Random Acts Of Fashion

“Of course I’ll pay. And I’ll give you the money for those overpriced boots, too. But no way am I taking the complete blame this time.”

“Um—reality check. You are completely to blame.”

“You were the one standing out in the middle of the street. They teach you to do that out there in New York City? Cause we don’t teach kids in Timber Bay to stand out in the street much.”

“It’s the middle of the night. Who knew it wouldn’t be safe to cross the street?”

“You weren’t crossing, you were standing.”

“I mean—” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken “—who knew that a giant prowled under the streets of Timber Bay at night and that there was always the danger of him just breaking through the damn concrete whenever he felt like it—no matter who was standing there?”

As far as Lukas was concerned, she was being totally unreasonable. “You were standing on a manhole. I’m a man. You gotta expect these things sometimes.”

“That is totally insane. I was safer in the streets of New York than I am here. First you throw a pile of wood at me—”

“That was an accident!”

“Then your niece ruins a few hundred dollars’ worth of cosmic gray metallic satin—”

“Chloe? Chloe ruined that silver thing you were wearing?”

“Cosmic gray,” she repeated through clenched jaws. “And yes. She ruined it when she decided to serve me mud pies.”

“Hey, Chloe is a sweet kid but she’s not even a year-and-a-half old yet.”

“So what’s your excuse?”

“Listen, princess, I said I was sorry—”

“What did you call me?”

“Princess.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Ha. Did I strike a nerve, princess?”

“I told you not to call me that. And no, you did not.”

“No, I did not what?”

“You did not say you were sorry. Not even once.”

Hadn’t he? Lukas ran over the past minutes in his mind. He must have said he was sorry. But as he pulled into the hospital parking lot and drove around back to the emergency entrance, he honestly could not remember apologizing.

He parked, got out of the truck, and went around to the passenger side to open the door for Gillian. He helped her out as carefully as possible. He could see it cost her some to let him. He had the feeling that at this point she’d rather kick him in the shins with her silver slipper than take his arm.

As soon as the electronic doors swooshed open and let them inside the hospital, Gillian was swept away. He paced while he waited for her to fill out forms and answer questions. He thought he’d get to talk to her when she was sent to the waiting area, but she’d no sooner sat down than a nurse came out and got her. Slow night, apparently, in the E.R. Lukas had never wished for other people to have bad fortune in order that he might get something he wanted, but he sure could have used a little laceration, or a broken toe maybe, so he’d have enough time to apologize to Gillian. Because she’d been right about that, at least. He hadn’t apologized.

What was the matter with him? Lukas never, ever argued with women. Oh, he and his sister Molly tussled like all brothers and sisters, but as far as other women went, Lukas was pretty easygoing. So what had gotten into him tonight? Gillian could have a broken arm and it was all because of him. He remembered how her face had grimaced in pain, and felt ashamed for arguing with her when she was hurt. His mom would skin him alive if she knew.

As he always did when he was bothered by something, Lukas pulled out the piece of wood he kept in one pocket and the knife he kept in the other and sat down in the waiting room to whittle. He knew from the night Chloe was born that the hospital staff wasn’t crazy about having shavings all over the waiting-room floor so he mostly just worked on smoothing out the lines of the chess piece he was carving. When he heard the click of high heels on tile, he looked up to see Gillian coming down the short corridor between the treatment cubicles and the waiting room. Her left arm was in a sling. Oh, man. His heart swelled when he saw it. It must be serious. And it was his fault. And he hadn’t even said he was sorry.

He got up and started toward her. “I—” he began.

“You,” she said, sticking out her good arm, palm up like a traffic cop, “don’t come one step closer.”

She sailed past him and was nearly to the exit doors before he got his wits about him.

“Wait! What did the doctor say?”

She turned around. “It’s sprained, McCoy, that’s what he says. My arm is sprained. I have to keep it in this—this sling. And he says it’ll be a couple of weeks before I can fully use it again. A couple of weeks, McCoy. I don’t have a couple of weeks. I’ve got a boutique to get ready to open. Now how do you suppose I’m going to be able to do that with only one arm?”

She started for the door again. He couldn’t let her get away without apologizing.

“But—wait! I’ll drive you home. I want to—”

“I called a cab. There is no way I’m getting that close to you—or any other member of your family—ever again,” she called over her shoulder just as the doors slid closed.

