A Broken Kind of Beautiful (33 page)

More like a couple hundred …

Davis leaned against the tree trunk, unwrapped his sandwich, and took a bite. The roof had consumed the majority of the past fourteen days. He had very little to do with the buzz surrounding the fashion show. That was all Ivy. His admiration for her swelled. So did an odd sort of ache. He hadn’t seen her for an entire week, and even before then, ever since he unloaded his
past out on the Doc’s front porch, their time together was sporadic. Like on-again, off-again rain. Tantalizing, but never sticking around long enough to rinse away the heat.

He’d see her tonight, though …

Davis washed his bite down with lemonade and plopped his elbows on raised knees. Ivy had gone above and beyond, throwing herself into the planning, dipping her hand into every aspect of the show. She found dressers, hair stylists, makeup artists. Finalized music choices with Sara and food choices with Arabella. Even convinced Grandma Eleanor to take entry fees at the door. She recruited Big Bubba in the Morning to emcee the event, designed programs, hung posters, and invited industry professionals—like Joan Calloway from
Southern Brides
. She worked like a frenzied woman on a mission. Like her life’s breath depended on the show. Like something chased her. Davis knew what it felt like to run. It’s why he went to New York in the first place, trying to escape the pain and anger that refused to leave after losing his dad and being uprooted from Telluride in the middle of his junior year.

Whatever her motives, her hard work paid off. The entire event had ballooned into something much bigger than Davis could have imagined. He took another bite and rubbed at his forehead as a familiar cherry-red Volkswagen Beetle—the old kind—rattled into Cornerstone’s parking lot and pulled next to his Jeep. Pastor Voss stepped out, a carryout bag from Fried Greens gripped in one hand.

“If I’d known you’d be here today, I would have gotten you something.” Pastor Voss came into the shade, his Braves cap in its usual position, and eased himself into the grass with a groan. The bag crinkled as he pulled out one of Davis’s favorites. “I’ve been fixing for a ’mater sandwich all day. You want half?”

Davis waved his ham and cheese. “I’ll make do.”

“I talked to one of the volunteers this morning, and he said you finished the roof yesterday.”

“I didn’t want to call in the troops for a couple more nails.” Davis finished off his sandwich, brushed the crumbs from his hands, and drained his lemonade. “So why are you here? I thought you helped set up for the festival every year.”

“I have a few more nails to pound myself. Sunday’s sermon isn’t cooperating.”

“Ah.”

“Jonas and Jordan are taking my place at the festival. Two pairs of young hands are better than mine.”

Jordan. Davis might not have seen Ivy as much as he’d like these past few weeks, but he’d seen quite a bit of the pastor’s grandson. It seemed, wherever Sara was, he was right there next to her. “Did Jordan tell you I humbled myself and apologized?”

“For …?”

“Treating him like a heel. Making assumptions. Did you know my sister broke it off with him? All this time I had it turned around.”

“You were just being a protective older brother.”

Davis tossed the empty bottle inside his cooler and touched the strap of his camera, rolled up on the grass. He caught himself snapping pictures when he didn’t need to. Candid shots. Uncensored moments of honesty. His favorite kind. Like his sister when she sat at the piano bench. Or Marilyn laughing when she dripped ice cream on her blouse. And once, on the strip, he snapped a picture of Ivy watching a father swinging hands with a curly haired little girl.

“You going to the festival?”

“Ivy and I are selling tickets there tonight for the fashion show. We have our own booth and everything. Kipper Manning is coming to interview us for a spot on the Sunday evening news.” Davis let go of his camera strap and stood. Now wasn’t the time for pictures. Now was time to finish the roof. He reached out his hand and helped Pastor Voss get to his feet. “Well, I better
get to work if I want to make it to the booth on time.” Davis turned to the ladder and climbed the first rung.

“You seem to be in better spirits lately, Davis.”

He paused, gripping the shiny metal between his fingers. Pastor Voss was right. He’d shared his past with Ivy Clark, and somehow he didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Early evening and already hordes of people stuffed themselves into the festival. Kids waited in lines for rides. Here and there blobs of teenage boys threw saltwater taffy at teenage girls. Adults crowded beneath beer tents while harassed-looking mothers tried to rein in overstimulated toddlers.

Their booth to sell tickets sat along the marina, squished between a Gullah woman selling baskets and an artist drawing caricatures, all three stations capped by the tops of boat sails flapping in the wind. Davis twisted around in all directions, looking past and through the throng of people. Ivy would arrive any second. Not wanting to appear overeager, he got to work spreading out the pamphlets he’d received from the foundation in charge of the art program.

He noticed her fragrance first.

Fresh lilacs—like the big bushes Mom planted along the side of their duplex in Telluride. He could bury his nose in the scent and never come out again. When he looked up, he noticed other things too. Like the way the breeze tousled her hair. The way the sun cast a golden-brown glow on her shoulders. The melted butter of her eyes. After seven days of not seeing her, he had a hard time looking away.

Ivy set her purse underneath a table inside the booth. “Hey, stranger.”

Clearing his throat, Davis grunted a hello, then feigned interest in the programs Ivy had designed, scolding his heart for thrumming so fast.

“Took your sister to get a manicure today. You like?” She wiggled her
fingers over the program Davis gripped like a lifesaver, showing off apple-red nails. “Wanted to look fresh. I’ve never been on a small-town news station before.”

He ignored her hand and flipped the program over. “Have you printed a lot of these?”

