A Broken Kind of Beautiful (31 page)

“My last round of chemo made me really sick, but I’m doing a little better now.” She bit her fingernail. “How do you and Jordan know each other?”

“I’m friends with Sara Knight.”

“Really? I love Sara. She gives me piano lessons.”

Jordan’s forehead turned the same color as his cheeks.

“And my mom cleans her house,” Twila added.

“Is your mom Annie?”

Twila nodded. “Are you really a model?” she asked again.

Ivy held up her hand in a Girl Scout’s pledge. “I’m the real deal.”

“I wish I could be a model.” She pointed to a stack of preteen magazines on her nightstand. The newest teen heartthrob and his ridiculous haircut plastered the cover of the top magazine and right beneath that, a picture of a young beauty—probably the same age as Tatiana, Bruce’s newest obsession. “But I’m not pretty enough.” She smiled down into her sheets and touched the nape of her neck. “I don’t have any hair, and even if I did, I don’t look like you.”

A muscle in Ivy’s chest pinched. She wanted to rip up those magazines—the ones that made a girl like Twila think she was anything less than perfect—and light them on fire. She wanted to wipe Twila’s longing away. Tell her the beauty she wanted didn’t exist. Or if it did, didn’t last. She wanted to tell Twila that if anybody in this room was beautiful, it wasn’t Ivy. “I know somebody who’s a million times more beautiful than I am.”

Twila’s eyes widened, like Ivy’s words weren’t possible. “Who?”

“You know her.”

“I do?”

“Yep. And so does Jordan.” Sara’s face swam in her thoughts. One hundred percent plain, but full of life and smiles and joy. If Twila was going to pin her admiration on somebody, let it be her. “Sara Knight. Your piano instructor.”

Twila leaned forward. “Jordan and Sara used to be sweethearts.”

“So I’ve heard.”

A nurse knocked on the opened door and came inside, holding a tray of food and some pills. “Time for Miss Twila to eat some lunch and have a rest.”

Jordan put his hat back on his head and tapped Twila on the nose. “I’ll be back later, sprite. I’ll even bring you more magazines if you want.”

She settled back into bed and looked at Ivy. “Will you come?”

Ivy couldn’t stay today. She was meeting with Sara and Marilyn to iron
out some other random details for the show. But something about Twila made her heart want to say yes, and her heart never, ever wanted to say yes. “Can I come another time?”

“I get to go home tomorrow. But next time I have piano lessons with Sara, you could listen. I’m not very good, but I’m not very bad either.”

“I’d like that.”

Twila smiled back and waved good-bye.

Ivy followed Jordan past the nurse and into the corridor, where she pulled him to a stop by his shirt sleeve. “Cancer?”

“Leukemia. She’s been fighting for a long time now.”

Ivy frowned. “Do her a favor and don’t buy anymore of those magazines.”

“Oh.” Jordan’s eyelids fluttered a bit, like he didn’t understand why Ivy would make such a suggestion. “Okay.”

“Does Sara visit?”

He looked down at his shoes. “I think so.”

“Jordan?”

He grunted.

“Do you still love her?”

Jordan shuffled his feet.

Ivy looped her thumb into the front pocket of her jeans. Davis didn’t want her meddling in Sara’s business, especially where Jordan was concerned. But he didn’t know what was going on between these two, and whatever assumptions he’d made about Jordan were false. Let Davis get upset. She’d deal with the consequences later. “Look, Jordan, I know you think she doesn’t, but Sara still loves you.”

More feet shuffling.

“You should come to her birthday party next month. It’s supposed to be a surprise, but she already knows about it.”

“I’m not sure she’d want me there.”

“I’m sure she would.”

He looked up from the gray-speckled linoleum.

“Come on. Haven’t you read any fairy tales?” She cocked her head and smiled. “Take up your sword, man. Chase after her. It’s time to rescue your damsel.”

“Rescue her from who?”

“Herself.”

Hoppin’ John’s Café hid at the tail end of Palmetto Boulevard, behind a row of overgrown hedges and several oaks—the kind with twisted limbs and gnarled branches. Ivy stood in front of the hedges, waiting for Davis, who promised to meet her ten minutes ago so they could talk to Arabella about catering lunch for the fashion show.

Ivy stepped onto the brick sidewalk, looking both ways for a blond male with broad shoulders and impossibly blue eyes. She hadn’t spoken to him in two days, since her embarrassing outburst on Saturday. Her nerves twisted. She didn’t want him to bring that up. She didn’t want him to psychoanalyze her unwarranted anger toward Marilyn. Instead, she wanted to speak with him about an idea, one that had formulated after yesterday’s hospital visit.

Twila wanted to be a model. Davis was a photographer. Why couldn’t he give the little girl a photo shoot? She looked both ways again, but still no Davis. Didn’t he know it was rude to be late? Not to mention unprofessional. Ivy looked up at the darkening sky. The weather report called for rain, but so far, the clouds had yet to unzip.

Somebody tapped her shoulder.

Ivy turned around.

Davis stood behind her, his eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, his increasingly shaggy hair mussed from the wind. His sudden appearance shot a blip of energy through her body. “Where’d you come from?”

“I’ve been waiting inside.” He flashed a row of faintly crooked white
teeth. “You look fidgety.” He stepped to the side so she could join him on the wooden planks leading to the café’s front doors. “Everything okay?”

“You mean, am I over Saturday’s temper tantrum?”

He took off his sunglasses. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

“I’m getting there.”

Davis reached for the brass handle and opened the door. A plume of cool air washed over Ivy’s face and shoulders. She stepped inside to the twang of country music and a friendly faced teenager.