Lukas ran to catch up to her, but by the time the doors opened again and he hurried outside, the cab was already pulling away.

“OW!” Gillian exclaimed when she stuck herself in the hand with a seam ripper for the fourth time. “This is impossible,” she grumbled, throwing down the cosmic gray satin pants. She’d been hoping that she could salvage the pants because there was just enough of the fabric left to replace the front where Chloe had served her the mud pies, but with one arm in a sling, the seams had ended up looking like the sewing machine needle was going for Olympic gold in the slalom race. She’d assumed that it would be easier to rip out a seam than sew one. But despite the fact that she was right-handed and it was her left arm in the sling, it was still remarkably hard to do anything one-handed.

Gillian finally gave up on the pants and started to unpack the ready-to-wear lingerie she’d ordered. Some of the items needed steaming. She was able to do this pretty well with one hand, but it did nothing to lighten her mood. The silky slips, the gossamer gowns and robes, the lacy bra and panty sets, just made her more aware of the fact that there was going to be more lingerie in the shop than there was going to be Glad Rags by Gillian. She could have wept with frustration. Glad Rags was supposed to showcase her own designs, not those of already established lingerie designers who didn’t even need the measly sales they’d get in Timber Bay, anyway.

After what Ryan had done to her, Gillian had only been able to put one foot in front of the other by chanting living well is the best revenge like a mantra every time the blues threatened. For weeks she’d sustained herself on the image of women flocking to the door of Glad Rags as soon as she unlocked it on the opening day of the Harvest Festival and Sale. She had even done the heretofore unheard-of and toned down her styles for Midwestern tastes. But that hadn’t been sacrifice enough to appease the gods of failure because now her dreams of success—her meager dreams of revenge—were disappearing faster than tickets to a hit Broadway musical. And all because of Lukas McCoy.

A stream of too-hot mist hissed out of the steamer, nearly hot enough to melt the fine lace edging on the camisole she was working on. “Easy, Gilly,” she said, “it’s Lukas McCoy you want to melt, not this exquisite lace.”

Abruptly, she stopped moving the steamer up and down. Had she said melt? Nonsense. Gillian started steaming again. Stopped again. Had she? Well, if she had, she told herself, what she’d meant to say was fry. No, that was the electric chair. Burn? Hmm. Well, certainly not melt. Melting implied all sorts of gooey feelings. And she wasn’t feeling gooey at all towards McCoy. She had no intention of getting all gooey over any man ever again.

Nor did she have any intention of steaming one more garment that she hadn’t designed herself.

Not today, anyway.

Gillian went upstairs to Aunt Clemintine’s apartment to make a pot of coffee. As soon as the aroma drifted up from the coffeemaker, she wished she had one of Molly’s cinnamon buns. Sweet Buns was just across the street. She could hop over there, get a bun, and come back before the coffee was even done brewing. But Molly was a McCoy. And it wasn’t safe for her to go near a McCoy.

She took a cup of coffee into the living room and prepared to chill out by doing some channel surfing. Aunt Clemintine’s taste had run to overstuffed chintz, Italian porcelain flower arrangements, and numerous other girly bric-a-brac that Gillian had loved when she was a little girl. It was so feminine compared to her parents’ house which had been overrun with boy stuff and decorated chiefly with anything that wouldn’t break easily or show dirt.

Gillian opened the doors to the antique armoire that contained a little television set, then got comfortable on the overstuffed sofa. But when she reached for the remote control, it wasn’t on the coffee table. Or the end table. It wasn’t anywhere. It took her five minutes of searching before she realized that the only innovation Aunt Clemintine had embraced after 1952 had been polyester fabric. Her TV didn’t have a remote. It didn’t even have color. Gillian ended up sitting crossed-legged on the floor close enough to the set to reach out and change the channels manually.

The soaps were no fun in black-and-white because you couldn’t really enjoy the clothes. She stopped at a courtroom show—one of those half-hour things where a smart-aleck judge badgered and humiliated the stuffing out of either the defendant or the plaintiff—or sometimes both. Not Gillian’s idea of happy viewing. She reached out to change the channel when something the female plaintiff said caught her attention.

