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The last time she’d been in Indian Lake she’d been two months shy of her sixteenth birthday. Her mother had still been alive. Grace had been the first runner-up in the Miss Teen Illinois contest. After winning the crown for Junior Miss Illinois in prior years, Grace was blindsided by her near miss. She’d been certain she would win. Her piano performance was impeccable. The gowns she’d designed and that her mother had helped her make were perfection. She’d delivered answers to the judges’ questions with insight and flawless diction. She should have won. But she hadn’t.
That summer was a turning point in her life. After that summer, Grace had altered her goal of becoming a model and directed her ambition toward fashion design. It had been a summer for growing up. That much was certain.
Grace ran her palm over the lapels of her jacket, making certain they lay flat.
Nervous habit, she groused to herself and dropped her hands. She’d worked hard on the design she was wearing. Her fingers traveled over the wool fabric she’d snagged at a bargain price from Johnstons of Elgin. The cashmere was from Nepal, but Grace believed the Scots knew how to weave it best. As comforting as her black jacket and slim skirt were, she was anxious.
She leaned her head against the hard seat and exhaled. She had to calm down.
“You coming back home?” the man across from her asked.
Grace had been so deep in thought, she’d barely noticed anyone else on the train at all.
“Yes. No. Yes,” she replied, looking at him. Attractive was an understatement. He was tall and trim in his well-tailored black business suit, white cotton shirt and conservative tie. The clothes were not expensive, off the rack. He had a good eye for putting himself together and watching his budget. She liked that.
His blue eyes danced and a wave of thick chestnut hair fell over his forehead.
“Can’t decide, huh? Think you’ll get off when we stop?” He smiled broadly.
He was observant. She had to give him that.
Grace couldn’t hold back her own smile. She was used to men striking up conversations with her in cafés. Trains. Airplanes. She’d worn a rhinestone crown since she was ten, and didn’t give it up until she was fifteen. Sometimes she thought men could still see the glimmer, even though the glamour and floodlights had faded for her long ago.
He leaned forward. Just a bit. Not so much that the gesture cut through her personal space. “Dylan Hawks.” He extended his hand and she took it.
“Hawks? I know that name. Are you related to Isabelle Hawks?” she asked.
“My sister,” he said, lifting his chin proudly. “She’s why I’m home for the weekend. Her bridal shower.”
“How nice.” Grace swallowed hard. She limited thoughts of brides to design projects, never imagining herself in that role. “I’m Grace Railton, by the way.”
“Pleasure.” He smiled and then continued. “It’s a big couples’ thing at our friend’s house. Mrs. Beabots.”
Grace’s spirits lightened. “I know her very well. She was practically my mentor.”
“Mentor?”
“It’s a long story,” Grace replied. After high school, Grace had left for New York and entered Parsons School of Design. While her friends went to parties, she drew, created and studied. When they went to Florida for Spring Break, she wrangled appointments with fashion house assistants and design team members. Over large lattes—which she bought for them—Grace picked their brains and soaked up information. In the summers, she took part-time internships on Seventh Avenue. She hadn’t cared how menial the job; she’d only wanted to learn. Like striving for one of her pageant crowns, she had to be the best.
She’d graduated at the top of her class and landed a summer internship at Tom Ford. Grace knew that the very best designers worked in Paris, and she’d believed that until she had a chance to prove her talent in the biggest and toughest arena in the world, she’d never be happy.
