Introducing Daddy. Alaina Hawthorne
the distance and rattled the panes. Through the gray rivulets Evie Rabalais could just make out the waists of Houston’s skyscrapers; the tops of the buildings were plunged into the clouds that had hovered over the city for days. The radio said the bayous were jumping their banks. Beneath the streets the storm drains roared with brown foamy water. Evie stood by the front door, arms crossed and motionless, and watched the traffic—wheel-deep in water—crawl miserably down Westheimer. Her mood matched the bleak weather.
Edward and Frank, both of the part-time delivery drivers, had called in saying they couldn’t make it into the shop because of the flooding. Evie wondered if that was really true. She scowled and sighed. Not that their absence would make much difference. This type of weather was terrible for business. There wouldn’t be any foot traffic at all today, and gloomy weather also seemed to affect human generosity: there were always fewer orders when it rained.
When the phone suddenly jangled, Evie flinched and crossed quickly to the desk. She wanted to catch it before the ringing woke Juliette. The baby had fussed all night. Since it was too soon for her to be teething, Evie assumed the infant had sensed her unhappiness and responded to it. All the books she’d read said babies were sensitive to moods.
She lifted the receiver. “Something Different. This is Evie, may I help you?”
“Um, yes, I think—well, I hope so.”
The woman’s voice was high-pitched and tentative. A nervous type, Evie thought. This might take a while.
“Um, are you that place that makes those gift baskets with all kinds of, you know, different stuff?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Evie replied. “We make gift baskets and boxes for all occasions. Our slogan is Why Just Send Something When You Can Send ‘Something Different.’“ Evie winced. It sounded stupid today. But then, she thought, it could just be the way she was feeling.
“Oh, good. Let’s see, well, I’m not really sure what I want. I mean this may not be appropriate. I…well, it’s—you see, there was a picture in yesterday’s paper. A business associate of my husband’s. The caption was about some sort of charity thingie…”
Ah, of course, a charity thingie.
“…but the caption hinted that she might be getting engaged, too.”
Getting engaged, too? Surely it can’t be… Evie choked, but the woman apparently didn’t hear her.
“It’s not for sure, you see, so I don’t really know if it’s appropriate to send, you know, congratulations. The paper implied it was just a rumor, you know, but Betsy’s never wrong. She knows everyone and everything. Like God.” The woman cackled at her own joke. Evie wrestled with the urge to slam down the phone and run from the room.
“Anyway, so Vic, my husband, he wants to be the first to send something if there really is an engagement. Nothing too obvious or flashy, you know. Kind of a two-way gift—mostly for the award, but with something about the engagement, too. Something in the two-hundred-and-fifty range. What do you think?”
I think I’m going to start screaming. For one panicstricken instant Evie considered saying that they were closed—going out of business even. She didn’t want to scour her favorite shops and bookstores for beautiful, thoughtful gifts. But the woman had said “the two-hundred-and-fifty range.” The shop had suffered over the past week. Olivia would be thrilled to hear someone wanted to spend more than two hundred dollars. Evie swallowed and tried to sound normal. “Do you know any of her interests? If you give us a couple of days I’m sure I can—”
The woman gave a little scream of protest. “Oh, no, no, no. It has to be delivered today. Before noon, in fact. You can do that, can’t you?”
Evie swallowed hard. It wasn’t so much that she had to make a suitable presentation from the available inventory—there were plenty of beautiful things in the shop. But there would be no one to deliver the basket. Except her.
“I see. Yes, of course, we can do that. Well, how about a nice Burka hamper with a book of poems and…champagne and flutes. We can also enclose a gift certificate for a day-long session at La Paradise…” For what seemed an eternity, Evie made tasteful suggestions, understated suggestions. No matter how outraged and betrayed she felt, she knew she would have to choke back her anger. The basket would be elegant; nothing ostentatious or overwhelming. She was very good at her job.
Her client clucked and exclaimed gleefully over each recommendation, and in less than twenty minutes every item had been approved.
“Thank you so much, Edie,” the woman gushed. “I know she’s going to love it—”
“It’s Evie.”
“And you’ll guarantee she’ll have it before noon. We don’t want anyone to beat us to the punch. Oh, and the card will have to say congratulations or something. Only not the word congratulations. I think that’s too masculine, don’t you? And you should see her, she’s such a gorgeous girl. I just hate her.” The woman hooted at her own humor. “Now, it’s for Kimberley Van Kyle at Van Kyle Oil. Van Kyle is two words, capital V and capital K.”
“Yes, I know.”
Evie had also read the item in the Sunday Metropolitan section of the paper. “Kimberley Van Kyle Receives Nighthawk Award.” Besides, Evie had known how to spell the name Van Kyle for years. After all, Van Kyle Oil had been instrumental in the disintegration of her marriage. She’d even met Kimberley three or four years ago at a Christmas party at the Van Kyles’ River Oaks estate.
That was long ago. Yesterday’s paper was the first time Evie had thought of Elvin Van Kyle’s daughter in years. Olivia had seen the article, too. She’d stayed up with Evie well past midnight listening to her cry and rail against the beautiful heiress and her ruggedly handsome companion. In the photograph, just to the right and behind the stunning redhead stood Kimberley’s escort for the charity gala, Adam Rabalais. Evie hadn’t even known he was back in the country. She recalled the almost physically sickening sensation of seeing the photograph-the exuberant, smiling faces. She had stared at the picture with the same fascinated horror a patient regards a terminal X ray. She had no idea how many times she’d read Betsy’s chatty tidbit.
And who’s the tall, silent hunk escorting Kimmie? Mizz Van K’s not spilling any beans, but folks in the know have mentioned wedding bells…
Evie jerked herself back to the present and tried to concentrate on her customer’s voice. She repeated the address, which she already knew. Van Kyle Oil occupied six floors in One Shell Plaza, smack in the middie of downtown Houston. Evie nearly shuddered. She hated downtown.
“And you will guarantee the basket arrives before lunch?” The woman now sounded peevish.
“Yes,” Evie replied quietly. “Before lunch. I’ll take care of it myself.”
Evie set the receiver quietly in the cradle. Why, she wondered, why, of all the places in Houston to call would she have to call us? It was probably the advertising, Evie reasoned, not some cruel twist of fate. Lately Olivia had taken out a couple of ads in the downtown tabloids and shoppers’ guides. Evie dropped her forehead on her arms and let a few hottears slip out.
She willed herself not to cry anymore. It was so odd, she almost never cried, but last night she’d boo-hooed so hard her face was as swollen as if she’d stuck it in a beehive. This morning her puffy, reddened eyes defied her attempts to camouflage them with makeup. She eventually gave up and washed the mess off. Or most of it.
Rings of stubborn mascara still circled her eyelids, since the baby’s hungry demands had superseded her attempts to scrub it away. Besides, she hadn’t planned on leaving the shop all day. No one here gave a damn if she looked like a raccoon.
But now she was going to have to go downtown. What if she had to come face-to-face with Kimberley? With Adam? She took a calming breath. That would never happen. She wouldn’t go near the executive floors. She’d make up the basket, hustle downtown and drop it off with