“Hi, Davis! Welcome to Hoppin’ John’s.” The hostess motioned around the restaurant, drawing Ivy’s attention to the walls, which were covered—almost floor to ceiling—with photographs, posters, wooden signs, even a large gaudy painting of what appeared to be a lady with a missing hand.

“Hi, Bonnie,” Davis said. “We’re here to talk to Arabella about catering for the fashion show. Is she around?”

“I’ll go get her.”

As soon as Bonnie disappeared behind the bar, Davis bent toward Ivy’s ear. “Don’t judge the food by the decorations.”

Ivy nodded toward the painting. “What is that?”

“A portrait of Arabella’s mother.”

Ivy scrunched her nose. “What happened to her hand?”

“Lost it to a gator.”

“Shut up.”

“No joke. She went crabbing in the marsh when she was little. They jumped in afterward, and a gator got a hold of her and tore it right off.”

She slapped his bicep. “You are a horrible liar.”

Davis smirked. “You’re right. I’m not even sure that’s Arabella’s mom.” He cocked his head at the painted woman. “And I don’t think she’s missing a hand. I think it’s the angle.”

“Really?” Ivy tilted her head slowly as if trying to see it, then shrugged. “So I have a proposition for you.”

The lighthearted set of his eyebrows disappeared.

“Is a proposition from me really that bad?”

“Depends what it’s about.”

“It’s about Annie Welch’s daughter.”

“Twila?”

Ivy nodded.

“How do you know Twila?”

The restaurant’s twangy country music turned feminine. “I met her at the hospital yesterday. In the children’s wing.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to freak out again. So James cared more about kids he didn’t know than his own daughter. Big deal, right?”

“What does your proposition have to do with Twila?”

“For whatever reason, she wants to be a model.”

A man walked inside the restaurant. Davis touched Ivy’s elbow. She stepped forward to let him by.

“I was thinking. Maybe you could take pictures of her. Give the girl her own photo shoot. Something fun to take her mind off her illness.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Why not? Davis, your photos are brilliant. And honest.” Ivy thought of the editorial in
Southern Brides
. She’d hated it at first, but after further examination, she could see what had appealed to Juliette. The photos weren’t fake. They were real. Almost too real. “You could make Twila feel beautiful. You could make her feel special.”

He squinted his eyes and stared at the ceiling, as if considering her words. Then the hostess returned with Arabella. “How are two of my favorite people?” Bella didn’t give them time to respond. “Connie told me she’s running your fashion story soon.”

Ivy scrunched her nose at the memory of Connie West. She’d be happy never to see her again. The door opened behind them. Ivy stepped closer to
the bar as the hostess greeted the customers and led them to one of the many booths lining the windowed walls.

“It’s supposed to come out next Sunday,” Davis said. “I talked to Kipper Manning too. He’s going to give us some time on the air. Seems like this event’s really going to take off.”

Arabella twirled a chunky bracelet around her wrist. “Marilyn’s happy you’re taking pictures again.”

“Just temporarily. Until the show’s over.”

Ivy frowned. Davis couldn’t stop once the show was over. Not only for the sake of her career and future, but for his too. What she said earlier—she wasn’t blowing smoke. He was truly talented. He had no business squandering that talent. Getting him to fall back in love with photography would be good for her, sure, but it would also be good for him. And everybody else who benefited from his pictures, like Twila.

A swarthy-looking Italian poked his head out from a swinging door leading into the back and rapped the wall with his palm. “Telephone call on line two, Bella. Some emergency with the order we sent out to Bay View Golf Course a while ago.”

Arabella blew a strand of hair from her eyes. “I’ll be right back. We’ll talk details about the show.” She hurried around the bar and disappeared into the back room.

Ivy took advantage of the interruption. “So what do you say?”

“About what?”

“Taking pictures. Of Twila.”

“I don’t know …”

“What’s not to know?”

“Ivy, I’m only doing this as a temporary thing—to help Marilyn and to raise money for the art program. I can’t start taking pictures of kids with cancer.”

Frustration knotted her muscles. Davis’s hesitancy made no sense. He
was a good guy and this was a good thing to do. “Why not—because it’ll make you realize how much you love photography? I don’t understand why that would be such a frightening thing.”

“I don’t understand why you’re pushing so hard.” He cocked his head. “What does it matter to you if I fall in love with photography again?”

Ivy looked away. Did he suspect about New York or Vera Wang? And if not, shouldn’t she get it over with already and tell him since she’d have to eventually? She slid her hands into her back pockets. No, now wasn’t the time. Sure, she needed to get him to New York, but this Twila thing had nothing to do with Vera Wang and everything to do with Davis and his ability to capture what other people failed to see. In this case, Twila’s beauty. If she told him about Vera Wang now, he’d assume she was using Twila’s photography session as a ploy to get him to New York. “Can’t I do anything without ulterior motives?”

She kept her expression neutral, innocent. This wasn’t about Vera Wang. It wasn’t. Let him look as deep as he wanted, he’d find nothing but the truth.

His cell phone rang.

Davis fished the phone from his pocket. “ ’Lo, Davis Knight.”

Muffled words sounded from the other end.

“When?” Davis’s brow furrowed. “Is she going to be okay?”

Ivy leaned closer. Was who going to be okay?

“Where is she now?” He turned toward the door. “I’ll be right there.” He stuck his phone into his back pocket.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Sara. She’s hurt.”

27

Davis strode into Doc’s living room with Ivy trailing and found Marilyn sitting on the sofa. Grandfather paced in front of her, hands clasped behind his back while Jordan Ludd, of all people, stood off to the side and in front of an unused fireplace. He had no idea why either man was there, but Davis ignored them both and looked at his aunt. “Where is she?”