Aunt Louise had told Grace of Mrs. Beabots’s former life in Paris, where she had “done something” at Chanel, though no one in town was certain what, since Mrs. Beabots was as tight-lipped, as Louise put it, as the seal on a coffin. Grace had gotten to know Mrs. Beabots during her visits to Indian Lake in high school. Grace had taken an instant liking to the older woman and they shared an admiration for beautifully made clothes. Mrs. Beabots had eventually suggested Grace sketch the dresses she envisioned and send them to her. Grace did precisely that. Throughout high school and college, Grace had corresponded with Mrs. Beabots, sending drawings and photos of her designs. Grace had pleaded with her her aunt to enlist Mrs. Beabots’s help in making connections in Paris, and by that autumn after her college graduation, Grace was on a plane headed to Paris as an assistant to an assistant at Jean Paul Gaultier. Grace’s penchant for perfectionism had gotten her noticed within weeks and she had been challenging herself ever since. Now she was an independent designer with her own team, hoping they would be “brought on” to a top couture house. Under an iconic umbrella, they would have respect, clout and the freedom to create their own line of clothing and accessories, with Grace’s name and logo stamped on every ensemble. They would have security and respect. Fortunately, up to this point, her designs had sold enough to keep them all afloat. Barely.
No question about it. If not for Mrs. Beabots, Grace would not be anywhere near where she was now.
“So are you here for the party as well? Odd we haven’t met. I would remember you...” Despite racing through his questions, Dylan spoke with a dash of charm that was so light most would miss it. Grace did not.
“What a nice thing to say. Thank you. But no, I’m not invited to the party, though I knew Isabelle years ago.” She paused, her mind floating back to that summer, when all of Sarah Jensen’s friends hung out together. Barbecues. Slumber parties. Pool parties... Grace wrenched her thoughts back to the present. “Actually, I’m helping my Aunt Louise. Perhaps you know her. Louise Railton?”
He snapped his fingers. “The Louise House! An Indian Lake institution.”
Grace flashed him a grin. “I’ll tell her you said so.”
The train slowed as it neared the town. Blazing maple, oak and walnut trees hugged the crystal blue lake like bejeweled arms. White clouds scudded across the sky, the sun dazzling Grace’s eyes.
The train jerked to a stop.
“Indian Lake! Indian Lake!”
Adrenaline raced through Grace’s body as she shot to her feet. “We’re here!”
“So we are,” Dylan replied, putting his iPad in his briefcase. “It was nice meeting you, Grace.”
“I’m sure I’ll see you around town,” she said as she gathered her oversize black fringed purse and two large totes, one of which held her laptop, iPad and sketchbook.
“I’m not here all that often. I live in Lincoln Park and work in downtown Chicago. Prosecuting attorney. In case you wanted to know.”
A blush colored Grace’s face. “I apologize for my manners. My head’s been in another world...”
“I could tell.” His mouth quirked in an impish grin.
Dylan slipped out of his seat and walked away.
Way to go, Grace. Nice guy and you blow him off. When are you going to get a life? A real one? She slung her purse and one of the totes over her shoulder, then bumped her way down the aisle toward the exit.
Carefully, Grace negotiated the narrow metal steps down to the pavement. For the first time on her trip, she questioned the importance of her fashionable, but apparently impractical, boots.
The conductor waited until she disembarked before unloading her overweight bags. One by one, he slammed them against the concrete and then sneered at her. “What’ve you got in there? Rocks?”
“Vitamins.” She reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew the cash she’d agreed to pay him.
He touched his hand to the bill of his cap and hopped back up on the train. Grace yanked the long luggage handles out to their full length, hoisted one of the totes higher up on her shoulder and began pulling her load. She felt like a pack mule.
“Grace!” a woman’s voice called.
“Grace! You’re here!” a younger female voice shouted.
Raising her head, Grace saw Aunt Louise coming toward her, bent over a walker. With her was a blonde woman whose sparkling green eyes she’d know anywhere. Grace stood upright and let go of the suitcase handles. “Aunt Louise! And...Maddie? Maddie Strong?”
“Barzonni now.” Maddie beamed.
“Grace! Thank heaven!” Louise’s smile was nearly as bright as the sun. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Grace.” She held out her arms.
Grace couldn’t remember a more wonderful sight. For an instant, she regretted every minute she’d spent apart from her Aunt Louise. Her life in Paris seemed to melt away and all she felt was a rush of affection for her aunt, and nostalgia for this town and the summer long ago with the barbecues, the swimming pool...and Mica.
* * *
“I’VE MADE A lot of changes since you were here, Grace,” Louise said as Grace helped her into the shop.
