Authors: Maggie Wells
Laney quirked one dark eyebrow. “You were here first? That’s your anti-stalking defense?”
Annoyed by the implication, he planted his hands on his hips. “How can I be stalking you when I had no idea you planned to eat lunch here?”
She shot Brian a side-long glare.
Harley snorted. “Please. You think Dalton and I are buddy-buddy enough for him to feed me information?”
“You could be paying him,” she shot back.
“Hey!” Both men issued the protest simultaneously.
“Hey, look who’s here!” Brooke’s cheerful greeting sliced through the tension like a cleaver. “Hi, Harley. What are you doing here?”
Fed up and frustrated with always having to explain his presence in a place he had every right to patronize, he wrested his wallet from his back pocket. “I can tell you what I’m not doing—eating my goddamn lunch.” He dropped a fifty on the table, grabbed a couple of paper napkins and wrapped them around the untouched half of his muffaletta, then turned to catch a passing waitress. Pointing to the fifty, he gave her a tight smile. “I’m covering mine and theirs,” he nodded toward the ladies. “Keep the change.”
He pivoted on his heel and stalked toward the door. The last thing he wanted was to fend off anything resembling a polite protest. There was only so much bending a man could do, and he was about to break. He had too much riding on this thing with Delaney to let a confrontation over a plate of coleslaw blow it all to high heaven.
Clutching his sandwich, he stepped out of the crowded restaurant and headed toward the pick-up truck he drove on work days. A few hours tearing walls out of the house on Winchester should be enough to work the anger out of his system. Or at least hold it at bay. Reaching for the driver’s door, he wrenched it open with a jerk.
“Harley Cade!”
He froze in place, part of him relishing the sound of his name spoken in Laney’s low, husky drawl. The other part praying he could hold his shit together long enough to get away. He didn’t want to do or say something he’d truly regret. Gritting his teeth, he refused to look directly at her. He wasn’t sure he could. All the rage and resentment festering since his teenage years bubbled like hot tar deep inside him. “I swear to God, Delaney, I was there when you got there. I watched the two of you walk through the door and stayed out of your way.”
“Thank you for the flowers.”
If the leap in subject matter wasn’t enough to capture his attention, the hesitant sincerity in her tone would have done the trick. Not trusting himself to say much, he nodded once. “You’re welcome.”
“Please stop sending them.”
Her soft-spoken request snapped his restraint. Tossing the sandwich he knew he’d never eat onto the dash, he gripped the edge of the door to keep himself grounded as he turned to look at her. “You didn’t like them?”
“They were beautiful.”
“But?”
“But, I can’t...” She made one of those helpless little circling gestures with her hand, then pressed it to her heart. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but we tried this already and it didn’t work. I don’t want you to waste any more of your time or money—”
The mention of money set him off. “You’re awful damn worried about how I spend my money. Think about it, sugar. Be my girlfriend, and I’d be willing to let you spend some of it for me. I know you like dresses and stuff. Hell, I’d even spring for shoes, even though you know trash like me doesn’t bother much with them.”
Her head snapped back as if he’d slapped her. “Harley, I never—”
“You always,” he snarled. “Every one of you.”
Her chin came up and her dark eyes narrowed to slits. “Well, then I guess you can say the joke’s on us, right? You’re the man, Harley Cade. You’ve got your businesses and your money and your trips out to California to
consult
with the stars.” She sneered the word at him. “You showed us all, didn’t you?”
“Damn right I did.”
Her nostrils flared wide, and Harley ached for her. Nothing made a fella appreciate the beauty of a proud woman like six months in La-La Land. Though they were unquestionably beautiful, but he had no interest in listening to neurotic starlets fret about the number of calories in the single lettuce leaf they’d chewed. He knew when he came back he’d find Delaney spitting mad and it would take a hell of a lot of groveling to get this beautiful woman to swallow her pride, but damn it to hell and gone, he was trying his best. And here, no matter what he made of himself, his best would never be good enough.
“Thank you again for the flowers. I’m taking them to Horizons Hospice Center. I took the tulips there, too.” She blinked twice then looked away, swallowing hard. He took a step toward her, but stopped when she held a hand up. “They were very beautiful, and I’m sure they’ll bring someone great peace.”
