No One Like You (19 page)

“Let me show you a few new pieces.” Melody motioned them to the back of the shop. “My clothes mix hues and textures and have sleek lines.”

Rylan looked around the boutique as he followed the women. The shop’s decor played off the theme of lunar eclipse. The moon moving into the earth’s shadow was painted on the main wall. The designer’s logo
Step Out of the Shadows
was scripted above the artwork.

Melody offered them seating near a three-way mirror. His chair was brocade and delicate. Ry wasn’t sure it would hold his weight, so he opted to stand. Jillian settled comfortably.

The designer entered the dressing room and drew out a clothing rack with six outfits. “Spring inspired.”

“Beautiful colors.” Jillian admired them.

Melody held up and described each one. “A-line, dé-colleté, raglan, and Jackie-O.”

Rylan followed only half of what she said.
Chic, unique, current, must-have,
made more sense to him. He breathed deeply. He couldn’t be specific as to what he wanted for Beth. He only knew none of the designer outfits felt right. They didn’t look like Beth.

Melody left them for a moment to explore other options in the back room.

Ry couldn’t help noticing that his sister-in-law was taken by a sage green satin blouse and a pair of dark blue wide-legged pants. Her gaze had returned to the outfit a dozen times.

Melody had used the words
breezy polish, jeweled neck,
and
shirred forward shoulder seams
to describe the blouse. The pants were
European inspired
.

He bent toward Jill, kept his voice low. “Try on the green and blue,” he urged her.

Jill listened, went on to warn him. “I won’t wear the ensemble exactly like Beth. She’s petite. I have several inches on her.”

He cleared his throat. “You’re not wearing it for Beth. You’ll be wearing it for yourself.”

Her lips parted. “Ry, I don’t understand.”

“Nothing appeals to me,” he explained honestly. “I can’t picture Beth in any of these clothes. Melody’s been nice. I’d like to buy something. You’re here; let’s do it.”

Jill touched him on the arm. “You’re not obligated to make a purchase,” she assured him. “Many times I’ve dropped in to browse. Melody’s not pushy.”

Ry nodded toward the dressing room. “Go.”

She went. Moments later, she modeled the garments for him.

“You look hot,” he told his sister-in-law as she stood before the mirrors. “Those clothes should inspire a dinner date with your husband.”

Jill grinned at him. “I think so, too.”

He gave Melody his credit card, and the designer wrapped the two pieces in silver gauze paper, then put them in a gift box. Jill hugged Rylan at the door, obviously thrilled.

He hoped whatever he found for Beth would thrill her, too.

They walked the length of Saunders Shores, entering shops, only to walk out without a purchase. Jill soon glanced at her watch. “It’s almost eleven. Sorry, but I need to get back to work. The deliveries won’t check themselves in.”

“I’ll walk with you. Barefoot William shops may not be as fancy as the ones in Saunders Shores, but several stores sell ‘chic and current.’ ” He grinned as he quoted Melody.

Jill agreed with him. They strolled north, soon stopping at a shop with a bright red door. R
ICHMOND
R
OGUES
stood out in block letters.

She kissed him on the cheek. “See you Saturday.” Then left him on the boardwalk.

He stood alone. Debated his options. Three Shirts to the Wind sold beachwear. He decided to feed the local economy and buy something for himself. His cousin Jen owned the T-shirt shop. She was married to Mac James, a retired pro-volleyball player who had partnered with his brother Dune on the tour. Jen promoted Dune’s line of designer beach shirts. Rylan planned to buy several. Also new board shorts. He entered through the tangerine-colored door.

Jen was at the cash register, ringing up a sale. She smiled her greeting. “Be right with you,” she mouthed.

There were no other people in the store. He’d stopped at a good time. Three Shirts carried everything from plain white cotton tees to brightly colored polos. Some had caricatures while others had decorative designs. A few naughty slogans raised eyebrows. Most sayings were funny and silly. Overhead clotheslines stretched the width of the ceiling, displaying a line of Barefoot William attire. Dune had his own designer corner.

“Dude.” Jen joined him shortly. She was blunt and honest and openly stared at his haircut. “Halo Todd said you’re ‘trending.’ I personally think your barber had a slip of the scissors.”

“I’d say you were right, but keep it to yourself.”

