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That’s one thing I don’t intend to mess up.
For the rest of the day, David couldn’t stop speculating on Susannah’s comment. What—or who—had let Susannah down, making her believe she had to earn love?
He found no satisfactory answers to stop his thoughts about Darla’s newest caregiver—at least, that’s how he should be thinking of the beautiful Susannah Wells.
Chapter Four
Two weeks later Susannah stirred under the November sun, stretched and blinked. The scene in front of her brought her wide awake.
“Do you like it?” Darla preened, scissors dangling from one finger.
“Um, it’s different.” Susannah slid her legs to one side and slowly rose. Thankfully her recent light-headedness seemed to have abated. She lifted the scissors from Darla’s hands and put them on the patio table. “Let’s put these away.”
She’d slept a full eight hours last night. It wasn’t as if she was tired. And yet, one minute of sun and she went out like a light. Sleeping on the job. David would be furious.
“Why did you cut off the bottom of your dress, sweetie?” Susannah asked.
“I don’t like this dress,” Darla grumbled. She flopped down into a chair. “Davy says it’s nice but I think it’s ugly.”
“Because it’s black?” Susannah asked. “But you look good in black. You have the right coloring.”
Darla didn’t look at her. Instead she drew her knees to her chin and peered into space.
“Why so serious?” Susannah laid a hand on the shiny dark head. “What are you thinking about, honey?”
“When my mom died, it was like today,” Darla whispered. “There were leaves falling off the trees.”
And you wore a black dress.
“Black isn’t only for funerals, you know, Darla,” she soothed. “Evening wear is often black because it looks so dressy. And a lot of women wear black to look slimmer.”
“Am I fat?” Darla asked, eyes widening.
“No! Of course you’re not. I didn’t mean that.” Susannah couldn’t tell what was going on in the girl’s mind, so she waited.
“Black clothes don’t show marks when you spill stuff,” the whisper came a minute later.
“Oh?” Something told Susannah to proceed very carefully.
“Davy and me went out for pizza last night. It was good, but I spilled.”
“I’m sure the pizza people didn’t care. Restaurants are used to spills,” Susannah encouraged. “Besides, everyone gets messy eating pizza.”
“Davy didn’t. He had on a white shirt.” Darla wouldn’t look at her. “I wore my soccer shirt. It got stains. I looked like a baby.”
Darla was worried about her appearance?
“Davy was embarr—” She frowned, unable to find the word.
“Embarrassed? I don’t think David gets embarrassed.” Susannah wasn’t sure she completely understood what was behind these comments. But it was time to find out why her clothes bothered Darla. She held out a hand. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” Darla asked, taking Susannah’s hand to help her rise.
“To look at your closet.”
“Okay.” Darla picked up the scissors.
“Without those,” she added hastily.
“Oh.” Darla put them back, then led the way to her room.
As they poked through the contents of the closet for the rest of the afternoon, Susannah watched Darla’s reaction to each item. Mostly negative. Susannah had no idea how much time had passed when a sardonic voice in the doorway asked, “Did you lose something?”
“Oh. Hi.” Darla had a point, Susannah decided. David looked as neat and pristine as he’d probably looked when he left the house this morning. She felt rumpled and dingy even being in the same room. “We’re taking inventory.”
“Ah.” He blinked. “I’m going to change. You won’t—er, leave the room like that, will you?”
“I think so.” Susannah winked at Darla. “Has a certain carefree look, don’t you think?”
But Darla didn’t laugh. Instead she rose and began scooping up handfuls of hangers and placing them on the rod in her closet.
“I’ll make it good, Davy,” she said as she scurried back and forth.
“What happened to your dress?” he asked, staring at the ragged, sawed-off hem.
“Oh, that,” Susannah said, noting Darla’s flush of embarrassment. “I’m afraid that’s a fashion plan gone wrong.”
“You did it deliberately?” Pure shock robbed all expression from his face.
“It was unplanned,” she hedged. “But the dress didn’t work in its original state anyway.”
“It worked for—never mind.” His mouth drooped before he quickly closed it. He turned to leave, then stopped and turned back, dark eyes suspicious. “Did anything else happen today?”
“We did a little work in the back flower bed. Darla’s really good at planting and we both like mums, so we planted a few pots.”
“Then I owe you some money.” He nodded. “If you’ll meet me downstairs in a few minutes, I’ll pay you.”
“Good idea. I want to talk to you anyway.” Susannah frowned. Was that fear flickering through his tawny eyes? Of her? “Five minutes?”
He nodded and left.
“Davy paid for my clothes. He likes them. So do I,” Darla insisted loudly. She hurried to get the clothes hung, and in her haste the hangers dangled helter-skelter.
“Hey, slow down,” Susannah chuckled. “I helped create this mess. I’m going to help you clean it up.” By showing Darla how to group clothes, they reorganized the closet and rearranged the drawers. She paused when she pulled out an old pair of almost-white jeans tucked at the back of the closet. “How come you never wear these, Darla?”
“Davy doesn’t like them. And I’m too big.” Darla took them from her and relegated them to their hiding place. She took off the dress she’d cut and drew on another exactly the same except it was navy instead of black.
Clearly Darla didn’t want to irritate the brother who had done so much for her. A lump of pity swelled in Susannah’s throat. Darla was willing to be unhappy rather than tell her brother she hated her clothes.
They walked downstairs together. Mrs. Peters, David’s housekeeper, asked Darla to set the table just as he came loping down the stairs.