“It’s his fault, Your Honor, how was I supposed to deliver pizzas after he wrecked my car? I got no earnings—he should be made to pay.”

The judge, a feisty-looking middle-aged woman, asked some questions, listened to the answers, and then lashed into the male defendant like her tongue was a cat-o-nine-tails. The defendant tried to defend himself. The judge shut him up. By the time she threw the book at him and made him pay damages and lost wages, Gillian was up on her feet cheering.

“Damn, that felt good,” she said, nearly out of breath with sisters unite blood lust. And then it hit her.

Maybe she should sue Lukas McCoy.

She started to pace the small living room.

Could she?

Should she?

Would she?

Gillian could feel her adrenaline pumping at the thought of having her day in court. Oh, she really wasn’t out for blood. She didn’t want to ruin McCoy or anything. She just wanted enough money to be able to afford to hire someone to be her left arm until it healed. She’d been too big a wimp to do anything about what Ryan had done to her. But that didn’t mean she had to go on being a wimp, did it? She didn’t want to continue allowing men to screw up her life and livelihood, did she?

“Absolutely not!”

She marched over to Aunt Clemintine’s little phone stand and picked up the Timber Bay phone book. “I’ve got more numbers than this in my Rolodex,” she muttered as she flipped through the slim volume until she found the yellow pages. All eight of them. She located the listing for lawyers and picked up the phone.

LUKAS WAS SITTING on the railing that surrounded the marble terrace at the back of the Sheridan Hotel. It was one of those perfect late September days when the leaves on the trees had started to turn but hadn’t yet started to fall. They rustled in the wind off the bay—a last gasp of energy before the colder winds of October put them to rest on the ground. Climbing roses that had been allowed to go wild were still blooming and there were clusters of deep-gold mums, some of them almost as big as shrubs, bordering the low wall that ran down to the water. He could hear the rhythmic lap of the waves against the ramshackle pier.

If things went the way Agnes Sheridan wanted them to, by next summer the small pier would be restored and there’d be boats docked there. The roses would be tamed and there would be people sitting on the terrace. Wealthy, worldly people.

People like Gillian Caine.

“If only I’d said I was sorry,” he mumbled.

“What’s that, pal?”

Lukas started at the sound of Danny’s voice, then quickly collected himself. “About time you got back with my lunch,” Lukas said, figuring a little grousing would make Danny forget that Lukas hadn’t answered him.

“Here ya go.” Danny tossed Lukas a bag from the lunch counter at Ludington Drugs. “Tuna salad on white bread and an order of fried chicken. Interesting combination.”

Lukas easily caught the bag. He rummaged inside and came out with the sandwich. “Did you tell Clara to put cheese on the tuna?”

“Yup.”

Lukas unwrapped the sandwich and started to tear it into little pieces.

Danny groaned. “Don’t tell me you found another stray?”

Lukas set the wrapper down at the top of the steps and called, “Here, Tiger, Tiger.”

A huge clump of mums started to rustle. A moment later a cat emerged—the same one he’d rescued from the tunnel. The big, lazy-moving orange tabby had a scar on his nose and half his tail was missing. He prowled over to sniff the sandwich, gave Lukas a look of appreciation, then delicately started to eat.

Danny laughed. “Cat knows a good thing. Clara uses only albacore down at Ludington’s. By the time you get around to buying cat food, that cat is gonna turn up his nose at it.”

“You can tell just by looking at him that he’s been through a lot. He’s got a little luxury coming,” Lukas said as he bit into a chicken leg.

“Next thing you know, you’ll be going over to Sweet Buns and getting him a slice of cheesecake.”

Lukas laughed. What Danny said wasn’t so far-fetched. Lukas had been rescuing things all his life. As recently as last month he’d coaxed a wounded squirrel with macadamia nuts filched from the larder at Sweet Buns that, Molly never stopped reminding him, weren’t exactly cheap. He regularly climbed trees to fetch cats and helped old ladies cross the street. Heck, he’d even rescued Danny from a bunch of bullies back in grade school. They’d been best buddies ever since. Lukas had a reputation of being an all-around good guy. So how come he’d acted the way he had with Gillian Caine?

“You know, buddy, I did a really stupid thing the other night,” Lukas said to Danny.

“Stupider than feeding a stray cat a three-dollar sandwich?”

