She's All That (16 page)

I still her hands. “You know, I'll do your voodoo when we're at the spa. Not in public. In public, I have to be seen as a designer next to a best friend who only wears gauze. Is that not enough torture for me?”

“We really need to pray you through your insecurities, Lilly. The emotional freedom technique—”

“I'm cool with that. It just looks like we're playing
See, See,
Oh Playmate
. Can't it wait? We're here for Morgan, right? I'll still be skinny and unattractive with atrocious hair after the singles' meeting.”

“I didn't say that. I said the opposite is true. See, you repeat the falsehood and then—”

“Never mind. Morgan?”

Poppy nods. “Let's go.”

The singles' group meets in the back of the stone church, and the room is colder than a night on the Bay, even in the middle of summer. As we walk in, we all get the once-over from the sea of faces. Poppy's clothes are the first thing that's noticed, and probably the next is: is that skinny girl old enough to be here? Let's just say, if we weren't saved when we walked in here, our collective redemption value to this group would probably amount to less than an empty two-liter bottle. Our audience quickly loses interest and goes back to the rumbling.

“Bad energy,” I say to Poppy before she can blurt it.

“It's probably rooted in deep-seated insecurity,” she whispers behind a cupped hand before shouting, “Hi, we're friends of Morgan Malliard's.” The entire room turns to face us.

We come in peace. Take us to your leader.

The room is silenced. A woman gets up, dressed to the nines in Chloe. A singles' group in couture. I need this like a hole in the head.

She stretches out an unbearably white arm and flicks her dark hair behind her back. “Welcome. I'm Caitlyn Kapsan.” At first her voice is so breathy, I think she's teasing, and I wait for her to say,
Kidding, great to have you
. But no, just more breathy words: “Of Kapsan Properties.”

“Dr. Poppy Clayton.” Poppy sticks out her unmanicured hand.

“Lilly Jacobs.” I thrust my hand toward her. “Lilly Jacobs Design.”

“Do you know our friend Morgan, Caitlyn?” Poppy asks.

Caitlyn giggles a breathy laugh. I swear it sounds like a cat trying to get a hairball up.
Is that supposed to be attractive?
“Everyone knows Morgan. If they don't, they have to be living in some type of hole. Make yourself at home, girls. We'll be starting with Bible study soon.” Her Chloe-clad self then turns and, nose in the air, walks briskly away.

“Ah, she exudes warmth, doesn't she?” I laugh. “I'm feeling so cozy, so absolutely enveloped in God's love. Gee, I hope there's an altar call tonight.” We look at one another and laugh.

“It doesn't matter. We're here for answers, not spiritual sustenance. Thank the Lord. Someone here must know why Morgan is marrying that old man, or at least who he is.”

But we both know that if
we
don't know, there probably isn't another soul on earth besides Morgan who can shed light on this. If being wealthy has taught Morgan anything, it's how to put up appearances and play her cards close.

“Someone here at least might know who he is. We're going to have to piece things together—there's no getting around that.” Poppy sits down and stretches her gauzy skirt around her. My eye catches on the Indian-gone-awry design, and I open my mouth to say something snotty when something stops me. Something pulls my gaze away, and I feel time stop.

There have been three moments in my life when I felt as though time stood still. One was when I saw my first copy of
Vogue
in a hair salon and realized that there were other emaciated girls like me. (Not that I was emaciated, exactly, but I did look a lot like a World Vision ad. Only the distended belly was missing.)

The second time was in college when I laid eyes on Steve Collins, a rugby player and Irish cad. He was heavenly to look upon, with blond curls and emerald eyes like the isle he came from. With his beautifully hooked Roman nose (hooked after being broken during rugby, of course) making him thoroughly masculine and yet completely approachable, Steve was the type of man whose looks should be immortalized in marble. Time quickly started again when he asked Poppy if I was the type that “put out,” because he was considering dating me.
Ewww
.

