A Broken Kind of Beautiful (24 page)

James, you were such a fool
.

The entire encounter had added an extra layer of awkwardness to their relationship—another barrier Marilyn couldn’t figure out how to breach. Better to leave Ivy in peace than attempt a stilted conversation that would only call attention to the wall that stood between them. She had taken a step away when Ivy turned a page and let out a sigh so long and heartfelt that Marilyn couldn’t help herself.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

Ivy brought her bare foot onto the dock and blinked at Marilyn. She placed her finger inside the book to hold her spot. “I, um, borrowed it from the bookcase in the living room. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course.” Marilyn stepped closer and caught a glimpse of the title.
Walden
by Henry David Thoreau—the opposite of light reading. “I’ve tried reading that one several times. Could never manage to get past page ten. You looked like you were enjoying it though.”

“I can never tell if he’s a poet or a scientist.” Ivy looked down at the paperback in her hand and smiled. Although the gesture wasn’t meant for Marilyn, it still drew her closer. There was a depth to Ivy people rarely saw. James certainly had never bothered to look. “One minute he’s personifying plants and the next he’s classifying them.”

“You’d make a great literature professor.”

The comment seemed to be the wrong one, because Ivy’s posture stiffened.

Marilyn scrambled for something to say before Ivy retreated altogether, praying substance into the moment so she could grab on tight and hold it close. “What did you think about your first taste of Frogmore stew?”

“Heavy.”

“It’s an acquired taste.” Marilyn took a sip of her coffee, which was no longer hot but lukewarm. If only she’d brought an extra cup for Ivy. “You and Sara seem to be getting along.”

“She’s easy to get along with.” Ivy’s attention flitted to the Bible and journal tucked beneath Marilyn’s arm. “You still do that?”

“Every morning.”

Ivy nodded, stood. “Well, I don’t want to get in your way.”

“You aren’t in my way.” The words came out too fast, too eager.

Ivy shrugged awkwardly, and in Marilyn’s desperation to prolong the inevitable, she blurted the first question that came to mind. “How’s your mother doing?”

The regret was swift. If Ivy’s eyes had shutters, they would have slammed shut. Marilyn had broached a taboo topic. Ivy never talked about Renee, not here, not with her. “She’s fine.”

And with that, Ivy walked away, disappearing into the mist that had yet to break apart.

Davis might not have liked Stefan the model, but at least he had been a nice buffer during their first photo shoot. This second time around, Davis had no buffer. This time it was only Ivy—in a long ivory gown that hugged her body before flaring outward at her knees. Her hair fell like silky waves flowing down her back, pinned behind her ear on one side by a single large rose.

He snapped several pictures and swallowed, trying to ignore the heat in his stomach, the familiar sensation of tingling nerves as he captured the perfect angle. He tried to find neutral ground where this was just a camera and Ivy was just a girl. He reminded himself not to get too invested, because the more invested he became, the more pain he’d experience later, when the campaign ended and he returned his equipment to the basement where it belonged.

But who was he kidding? The camera wasn’t just a camera—it was a passion that had stolen so much. And Ivy wasn’t just a girl—she was the woman stuck in his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried to unstick her.

He was enjoying this too much.

Ivy pivoted her body and looked over her shoulder, eyes smoldering. He snapped the photo, moved three steps to the left, and snapped two more. Everything and everybody else—the lights, the props, the staging, the makeup artist, Marilyn, his friend who was acting as his assistant—fell away. Disappeared. Until all that existed were he and she and the rhythm and flow of the pictures. The two of them moved like a choreographed dance. She’d move, he’d step. She’d smile, he’d snap. Again and again until the battery of his camera flashed a warning and his friend Jeff yawned and fumbled with a light stand.

Davis pulled the camera away from his face. Ivy set down her bouquet of roses, her gaze unwavering.

“Did you get it?” Marilyn’s voice. But he couldn’t look away from Ivy.

“Yes.” He swallowed.

“I haven’t seen your eyes this bright in a long time, Davis. Makes me happy to see it.” Marilyn squeezed his elbow. “It’s like you were made for this.”

Davis switched off the camera. The shoot was over.

Heat circled her neck like a heavy collar. It wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard she fanned her clavicle. Davis had spent the last several hours looking at her like the world had transformed into a tunnel, with him on one end and her on the other and nothing in between. She was all that mattered. It was the first time he’d shown any hint of desire. And she wanted more of it.

Ivy slipped off her heels and pushed open the door of the changing room in Marilyn’s boutique. Davis was still in the back near the mirrors where they’d done the photo shoot. Only he wasn’t alone. His buddy folded up umbrellas and light stands while the man she sought leaned over a table and fiddled with a piece of paper—probably the model release form.

She stood in the doorway, watching.

Davis set the pen down and helped dismantle the set. Jeff noticed her first. He smiled and fumbled a diffusion screen when he saw her. She smiled back but wished she didn’t have to. She’d rather he wasn’t here. Davis handed Jeff another piece of equipment. He wedged it beneath his arm and walked to the front, his smile too big, his face too red.