“Delaney—”
“Don’t send me any more flowers, Harley. I won’t keep them, and it’s hard enough to go there when I have to. Okay?”
He stared at her, completely confused but willing to agree to anything if it meant never seeing the sharp gleam of pain in her eyes again. “Okay. No more flowers.”
She pressed those lush lips together then nodded once, turning toward the restaurant. “Sorry about your lunch,” she called over her shoulder. She wrapped her fingers around the door handle and looked back, a sly smile curving her lips as the breeze tossed strands of ebony hair in her face. “I’ll think of you the whole time I’m enjoying mine.”
He stared at the door to Frannie’s Kitchen long after it closed behind her, then hurled himself into the truck. “Do that, sugar,” he muttered as he cranked the ignition. “You think about me.”
“Delaney! I’m so glad I caught you.”
Laney tried her best not to cringe, but she’d been dodging the managing director of Horizons Hospice Care for nearly a week. She’d hoped she would make it until payday on Friday before Mrs. Oliver caught up with her. Considering her day started out surrounded by beautiful clothes she could touch but never wear, followed by the news of impending unemployment, then the double whammy of Brooke’s engagement and Harley Cade’s face…. Well, she should have known she couldn’t slip in and out of Horizons today, of all days.
“Delaney, I’ve been wanting to talk to you...”
Hefting the vase onto the tall counter, Laney did her best to head off the inevitable. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Oliver. I know I’m behind, but I get paid on Friday—”
The other woman waved her off. “I wasn’t… I wanted to... Oh, my.” She puffed to a stop, her ample chest heaving as she took in the extravagant arrangement. “I thought the tulips were lovely, but this!” Clapping a hand to her chest, she shook her head. “You certainly have a live one on the string, don’t you?”
The woman snatched the card Laney hadn’t bothered reading from the plastic prongs and tipped her head forward to read over the tops of her glasses. Then her gaze shifted to Laney as she let out a low whistle. “Harley? Harley Cade? Cade Construction?”
Laney nodded but offered no more explanation.
Mrs. Oliver was a sensitive and intuitive woman--two qualities that made her infinitely well suited to running Mobile’s most desirable inpatient care center. Though Laney could clearly see the woman weighing the Tarrington family’s outstanding medical bills against the assumed net worth of Cade Construction, she didn’t stoop to speaking the words aloud. Instead, she shook her head in wonderment, then smiled her kindly smile.
“I was hoping to talk to you about the pretty gowns you’d made for your mama.”
“Gowns?”
Once again, the day had taken a completely unexpected turn. One that transported her back to the day when she determined there’d be no faded florals or sickly pastel hospital johnnies for her beautiful mama. Night after night, she pieced together only the softest, most breathable cotton she could find. She’d added washable satin piping and engineered closures that were easily managed but actually stayed closed. There were cleverly hidden slits for ports and tubes and other medical necessities, and meticulously stitched patch pockets for holding tissues, throat lozenges, and the little love notes Laney tucked into each new creation.
“Yes. Thank you for donating them. The patients love them. I don’t have to tell you they’re a thousand times better than the usual.”
Laney forced a smile, trying hard not to think about how frail her mother looked in the stylishly modified versions of hospital gowns she’d created for her.
“I wanted to ask if you’d consider making more for us. Perhaps a few in more masculine colors?” Mrs. Oliver’s brows rose in the hopeful expectation of a yes. “Most people think it doesn’t matter once you reach this point, but...you know how uplifting wearing something attractive can be for someone who hasn't felt alive in months.”
Laney blinked, stunned and flattered by the request, and ashamed she hadn’t thought to do so on her own. Her cheeks burned with pleasure mixed with mortification. “Of course.”
Her mother’s cancer had been aggressive. The bankruptcy of the business had left them without health insurance coverage. It didn’t take long for the bills to pile up. Laney discovered her father had already mortgaged Tarrington House to the hilt.
Her father’s hubris had reduced their resources to nothing. The man himself gave less than nothing. Claiming he loved his Camille too much to watch her suffer, Brett Tarrington dove deep into the bottle, leaving Laney to deal with everything—the illness, the bill collectors, and eviction notices, and, at last, the funeral arrangements—on her own.
