Bittersweet Surrender (9 page)

Carly had to bend toward her—which hurt her considerably—to catch it. “Practicing? What?” Were they really having this conversation in the middle of the night?

Magnolia mumbled something that sounded like
thumbs
.

“Thumbs? You were practicing thumbs?” That was the last time Carly would eat something spicy before bed.

Magnolia looked up. “Drums. I was practicing drums.”

Father, this woman is driving me to sugar. You promise not to give us more than we can bear, but do you realize just how dangerously close we are on this one? I lose my best friend, suffer through breast cancer, my husband walks out on me, my dad dies. Then this woman comes into my home, takes over my kitchen, forces me to eat charred vegetables, and now she tells me she plays the drums?

Lord? We need to talk.

five

“What happened to you?” Scott asked when
Carly hobbled into the office.

“I had a run-in with Ringo,” she said bitterly.

“I'm afraid to ask what that means.”

Her purse plopped onto the desk with a thump. “Magnolia plays the drums, did you know that?”

It was a rare moment when something surprised Scott, but right now, it was happening. And Carly rather enjoyed it. She explained what had happened in the middle of the night—the heart pounding, the fall, the ugly threats of eating sugar.

He shook his head. “She seems more a flute and piccolo gal to me. On the other hand, I have seen her drum side.”

“I'm just too beat—pardon the pun—to think about that.” She cracked open a pistachio. “So, do you think there's anything to that midlife crisis thing?”

“I don't know,” Scott said, staring at his computer screen. He looked up at her. “Are you telling me chocolate is your crisis?”

“Work with me here. This is not about chocolate. This is about midlife. My brother hasn't been himself for quite some time, and I just wondered if he's maybe going through a midlife crisis or something. You ever have anything like that?”

“You say that as though I'm way past midlife,” he said.

“Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” Something told her he was not having a good day.

“I'm fine. I was wondering about you.”

“Midlife. We were talking about midlife. My brother, C. J., acting differently. Any of this ringing a bell?”

“How is he different?”

“I don't know. He bought that Harley—”

“Nothing wrong with that. Lots of guys are into Harleys. I have one.”

Carly thought a moment. “I know, but—”

“Then what's the problem?”

She sighed. “Just something unsettling. I can't explain it.”

“You women always read into things. Everyone goes through that wanting-to-do-more-with-their-life stuff. Especially at our age.”

“Have you ever felt that way?” she asked.

“Sure. I want to accomplish more. I'd like to do some traveling, maybe go on a mission trip or two.”

“Really? Where do you want to go?”

He typed a couple of things on his keyboard and looked at Carly. He'd probably like to get some work done, but she wouldn't leave him alone. “Doesn't really matter where. Just want to contribute in some way. Have you ever been on a mission trip?” He opened his desk drawer for something.

“Where they have enormous bugs and snakes the size of California redwoods?”

He sighed. “Not all mission trips are in Africa. Wait—are you telling me you would stay home from helping people in need because you're afraid of bugs?”

“Excuse me, when a toddler can ride them, they don't qualify as bugs.”

He stared at Carly a little too long.

“Say it. I'm the slime of the earth because there are martyrs out there who face death on a daily basis for their faith, and I won't even sink my toe on African soil because I'm afraid of plate-sized spiders.”

“I wasn't going to say that, but since you did—”

“I'd rather send money.”

“I guess both are needed,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Yes, they are.” Carly couldn't help feeling this need to defend herself. “They're not allowed in my home, either, just so you know.”

“Who?”

“Spiders.”

“Carly?” Amber stood in the doorway. “The customer in room three is having an allergic reaction. She has a friend coming to get her now.” Amber rolled her eyes, then stepped out of the way to make room for the customer and the tearful technician at her side. It was Melissa Winters. She was blotchy, swollen, and scratching to beat the band.

Carly thought the woman had never looked better.

“I didn't mean to . . . I'm sorry, I just—”

“It's all right. We'll take care of things from here,” Carly said to the technician, who was clearly upset by all this.

Scott immediately got out of his seat and walked over to Melissa. “I'm so sorry.” He helped her to the sofa that was in the office. “Why don't you sit down here, and Amber will let you know when your friend gets here. You're not having trouble breathing, are you?”

She shook her head, though her tightened facial muscles revealed her anxiety. Scott grabbed a throw pillow and stuffed it behind her. “Does that feel better?”

Melissa nodded and lifted a charming smile.

Carly stared at Scott. Who
was
this person? Carly had heard of taking care of the customers, but this was ridiculous. She had to wonder if he would be so nice and thoughtful if this were eighty-year-old Mrs. Grayson who frequented the spa. Or what about Gladys Wilmington who weighed three hundred pounds after fasting?

“Scott, you can finish what you were doing. I'll be glad to help Ms.—” Carly stopped herself. “Melissa.”

The woman turned to Scott, her mouth upturned. “Melissa Winters. We've met, I believe,” she said, dripping with charm.

Scott blinked. “Yes, um, would you like some hot chocolate, tea, anything?” he asked. Just like that. Ignoring Carly completely.

Melissa scratched her arms and face—which were growing puffier by the moment. “No, thank you.”

“Have you ever had anything like this happen before?” Scott asked, clearly very much interested in what was going on with Melissa. He walked over to his desk.

