with. “So about the fashion show. All proceeds are going to help fund an art program at the community college, one for blind or visually impaired students. I’m hoping the event will draw a big crowd.”

“Don’t put the cart before the horse, Davis.” Connie pulled out a digital recorder from her purse and wiggled it in the air. “I was sorry to hear about your father’s passing, Ivy. I ran a story about him last year. The county hospital would never have a children’s wing if not for his time and donation.”

Ivy’s face drained of color.

Connie didn’t seem to notice. She was in full-blown reporter mode. “Not only did he pay for it, he visited the children several times. I interviewed the mayor’s daughter who was there battling a severe case of pneumonia, and she talked about him like he was some kind of hero. He must have been a wonderful father.”

Davis glared at Connie. He hadn’t set this up to talk about James.

Ivy didn’t say a word.

By the time he turned around to see why, she was on her feet, marching toward the parking lot, fists clenched at her sides.

The slamming door cracked like thunder. Ivy stalked through the foyer, Davis trailing her steps as she stomped into the kitchen and found Marilyn, humming as she rearranged a bouquet of flowers. All Ivy’s anger toward James—years and years of it—gathered like steam in a kettle.

“Why am I here?” Each pain-laced word whipped the next.

Marilyn stopped, a flower falling from her hand into the sink.

Davis touched her arm. “Ivy …”

She shrugged him away. “Why did you ask me to come here?”

Marilyn’s forehead knitted into a tangle of lines and wrinkles. Her attention flitted to Davis before landing back on Ivy. “Because … I … I needed a model.”