Beneath Beautiful (29 page)

“If you could sign here,” the man said, obviously eager to be on his way. Cassie signed on the small electronic screen. “There's a card,” he said, by way of explanation as he handed her the flowers and took off.

“Thanks,” she said, still amazed, spotting the card then and plucking it from where it rested between two flowers as she headed back upstairs once more.

Quickly, Cassie let herself into her apartment and set the flowers upon the kitchen table. She peeled off her gloves, but didn't bother taking off her coat and scarf, instead ripping the small white envelope open, her brow furrowed.

When she saw the name at the bottom of the card, she gasped in shock.

Plum.

The red flowers were from Plum.

The first thought that crossed Cassie's mind upon seeing the name was that was all she needed—Plum knowing where she lived.

But then, as she read the card, she began to think again. It read:

I saw the sculpture today. There is only one word for it
—
extraordinary. I could see that it was going to be so, right from the very start, but now I understand it is truly some of Cameron's best work. It has been a privilege to see you blossom.

Yours,

Plum

Cassie read the card over again, and then once more, and once more again. She sensed there was something she was missing—an undercurrent to Plum's words. Then, as the realisation hit her and she understood fully what Plum was saying—or not quite saying—she had to sit down.

Plum had done it on purpose—the photographer, the kiss, the media attention. She'd done it to force Cassie's hand. To make her sit for Cameron, naked. Plum knew she wouldn't have done so otherwise.

“Oh my God,” Cassie said out loud to no one, everything hitting home for her.

Because there was more. So much more. Following this thread, she began to comprehend that Plum had not orchestrated the situation because she held a grudge against Jo, but because she had once cared about her very much. Cassie could see the similarities between the two women—the intelligence, the biting humor, the overbearing father. She had fallen for Jo, and Jo had not been brave enough to take their relationship to the next level, or to come out publicly. No wonder Plum had been angry, as Jo had mentioned. Cassie guessed now that Plum had received Jo's email after all. And that she had, over the years, come to understand and had not wanted Cassie to make the same mistakes as her sister had done. Mistakes she had been well on the road to making. Out of fear.

Perhaps she had also seen something of Cassie in herself, with their artistic natures, and the fact that Plum had once herself been wide-eyed and fresh to NYC. Plum had, of course, hounded Cassie for those meetings, turning up at Alys's apartment in the end, because she wanted to help. And that night that they had been out for dinner, she hadn't been trying to put Cassie on the spot by mentioning her father—she'd been trying to draw her out of her shell. To include her in the conversation. That's why Cassie had felt her eyes upon her so often.

And all along, she'd wanted for Cassie what she hadn't been able to have—that sculpture. She had mentioned, after all, that Cameron had attempted a sculpture based on her that had never happened. She had sounded so disappointed that it had never eventuated.

But, wait—Cameron. Had he known about Plum's plan?

Cassie frowned as searched her memory, trying to come up with an answer.

No. She didn't think he had known. Maybe in hindsight he had guessed, but that day on the High Line he had told her he had no idea what Plum had been up to with her strange stunt. He had seemed quite confused by it. No, Cassie believed he hadn't known. But then . . . he had asked her again, hadn't he? That day that she sat for him, naked. She guessed he had worked it out by then, and was looking to see if Cassie herself knew.

Cassie sat for some time, staring at the card and envelope in shock. She simply couldn't believe it would be possible to change her mind about Plum. But in an instant Plum had turned from someone Cassie didn't understand and despised, to someone she still didn't truly understand, but felt grateful toward. The shift was of seismic proportions.

That Plum, of all people, knew what she had needed to complete her journey. That she had taken action when action was needed. That she had held out a helping hand . . . Cassie was humbled.

From the very bottom of her memory, she drew upon something Plum had told her the day that they'd met once more in Cameron's studio. What had she said again? Cassie closed her eyes, trying to remember her exact words. Something about it being difficult for her to stand firm when it came to her father. And to become the woman she needed to be.

She had sympathized with Cassie's predicament all along.

Cassie was stunned.

Placing the card on the table, she told herself she would respond somehow. Someday. When the time was right, she would give Plum the thanks she deserved.

P
lum's card and its accompanying realisation somehow tied the past few weeks together for Cassie in a neat bow, and she threw herself into her future for the rest of the day, relentlessly typing up her notes, stopping only for short breaks, and for the phone call that came just after five o'clock.

She let it ring at least four times as she began typing a sentence that had implanted in her head. Typical, she thought, for the phone to ring just as she was starting a new book. When she finally picked up, she was still caught up in the flow of words. “Hello?” she said, rather absentmindedly.

“I was wondering if you'd mind having a drink with a stupid git?” the caller said, and Cassie immediately jolted to attention in her Aeron chair, all work forgotten.

The caller was James.

“Stupid gits are my preferred type,” she said, a wave of relief rushing over her.

James.

So, it
would
all be fine. Just as Cameron had said, the very last time she saw him.

“Does now work for you?” Cassie said. She didn't care how eager she sounded. There would be no more games. No more half-truths between them. She took a deep breath, holding back her tears.

“Now is perfect,” James answered, and she could hear the smile in his voice. The pair arranged a time and a place before hanging up.

The moment the line went dead, Cassie threw herself into action, descending into a frenzy of what to say, what to wear, and how on earth to deal with her hair, which she hadn't washed for days.

Before she left the room, however, she took a few seconds to save the new document she had been working on—the start to what she knew would become a complete book. Maybe even some of her best work. So far the document held only three words. But what momentous words in her life they had been.

Call me Ishmael
. . . they read.

A
llison Rushby is an Aussie author of a whole lot of books. She is crazy about Mini Coopers, Devon Rex cats and
Downton Abbey
. You can find her at
allisonrushby.com
, on
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, or procrastinating on
Twitter
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T
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