A Broken Kind of Beautiful (10 page)

During the funeral, Ivy hadn’t had the chance to take in much of Greenbrier. She’d been in town only one day, and given the circumstances, she’d been a little distracted. Something about seeing the man responsible for her life lowered into the ground had turned her off toward exploration. Now, however, with nothing but dread keeping her company, she sought out the diversion.

She straightened and craned her neck around Davis, who blocked the majority of her view. Spending forty minutes squished between him and Jordan Ludd, who didn’t seem any more comfortable with Davis than Davis seemed with him, had lost its intrigue after the second mile. She’d tried flirting with the young man in an attempt to rile Davis, but she might as well flirt with a pile of bricks, and all Davis did was stare out the window, his jaw pulsing like a heartbeat. She chalked up the kid’s lack of interest to his equal lack of IQ, but she could find no excuse to explain Davis’s indifference. The whole ride left her with a bruised ego and sticky from the less-than-impressive air conditioner.

Davis leaned back in the seat, granting her access to the world outside the cramped cab of the tow truck. “Ivy needs to be dropped off at Something New before we go to the shop.”

Jordan mumbled his reply, or more like grunted, and turned through a roundabout showcasing a hibiscus-framed stone heron spouting water from its beak. The island town was much the same, with manicured lawns surrounding antebellum homes, the kind that made Ivy feel as though they’d time-warped into the nineteenth century. Like any minute she might hear cannon fire in the distance or see Confederate soldiers strapped with muskets marching down the street to the waving of women’s handkerchiefs.

The truck pulled onto a lopsided street called Palmetto Boulevard. Lopsided because shops adorned only one side. The sun peeked over the row of multitiered brick buildings and cast elongated shadows across the cobblestones—fat, black arms reaching toward the palm-tree-dotted white shore. Jordan stopped a few blocks down, in front of a black awning with white lettering.

Something New.

The boutique Marilyn had opened ten years ago, the year Ivy left for New York City permanently, stuck out more than the others. Couture was not something Greenbrier knew well, but somehow, someway, her stepmother made it work. A sheen of sweat slicked Ivy’s palms. Marilyn was inside. Bruce had warned Ivy, over the phone, to behave. He’d reminded her that Marilyn was a paying client, and this was her chance to get back on track. To let things settle in New York City while she made waves down south. Good waves. She took a deep breath and wiped her palms against her shorts. She’d dealt with many clients throughout her career. Marilyn didn’t have to be any different. Ivy only needed to go inside, ask about the time frame and details for this particular assignment, and find a place to stay while she served her sentence.

Davis opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. Ivy unpeeled the backs of her thighs from the vinyl and scooted off the seat to join him. The ocean air smelled so different in South Carolina than it did on Staten Island. Even the sky looked different, as if somebody had flipped a brightness switch and made it bluer. And the street wasn’t just clean; it was “take your shoes off” clean. No litter by the curbs. No cigarette butts. Not even a sidewalk crack for the cigarette butts to fall into, if there were any. The perfection of it unnerved her. Having grown up in Chicago, then moving on to places like New York and Paris, Ivy preferred a little dirt and grit beneath her feet.

Davis walked around to the back of the truck, where he’d wedged her luggage, uncorked her suitcase, and handed it over. “As soon as my car’s fixed, I can give you and Marilyn a lift to the house.”

The house. Ivy didn’t like the way he said that. Like it was the only one on the island. Like he expected her to stay there. “Marilyn doesn’t have a car?”

“She rides her bike to work.”

“Her bike?” Ivy hitched her purse strap higher up her shoulder. “A Schwinn or a Harley?” Somehow, she couldn’t picture Marilyn on either.

Davis smiled. A genuine, unguarded smile that showed off slightly crooked teeth and dimples the shape of parentheses. “Definitely not a Harley.” He glanced over his shoulder at Jordan, then pointed westward. “I’ll be two blocks that way, on Peterson Street, if you need me. It shouldn’t take long. You should check out the strip if you get bored.”

