A Broken Kind of Beautiful (40 page)

The light flickered on and then flooded the porch. He blinked against the brightness. A chain rattled. A bolt clicked.

C’mon, Doc, hurry up!

The door opened and Doc Armstrong’s face peered out, his thick glasses magnifying his eyes. “Hush up, Neil.”

The barking stopped.

“Doc, I need help.”

Doc flung open the door, his already large eyes widening at the sight of Ivy in his arms. Davis didn’t look down. Couldn’t look down. He was too afraid to see the damage.

35

Muffled voices wiggled their way into Ivy’s consciousness. She stirred, kicking damp sheets off her legs as she tried wading out of the darkness. The voices rose, then quieted. She cracked open one eye. Muted sunlight pierced her pupil. She squeezed her eye shut. Her stomach rolled with nausea. Her throat felt as though somebody had swabbed it dry with cotton balls. Where was she? What was going on?

She tried to push herself up in bed, but her shoulder protested and her face caught fire. It itched and burned like somebody had rubbed it raw with a Brillo pad. When she tried opening both eyes, she found that one refused to cooperate. She managed a one-eyed blink, adjusting to the sunlit room. Somebody needed to shut the blinds.

And her face. What was wrong with her face?

A familiar voice floated inside the white room. “I’d like to see her.”

Bruce? What was he doing here? And where was here?

“You can as soon as she’s awake.” The unfamiliar voice belonged to a woman.

Ivy’s face itched and her eye wouldn’t open. She reached up to scratch it, but her fingers touched gauze, and the frightening memory slowly took shape in her mind. Her heart went from a barely there gurgle to full-throttle panic attack.

Doyle and the beer bottle. Darkness. Fear. The smell of alcohol on his breath. Him pulling back his arm and smashing the bottle against her face.

She reached up and touched the gauze again. Pain blistered beneath the bandages, and panic clawed up her throat. The room spun, then shrunk. Ivy gripped the sheets and cried out for help. What was wrong with her face?

Ivy’s cry cut through Bruce’s request. Davis wanted to bury his head in his hands. Cover his ears. Or maybe run inside her room and do something to soothe her pain. Her call reached out like a dull knife and gutted him.

Last night, the ambulance came to Doc’s and brought Ivy to the hospital. Her injuries were too severe for Doc to treat in his home. Mom and Sara had come and gone, but Marilyn waited with him as late night turned into early morning. Davis paced in the waiting room, wanting to see her. Terrified to see her, battling much too familiar feelings of guilt, until Bruce waltzed inside the hospital not more than ten minutes ago. Davis had followed him to Ivy’s room before he could barge inside. Now Ivy was awake. Davis dragged his hand down his face and stepped toward her door. Bruce stepped with him. Davis grabbed his arm and glared.

“Let me go check on her.” The nurse, who looked weary of them both, disappeared inside the room.

“I’m her agent. She’s my client and she’s sustained injuries. It’s my right to see her.”

“It’s your right to see her?” Who did he think he was—Ivy’s owner? He’d certainly never been her caretaker. Bruce only cared about Ivy so long as she made him money. As far as Davis was concerned, he lost all his rights to Ivy a long time ago.

The nurse returned.

“How bad is it?” Bruce asked.

“The injury needed a number of stitches, and there’s a lot of swelling. It won’t look as bad once the swelling goes down.”

“Will there be scarring?”

Davis hated Bruce for asking that question.

“The glass bottle caused some nasty damage. I don’t see how there won’t be. Now, if you’ll let me change her bandages, you can go inside and say hello.”

Bruce looked at the linoleum. He didn’t have to say it. It was written all over his posture. Ivy’s modeling career was over.

The nurse gave Ivy a large pill and a glass of water. She drank it down, wishing the medicine would erase the pain in her chest too. The nurse had poked and prodded her shoulder, tipped up her chin and peered at her face, then reapplied the bandages. Ivy had wanted a mirror, but fear kept the request nestled inside. The nurse smiled—the way Sara might have smiled—patted Ivy’s hand, and left the room.

A minute later, Bruce stepped inside.

