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Katie’s laugh sounded sour. “Let me just fill you in on Celia Wakefield. First of all, is she still peddling that line of crap about how she designed the original PopTot dress?”
“Yeah,” A
“They’re very adorable,” Katie said. “But there’s some question of who actually came up with the idea for them.”
“Really?”
“After Baby Brands bought out Gingerpeachy, Parenting magazine did a nice spread on the dresses,” Katie said. “Not long afterwards, the reporter who did the piece called to let us know that she’d had a call from a woman claiming that Celia stole the idea from her.”
“Why do I have a mental image of the theme music from Jaws in my head?” A
“A shark would be insulted to be compared to Celia,” Katie said. “Celia happened to be working at a boutique and she got hold of one of this girl’s sample dresses, which she was sewing at home with her mother. So Celia, sniffing an opportunity, drew up a business plan, hired a sewing room, and turned out a line of dresses exactly like the ones from the boutique. The next thing you know, she’s the girl genius of retailing.”
“Did you do anything to check out the other woman’s claim?” A
“Nope,” Katie said. “It’s not like she trademarked the dresses. Anyway, there wasn’t anything we could do about it. We listened to her story, but what could we do? We’d been victimized, too. By then, Celia was long gone.”
“I know,” A
There was a knock at A
* * *
Mason stood in the hallway outside her office, his laptop case slung over his shoulder.
“Hey, you,” he said, looking puzzled. “You’re locking yourself in now?”
“Sorry,” A
“Wish I could lock myself in. Or other people out,” Mason said. “Look, it’s nearly six. Wa
A
“Let it go until tomorrow,” Mason said firmly.
“It’s not just that,” she said. “You know how people are. If they see us out together, it’ll just fire up the rumor mill again.”
“So?” He brushed his hand through his hair, impatient. “I’ve got news for you, A
“I hate being the topic of gossip,” A
Mason rolled his eyes. “Me, too. Especially when I’m not even getting to do the things people suspect we’re already doing.” He caught her hand. “Come on. Please? We’ve wasted five years pretending we don’t care about each other. I don’t want to waste any more time. Do you?”
She felt so torn. She wanted to see him, be with him. Why was it so hard to say yes to making herself happy?
“A
“All right,” she said finally. “But I’ve got to finish up a couple things. I’ll meet you. Where?”
“There’s a new place, Blueplate, in Creekdale. Where the old Emile’s used to be? But it’s silly to drive all the way over there in two separate cars. I’ll go home, check on Sophie, shower and change, and meet you back here—in an hour?”
“It’s a deal,” A
He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Now you’re talking.”
31
Blueplate was located in a small wood-shingled cottage set back from the road in Creekdale. A
Now, though, the place had been transformed. Rough whitewashed plaster walls replaced the overblown red damask wallpaper, and the furnishings were a friendly mélange of wooden tables and mismatched chairs. A small bar took up most of the entryway, and, beyond, they could hear the clatter of dishes and the hum of conversations in the dining room.
The hostess, a slender brunette with pale skin and tattoos wreathing both wrists, identified herself as Tabitha, the owner and wife of the chef, as she gathered up a menu and silverware for them.
“It’s such an awesome night; I think we have a table out on the patio, if you want,” Tabitha offered.
A
As they were led through the dining room, A
Stop hiding! You’ve done nothing wrong. Anyway, it’s only di
The patio was just as charming as the interior of the restaurant, with a rough-beamed peaked ceiling lined with twinkling white lights and a flagstone floor. Despite her earlier internal scolding, A
They ordered drinks. Mason looked surprised at her order.
“Since when do you drink martinis?” he asked, sitting back in his chair and regarding her with interest. “You always used to like those girly drinks—what, cosmos?”
“Tastes change,” she said lightly. “People change. But I know you still like bourbon.”
“I’ve changed in other ways,” Mason said. “Older and wiser, I hope. More cynical, definitely.”
A single candle in a low jar in the center of the table illuminated his face. She studied it now. His thick blond hair had a few streaks of gray, and crow’s feet etched the corners of his eyes, which somehow seemed a deeper blue, not the clear blue she remembered from their youth. His jawline was still firm, and she realized, with surprise, that he seemed to have lost weight, his cheeks somewhat hollow, his worn blue blazer hanging awkwardly from his shoulders. And now that she thought about it, his khaki slacks bunched at the waist where his belt cinched them too tightly.
She wrinkled her forehead. “How much weight have you lost?”
He shrugged. “I don’t keep track. Maybe twenty, twenty-five.”
“You’re not dieting, right? You never used to have a weight problem.”
He shrugged. “Not dieting. Just kind of distracted with everything going on in my life.”
A
“Don’t say that.” His voice was sharp. “You’re fine exactly the way you are.”
The waiter brought their appetizer, a sizzling skillet full of sweet briny shrimp sautéed in garlic and olive oil, swimming alongside tiny Greek olives and feta cheese. A loaf of hot crusty bread accompanied the shrimp, and they busied themselves dividing up the shrimp, dipping the bread into the fragrant juices.
“Mmm,” A
“How was the rest of your day?” she asked, after the waiter removed the remains of the shrimp and brought their entrées.
Mason took a bite of his flounder, chewed, and considered. “Difficult. Davis is determined to battle me on every issue, large and small. Business decisions that should be routine, things like truck maintenance or contracts with vendors, all of a sudden, he’s questioning, objecting to, second-guessing.”
He shook his head. “It’s like he feels like he has to stir every pot.”
“Maybe he’s trying to prove himself.”
“To whom? He’s family. It’s not like I can fire him, as he so aptly pointed out today.”