Bootscootin' Blahniks (11 page)

But first, to get into the designing spirit, she’d have to fight the next staircase to find something decent to wear. The nurses had cut off her favorite pair of skinny jeans, replacing them with what they called pants and she called scratchy, cheap cotton Hell. And since having her jacket pop open again didn’t seem prudent, she’d also caved to the nurse’s pressure and worn the matching scrub top, which hung on her like an ill-fitting tunic.

Now that her head wasn’t so groggy, she remembered she’d been instructed not to get the damn boot and bandages wet. She supposed she’d also have to suck it up and take a sponge bath instead of a nice soak in the tub or steamy hot shower.

Although none of this experience registered remotely pleasurable, she was proud to fight it on her own. Spurts of gutsy bravado stiffened her spine, shielding her composure. She didn’t need anyone.
No
,
Sir
.
No one
. If there was one thing this stumble in life confirmed, it was that she didn’t need help. Not that she’d had that luxury since she’d outgrown her last au pair.

The shrill sound of her phone made her head gyrate like a spinning top. She looked daggers at the cordless receiver sitting in the nook across the kitchen, determined to answer it before the machine clicked-on and claimed the call. With the agility and speed of a lumbering elephant, she crossed the floor and lifted the phone from its cradle on the last ring.

“Hello,” she said then took a much-needed extra breath.

“Roxy? Is that you? Oh dear. Did I wake you?” Kat McDonald’s words were sympathetic but her rushed, excitable tone betrayed her.

There was no way this energizer bunny would call back later, letting whatever was on her mind wait. As much as Roxy admired Kat for that, she wasn’t sure she could handle all that adrenaline right now.

“Well, no, Mrs. McDonald, I was just…”

“Oh, dear, please call me Kat. Especially now that we’ll be co-workers.”

Completely irked by the ‘co-workers’ moniker, Roxy hardened her voice. “How about we discuss the details tomorrow at Raeve?”

“Oh, I’d rather discuss them today,” Kat said, adopting the misguided notion she was in charge. “And I’ll be right over anyway. Due to your injury and all, Zayne and I would like to bring you dinner this evening. How about 6:30?”

Roxy was teetering for control like a ticking bomb, fighting to disconnect her innate wiring for independence before she blew. “I’m sure Zayne has better plans.”

Roxy held her breath, hoping on account of her silence and the hesitancy she hoped that quiet moment signified that Kat would follow her lead, pause and reconsider.

“No, Zayne doesn’t have anywhere he’d rather be. So will 6:30 work?”

The woman didn’t quit, a quality Roxy would have admired if it wasn’t being used against her.

Roxy rationalized her surrender. She was starving. She had no groceries. She had a mother who chose eucalyptus steam showers over her only child and a father who chided her from an Italian seaside villa. She had no good reason to hold out. Plus, she now knew exactly who to give her broom to when she was finished. Kat McDonald would so appreciate the perceived power in that stick.

“Fine then. Six thirty it is,” Roxy said inflecting her voice with false enthusiasm primarily to convince herself she was looking forward to Kat and Zayne’s visit.

“I hope you like tomatoes, dear,” Kat said, erupting into a hoot of laughter then hanging up before Roxy could respond.

Better than fried pickles
.

B
y five-thirty, Roxy was exhausted. Every bone in her body ached from the horrific angles she used to keep pressure off her ankle. She felt like a pretzel stick, twisted into frightening shapes by a delirious baker.

After taking a sponge bath from hell, she scoured her closet, shoving hangers aside, sending her frustration flying down the racks with her clothing. Nothing in her wardrobe accommodated the surgical boot except pajamas. And she’d be dead before she’d entertain Kat McDonald in flannels. Kat may be a farmer’s wife, but even she didn’t wear flannel.

Making a designer’s decision, Roxy had taken her scissors to a pair of brown linen cargo-style trousers, turning them into cargo Capri’s. Not quite satisfied, she’d added embellishments to the pockets including silver beaded patches and art deco silver and rhinestone zipper pulls. Finding a faded, muddy brown camouflaged T-shirt with metallic silver exposed seams, a perfect compliment to the dye lots in her pants, she contorted her lame duck self into the newly improvised duds.

Finally done, she turned in front of the full-length dressing mirror in the corner of her studio. Not bad for improvisation, although she wouldn’t win a challenge on America’s Top Designer.