Ivy ducked her head. Even though her face was wrapped, she couldn’t let Bruce see her. Not like this. If he saw the extent of her injuries … She closed her working eye and hurled the thought away. He wouldn’t fire her. She was his niece. And her face would heal. That’s what injuries did—they healed. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and raced down the side of her nose. The Vera Wang photo shoot was less than two weeks away. The opportunity of a lifetime. Her last chance to hold on, and it had slipped between her fingers and disappeared.

“Rough night.”

She didn’t look up.

“Davis said the police caught this Doyle guy. He was already on parole for aggravated assault.”

“Do you think that’s really what I want to hear right now?”

Bruce didn’t respond.

“Why don’t you say what’s on your mind, Bruce?”

“Ivy …”

Like a criminal facing the firing squad, she knew what was coming. Best to get it over with. And best to look him in the eye when he delivered the blow. It was the first time she’d ever seen him look uncomfortable.

“This isn’t the time or the place,” he said.

“Sure it is. This is the perfect time and place.” Years and years of suppressed anger swirled together and blistered beneath her skin. She refused to look away from him. Refused to let him off the hook. “Quit being a coward and say it.”

“What is it you want me to say?”

“What use am I now, right?”

He shook his head.

“It’s written all over your face.” Emptiness expanded, pushing her anger and everything else aside. She was empty. Empty, empty, empty. Only now, she had no beautiful shell to hide it. She fisted the sheets in her hands. “Well, thanks for the ride, Brucey. It was fun while it lasted.”

The pity in his eyes made Ivy loathe him more. “We’re not sure of anything right now. You could heal, do some commercial work. I can help you find a commercial agent.”

Ivy shook her head. Empty words for empty promises.

He slipped his hands inside the pockets of his slacks. “What am I supposed to do?”

Hug me. Hold me. Treat me like your niece instead of your client. Tell me everything will be okay. That I’ll heal and you’ll see me in New York in a couple months and you’ll find me a job
.

Another tear raced down her cheek.

“Davis is outside. He wants to see you.”

A wave of nausea rolled up her torso. “No.” Davis couldn’t see her like this. He would take one look and walk away revolted. She couldn’t let him do that to her. She wouldn’t survive it. “Send him away. He’s the last person I want to see.”

Davis stepped away from the door, Ivy’s words tearing him straight through. Sara was an artist. She’d wanted to be a painter of watercolors. She needed
her eyes. Ivy was a model. She’d wanted to model for Vera Wang. She needed her face. Somehow, he had played a role in destroying both.

He stared down at his hands—healthy and strong. They were hands that should have protected his sister. Hands that should have protected Ivy. But, instead, his hands tossed money at Ivy and left her alone. He’d disinvited her to Sara’s party, and she’d ended up running from a man who’d injured her in a permanent way. All because he lost his temper. Just like he’d done with Sara. Somebody else had gotten hurt because of his poor choices. Somebody else had lost her dreams because of his swollen pride. Now Ivy never wanted to see him again. Davis felt sick to his stomach. He was the one who deserved blindness. He was the one who deserved to have his face pulverized.

Not Sara. The sister he loved. Not Ivy. The woman he loved.

Oh God …

He loved her. He did. But it was too late. Before Bruce could deliver Ivy’s request, Davis turned around and walked away.

36

Davis left, but Marilyn stayed. She stayed while the doctors ran more scans and x-rays. She stayed when the police came with their questions. She stayed when Ivy asked her to leave.

A doctor asked, “Are you family?”

And Marilyn said, “Yes. I’m her mother.”

She took care of filling out insurance and medical forms. She stood by Ivy’s bedside while the nurse showed them how to dress and treat the wounds. She scheduled a follow-up appointment when Ivy would have her stitches removed. She called Sara, who came with Jordan to bring Ivy clean clothes. And when all that was finished, she checked Ivy out of the hospital and helped her to the car.

Marilyn gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles and a bereft heart as Ivy sat in the passenger seat—pale and pinched and tight lipped, half her face hidden beneath gauze as she looked out her window. Every time Marilyn tried to find her voice and ask a question, the words got stuck. What was there to say? So they drove in silence until she pulled into the garage and turned off the car.

“Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat. Maybe some soup.”