“More than a lot. I snagged us a deal from the Staples guy.”

“They look great.”

A group of young wide-eyed girls approached the booth. “Excuse me, miss, have you really been on the cover of
Vogue
?” one of them asked Ivy.

“I really have.”

The girl who asked the question nudged some of the others with her elbow, as if to say “I told you so.” They covered their mouths with their hands—shy-like—and twittered.

“You girls coming to the fashion show?” Davis asked.

More twittering.

He didn’t speak tween girl. He had no idea if that was a yes or a no. “The tickets are ten dollars. All proceeds go to funding an art program for blind students at the community college.” He handed over one of his pamphlets. “If you come, you’d be helping a really great cause.”

The girls blinked at his offering—like he was the one speaking a foreign language—then swiveled their heads to Ivy, who untucked tickets from an envelope and fanned them in her hand. “Why don’t you come and watch? Maybe you can get a head start on finding your dream wedding dress.”

Without hesitating, they fished inside pockets and purses, pulled out money, exchanged ten dollar bills for tickets, and moved to a different booth—one selling mood rings and bangle bracelets.

“You’re better at this than I am,” Davis said.

Ivy blushed. “It’s not that hard.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, you know that?”

She fiddled with the ticket envelope, her attention flicking to the crowd
when a smile exploded across her face—one so sincere and excited, Davis wasn’t sure Ivy had ever looked more beautiful. She waved her hands over her head. “Twila! Hey, Twila, over here!”

Twila sat in a wheelchair, a blanket outlining the sharpness of her knees. Annie noticed Ivy first and pushed her daughter through the crowd. The girl’s large eyes grew wider, overwhelming her thin face as she adjusted the pink bandanna wrapped around her head. She returned Ivy’s wave—flinging her hand back and forth. The scattered times he had seen Ivy over the past three weeks, she always brought up Twila and a potential photo shoot. Davis listened but couldn’t bring himself to commit. If he did something like that, how would he ever be able to put his camera away again?

Annie stopped in front of them and wiped at sweat forming along her hairline. Ivy leaned over the booth. “Where’ve you been, girl? You skipped Sara’s piano lesson on Monday.”

Twila fiddled with a loose thread on her blanket. The odd combination of her bloated face and her pencil-thin neck gave her the appearance of a bobble head. “More doctor appointments.”

Ivy’s smile lost some of its spunk.

Annie rubbed her daughter’s shoulder.

“Hey, Twila, you know Sara’s brother, right?” Ivy said. “He’s the one who took those pictures of me for that wedding magazine.”

Oh boy.

Twila let go of the thread, her pale lashes fluttering. “I see you at church sometimes. You’re there a lot.”

He tipped his head. “I think we’ve met a time or two, Twila.”

“Davis is a great photographer. I bet if you asked him real nice, he’d take pictures of you. Like your own personal photo shoot.”

Twila leaned forward. “My own photo shoot? Really?”

The ball of tension in Davis’s stomach unraveled like twine, threading through his limbs. How could he say no to her—this girl who was barely
there in her thinness, her dark eyes sparkling with an anticipation that drowned out her sickness. He cast a grimace at Ivy. “I wouldn’t be able to do it this weekend. We’re going to be pretty busy here at the booth.”

“I bet we could do it next weekend,” Ivy offered.

Twila looked over her shoulder, at her mother. “Can I? Next weekend?”

“If Davis has time, honey.”

Davis slipped his hands into his pockets. Ivy had backed him into a corner. He’d take pictures of Twila next weekend and he’d fall in love—with the girl, with his camera, with a life that could have been his if he hadn’t proven how undeserving he was.

29

The fading sunlight dipped toward the horizon, shooting orange rays through the gaps in the Ferris wheel. The scents of bug spray and brine rode the tail end of a warm breeze that whipped sails and rippled the tide. Davis ushered Ivy through the throng, his hand grazing the small of her back. The heat of his almost-there fingers sent a current of warmth through her belly. She passed through a clot of people scoping out a good spot to watch the fireworks and came out in a clear patch of unpopulated marina.

Davis stood behind her with a somber face.

Ivy frowned. Ever since Twila and Annie visited their booth, Davis had straddled the conversation—one ear in, the other ear off in la-la land. Ivy had ended up taking over the majority of the ticket sales while he nodded mindlessly and handed out the pamphlets explaining how the art program worked. Maybe she’d gone too far, putting Davis on the spot with Twila like that. “Are you mad at me?” she asked.

“For what?”

“The whole Twila thing.”

He took off his baseball cap, scratched his matted-down hair, and fitted the cap back over his head, twisting the bill so it pointed backward. He looked like a cute college student, not a full-grown man. “You just want to help a sick little girl. How can I be mad at you about that?”

A worm of guilt wiggled in the pit of her stomach. Davis was right. She did want to help Twila. See her smile. Make her eyes sparkle. Just like she wanted to help Sara. But she also needed to get Davis to New York City. She hitched her purse strap over her shoulder and dug her nails into the leather. “Should we go find Sara and Marilyn? I haven’t seen fireworks since my summer visits as a kid, and we both know how long ago those were.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled—sad little lines fanning out toward his temples. For some reason, her confession troubled him. He looked at his watch. “We have some time. We could go on a ride first, if you wanted.”

“A ride?” She grinned. “You mean those things all the kids are getting on?”

He tucked his hands into his pockets. “Sure. We can be kids.”