Not like she cared about industry critiques of her work. As long as her clothes felt like her, looked like her, Roxy was pleased. Even though she’d never been able to pinpoint what that really meant she knew when she saw it.

Awkwardly turning full circle for a third time, she should be feeling the love of her design, but she wasn’t. The glare of her fluorescent white, ankle bandage must be throwing off her fashion sense.

She put her hair up, scrunching and twisting it with a tortoise shell clip, letting only a few loose tendrils trail her neck. Not her favorite look either, but it kept the strands out of her face while she tottered.

With fourteen minutes to spare, and Dipstick and Darling fed, watered and tucked inside their cages for the evening, Roxy plopped herself and her pain into her office chair. She reached for her colored pens to work on her fall Accessible Accessories line.

Scanning the image on the tablet in front of her, she absorbed the look with a critical eye, allowing the lines and colors to permeate the limits of her mind. She was trying her hand at belts for the first time, focusing on the buckles. If this collection turned out like she hoped, Nashville’s cowgirls would soon be introduced to Raeve’s “Buckles Me Baby” collection.

Roxy liked the signature drawing and the sass it suggested. She had built her over-the-top bravado into the design. Made of a base-plate of hammered copper, she planned to cover it in handset pink topaz stones. Along with the pink and brown faux crocodile leather she’d ordered from a New York textile warehouse, she’d have a piece that hoot and hollered Raeve.

At two hundred dollars each, she hoped her cash register screamed ‘Sold.’ She knew these buckles were way too expensive for her ultimate goal of creating accessibly-priced accessories, but her plan was to get these gems to become must-haves for country music’s female superstars. Once she’d nailed that market, the buckles would garner gotta-have-it appeal for a lower-priced version to be mass-manufactured for everyday gals. And that’s when she’d make it on a big-time scale.

As she finished touching up one of the bezel-set stones in the sketch, her doorbell chimed. She grabbed her broom and went to the door, her stomach growling with anticipation.

Opening the door and seeing Zayne’s expression confirmed her hunch. He’d rather be anyplace else but on her stoop. He had a look of surrender, as if silently pleading ‘sorry, mom made me do it.’

The angst in his warm eyes hurt Roxy more than the dull ache circulating her ankle. She’d been in his shoes, or in his case boots, many times.

“I’m not sure why you never thought to carry a broom before,” Zayne said and laughed. “It’s a natural accessory for you.”

Roxy couldn’t keep a crooked smile from escaping. Inside, she was cackling. Zayne could be a stitch, even when she was the butt of his wisecracks.

“Zayne McDonald, you apologize right now,” Kat piped up from behind him then elbowed his ribs.

“Kat, he’s not a two-year-old.” Roxy stepped out of the doorway and ushered them into her foyer. “And I’m perfectly capable of demanding an apology when I feel it’s warranted.”

Zayne turned to his mother and gave her a cocky grin.

“Zayne, you’re an asshole. Apologize.” Roxy said, taking profound satisfaction in the disappearance of his smirk.

“I’m liking you more every time you open your mouth.” Kat stepped around her son, carrying a heaping shopping bag and an arm full of food. “Where’s your kitchen?”

“Upstairs,” Roxy said and motioned for Zayne to come in, moving her hand in a grand sweep she’d like to snap across his fine ass.

Zayne crossed the threshold, each hand filled with a covered dish.

“Interesting entryway sculpture,” Kat said passing the croc then turning back to Roxy. “Do you need help up the stairs?”

“No, I can make it. But thank you.”

“She can ride her broom.” Zayne ducked, but not before the broom’s bristles grazed his chest-hugging, way too sexy T-shirt then bounced off one of the back pockets of his jeans.

“Seriously, Rox,” Zayne’s rich chocolate eyes twinkled as he spoke, “you keep on that ankle and you’ll be good to go for bootscootin’ on Wednesday.”

He winked at her on his way to the stairs. “Wouldn’t want your bad ankle to be our deal-breaker.”

Thinking more along the lines of ball-breakers, Roxy struggled up the stairs behind him. On account of his sweet eyes and his nice rear view, she’d let him live another day. Beyond that was questionable.

“I know you were looking at my ass,” he whispered in her ear when they reached the landing.

“I was not looking at your ass.” With an evil grin, she spoke loud so Kat could hear.