“You sure were something else today.” Jeff opened the door. The equipment lodged beneath his arm slipped. He jerked and caught it, the door smacking him in the rear. When he righted himself, his face had turned pickled beet.

“Thank you.” Ivy walked over to give him a hand, then approached Davis, who stuffed a tripod into an oblong duffel bag. Her feet made no sound as she walked toward him. She sat on the table, one leg crossed over
the other, bobbing her foot in a slow, lazy circle, palms resting on the table’s edge as she watched him bag more equipment. When he turned around he stutter stepped, as if her presence had startled him.

“Hey.”

His one-word greeting echoed in the high-ceilinged room. The boutique had worked well for the photo shoot. Lots of space. Windows. Natural lighting. She hopped off the table and closed the gap between them. He stood in place, confusion expanding in his eyes the closer she got, filling her with determination. She didn’t want his confusion. She wanted his ardor. She wanted to drink it up, saturate herself in it. Before he could blink, she slid her hand around the back of his neck and brushed her lips against his.

He yanked her arm away and stepped back. “What are you doing?”

“Celebrating.”

“That isn’t how I celebrate.”

“No?”

He wanted her. She could see it in his eyes. She could tell by the way he kept moving away, as though he didn’t trust himself to be close to her. So why didn’t he take her already? “You mean you never kissed any of the models you photographed in New York?”

“The next time I kiss a girl, it won’t be because I want her.”

“Why will you kiss her, then?”

“Because I love her.”

Her heart shriveled.
“Because I love her.”
Ivy wanted to reach inside her chest and rip the pain away—this raging, pulsing pain that burned like a furnace and never seemed to extinguish. She didn’t need Davis’s passion. And she definitely didn’t need his love. She made to turn away, but he grabbed her elbow.

“I’m not a toy, Ivy.”

“Did I imply that you were?”

His eyes narrowed. “What are you after?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“With me. Sara said you two went to lunch on Saturday. She said you asked a lot of questions about me.”

“Can’t a girl be curious?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Nothing.” More like everything. Like why he left New York. Why he refused to go back. What would entice him to return. If she asked him, would he? For her? She looked down at his hand wrapped around her elbow. There was no way of knowing unless she asked. She looked up and met his eyes, the question creeping to the tip of her tongue. “Davis …”

The door swung open. Jeff walked inside the boutique, empty handed and whistling.

Ivy tried stepping away.

But Davis didn’t let go of her arm. “Tell me what you were going to say.”

She looked into the depths of his blue eyes and shook her head. When Jeff wasn’t in the room jangling equipment and she had a better grip on her emotions, after she was sure Davis wouldn’t reject her—then she’d ask him.

22

“What do you think?” A young woman with peacock-feather earrings and jet-black hair held up a long-sleeved beaded wedding dress and draped it across her front, chunky bangle bracelets sliding and clacking toward her elbow.

Ivy stepped closer to the wall. She was supposed to meet Sara and go over music ideas, not dole out fashion advice to bohemian strangers. “I don’t work here.”

“You’re Marilyn’s daughter, aren’t you? And a model. Fashion sense is in your blood.”

“I’m not Marilyn’s daughter.”

“She sure talks about you like you are.” The woman poked her leather sandal out from beneath the bottom of the wedding dress and examined the glint of light off the beads in one of the boutique’s many mirrors. “Be honest. What do you think?”

Ivy bit her thumbnail. The woman had fabulous arms. Tanned and toned, but not overly muscular. Why would she want to cover them up? Ivy stepped up to one of the racks and pulled out a different dress—a sleeveless gown that wrapped over one shoulder.

“You okay over there, Arabella?” Marilyn called, pinning a long veil onto a mannequin.

“Fine, Mare. Your daughter’s helping me out.”

Ivy took the sleeved dress from the black-haired woman a little more forcefully than necessary and returned it to the rack.

The woman hitched her oversized purse over her arm and extended her hand. “Arabella Armstrong. No relation to the biker-turned-villain or the
astronaut. But I am related to Doc. You know Doc, I’m sure. Everybody does.”

“No, I don’t.” Ivy shook Arabella’s hand. “I’m Ivy Clark.”

Arabella squeezed her palm like a quick, strong heartbeat. “Not Olsen?”

“I told you, Marilyn’s not my mom.” Renee Clark was her mother, and Ivy had never once considered taking James’s last name. She shoved the shoulder-strap dress at Arabella. “When’s your wedding?”

“No wedding planned yet. No man, either. But that ain’t stopping this gal from having her fun.” Arabella wiggled thick black eyebrows. “When Prince Charming shows up, the perfect wedding dress will be one less thing to worry about, you know?”

Ivy didn’t know. She didn’t believe in Prince Charming.

Arabella saluted and made her way toward the dressing rooms, peasant skirt fluttering around her ankles. Ivy pushed her face against the windowed front door and peered down the street, willing Sara to materialize. Last night it had seemed Sara needed some reassurance regarding her music selections, and since Ivy needed to resume the Davis Knight excavation she’d started over Frogmore stew, meeting up was a win-win.