Seemingly overnight, Laney and her mother had become modern versions of Blanche DuBois. Helpless women completely dependent on the kindness of strangers. Thank God for Brooke and her mother. Emmaline Hastings had served on dozens of charity boards with Laney’s mother, and she made certain Camille was given the best care possible on nothing more than Laney’s promise to pay.
“I was thinking if you kept track of your time and expenses, we might be able to work out some kind of arrangement.”
Mrs. Oliver let the offer hang in the air. There were lines it all but killed a proper Southern woman to cross. Talk of money, or lack of it, would always toe one of those invisible lines. For that very reason, Laney was more than happy to meet her halfway.
“Yes. Certainly.” She forced her smile a little wider. This was a ray of light on a day when she was feeling gloomier with each passing hour. “I’d love to make them. I’ll start tonight.”
The older woman smiled and placed a quelling hand on her arm. “Don’t overexert yourself. There’s no hurry.”
But Laney knew better than most there was a hurry. Time was ticking by as they spoke. Precious time that would run out far too quickly. The very next day might not be soon enough for some of these patients. After all people had done for her, Laney couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to offer those who were preparing to leave this world one last bit of comfort.
“I’ll start tonight,” she repeated.
Mrs. Oliver smiled. “Thank you. You know, I have a sorority sister who started making these gorgeous headscarves for chemo patients. She sells them on one of those websites.” She pursed her lips and shrugged. “There are a lot of diseases other than cancer, and every one of them robs people of their dignity. What you did for your mama helped her hang onto a little of hers when everything else was slipping away. I’m willing to bet there are a lot of people who wouldn’t mind paying a few bucks to keep their bottoms from catching a chill, if you know what I mean.”
Laney started a bit, but the manners drilled into her from the time she first drew breath never failed her. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Think about it. This may be something worth looking into.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Grinning, the other woman turned back to the bouquet of imported peonies. “And thank you for sharing your beautiful flowers.” She pressed her hand to her heart then gave her chest a couple pats as she heaved a wistful sigh. “I don’t know what Mr. Cade did to get on your bad side, but I sure don’t mind reaping the benefits. The scent alone is enough to make a girl swoon.” Scooping the vase from the counter, she shot Laney a tired smile. “Mrs. Johansen is having a rough time today. I think these may help a little bit.”
“I’ll be back on Friday with a check,” Laney called after her.
“I’ll see you when I see you, dear,” Mrs. Oliver said without turning back. “Now go rev up your Singer and get to sewing.”
* * * *
Laney couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs. Oliver’s suggestion. She turned the idea over in her mind as she shifted the Sonia Jaffe knits to the clearance rack and replaced them with a new line of tennis wear. While she worked her way through the store, she racked her brain for anything she knew about websites specializing in the sale of handmade goods—practically zero—but she had spent a good amount of time camped out on designer discount sites.
She knew exactly what she didn’t want in terms of online exposure. No sidebar shenanigans or massive markup to mark down. High class. High fashion. High dignity. At reasonable prices. The kind of prices that wouldn’t require someone in pain to take out a loan to keep their loved one covered in comfort.
By the time Miss Jeanette finished tsking over the previous day’s receipts and gathered her giant handbag, Laney’d even come up with a name for her imaginary business: Dignity Designs by Delaney.
“About what I told you earlier, Delaney, dear,” Miss Markham began, inching closer to the door, the zippered deposit bag in both hands. “I was thinking I’d close at the end of the year. That is, if I don’t find a buyer first. I’d like to have the space rented out again by spring if I can.”
And in an instant, all of Laney’s daydreams came crashing down around her. She was about to be out of work. “Thank you for letting me know this early,” she replied stiffly. “I appreciate the notice.”
Miss Markham hesitated for a moment, then blinked twice rapidly. “Yes, well, you’ve worked out better than I expected, dear. Don’t hesitate to put my name down as a reference if you need to.”
Unable to squeak any words past the lump of indignation and humiliation in her throat, Laney simply nodded. There was no place else quite like Sassafras. And most retailers only took on seasonal help in the fall and winter. If she was lucky, she might be able to pull a few strings and get a part-time spot in the better dresses section at Dillard’s.