“Afraid so. I was down in the hotel’s wine cellar measuring for the new fittings, when I thought I heard a cat yowling in the tunnel. I checked it out and, sure enough, Tiger here was trapped down there. He was kind of spooked—clawing the hell out of me—and I remembered how when you and Hannah were trapped down there you got out through a manhole onto Sheridan Road. So Tiger and I took the same shortcut.”

Danny shrugged. “What’s so stupid about that? Don’t tell me you had trouble pushing that cover aside. If Hannah could do it—”

“Oh, I could push it out of the way all right, no problem. Trouble is, I sort of pushed more than the manhole cover out of the way.”

Danny wrinkled his brow. “What else did you push?”

“Gillian Caine. She was standing on the cover and she sort of went airborne.”

Danny started to laugh.

“It’s not funny, Danny. She sprained her arm. I had to take her to the E.R. and she’s got to wear a sling and I didn’t even say I was sorry.”

“Well, that’s not like you, pal. You’re the polite type. You even manage to be nice to Dragon Lady Sheridan.”

“Danny, I gotta tell you, I feel really lousy about this. She looked so little and helpless laying there in the street—”

“Gillian Caine helpless?”

“Maybe I should send her some flowers or something. What do you think?” Lukas asked earnestly.

Before Danny could answer, Tiger gave a growl worthy of a canine and both Danny and Lukas turned to see what he was tracking with his yellow stare. A man in a suit was standing in the open French doors.

“Which one of you is Lukas McCoy?”

Tiger bolted back into the mums as Lukas wiped his fingers on a paper napkin and stood up. “I’m McCoy,” he said.

“Then this is for you.” The man handed Lukas some papers and rapidly retreated.

“Hey, wait!” Lukas called to his back, but the guy just kept going.

“What’s with the papers?” Danny asked.

Lukas looked down at them. It took him a few moments to comprehend what he was reading. “Unbelieeeeevable!” He thrust a hand into his hair and started to pace the terrace while he read it again just to be sure. “Un-damn-believable.”

“What is it?” Danny asked.

Lukas looked up. “Gillian Caine is suing me.”

Danny whistled, long and low. “I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t order those flowers yet, huh, pal?”

“I do hope,” said a familiar voice from just inside the French doors, “that this doesn’t mean that my grandson was right about the two of you.”

“Mrs. Sheridan,” Lukas said with surprise. “Did we have an appointment? How long have you—um—”

“Been standing here?” the old lady finished for him. “Long enough to know that someone is suing you. Long enough to make me wonder if I’ve made a mistake.”

Danny hopped to his feet. “You know nothing about what’s going on, so if I were you—”

Lukas stepped in front of Danny, cutting him off both literally and figuratively. “What you just heard, Mrs. Sheridan, had nothing to do with Timber Bay Building and Restoration. It’s me getting sued. Not the company.”

Danny poked his head around Lukas. “Not that it’d be any of Gavin’s business either way.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Agnes Sheridan said with a haughty thrust of her head. “Gavin is coming back to Timber Bay.”

Behind him, Danny swore and Lukas tried to cover it up with a cough. “That’s—um—swell, Mrs. Sheridan,” he said after he’d cleared the imaginary frog in his throat.

The old lady’s black eyes glittered and her thin, usually stubbornly set mouth, actually smiled. “It’s what I had hoped. That once work started on the hotel, Gavin would take an interest and reclaim his life in Timber Bay.”

“Don’t tell me he’s coming home for good?” Danny asked. “One can hope, Mr. Walker.”

“Yes,” Danny agreed. “One can.”

Lukas was pretty sure that Danny and Agnes Sheridan weren’t hoping the same thing. He’d feel safer if he separated the two of them.

“Mrs. Sheridan, why don’t you let me show you the progress I’m making in the lobby. I think you’ll be pleased with the way the staircase looks.”

“Lead on, young man,” she said. But before she went through the French doors she turned and gave Danny a poke in the leg with her cane. “I suggest you get on with your lunch, Walker. I assure you that Gavin won’t take this sitting about on the job any better than I do.”

Danny opened his mouth but before anything could come out, Lukas took the Dragon Lady by the arm and ushered her into the ballroom, closing the French doors behind them.

