arrival—the stitching on the pocket of his work shirt said his name was Albie—shook Zane’s hand enthusiastically. “When I told my wife I’d be turning on the juice for none other than Zane Sutton himself today,” Albie beamed, “she made me promise to get your autograph and tell you she loved all your movies.”
Zane’s expression, though friendly, might have seemed a touch forced, to anyone more observant than Albie. “Thanks,” he said, and left it at that.
CHAPTER TWO
ALONE IN HER apartment, except for Snidely, of course, Brylee did weekend things. She washed and dried her hair, gave herself a pedicure as well as a manicure, and then a facial to round out the routine. She chose a red-and-white polka dot sundress to wear to church in the morning, gave it a few quick licks with the iron and hung it carefully from the hook on the inside of her closet door. She selected white sandals and a red handbag to complete the ensemble, setting those on the cushioned window seat in her bedroom, where they would be in plain sight.
Brylee liked to make her preparations well in advance, wherever preparation was humanly possible, which was most of the time. In her considered opinion, there were enough surprises in life, careening out of nowhere, blindsiding her just when she thought she had everything covered, so she preferred not to leave herself open to the unexpected, if given the smallest option.
She would have described herself as “organized,” but she knew there were other definitions that might apply, like “obsessive” or even “anal.”
Okay, so she was something of a control freak, she thought, leaving her shabby-chic bedroom, with its distinctly female decor, for the living room.
Here, she’d chosen pegged wood floors instead of carpeting, and the fireplace was a wonder of blue and white, burgundy and gold, pale green and soft pink tiles, each one hand-painted. She’d colored and fired them all herself, using the kiln at her friend Doreen’s ceramics studio in Three Trees, and just looking at them made her feel good. Some had tiny stars, swirls or checks, while others were plain, at least to Brylee, and the result was a kind of quasi-Moroccan magic.
She’d hooked the big scatter rugs, too, mostly on lonely winter nights, while a blaze flickered on the hearth, managing to pick up many of the colors from the tiles. The couch, love seat and two big armchairs were clad for spring and summer in beige cotton slipcovers with just the faintest impression of a small floral print; when fall rolled around, she’d switch them out, for either chocolate-brown or burgundy corduroy. Most everything else in the room rotated with the seasons, too—the art on the walls, the vases and the few figurines, even the picture frames on the mantelpiece, though the photos inside remained the same: Casey and Walker, beaming on their wedding day, Clare and Shane goofing off up at the lake, Snidely sporting a stars-and-stripes bandana in honor of Independence Day. Now, of course, she’d added a few prized shots of little Preston, as well.
Brylee believed change was a good thing—as long as it was carefully planned and coordinated, of course.
She was aware of the irony of this viewpoint, naturally, but she’d built a thriving business on the concept of fresh decor, geared to the seasons, to the prevailing mood or to some favorite period in history. Hadn’t Marie Antoinette had her spectacular bedroom at Versailles redecorated from floor to ceiling in honor of spring, summer, fall and winter?
Yeah, but look how she ended up, Brylee thought, making a rueful face.
Snidely stood in the kitchen doorway, looking back at her, tail wagging, his mouth stretched into a doggy grin. Fluent in Snidelyese, Brylee understood that he wanted his food bowl filled, or a treat, or both, if all his lucky stars were in the right places.
Brylee chuckled and slipped past him, executing a slight bow in the process. “Your wish is my command,” she said, her royal mood, no doubt spawned by the brief reflection on the French court, lingering.
The kitchen, like the living room, was big, especially for an apartment. The appliances were state of the art and there was an island in the center of the space, complete with marble top and two stainless-steel sinks. She’d picked up the dining set cheap, at one of those unfinished furniture places, stained the wood dark maple and tiled the surface of the round table in much the same style as she had the fireplace.
A bouquet of perfect pink peonies, cut from the garden her great-grandmother had planted years ago and placed in an old green-glass canning jar, made a lovely centerpiece. Brylee paused to lean over and draw in their vague, peppery scent. They would be gone soon, these favorites, and she meant to enjoy them while she could. The lilacs, which grew in profusion all over the ranch house’s huge yard, had already reached their full, fragrant purple-and-white glory and quietly vanished, along with the daffodils and tulips of early spring. There were still roses aplenty, rollicking beds of zinnias, clouds of colorful gerbera daisies, too, but Brylee missed the ones that had gone before, even as she enjoyed every new wave of color.
She needed flowers, the way she needed air and water; to her, they were sacred, a form of visual prayer.
A knock sounded at her back door just as she was setting Snidely’s bowl of kibble on the floor. Glancing up, she saw her teenage niece, Clare, grinning in at her through the oval glass window.
“In!” Brylee called, grinning back.
Sixteen-year-old Clare, a younger version of her mother, Casey, was blessed with copper-bright hair that tumbled to her shoulders in carefully casual curls, bright green eyes and a quick mind, inclined toward kindness but with a mischievous bent. If she looked closely enough, Brylee could see Walker in the girl, too, and even a few hints of herself.
Not for the first time, she marveled that Walker and Casey had been able to keep their secret—that Walker had fathered both Clare and Shane—for so long.
“I think I’ve got a date,” Clare confided, in a conspiratorial whisper, tossing a bottle-green glance in the direction of the inside door that led into the main part of the ranch house. Maybe she thought Casey was on the other side, with a glass pressed to her ear, eavesdropping.
If anyone was listening in, Brylee reflected, amused, it was more likely to be Clare’s brother, fifteen-year-old Shane, with whom the child shared a sort of testy alliance—with an emphasis on the testy part. She and Walker had been that way, too, growing up, though they’d had each other’s backs when necessary.
Brylee lifted her eyebrows and quirked her mouth up at the corners, in a way that said, “Go on, I’m listening,” and opened the refrigerator door to take out a diet cola for each of them. As she understood prevailing parental policy, Clare wasn’t allowed to go on one-couple car dates or to go out with the same boy more than three times in a row, and her parents practically ran background checks on anybody new to her circle of friends. Now, her twinkly air of secrecy indicated that something was up and, at the same time, belied any possibility that an executive exception had been made.
Clad in jeans, boots and a long-sleeved yellow T-shirt that made her hair flame beautifully around her deceptively angelic face, Clare hauled back a chair at the table and said a quiet thank-you when Brylee set the can of soda in front of her, along with a glass nearly filled with ice.
Brylee sat down opposite Clare and poured cola into her own glass of ice. And she waited.
“It’s not even an actual date,” Clare confided, blushing a little, shifting her gaze in Snidely’s direction and smiling at his exuberant kibble-crunching.
“How is a date ‘not actually’ a date?” Brylee ventured, but only after