Grace flipped the cardboard door sign to Open, then stood in the entrance, her eyes stinging with tears. “It’s just an old sign,” she whispered, tracing the crumpled edges of the sign she’d turned over years ago when it had been her job to help Aunt Louise open up and close. Just a sign. A battered, old, faded sign. And suddenly, it meant the world to her because it was part of her life with Aunt Louise.
“Grace?” Louise said.
“Sorry.” Grace sniffed. “I was making sure the lock was open.” She wiped away her tear.
“Sarah and the kids will be here anytime now. It’s Annie’s birthday, so they’ll want some of my newest creations.”
Louise moved her walker over to the chair she’d pulled up to the counter, where the old cash register still sat. It was a monster antique with tabs that would make a muscle-builder’s biceps flex, yet her aunt had refused to give up the old thing.
“I see you’re not computerized yet.” Grace chuckled.
Louise swatted the air with her palm and slapped her thigh as she eased into the chair. “Good heavens, of course I am. In the office. But out here, everyone likes reminders of a bygone era. They come here for this old register. That and the pumpkin-spice and gingerbread-nut ice cream I make every autumn.”
Grace’s heels clacked against the century-old walnut floorboards. She took off her jacket and hung it on a peg next to the wide window with the gold lettering announcing the seasonal offerings.
“I hate to have to thrust you right into work, Grace,” Louise said. “But it couldn’t be helped. Sarah and the kids...”
“Please, don’t apologize, Aunt Louise. I’ll be fine.” She shoved the sleeves of her black sweater to her elbows, revealing at least nine bracelets on each arm. She went to the sink and washed her hands. Under the counter glass was a group of photographs of the sundaes. “Let me study these for a sec.”
“It’s the Monster Mash they love. I serve it in those big round dishes. Six scoops of ice cream slathered in hot fudge with whipped cream piled eight inches high. It feeds four.”
“Thank goodness!” Grace laughed as the front door opened and nearly a dozen children rushed in. Maddie held the door as Sarah Jensen Bosworth walked in behind them. The kids raced to their favorite tables and picked up the menus, challenging each other as to who could eat the most ice cream.
Grace hugged Sarah and as much as she wanted to catch up, the kids were shouting out their orders and Maddie said she had to rush to get Louise to her rehab appointment.
“I’d better get to work,” Grace said.
“You haven’t had a chance to take a breath,” Maddie said. “Not even change or freshen up.” Maddie’s eyes traveled from Grace’s seven strings of pearls, crystals and gold ropes around the banded neckline of the black knit sweater, to her houndstooth wool pencil skirt and fringed black boots. “I wish I knew how to put something together like that.”
“Thanks,” Grace replied, basking in the twinkle of appreciation. “That means a lot to me. A lot.”
Maddie hugged her, then tilted her head toward Annie and Timmy Bosworth and Danny Sullivan, who were waving huge spoons up in the air. “They look like they’re about to revolt.”
“I’m on it.” Grace smiled and went straight to work scooping six kinds of ice cream into Monster Mash dishes.
After serving up over half a dozen massive concoctions, her hands sticky and nearly frozen, she lost track of time. She was halfway into the refrigerated bin, trying to dig out the last of the pumpkin-spice ice cream when she felt the counter reverberate.
“Where’s Louise?” a raw, deep male voice asked.
“She’s at the doctor.” Grace lifted her head and looked into the Mediterranean-blue eyes she’d never forgotten. Mica. Her heart stopped. She was staring, but she couldn’t help it. “Rehab. Her back...”
“I heard,” he said sharply. He peered at her, taking inventory. “You’re new here.”
He didn’t recognize her. She should have figured that one. Why would he remember her? She had changed a lot in twelve years. A whole lot.
With the force of a tsunami, the memory of the pool party at the Barzonni villa hit her. The “gang” had all been there...Sarah Jensen, Maddie Strong and all the Barzonni brothers—football star Gabe, horse-lover Rafe and Nate, who only had eyes for Maddie.