This is the third time. Right here, today, in this stone church, time is standing still again. And the reason is behind the small podium.
Am I breathing?
He's got a full head of dark brown locks pushed haphazardly off his forehead, deep chocolate eyes that appear as if they hold a secret only for me, and a rugged jaw that's square but softened by a gentle smile.
Must
remember to breathe—
but I feel this man's presence as if I'm entertaining angels unaware.

“Lilly? Are you okay?” Poppy asks.

I feel my head bob in answer. I don't find very many men attractive. I think there are many who are handsome, but feeling their presence? It's only happened to me once before—with Steve Collins, a man who thought intimacy meant staying a full night. So…I can't say my feelings have been altogether proper…or that they've ever amounted to anything more than adding to my suffering. Still, this breathtaking moment is magical in its own way. Makes you buy into the thought of a soulmate.

Nana has always told me that it's dangerous to feel that way about a man. It's better to be in control and not care whether they stay or go. I try to remember that as I look at that full, wavy hair, a definite no-no. I just want to rake my fingers through it without bothering to introduce myself.

“Lilly?” Poppy says again.

“Shh.” I feel my finger at my mouth, and then I see his eyes catch on mine. They hold there, and I slowly drop my finger into my lap.

“A warm welcome to our guests,” he says, looking directly at me. I feel this girlish blush spread all over my face.

I lean over to Poppy. “Did he just speak in a British accent?”

“I am from England, yes,” he says.

I look at Poppy in horror. Judging by her expression, I did indeed say that out loud.

“Kent,” he says. “A little town near Canterbury. And will you share your names with us, ladies?”

He looks straight at me, and I fear my mouth is standing still with the moment. “P-P-Polly,” I stammer.

“Lilly,” Poppy says. “Her name is Lilly Jacobs. She's from San Francisco. I am Poppy Clayton, formerly of Santa Cruz and now, Cupertino. We are best friends with Morgan Malliard and hoped we might find her here tonight. To surprise her.”

“Well, it's a pleasure to have you both here. Morgan hasn't been with us for some time, but you are always welcome. If we don't have any further announcements, I'll ask you to turn your Bibles to the Book of Romans.”

I didn't bring a Bible, and suddenly I feel completely exposed sitting here with no Bible and an inability to speak. But I'm also lost in a dream world, so I'm not really caring either. Someone at the end of the row hands me a church Bible, and I murmur a thank you before rifling through the pages quickly to get to Romans.

When the sermon is over—and I did manage to focus on the fact that it was about living in God's will, even when life doesn't go your way. As if it ever goes mine!—Poppy stands up. “Valuable sermon, but I'm afraid in terms of Morgan, this night wasn't much help. Let's go mingle and see if we can find anything out.”

I look at tonight's teacher, and my gaze captures his own. His eyes are so expressive, and I could swear they are saying,
Don't leave.

Poppy grabs me by the arm. “What side of the room do you want to take?”

“The front,” I say absently. My eyes never leave those chocolate brown eyes that seem to be conversing with my own. For the moment, I can't think of a better use of time. I straighten the pink cashmere hoodie I made from Sara Lang scraps.
Dang,
I love design.

“So I'll take the back?” Poppy asks.

“Yeah,” I say, and I see a very slight smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

“Friends of Morgan's, then?” he says, reaching a hand out for my own. I grasp it, and he cups the other around mine. I clutch my hand against his, feeling the pulse pounding in my throat.

I nod. “Best friends since college.”
I did it! I spoke intelligibly.
It's a sign from above, I tell you!

“Stanford then?”

“Yes. Excellent lesson, by the way. You're a gifted teacher.”

“I grew up in the shadow of Canterbury. My grandmum would say I ought to be.”

Can I bear your children?

“Are you the singles' pastor?” I finally ask.

He laughs. “No, I'm afraid the pastor's life isn't for me. I'm in pharmaceutical sales. Mostly over-the-counter products. We're just getting our American sales force in play.”

Poppy is at my side just as he says this. “What kind of products?” Her eyes narrow, and I fear we're in for a natural medicine sermon. I cringe at the thought. I swear, I will shred that favorite gauze skirt of hers if she embarrasses me.