“Yes, it's the eucalyptus. I haven't been around it in so long, I forgot about it. I called my doctor, and he's calling in a new prescription for me.”

Scott scribbled something on a note and returned to Melissa's side. “Please accept our apologies and a complimentary massage at your convenience.”

Hand to her throat. “Oh my, that's not necessary. It's no one's fault,” she said, yanking the certificate from his grasp before he changed his mind.

“Our pleasure. You haven't had a pleasant stay here, and it's our goal to make everyone happy.”

Carly wondered if she should point out that
she
was the owner and would decide who got free certificates.

The red blotches on Melissa's face just got redder. Her eyes never left Scott's. “Do
you
give massages?” she asked with a wicked smile.

He cleared his throat. “Um, no, I leave that to the professionals.”

“Your ride is here,” Amber said, stepping into the room.

“My goodness, that was fast,” Melissa said with a hint of irritation.

“Here, let me help you.” Scott leaned over to help her up, walked her out the door, and disappeared.

Carly stared after them, mouth gaping like a carp, marveling at how Ms. Z-Cup had Scott completely mesmerized. It wouldn't surprise Carly at all if Melissa hadn't orchestrated the whole thing.

A pang of guilt stabbed her heart, but she flipped it off. Okay, maybe Melissa hadn't staged the allergy attack, but Carly still didn't trust her. Just thinking about it made her mad. It was downright embarrassing how Scott had slobbered over this woman.

Pulling files from her drawer, Carly set to work. Thumping the end of her pen on the desk, she tried to think about the invoices in front of her, but she was too steamed. It had nothing to do with Scott. Or Melissa. It just made her mad that men were so . . . so . . . well, so visual. Could they truly be that shallow? Where did that leave women in her predicament?

Up a creek.

A glance at her fake breast depressed her once again. This was ridiculous. She needed to calm down. This was not about her. Well, maybe it was, but she needed to get over it.

She was almost through her rant by the time Scott stepped back into the office.

“So did you get things smoothed over?” she asked, cheerfully denying the smoldering anger that wanted to deck him for acting like a man.

“I would say so.” He was practically rocking on his heels. The goofy grin on his face made Carly want to bop him. “Melissa's friend had already picked up the prescription and given it to her when she got in the car.”

They had certainly become fast friends. Carly's eyebrows spiked. “Melissa?”

“Isn't that her name?” He slid into his chair.

“Just seems sort of chummy since you hardly know her.”

“What do you want me to call her?”

Carly considered telling him “Ms. Z-Cup,” but decided against it.

“Besides, I've seen her around here, talked to her a little. It's not like she was a complete stranger.”

Could something be developing here? So, Mr. I-don't-want-another-woman was changing his tune. “Gonna ask her out?”

He shrugged.

That idea bugged the daylights out of her. Carly didn't doubt that another woman might not understand their relationship. Ivy had been part of their friendship, so it worked, but another woman might be resentful and that just made Carly sad. She didn't want to lose another friend. Especially to Melissa Winters.

“What? You don't think I'm ready?”

“I didn't say that. Only you can answer that. But Melissa? She doesn't seem your type.”

“Why not?”

“Overly confident?”

“Nothing wrong with a little confidence.”

Carly suspected she didn't do anything “little.” She wasn't sure she liked the way he was looking at her. “‘Little' being the key word here.”

“Maybe there's a reason she acts that way. Maybe she's overcompensating for insecurities.”

Oh, she was overcompensating, all right, but Carly didn't think it had to do with insecurities. “Why would a woman like that ever have a problem with self-confidence?” She told herself to pull in her claws.

“A woman like what?”

Did he want her to spell it out?

“We don't know her past,” he said.

Oh, please.
What would she have to complain about? He knew what Carly had been through and he was defending Melissa's perfect self? “It's not as though I'm attacking her, Scott. Why are you defending her?”

“I'm just saying we don't know much about her and yet you're making these assumptions.”

“Whatever.” Carly resented her flaunting her boo—flaunting her black hair and shiny dark eyes fringed with those pretty little ol' lashes, and him falling for it. Guys were such idiots.

After her run-in with Scott, massaging sea
salts into her client's skin was the perfect outlet for Carly. Right now she could single-handedly scrub the paint off a barn, but she was careful not to scrub too vigorously. They couldn't afford to keep giving out certificates for free massages.

Scott's defense of Melissa bothered her to no end. If it were anyone but her, she wouldn't care in the least, but something about that woman just grated on Carly's nerves.

She had seen her type before. Able to get any guy she wanted, high school homecoming queen, cheerleader, lots of money and jewels at her disposal. Life had been handed to her on a silver platter.

Carly wondered how Melissa would react to a mastectomy.

“Oh, that's a little rough,” the customer said.

“I'm sorry.” Lessening the pressure, Carly continued the scrub.

She didn't know why she was so bitter about it all. It wasn't as though it was Melissa's fault she was beautiful. Carly suspected the real problem was with herself. She wasn't happy with the way she looked, to say nothing of the fact that Jake would be there in no time and she hadn't lost a stinkin' pound. It had not been a week yet, so maybe that was normal.

Desperation swelled in her chest. It was time to get serious about this weight thing. Scott was right. No pain, no gain. If Melissa could look that good, so could Carly.

Okay, so it will take a major overhaul by a plastic surgeon, but still, it could happen.