“My lips are sealed.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Shopping for yourself or for someone else?”

“Me today,” he told her. “Dune’s shirts fit me well. Size large.”

Jen went to the rack of short-sleeve button-downs and selected two. “My all-time favorites from his collection,” she said, holding them up.

He liked both. Colorful sea shells, starfish, and sand dollars decorated a black background on the first. The pattern was intricate, but masculine. A sunrise rose over the pier on the second. He went on to shop for board shorts. Chose four pairs in solid colors.

“Flip-flops?” Jen asked him as they returned to the front of the store. “I’ve a new roped design you might like. A twist of black and brown leather form the Y between the toes. Very durable.”

He nodded. “I’ll take a pair. Size twelve.”

She carefully packed up his items and placed them in a waterproof nylon drawstring bag, given to special customers. He paid, paused, asked her, “Unusual women’s clothing, where would you shop?” Her surprised expression had him elaborating. “Not for me. For a female friend.”

“Do I know her?” Jen was curious.

“My PA. You’ll meet her at the picnic.”

“You’re shopping for her because—?”

He gave her the condensed version of Atlas and Beth’s bruise.

Jen was sympathetic. “You might try Vintage Attic,” she suggested. “It’s one of the dozen small shops located on the street behind the boardwalk.”

Ry knew the area. His family owned the property, but the stores were rented to outside entrepreneurs. Shaye screened each shop owner to be sure the stores wouldn’t compete with those on the boardwalk.

He cut through Three Shirts, went out the back door, and walked across the alley to the next street. Vintage Attic held a corner spot. The window was decorated with antique clothing. He was drawn inside.

“I’m Naomi.” The woman who appeared as old as the clothing introduced herself when he entered. She wore a long black dress with a lacy shawl. “Look around, ask questions.”

He stood and stared and slowly took it all in. He admired the curio cabinet with antique jewelry, the stack of felt and feathered hats, the shelves of shoes and boots, the purses and luggage. Clothing hung on hangers pegged to the walls. Small signs were discreetly placed, identifying the clothing by date. Time fell away beneath cascading floral tops, nostalgic skipper and prance skirts, flapper and swing dresses, pin-up girl shorts, bell bottoms, acid washed and distressed jeans. The past was well represented.

“There are contemporary items in the back,” Naomi told him. “Customers will oftentimes combine the old with the new. Every vintage piece of clothing has been dry cleaned.”

A mannequin stood near a glass case of old-fashioned glasses frames. The upper half of its body showcased an exquisite white blouse.

“What can you tell me about that piece?” he asked Naomi.

She came to him. “One of my buyers brought it back from London. It’s a Victorian lace cap sleeve blouse with the original glass buttons. Delicate and feminine. Sheer, but not see-through.”

It reminded him of Beth. “Exactly what I’m looking for. Does it go best with slacks or a skirt?”

“A formal occasion?” she asked.

“No, casual. Outdoors.”

“Might I suggest a vintage pair of Levi 501 jeans? A classic in the original state of wear and distress. High-waisted with a slightly tapered leg. The button fly is classic, even for women. There’s a tear below one knee. They can be cuffed. Each jean is unique and one-of-a-kind, which we handpick from a limited stock.”

The jeans worked for him. “Let’s do it.”

“They have a vintage size tag that differs from the modern size. I have personally measured and sorted each pair into contemporary proportions. What size would you need?”

He wasn’t sure. His hands had encircled Beth’s waist when he’d helped her off the horse on the carousel. Not totally accurate, but it gave him a rough idea. “Maybe twenty-six inches. She’s short, small.”

Naomi smiled at him. “I would allow an exchange, should the jeans not fit her.” She went on to choose a pair for him.

Rylan exhaled his relief. Shopping for a woman was not easy. He reminded himself he was doing this for Atlas. The surprise on Beth’s face would be worth the trouble.

He had to admit the Levi’s had Beth’s name on them. He could picture her in the lace blouse and jeans. She would look amazing.

“One final thought,” Naomi said. “Retro Zodiac boots. Nineteen eighties, and still very popular. I have a knee high pair in burgundy tones, suede base and leather upper. A beautiful patina. Stacked wood heel.”