“Now how much do I owe you for the flowers?”
Susannah glanced down the hall, grabbed his elbow and drew him into his study. She closed the door.
“We have to make this quick before she finishes the table.”
“Make what quick?” he asked, one eyebrow elegantly arched.
“Listen, I want to take Darla shopping,” she explained.
“Shopping?” He nodded. “More flowers?”
“New clothes.” She held up a hand. “You’re going to say her clothes are almost new. I’m sure someone at the goodwill center will appreciate that.”
“You cut her dress because you don’t like her clothes,” he guessed, a frown line marring the smooth perfection of his forehead. “Um—”
“Darla cut it. Because she hates it. And the rest of her clothes.” Susannah flopped onto a couch and crossed her feet under her. “I can’t say I blame her.”
His chest puffed out. His face got that indignant look and his caramel eyes turned brittle. Susannah gulped. Okay, that could have been worded differently.
“What I mean is—”
“You mean her clothes aren’t trendy. No holes in her jeans, no skintight shirts,” he snapped. “Ms. Wells, my sister’s clothes are from an expensive store. They are the best—”
“—money can buy,” she finished. “I’m sure they are.” She sat back and waited for him to cool down.
David continued to glare at her. Eventually he sat down and sighed. “Explain, please.”
“Did you choose Darla’s clothes? No, let me guess. You told a sales associate what you wanted and she picked them out.” Susannah chuckled at the evidence radiating across his face. “I thought so. Probably a commissioned sales woman.”
“What difference would that make?” he demanded. “I got the best for my sister. Darla doesn’t need to alter her own clothes.”
“She might be happier if she could tear them all apart,” she mused.
“What? Where is this going?” He looked defensive and frustrated. That was not her goal. Susannah straightened, leaned forward.
“After she cut her dress, Darla told me she wore black the day of her mother’s funeral. Then she talked a lot about spilling and messes.” She inhaled a deep breath for courage. “Did you notice when you were in her room how many of her clothes are black, brown or gray?”
“Good serviceable colors,” David said.
“For men’s suits!” Susannah blew the straggling wisps of hair off her forehead and tried again. “Your sister is, what, three years younger than me? Can you imagine me in any of her clothes?”
“No.”
Susannah surveyed her jeans. “I don’t have good clothes, David. I bought most of mine at a thrift store. But you’re right,” she said flatly, “I wouldn’t wear Darla’s clothes if you gave them to me.”
David glared at her. “Why don’t you just come right out and say what you mean?”
“Did Darla choose any of those clothes?”
“I don’t recall.” He frowned, his gaze on some past memory. “Her arm was still bothering her and she had some bandages yet to be removed when we shopped. We went for snaps and zips she could manage.” Then he refocused. “Does it matter?”
“Yes!”
“Because?” He waited, shuffling one foot in front of the other.
“Because she should be young and carefree. Instead she wears the clothes of a forty-year-old,” Susannah snapped, unable to hold in her irritation. “Because she needs to dress in something that lets her personality shine through. Because Darla is smothering under this blanket you keep putting over her.”
“Well. Don’t hold back.” David stiffened, his face frozen.
“I wouldn’t even if I could,” she assured him. “I’m here to help Darla. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“I’m not sure you fully understand Darla’s situation,” David said crisply. “Until about eight months ago, she could barely walk. She’d been wearing jogging suits while she did rehab. By the time she finished that, she’d outgrown everything she owned.”
He’d done his best. That was the thing that kept Susannah from screaming at him to lighten up. No matter what, David Foster had done the very best he could for his sister. Because he loved her. Connie was right. He did have integrity. How could you fault that?
But Darla was her concern, not sparing David’s feelings. Susannah leaned forward, intent on making him understand what she’d only begun to decipher.
“Darla is smart and funny. She’s got a sweet heart and she loves people. But she doesn’t have any confidence in herself.” Susannah touched his arm. “She gets frustrated because she wants so badly to be what you want, and yet somehow, she just can’t get there.”
“I don’t want her to be anything,” he protested.
“You want her to be neat and tidy.” Susannah pressed on, determined to make him see what she saw.
“That’s wrong?” David asked.
“How many teens do you know who fit that designation? By nature teens are exploring, innovating, trying to figure out their world. Darla is no different.” Susannah said. “Except that she thinks you’re embarrassed when she spills something.”
“I’m not embarrassed about anything to do with my sister.” She saw the truth in his frank stare. “I thought…”
The complete uncertainty washing over his face gripped a soft spot in her heart.
“David, listen to me and, just for a moment, pretend that I know what I’m talking about.” She drew in a breath of courage. “Most teen girls love fashion, they love color. They experiment with style, trying to achieve the looks they see in magazines. It’s part of figuring out who they are. I’ll bet Darla used to do that, didn’t she?”
“She always liked red,” he said slowly.
“I didn’t see anything red in her closet.”
“No.” His solemn voice said he’d absorbed what she’d hinted at. “Go on.”
“With her current wardrobe, Darla couldn’t experiment if she wanted to,” Susannah told him. “Her clothes are like a mute button on a TV. They squash everything unique and wonderful about her.”
“But—” David stopped, closed his mouth and stared at her.
His silence encouraged Susannah to continue, though she softened her tone.
“I think her accident left her trying to figure out how she fits into her new world. She’s struggling to make what she is inside match with those boring clothes.”