“All by my lonesome?”

His dimples disappeared. “I’ll see you later.”

She watched him get into the truck, battling a listlessness she didn’t want to feel. Men usually liked her presence, yet Davis seemed unimpressed. Was Bruce right? Was she losing it? She filled her lungs and narrowed her eyes at the truck as it drove away, pulling Davis’s Jeep Cherokee after it. Mr. Knight was not beyond seduction. No man was. She’d snag his attention, and she’d do it in less than a week. She’d prove to herself that she still had it.

Ivy turned toward Something New and pushed through the front door. A peal of bells sounded overhead, and a whoosh of cool air and light jazz greeted her. She stepped onto polished mahogany that looked more like glass than wood and found herself facing a deep-set boutique, decorated by mannequins clad in white gowns, posing in front of brightly lit three-way mirrors.

The clicking of heels sliced through her reluctant appreciation. Marilyn walked toward her dressed in a tailored cream-colored business suit, a measuring tape in one hand and pins in the other. Except for the gray in her roots and some extra wrinkles by her eyes, she looked much the same. Maybe not the ravishing beauty Mom had been, but pretty enough to make
Ivy wonder why James had done what he did. She pushed the thoughts away and returned Marilyn’s smile.

Her smile.

How could the woman smile at Ivy like that—as if she truly meant it? It defied any shred of logic and left Ivy as off kilter as it had back then. Surely she had ulterior motives.

“How are you?” Marilyn’s voice came out smooth and soft, flavored with just the right amount of southern drawl. “Davis called to tell me about the car.”

Ivy shrugged.

Silence crept in between them and stood its ground. The jazz music did little to alleviate it. Ivy fidgeted with her hands and searched for a way to begin. Any one of her questions would suffice.
How long do you need me here? What’s involved? Why are you paying so much money to have me? Why in the world do you want to hang my face in your boutique?

Okay, maybe not that last one.

A stranger’s voice broke through the awkwardness. “My daughter’s all ready, Marilyn.” A middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper curls and peach lipstick came out from behind one of the three-way mirrors, holding a bottle of Snapple in her hand. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were with somebo …” Her voice trailed off as slowly as her mouth opened, then froze in place. It was as if somebody had jabbed the slow motion button before hitting pause.

Marilyn ignored the woman’s odd reaction. “How beautiful does she look?”

The woman peeled her attention away from Ivy, blinked, then shifted her Snapple to her other hand. “Like the belle of the ball. She thinks this is the one.”

“Oh, how exciting. Tell her I’ll be back in two seconds.”

The woman nodded and hurried behind her mirrored hiding place.

Two seconds wasn’t very long. Ivy better use it well. “Bruce told me you’d fill in the details for me, as far as what’s expected.”

“I was hoping we could sit down and talk about it later tonight.”

“What’s tonight?”

“I’m making dinner for Mom and Dad at the house. They’re celebrating their fifty-third wedding anniversary. I was hoping Rose—if you remember, that’s Davis’s mom—would still be in town, but she and her husband had to get back to work. You’re welcome to join us if you want.”

The bastard child joining the widow and her parents to celebrate fifty-three years of fidelity? Somehow, that was a bit too ironic for Ivy’s taste.

“Davis and Sara will be there. You remember Sara? I was hoping we could get together afterward and talk about the campaign. I’m sure you and Davis discussed some of the details on your way here, but you probably still have questions.”

“Why would Davis and I discuss the campaign?”

Marilyn frowned. “Didn’t he tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Davis is your photographer.”

Ivy smiled like Marilyn was telling a fantastic joke. But Marilyn didn’t smile back.

Wait a minute. Davis was going to photograph her? How ridiculous. She shook her head. Almost stuck her fingers in her ear to clear it out. No. She had to have heard wrong. Misunderstood somehow. “I’m sorry—did you say Davis will be my photographer?”

