Smooth Moves. Carrie Alexander
intended, but Julia wouldn’t welcome the confession. Besides, Cathy was doubtful about whether she’d be capable of the duplicity necessary when it came to the crunch, let alone the too-farfetched-to-contemplate seduction aspect of the whole business.
Unless it really had been Zack watching her from the porch next door. If so, she’d mistakenly gotten off to the best—make that breast—start imaginable.
Hah. Maybe he hadn’t gotten a very good look through the curtains, at such an angle.
Then again, maybe he had.
She leaned against the wall, weighing her reaction to the possibility that he’d seen everything. Both her instant embarrassment and the subsequent attack of nerves were what she’d expected. More surprising was the exquisite seeping warmth caused by the thought of continuing the game. Imagine seducing Zack, she thought, and her lips parted in anticipation. She expelled a soft breath. With her new friends’ help, she might even be able to do it successfully.
“Now, Cath,” Julia said, bringing her back to the conversation. “Please stop worrying. You’ll do splendidly.”
“But I can’t—I’m not—I have no…va-va-voom,” she said, having unexpectedly caught sight of herself in between the scarves she’d draped around the cheval mirror. “It’s plain to see.” Disregarding the limpid look in her eyes, she dragged her fingers through her tangled hair, adjusted the drooping towel. “What you want is someone with more, uh, obvious enticements.”
Julia tsk-tsked. “Not for Zack.”
“He’s a guy, isn’t he?”
“But a guy with discerning tastes.”
He almost married Laurel, Cathy realized. How discerning could he be?
Oh, that wasn’t fair. Laurel Barnard was certainly lovely. And often friendly, if slightly reserved. She managed her dress shop with skill and pride. Her personality was, at times, pleasant. She was just…a tad weak in the character department.
And Cathy set great store by character.
She made a face at her reflection. Pot calling the kettle black. For goodness sake, she was about to embark on a superficial seduction ploy of epic proportions! She, the woman who ranked appearance below “showers daily” and “knows how to read” among the qualities she looked for in the opposite sex.
It won’t be superficial if it’s about love, whispered the hopeless romantic part of her that had yearned after Zack since fifth grade.
And, woo, girl, you sure could use the help, countered the self-doubting voice that she’d never quite been able to vanquish. The cruelty she’d once endured as a homely, chubby, social outcast had blighted her confidence. Even to this day, though rationally she understood that she’d always been a worthy person. School yard taunts shouldn’t—didn’t—matter.
Way back when, the friendship of a spirited, confident ten-year-old boy named Zack Brody had been the only kindness she’d known. He was the one new schoolmate who’d seen the girl she was inside, not out. Long after she’d moved away and grown up and become “beautiful,” she’d remembered Zack for that.
And she’d remembered the little town of Quimby.
Cathy turned away from the mirror. Toward the window. Toward Zack.
“We’ll coach you every step of the way,” Julia was saying reassuringly into her ear when a light blinked on next door.
The bottom dropped out of Cathy’s stomach. Oh, my.
There was a racy black sports car parked in the driveway of the Brody house. Inside, another light came on.
Cathy’s fingers clenched, putting creases into the miniblinds. She closed her eyes. Zack. Zack Brody.
Heartbreak was home.
And—
Oh. My. Stars.
He’d seen her.
3
THE NEXT DAY, Cathy worked at Scarborough Faire alone all morning. Its herbal-scented atmosphere soothed her fitfulness. Amongst the shop’s cornucopia of gnarled branches and vines, sheaves of dried flowers, weathered barn-board shelving, old jelly cupboards and pie safes stocked with ribbons and wrapping papers, stationery, pen nibs and bottles of ink, she was as at home and confident as never before in her life. Peace had its price in this instance; few customers stopped in. Distracted from issues of commerce, she did not particularly care.
Quite naturally, Cathy was occupied with thoughts of Zack Brody. Worriedly, at first, but after a few hours in the shop, she began to see things from a different perspective. A buoyant, emboldened one.
And why not? She was attractive enough. She was intelligent. She was capable.
Upon realizing how dissatisfied she’d become with her humdrum life as an accounts supervisor for a small advertising firm in Virginia Beach, she’d single-handedly researched, plotted and executed a successful escape. She’d ditched the job, cashed out her savings and moved cross-country to turn Kay’s Krafts into the storybook arts and gift shop she’d long dreamed of.
Such drastic change took courage. Ergo, she’d already proved that she could handle anything.
Even, perhaps, the legendary Heartbreak.
Humming beneath her breath, Cathy rummaged through an old sea chest of fabric remnants. Zack had nearly caught her that morning when she’d scurried from the house to her car, wearing dark glasses and a scarf knotted over her hair like a celebrity dodging the paparazzi.
He’d stepped onto his porch and shouted a neighborly hello; she’d been reversing out of the driveway and had pretended not to notice. All she’d seen was a quick glimpse of him in her rearview mirror. Upraised hand, fading smile. Thick brown hair. Lots of shoulder.
Imminent Heartbreak.
Cathy pulled out a piece of gingham, then discarded it. Whether or not anything developed between her and Zack, she was willing to be a martyr for the cause.
Unfolding a length of dotted swiss, she thought of his engaging smile, the light in his eyes. Her stomach did a slow roll of sensuous proportions. Yum. There were worse fates.
At one o’clock, Kay Estress arrived for the shift she put in four days a week. As the store’s previous proprietor, Kay had agreed to stay on part-time during the changeover of ownership. Seven months later, though appreciative of the practical advice Kay freely—and frequently—offered, Cathy was ready for the arrangement to end. She hadn’t yet figured out how to ease Kay out the door in a properly respectful manner.
The tall, raw-boned woman gave the new baby-bootie-and-receiving-blanket display a once-over. Cathy had gone a little wild with the dotted swiss and trailing yellow ribbons.
Kay, whose style was relentlessly straightforward, even militant, sniffed. “Cute,” she conceded, her dark brows rising to meet the fluff of silvery-white bangs that were the only soft thing about her. “But it doesn’t pay to overstock on these type of knitting patterns. The profit margin is minimal.”
Cathy took off her apron, wadded it up and stowed it on one of the shelves beneath the checkout counter. “A person who buys the patterns will need needles, ribbon and two kinds of yarn,” she pointed out. “We—I’ll see a decent return.”
Kay shrugged her wide, bony shoulders. “It’s your funeral.” She slipped a pristine apron over the neat silver cap of her hair, straightening her starched collar with a tug. Her displays had been practical, not imaginative. Her shelves had been stocked on schedule, not on whim.
Cathy smiled at Kay. Nicely. She understood that it was difficult for the older woman to adjust to a more creative way of doing things. Having grown up under the watch of Admiral Wallace Winston Bell, Cathy had plenty of experience dealing with rigidity. Her father was career Navy—he’d