Ry liked boots. Sexy or kick-ass, they drew a man’s eye to a woman’s legs. A stacked heel would give Beth height. Choosing the right size worried him a little. He’d massaged her feet when they had fallen asleep. He took a wild guess. Holding up his hand, he said, “Palm to index finger tip and add two inches. Do you have her size?”

Fortunately, Naomi did. “A beautiful, offbeat, individual look,” she complimented as she hung the blouse and jeans in a protective garment bag. The boots came boxed.

Ry paid for the items, then moved toward the door. On his way out, he happened to notice a display of vintage suitcases artfully arranged by the wall. They weren’t in great shape, showing worn leather, battered handles, and rusted hardware. Still, they were distinctive. The designer was Louis Vuitton.

Naomi crossed to him. “Aged, but still useable. Quite valuable. Clients refurbish them. They speak of class and wealth.”

Ry’s gaze lingered on Louis Vuitton. The name stuck in his mind. It took him several seconds to remember where he’d seen it last. It hadn’t been the full name, only partial letters.
Lou Vui
was on Beth Avery’s luggage. The remainder of the name had been scratched off.

Was she a collector of old suitcases or was it a hand-me-down? Her past didn’t fit with the woman she seemed to be. She’d yet to come together for him. He’d keep trying to figure her out.

He returned to his SUV, then headed for the hardware store. He bought a plastic-rimmed door that could be inserted behind the heavier wooden one. The lower half had double flaps for easy access. Atlas should be able to clear it. Ry could easily install it himself.

Home came next. He pulled into the driveway, stepped from the Range Rover. He hooked the hangers of the garment bag over one finger. Tucked the boot box beneath his arm. Clutched the drawstring bag in his other hand. He climbed the steps and entered the cottage.

He stopped in the entryway, looked around. Beth had been busy. She’d located his cleaning supplies in the laundry room. The Swiffer WetJet had left the floors clean and shiny. The scent of citrus lingered. His cottage smelled like sunshine. It was spotless.

“Atlas, no dust bunnies!” He heard Beth scold from the kitchen. Her tone was firm.

He set the items on the sofa then followed her voice. He stopped short of announcing he was home. Instead, he rested his shoulder against the wall and stared. He slipped his iPhone from his pocket and snapped a photo.
For posterity,
he mused. He would refer to the picture whenever he needed a smile.

His Great Dane was sitting on his haunches before the refrigerator. His front paws pounced on the dust bunnies Beth swept from beneath it. She was on all fours, her bottom in the air, a whisk broom in one hand. A dust pan sat between them. She swished as fast as he stomped. Her cutoffs rode above the lower curve of her ass. Firm and curvy flashed him.

Atlas’s tail wagged. He liked playing with the dust bunnies. Beth’s butt wiggled with the stretch of her arm. Rylan couldn’t believe she was going to such great lengths in cleaning his house.

“We have to be ready in case it rains,” Beth said to Atlas.

The Dane tilted his head as if he were listening.

“The meteorologist said seventy degrees and sunny on Saturday, but I don’t trust Mother Nature. She’s been mean to me.”

Mean to her?
That caught Ry’s attention. How so?

She didn’t elaborate. “We need Plan B. Rylan doesn’t have much furniture, but between the back porch and the living room, we’d have plenty of space should we need to move inside.”

The last of the dust bunnies escaped, and Atlas barked them to death.

Beth whisked them onto the dust pan. “All done.” Back on her feet, she dumped the contents in the garbage can beneath the sink. Her back was still to Ry.

He pushed off the wall and approached her. Atlas had yet to give him away. The big boy didn’t seem to care he was home. His eyes were on Beth.

She’d yet to straighten the hem on her shorts. Rylan glimpsed the feminine crease between her thigh and bottom. There was no bra line beneath her tank top. Her breasts were free.

His groin tightened. Unexpected and untimely. His last few steps were awkward. He drew a settling breath, which Beth heard. She spun around, dust pan raised, ready to fend him off. Silly woman. Had he been an intruder, Atlas would have nailed him to the floor. Still, he’d scared her. Her eyes were wide and gray, and her lips parted. Her cheek was a serious blue. Dust streaked her forehead. Her clothes carried the same scent as the cleaning supplies. It was evident who had done the work. Not a maid service. Atlas even had lint on one ear.