“Yes.”

The softly spoken word scratched like sandpaper. There was no way Davis Knight would be her photographer. She didn’t care how well Marilyn paid or how much exposure Bruce promised. She couldn’t risk botched-up photos splayed in an editorial spread, even if it was
Southern Brides
, all so he could experiment with a hobby. Not when her career was on the line. She
couldn’t believe the fashion editor of the magazine would hire an amateur. Nothing against Davis. But what did he know about fashion photography?

Marilyn’s quick assurance about her nephew’s brilliance did nothing to settle the doubts pinging through Ivy’s mind. Davis had probably snapped pictures of Marilyn’s dog at some Sunday afternoon picnic and she’d fallen in love. All fine and dandy, except casual picture-taking did not make a person an expert in photography—especially fashion photography. Ivy needed these pictures to make waves, and without an experienced photographer, they wouldn’t even make a ripple. Or worse, they’d drill holes in the bottom of her boat and sink her altogether.

Ivy marched up the street, spotted a street sign that read Peterson, and turned the corner. The cobblestone turned into ordinary concrete, and the row of multicolored awnings disappeared. She squinted down the length of the road, searching for a sign for Ludd’s Auto, and found it sandwiched between a pawn shop and a car wash. The tail end of the Jeep Cherokee jutted outside the opened garage, and a pair of feet poked out from the vehicle’s underside. She peered inside a window and spotted Davis, sitting in a plastic chair, tapping his foot against oil-stained concrete, arms crossed over his chest. She stepped through the garage and through the side door.

Davis looked up, and they shared some sort of electrically charged face-off—a stare down in the middle of a filthy repair shop. She crooked her finger and beckoned him to join her. But he didn’t come. At least not to her. He stood and pushed out the front doors, jerking his head for her to follow. The subtlety of his actions spoke volumes. She heard his message loud and clear: Davis Knight would not be led.

He leaned against the stucco with his hands shoved inside the pockets of his cargo shorts. “Done at the boutique already?”

“I found out some interesting news.”

“Okay.”

“Marilyn says you’re going to be my photographer.” Ivy waited for him to laugh. No such luck. “Call me crazy, but what do you know about fashion photography?”

He made a face—like he caught the faint scent of something sour.

“I’m flattered, Davis, that you’ve followed my career.” She stepped closer. “But if this is about taking pictures of me, you don’t have to go through Marilyn to do it.”

He didn’t step away, but something inside him seemed to retreat. He cocked his head. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Tired?” It was a left-field question.

“This act of yours. Because I don’t think it’s you.”

She crossed her arms, as if doing so might hide away whatever Davis saw. Did he really think a fifty-minute car ride and some shared memories made him an expert on Ivy Clark? He didn’t have a clue what was her and what wasn’t. “You think because you’ve followed my career and maybe you know some stuff about wedding dresses that you’re qualified to take pictures for a national magazine?”

“Trust me, I’m not any more thrilled about the idea than you are.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Thanks for being so specific.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “What are you so worried about? That I’ll take awful photos and ruin your career?”

“Actually, yes, you hit the hammer right on the head.”

“It’s a nail.”

“What?”

“You hit the nail on its head. Not the hammer.”

“What are your qualifications? And if you say anything about being hired for local birthday parties, I might roll my eyes.”

“I was a fashion photographer in New York for a few years.”

A mosquito buzzed by her nose. She swatted it away. What Davis was
saying didn’t make any sense. “People aren’t fashion photographers in New York for a few years.” He made it sound like a hobby.

“Not normal people, no. I’m not claiming to be normal.”

“Why’d you leave?”

He scratched the back of his head. “It’s complicated.”

It didn’t sound complicated to her. He obviously couldn’t hack it in New York, so he’d come back here to lick his wounds, and now the well-being of her entire career rested in the hands of a wannabe. “Can I see your portfolio? maybe a website? something to help me decide if I should get myself into this.”