wardrobe was casual. Loose-fitting clothes in muted, earthy tones. Minimal makeup and accessories. She came from the less-is-more camp. She wasn’t sexy or funky or feminine. She was…sensible.
She was also miserable.
She set aside her right shoe—the left was still on her foot—and wrangled her natural blah-boring brown, overly thick, overly long hair into a loosely knotted ponytail. “It’s hot in here.”
“Blame it on the cosmos or your heated rant,” Faye said. “It’s the same as always—comfortable. Boone keeps the thermostat set at sixty-eight year round. You know that.”
Kylie wanted to scream at yet another example of predictability. Instead, she propped her elbow on the table, footwear in hand. “My life is like this shoe. Sensible. This town is like this shoe. Practical.”
“Hello? Your family’s motto? Practical shoes for practical people. It’s written on the plaque hanging behind the cashier counter.”
Kylie narrowed her eyes. “That plaque is so gone. In fact, I’m going to redecorate the entire store,” she said on a whim. “Bright colors. Maybe even pink. Pepto-Bismol pink with banana-yellow trim. Acrylic racks. Leopard seat cushions. Art posters splashed with funky period high heels. I saw this Andy Warhol print on the Internet. Diamond Dust Shoes. Weird, but fun.”
“You know me,” Faye said. “I’m all for kitschy. But that’s radical. If your mom and grandma were here—”
“One would applaud my vision. The other would nix it.” She didn’t know which woman would take what stance. She just knew they’d take opposing views. They bickered constantly and Kylie was forever playing mediator. She’d been given a short reprieve since they were currently enjoying (or not) the Alaskan cruise Grandma McGraw had won at the church’s silent auction, but they’d be back. “I’m bypassing the debate and making an executive decision as the store’s manager.”
“Without consulting Spenser?”
Kylie bristled. When her treasure hunting brother had been presented with an opportunity to host a cable series on the Explorer Channel, she hadn’t thought twice about taking full responsibility and running McGraw’s Shoe Store.
A: Because she loved Spenser to pieces.
B: Unlike her brother, she had an actual interest in shoes and the business as a whole.
It’s just that she hadn’t expected to be in charge for so long without an extended break.
Closing the store for a month was not an option, and she was too territorial to trust the business to a nonfamily member. Leaving the store in the hands of her mom and grandma was unthinkable. They’d kill each other. Or the business. Or both.
Last month when she’d talked to Spenser, he’d said he’d be coming home after he finished a shoot in Egypt, which meant any day now. She’d intended to discuss her dream trip then. In person. Except this morning, when he’d called to wish her happy birthday, he’d explained that he and his cameraman had finally obtained permission to visit Pitcairn—the secluded island inhabited by the ancestors of Fletcher Christian and the other mutineers of the Bounty.
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Kitten,” he’d said.
They were all once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.
“Just a few more weeks,” he’d said.
Which in Spenser-speak meant a few more months, maybe years.
Okay. That was overdramatic. But as sure as Kylie opened the store every day, Tuesday through Saturday at 9:00 a.m., he’d be broadening his horizons while hers flat-lined. “I know the store’s in Spenser’s name,” she grumbled, “but he saddled me with the responsibility.”
“Temporarily,” Faye said. “Although I admit his idea of ‘temporary’ differs from most folks. Still, if I recall, you’re supposed to run things status quo. Knowing your brother, I don’t think he’d be keen on pink walls and weird posters.”
“Spenser can kiss my—”
“Ashe sent this over.” Wanda, Boone’s wife, who usually manned the kitchen whipping up her locally famous kick-butt chicken wings, seasoned mozzarella sticks and other assorted yummies, was currently working the floor due to a server shortage. She set another cosmo on the table. “Be warned, the silver-tongued dog paid Boone for a double shot of vodka.”
“Happy birthday, Kylie,” Ashe called from his bar stool.
He probably thought that winking thing was sexy. Smarmy was more like it. “Thanks.” She saluted the cocky car dealer with a dismissive smile. Ashe Davis had been trying to score with her since her almost-fiancé, make that ex-almost-fiancé, fled paradise last year. At no point in time had she suggested he had a snowball’s chance in hell, but the man was persistent. Handsome and successful, thirty-six and never married, he was considered by some the perfect catch. Only thus far he’d proved too slippery for any of the eligible women in Eden and even a few of the not-so-eligible. With Ashe it was all about the hunt. Once he bagged his prey, he lost interest. If Kylie wanted a brief, hot fling, he’d be the perfect choice. That is, if she could stomach sleeping with a self-absorbed womanizer.
“He’s thinking tonight’s his lucky night,” Faye said with a roll of her blue-shadowed eyes.
“I’d have to be blitzed out of my gourd to sleep with Ashe.”
“Drink that third cosmo and consider yourself boinked,” said Faye.
Kylie pushed her glasses up her nose and focused, sort of, on Wanda. “Do I appear inebriated to you?”
“I did see you talking to your shoe, dear.”
“That’s because this shoe represents the crux of my discontent.”
“Don’t ask,” Faye said, then sipped her beer.
“Giving you blisters?”
Faye slapped a palm to her forehead, metallic-blue nails glittering.
Ironically, or maybe not, someone punched A12 on the jukebox—Kylie knew that jukebox by heart—flooding the bar with the retro hit: “These Boots Are Made for Walking.” Probably someone was making fun of her current shoe fixation, but she was more inspired than insulted. The music provided the perfect background for her on-the-spot promo.
“These,” she said, displaying the slip-on for Wanda’s keener inspection, “are Aerosoles. Padded insoles. Lightweight and flexible. They do not cause blisters. A smart buy for someone who spends a lot of time on their feet. Someone like you.”
“You introduced me to that brand the last time I was in your shop,” Wanda said while snapping her gum. “Felt like I was walking on clouds, but Boone would have a cow if I paid that kind of money for one pair of shoes.”
“Yes, but they’d last longer than the bargain canvas sneakers you’re wearing, plus they’d offer proper arch support. Given your occupation, don’t your feet deserve better?”
“Stop trying to sell my wife fancy shoes!” Boone shouted over the music while sliding a beer down to Ashe.
“They’re