And then there was Mica. The most handsome of all the blue-eyed, black-haired, sun-bronzed boys.
Mica had exuded the kind of perfection Grace had been trying her whole life to achieve. He was strong, quiet and arrestingly handsome.
And after a game of swimming-pool volleyball, Mica had kissed her. She remembered the chlorine smell mixed with suntan lotion, the warmth of his lips on hers. It was a quick kiss. One without passion or longing, and yet, to this day, she’d never forgotten it.
Nor had she forgotten his disdain of her pageant life and his dismissal of her interest in fashion. He hadn’t been cruel, but he’d made it clear he thought her pursuits were worthless.
She hadn’t known how to stand up to him back then. He was three years older and as much as she had wanted to rebuke him, she’d felt there was truth to his arguments. He and his brothers worked from dawn to dusk on the farm. There was always back-breaking work to do and they did it gladly. Mica considered it a privilege to be a part of his father’s legacy.
At Parsons and later in Paris, Grace had learned that Mica was right about one thing: determination and perseverance were everything.
Mica Barzonni had changed her life back then, though he didn’t know that. Several times over the years, she’d thought about writing to thank him. But now she saw how truly inconsequential she’d been in his life. Obviously, he didn’t remember her in the least. He was a Barzonni, after all. He already had everything.
Even now, her heart hammered in her chest. Suddenly she was that teenage girl again, crushing on the boy in the pool. She hadn’t been in love; she’d been too young for love, hadn’t she? Mica had given her no indication that she was anything to him other than a pest. Except for that one kiss. She was only a girl he’d met one summer...a long time ago.
She stared back at him. He wore dusty jeans, a faded plaid shirt, an old wool vest that she would have trashed and scuffed boots with dirt clods clinging to the heels. There was an oil smudge on his forehead. He looked like he’d walked right out of the fields. His hand rested on the counter, where he’d dumped a big canvas sack.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Pie pumpkins for Louise. My mother said she called and needed them ASAP.”
“She didn’t tell me.” Grace added a final scoop to the sundae she’d been working on, but the dish was overloaded and another scoop fell out. She shoveled it back in and patted it down.
“You need some help there?” He smirked.
Grace stared at him. “I’m fine.” She plunged the dipper into the hot fudge and drizzled it over the ice cream. Glancing at the photo of the Monster Mash, she took a can of whipped cream from the under-the-counter refrigerator and pulled off the cap.
“You’re supposed to shake it up first,” Mica said.
“I know what I’m doing,” she snapped. Grace pressed the top and sprayed whipped cream all over the ice cream, the counter and onto Mica’s plaid shirt.
He groaned. “Yeah, right.”
“Sorry,” Grace said sheepishly, handing him a dish towel.
“You should’ve shaken the can,” he growled. “I would have thought Louise would hire someone with skills.”
Under Mica’s judgmental gaze, Grace felt as if she was fifteen again. Back when she’d just lost the crown and had felt terribly insecure. She’d given her heart away to Mica and he hadn’t known the first thing about her feelings. She’d kept silent. Well, not this time.
“If I want your advice, I’ll ask for it. Now, excuse me, please. I have to deliver this.” Grace carried her vastly imperfect Monster Mash to a table of four boys, who looked askance at the sundae. “I did my best,” she whispered to the kids. She handed them four spoons. “It’ll taste better than it looks.”
“Yeah,” Timmy said and gave her a thumbs-up. The kids dug in with audible glee.
When Grace turned around she noticed that Mica was now leaning against the counter, his hand on his hip as he watched every move she made. No beauty contest judge had ever scrutinized her so intently. She felt as if she still had whipped cream on her face or mascara smudges under her eyes. She should have checked her makeup before the kids arrived, but there hadn’t been time. Self-consciously, she touched her earrings. No. They were still in place.
All she could do was retaliate in kind. She let her gaze fall to his boots. She lifted the edge of her lips in a lopsided effort at a sneer. “You make deliveries here often?”
“I do now.”
“Then the next time you come, wipe your boots before you enter the shop. Saves me from scrubbing the floor.”