Danny and the Dragon Lady had been enemies for years. Things had gotten better since Hannah, who Agnes Sheridan totally approved of, had hit town. But now that Gavin was coming back, Lukas was going to have his hands full as a peacemaker. The last thing he needed right now was to have some big-city brat take him to court.

He’d been right. Nothing good was coming from Gillian Caine being back in Timber Bay.

“THE HEARING IS TOMORROW, Mom,” Gillian said into the phone receiver.

“Justice moves swiftly in the Midwest.”

“They’ve got this judge who takes care of several counties and he’s only in town once a month. How primitive is that? My lawyer—who, by the way, I had to go to the next town to get—said that if we didn’t get on the docket this time, we’d have to wait a whole month.”

“Are you sure you’re doing the right thing, Gilly?”

Gillian sighed. “What are you trying to say, Mom?”

“Well, as I remember it, the McCoys were well liked in Timber Bay. The town might not take too kindly to an outsider taking one of their own to court. Have you thought of what it might do to business?”

“Mom, I’m not planning on taking him to the cleaners. I just want enough to hire someone to help me for the next couple of weeks.”

“But, honey, I already offered to come out and—”

“Forget it, Mom. We’ve been through all this already. I need to do this on my own. I need to be totally independent.”

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, Gilly.”

Her mother was wrong. Gillian had to prove something to herself. She had to prove that she could be her own person and not have to count on anyone coming through for her ever again. If she failed, she’d have no one to blame but herself. And if she succeeded, no one could ever take it away from her.

“Can’t you just be supportive, Mom? I mean, Dad keeps saying that he wishes I hadn’t let Ryan off the hook. You should be jumping up and down with joy. I finally think Dad was right about something. I shouldn’t have let Ryan get away with it. I’m not making that mistake again.”

“But, Gilly, it’s not the same thing at all. In fact—”

Gillian was picking at a fingernail and mostly tuning her mother out when she heard a knock on the door downstairs.

“Mom, someone’s at the door,” she said, sending silent gratitude to whoever it was for getting her out of this conversation. She loved her mother, but she had heard it all before. “I’ll call you after court tomorrow. Kisses to everyone,” she added as brightly as possible. “Bye!”

She hurried downstairs and through the workroom to the back door. But when she opened it, no one was there. Sitting on the cement stoop was a wicker basket covered with a green-and-white gingham napkin. She recognized the napkin, but even if she hadn’t, she would have known that Molly had left the basket. Gillian could smell the cinnamon buns that were lurking beneath the gingham.

A bribe.

She snatched the basket up, shut the door and locked it behind her.

The smart thing would be to leave the basket downstairs in the workroom. Or better yet, out in the shop. Less temptation that way.

On the other hand, it was an old building. It wouldn’t do to encourage any rodents that might have designs on the place—make them think they were going to be able to stop in for a midnight snack.

She decided that she better take the basket upstairs with her, after all. That didn’t mean she was accepting the bribe, though, she told herself, climbing the stairs. She was a big girl. She could certainly resist a couple of cinnamon buns.

When she put the basket on the small drop-leaf table in the kitchen, she noticed the note tucked inside. With two fingers she carefully pulled it out, trying not to disturb the napkin and have to actually look the bribe in the eye. Or in this case, in the frosting.

I thought you might feel funny about coming into Sweet Buns so sweet buns are coming to you. Sorry again for the mud pies. Molly.

“Mud pies. Huh—yeah, right,” Gillian muttered. The basket was an obvious attempt to sweeten her up and make her drop the suit. She wondered how many cinnamon buns Molly thought it would take to buy her.

Well, she could just keep wondering because there was no way she was lifting that napkin and looking underneath.

Stoically, she marched into the bedroom. There were several outfits laid out on the canopy bed Aunt Clemintine had gotten for her the summer she’d turned six. Gillian was still trying to decide what to wear to court the next day.

“Something feminine, yet strong,” she murmured.

That left out the pink polka-dot suit with the ruffled hems.

“Something strong, yet sympathetic.”

That left out the black shantung tuxedo with the sheer tailored shirt and her witty take on a men’s club tie (diagonal rows of pink poodles against an aqua background).

“Something—” Well, above all something that would go with her sling. Which, she supposed, would be the black sleeveless sheath with the little turquoise capelet. The only problem was that it was very, very formfitting. But she had just lost five pounds.