he will,” her friend agreed immediately. “He most definitely will. But won’t it be such fun for you, as well? Admit it. You love the idea. Pygmalion at its best.”
“I suppose the idea has merit,” she agreed. “I do have one condition, however, and I refuse to take on this project unless it is met unconditionally.”
“What’s that?”
“This Dustin guy—he has to go into this experiment with his eyes wide open. If he doesn’t agree to the makeover, if he is not comfortable with the idea of working with me or if he expresses doubts or disinterest, I do not want to move forward with this.” Isobel listed items on her fingers. “The project must all be conducted on the up-and-up, with everything laid out up front for Dustin and for me. No surprises and no reluctant subjects. Do you understand what I’m getting at here?”
“I’ll speak to Addison immediately,” Camille assured her, obviously trying to rein in her high, excited tone and appear more businesslike and reserved. It didn’t fool Isobel for a moment.
Her friend continued, gulping in air to remain calm. “He said he would be the one to speak to Dustin about it and firm up the final details. After that I’ll be able to let you know when and where you two can meet and get the ball rolling toward Dustin’s new look. He’s got to agree. He just has to.” She winked. “Especially when he meets you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Isobel squawked, feigning offense and pressing her lips together to keep her smile hidden.
“Why, you’re so pretty you’ll knock his socks off. And then, my dear friend, you can replace them with preppie argyles.”
“Oh, I just love it when I get to play fairy godmother,” Isobel teased, waving an invisible magic wand through the air. “But this sounds just a little too weird to be real.”
Camille laughed and whirled about on her toes like a ballerina. So much for her businesslike demeanor, Isobel thought, smothering her grin. She didn’t know where her friend got all her energy, but she wished just a little of it would rub off on her.
“There’s a first time for everything, Izzy,” Camille said, clapping her hands in anticipation. “And you, my dearest friend in all the world, are going to be the best thing that ever happened to Dustin Fairfax. He won’t even know what hit him.”
Chapter Two
Dustin lifted the drumsticks into the air, adjusting his grip on the wood so he could play the drum set that curved around the stool on which he sat. He closed his eyes and with a flick of one drumstick, adjusted his backward black-and-purple Colorado Rockies cap to keep his curly black hair out of his face.
His music of choice, at the moment, anyway, was a trumpet-licking jazz CD he’d picked up over the weekend. Eclectic was the only way to describe his taste—in music, or in anything else he had a strong opinion about.
The drum set was new—or at least, new to him. A friend who had been a drummer in a high-school band was getting rid of it to make room for a baby crib.
Dustin had grabbed the opportunity and bought the set for a song. He’d never played a percussion instrument in his life, but he figured now was as good a time as any to learn.
It wasn’t the first instrument he would have taught himself to play in his life.
How hard could it be?
He made a couple of tentative taps on the snare drum with his sticks, and then pounded the bass a few times with the foot pedal.
Smiling with satisfaction, he began pounding in earnest, perfect rhythm with the beat of the jazz CD. He didn’t care at the moment whether or not he sounded good. He was only trying to have a good time. Technique would come later, with many strenuous hours of practice, he knew.
He sent a timely prayer to God that the insulation in his house would be sufficient to keep his neighbors from knocking his door down with their complaints about the horrible din.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, someone clamped his hand tightly on Dustin’s shoulder.
Dustin made an instinctive move, standing in a flash, turning and knocking the man’s hand away in one swift motion of his elbow and then crouching to pounce on the unknown intruder.
“Hey, take it easy,” Addison said with a deep, dry laugh Dustin immediately recognized. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I tried knocking, but you couldn’t hear me over all that racket. Sounded like the roof was caving in or something.”
Dustin chuckled.
Addison shook his head and laughed in tune with his brother. “The door was open, so I just let myself in. I hope you don’t mind.”
Dustin wiped his arm against his forehead, as his hands were still tightly gripping the drumsticks. “Naw. Guess I was pretty distracted, messing with this thing.” He popped a quick beat on the snare drum for emphasis, then clasped both sticks together and jammed them in the back pocket of his jeans.
He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at his suit-clad big brother. “What are you doing here, Addy boy?” he asked in genuine surprise.
Addison rarely visited Dustin’s small house, which was located in Wheatridge, one of the many sprawling suburbs of Denver. In fact, he’d never been there without a direct invitation first.
He had shown little interest in Dustin’s hobbies, or anything else for that matter. They had never been close, even as children. Addison was the jock, and Dustin the artist. It had always been that way.
Addison wasn’t fond of anything artistic, from drama to Monet. Football, baseball, soccer—these had made up Addison’s teenage world.
And Addison had always been the brains in the family, in Dustin’s estimation. As the CEO for a major financial corporation, and an important person in the Denver social scene, Addison didn’t have time to dabble with anything beyond the walls of his chic, downtown penthouse condo and lush corner office. His only interest in the arts as a successful adult was as his business required, and nothing more.
“I’ve come about Dad’s will, Dustin—specifically, the terms of the trust fund,” Addison said tersely and abruptly in the crisp business tone he always used. Dustin sometimes thought Addison hid behind that tone in order to keep his emotions on a back burner. The two brothers certainly weren’t as close as Dustin would have liked, though he put the blame for that more on his father than on Addison.
Dustin clasped his hands behind his back. His father’s will was not something he really wished to discuss, though he knew it was inevitable. It had to be done, and sooner rather than later. Addison was right on that one point, anyway.
Their mother had died when Dustin was fourteen and Addison was sixteen. He remembered her as a sweet, delicate woman who always smiled and always had an eye and an open hand for the poor and needy. She had kept the house full of laughter and singing, and always had a prayer or a song of praise on her lips.
His father, on the other hand, was as cold as stone, a strict disciplinarian who practiced what he preached—that God helped those who helped themselves.
Never mind that that particular “verse” wasn’t really in the Bible.