“Weren't you going to take the back of the room?” I whisper with lowered brows.

She ignores me. “What kind of products?” she asks again.

His face goes bright red. “We're just expanding our market from mostly UK generics to over-the-counter products here in America.”

“What kind of over-the-counter products?”

Ugh, here it comes. The drugs as the devil speech.

“Pregnancy tests, mostly.”

I'm gonna die.
My Brit angel is now the color of the Netflix envelope: bright red.

“Poppy's a chiropractor,” I blurt, hoping to shut her up on the evils of antibiotics and a good/bad yeast balance. “She believes in natural healing. But nothing unnatural about a pregnancy test, now is there, Poppy?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“I believe in natural healing too,” my Brit angel says, “when natural healing is called for. But there are times when nothing can replace pharmaceuticals. Better life through chemistry and all that.”

“The body is an amazing healing machine,” Poppy says in distinct challenge.

“So are sales good here in America?”
Oh shoot me. Was that
the stupidest question? Do I really want to know how the rest of my
country is faring in offspring production when I can't get a date?
And is it any wonder why? Ask his name, Lilly!

“Quite good,” he says. “I haven't properly introduced myself. I'm Stuart Surrey. I do hope you two will join us again.”

At this point, Chloe-clad woman approaches us. “I see you've met my
boyfriend
, Stuart. Isn't he an incredible teacher?”

There are times when that word
boyfriend
is used as a weapon. This is definitely one of those times. And I feel my back curl like a cat's looking for a fight.

I look at Stuart as if he's betrayed me. “He's wonderful,” I say, while keeping my eyes on his, but now my stomach is stirring.

“We really should get to the group in case there are questions, Stuart,” Caitlyn says, clutching
my
short-lived angel's elbow. “It was a pleasure to meet you both. Do say hello to Morgan. It's been so long since she went off and took up with the Russian. We never see anything of her.”

“You know her boyfriend then?” Poppy asks.

“He's a Russian diamond broker, right? We have so many internationals with us, and the diamond connection was obvious with Morgan's dad and all. I introduced them, I believe. They met and I guess it was an instant connection.”

“He was coming to your singles' group? Isn't he sort of, um, you know, older?”

“Age is relative, darling,” Caitlyn says. “A man is only as young as he feels.”

Poppy looks at me with a sullen expression clearly visible in her eyes. “Thank you all for making us so welcome here tonight. Great sermon, Stuart. I do hope we'll get to hear you again one day.”

“Please do come back,” Stuart says, looking straight at me.

“We will.” I grab for his hand one last time and feel his fingertips on my wrist.

Poppy grabs my hand and rushes me out the door. “I knew Morgan's father was behind this. That man would sell his soul to drape a diamond around someone's neck.”

“Poppy, we don't know if this is arranged. She said she was fighting her dad. Maybe Morgan loves this man.” But I know, even as I say it, that San Francisco's Jeweler probably has a great deal to do with this marriage. Morgan has never been able to break free of his clutches. If this marriage happens, she probably never will.

“Lilly, don't think I didn't see you and Mr. Surrey having your own private conversation, by the way. His girlfriend apparently noticed too.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Stuart probably was feeling sorry for me, wondering when I might be entering puberty. It was nothing.” But I feel thoroughly nauseated now. Maybe I have unrealistic expectations for what love is supposed to be like, but shouldn't it make you feel like that? Shouldn't it be wildly passionate, and shouldn't you be unable to talk properly when you meet him?

“Stuart was wondering how he might escape the clutches of that woman and get alone with you. Don't let my gauze fool you. I see more than you think I do. I'm just not fashion-oriented. There's nothing wrong with a skirt that lasts more than a decade,” she says, sweeping her skirt around.

“There is something
so
wrong with a skirt over a decade old. Where do I begin? The only thing that's worse is that horrid tie-dyed one you wear. You look like you stepped straight out of Santa Cruz. How do you ever expect a man who isn't into medical cannabis to ever look your way?”

“I don't believe in medical marijuana,” Poppy says. “They can get the medical benefits from pills and not sear their lungs.”