“Okay, kids, I don’t really care who looked at whose ass first, but it’s time to eat,” Kat said as she took several containers out of the shopping bag and started opening lids. “Roxy, honey, tell Zayne what dishes you’d like him to set your table with. And don’t worry. He’ll clean-up when we’re done.”

Zayne glared at his mother. Turning to Roxy, he said in a low drawl, “One of these days, I’m fixin’ to tell her…”

Roxy, just to antagonize him, shrugged her shoulders as if she didn’t see a problem. Although she secretly lived for the hour Zayne would tell Kat exactly what
he
wanted and not what she wanted to hear. Roxy liked that he cared enough about his mother’s happiness to indulge her whims but worried he was creating a monster by never refusing her wishes.

Part of her, though, coveted Zayne for having a mom who fussed over him like Kat did. Why did it bother him so much? Unlike her parents, Kat seemed to only want the best for her child.

Roxy’s stomach contracted and not from hunger. She certainly knew what it was like to choose between a parents’ ways or the highway. Even though Kat seemed a tad controlling, Zayne was fortunate to have a mother who loved him enough to butt-in where she didn’t belong. At least she did wrong by him for all the right reasons.

With Kat and Zayne now on either side of her, Roxy sat down at her bistro set in the alcove off the kitchen. A tremor slid through her, her senses hyper-responsive to what felt like a normal family enjoying a meal together. She’d never pictured herself as part of that Hallmark Family Movie image.

Warming her heart further, her table was covered with nothing but fiery red dishes. Good thing she liked the color and tomatoes too. The luscious color variations and aroma made her long to be back in a Tuscan villa, reaching for a bottle of Chianti. But she’d
always
take the McDonald’s companionship over the vineyard-fresh, Italian wine and a table for one.

Kat passed her a plate of fresh sliced tomatoes, perfectly arranged among slices of mozzarella cheese. The serving dish was drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with oregano.
Bellissimo
.

“Isn’t the growing season just starting?” Roxy’s mouth watered as she slipped several slices of both the tomatoes and cheese onto her plate. “Which grocery did you go to for these beauties?”

Kat coughed and cleared her throat, motioning with her hands for Zayne to answer Roxy’s question.

“Did I say something wrong?” Roxy couldn’t imagine what, but both her guests seemed mildly offended.

“Around here, you use grocery-bought tomatoes if no one likes you enough to give you their homegrown varieties.” Zayne emptied pretty much the rest of the appetizer platter onto his plate. “Serious growers are measured by their tomatoes alone. We grow them in greenhouses during the off season, so they’re always fresh.”

“I’m sorry for my ignorance.” Roxy felt awful for insulting them but was thrilled to be liked enough not to have to succumb to the grocery bins.

She sure didn’t think, though, that Kat could be measured by tomatoes alone. Totally not her style. This was a woman wearing linen, crushed silk, and fabulous boots, not Carharts. Looking at Kat’s smart style, Roxy could very easily and with good reason label Kat a Manhattanite. A woman bred for Tiffany’s, not beefsteaks. Not until Kat opened her mouth, speaking with her southern sweet tea voice, did Roxy know different.

“Try some of this, dear,” Kat said, handing her what looked like some sort of tomato quiche as she suppressed another cough.

“Is it quiche?” Roxy said, taking the dish and hoping Kat wasn’t coming down with a cold. She seemed a bit flushed too.

“Down here we call it tomato pie,” Kat corrected her.

Whatever it was, Roxy thought, it looked delicious. Putting a forkful in her mouth, she concluded it tasted even better. The homemade comfort warmed her stomach and her soul, a comfort foreign to her.

“Wow. This is great.” Roxy took another bite. “Thank you both so much. I was hungrier than I thought.”

“You could use some more meat on those bones of yours,” Kat said even though she had barely touched the food on her own plate.

“Mom, Roxy cleaned-up her plate better than you,” Zayne cut in.

“I’m fixin’ to get to it.” Stirring the air between them with her fork, Kat brushed-off Zayne. She played some more with her pie, spearing the crust until it broke into a zillion crumbs.

Zayne leaned-in across the table toward his mom, evidently thinking his close proximity would have a larger impact. “What’s up with your eating? I know you’ve lost weight.”

“Oh, hogwash. Why don’t you mind your own business?” Kat leaned into him and popped a piece of pie into her mouth.