Читать книгу Family Treasures - Kathryn Springer - Страница 11

She had to be dreaming.

Or hallucinating.

Those were the only explanations Caitlin could come up with when she saw Devon Walsh in a casual slouch next to the coffee station, his lean frame and tousled dark hair a striking contrast against the ivory and apricot wallpaper.

Caitlin ignored the sudden, erratic thumping of her heart and let her professional instincts kick into gear.

With a practiced eye, her assessment began at the scuffed loafers on Devon’s feet and went from there. Jeans so faded they looked more white than blue. The loose, uneven hem of his black fisherman’s sweater proved he hadn’t followed the proper washing instructions on the label: Hand Wash, Dry Flat. He’d pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, revealing corded forearms still tanned a golden brown from the summer sun.

But somehow, dark-eyed, unshaven and slightly rumpled, Devon Walsh still managed to spark the strangest feeling that he was the type of man a woman would run to for protection, not away from.

And if that unwelcome thought hadn’t been enough to throw off Caitlin’s balance, the slow smile Devon aimed in her direction momentarily stripped away her ability to speak.

Because that was the moment Caitlin remembered her shoes. The shoes she’d taken off on her way down the hall. The shoes she now held in her hand.

She’d had enough moments of acute embarrassment early on in her life to know that the floor, no matter how much one wished it, never opened up and swallowed a person whole, saving one from complete and utter mortification.

One had to save oneself. And one saved oneself by appearing confident and self-assured no matter what the circumstances.

Caitlin lifted her chin and met his gaze without flinching, resisting the urge to smooth back the strands of hair that had flopped over one eye when she’d pulled out the hair clip. “Good afternoon, Mr. Walsh.”

Responding to her tone, Devon’s smile obediently subsided into a small but beguiling twitch at the corner of his lips. “Ms. McBride.”

“You’ve been waiting a long time—” Caitlin’s heart jumped in time with the unsettling thought that suddenly came to mind. Given Devon’s guarded reception the first time they’d met, she could think of only one thing that might compel him to pace the floor of IMAGEine’s reception area for nearly an hour.

Or one person.

Even though it was none of her business, Caitlin found herself asking anyway. “Is everything all right with Jennifer?”

Devon frowned. “Jenny’s fine.”

Caitlin decided the unexpected relief she felt was due to empathy—after all, she’d practically relived her own adolescence every time her eyes had met Jenny’s—and not due to any…maternal…instincts.

Caitlin was fairly certain she didn’t have any of those.

Other than the etiquette classes she taught twice a month, her exposure to children was limited. She left the nurturing to her two younger sisters, who seemed to have a special knack for it. Evie and Meghan drew children in as effortlessly as the tinkling bells on the neighborhood ice-cream truck.

There were times Caitlin listened to her peers raise concerns about when to marry and start a family, but she’d never been inclined to join in the conversation. She paid more attention to her wristwatch than her biological clock. And it was difficult to hear the ticking of that particular clock over the voices of her clients.

Successful businesses didn’t just happen. Someone had to make them happen. And in order to make them happen, a person had to be willing to make sacrifices. To keep her eyes trained on the goal and not get distracted by things that might take her off the goal…

The reminder brought Caitlin up short. She focused on a point just past Devon’s shoulder and deliberately kept her tone brisk and businesslike.

“Well, if you aren’t here about Jenny, Mr. Walsh, what can I do for you?”

Landing on her feet, Devon thought with admiration, was obviously something Caitlin McBride had perfected.

And it didn’t even require shoes.

How much energy did it take to keep the slight edge honed on that husky contralto? To keep her features as smooth and expressionless as a marble statue?

But Devon knew he’d glimpsed something…some flicker of indefinable emotion in her eyes when she’d asked about Jenny.

And it made him curious.

“The gift certificate. I…” Came to return it. That’s what Devon had planned to say. But for some reason, the words that came out of his mouth didn’t sound like that at all. In fact, they sounded more like “I have no clue what a style analysis is.”

That Devon even remembered the term shocked him.

Caitlin appeared a little shocked, too.

Somehow, it made Devon feel better.

She crossed her arms and eyed him like a boxer sizing up an opponent on the other side of the ring. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Walsh?”

Devon frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Humor me.”

Don’t forget, you started this, Devon reminded himself with a sigh. “I’m a writer.”

“A writer.” Caitlin’s straight little nose pleated like an accordion, the only evidence of her opinion about his chosen career. “But what do you do for a…living?”

“That’s what I do.”

Caitlin’s eyebrows arched in doubt, giving Devon the impression that if his answers were earning points, his response had just plunged him into the negative digits.

“All right. And do you work out of your…” A delicate pause while she searched for the right word. “Home…or do you have an office?”

“My home.”

“Interests?”

Keeping his family together immediately came to mind. But Devon wasn’t about to open that door. Not even a crack.

“I do a little carpentry. Remodeling projects. Are you, ah, going somewhere with all this or did you forget the original question?”

Caitlin’s lips twitched but Devon wasn’t sure if she was trying to hide her irritation or subdue a smile.

“I didn’t forget the question. These are some of the things I ask all my clients during the initial assessment. You see, everyone has a unique style based on a number of different things. Personality. Profession. Lifestyle. Hobbies. Together these form the image we present to others. I help people project their true—”

Devon stopped listening.

That’s what it always came down to, he thought cynically. And it was all Ashleigh had cared about after her modeling career had taken off.

I can’t let people know that I grew up in this little hick town. I have to wear designer clothes—that’s what people expect. Devon, don’t wear those old blue jeans when we go out. You are so stubborn. Can’t you at least pretend to care that a photographer might be watching?

Devon had discovered that he couldn’t. That world—the one that Ashleigh had enthusiastically embraced—seemed so fake. But because it had been important to his wife, Devon had supported her dreams. Until the day Ashleigh had demanded a divorce and he had to accept he was no longer part of them.

Devon didn’t bother to hide his disgust. “Image. I don’t care about that kind of thing.”

Caitlin regarded him for a long moment. “And that is exactly the image you present, Mr. Walsh. That you don’t care.”

The quiet statement hit Devon with the force of a two-by-four and he stared at her in disbelief. “You’re basing a lot on a pair of blue jeans and…” Devon glanced down to see what he’d fished out of the drawer that morning. “A sweater, Ms. McBride.”

“It’s not the clothes you’re wearing—it’s the chip on your shoulder that completes the ensemble. The one that might make a person, let’s say a judge for instance, wonder what else you don’t care about. Paying the bills? Making sure your children are fed? Safe? Well-adjusted?”

“Chip on my—” Wait a second. Ensemble? Men didn’t have ensembles. Devon’s back teeth ground together. “You are way out of line. You can’t determine whether I’m a good parent by the label on my back pocket.”

“You’re right. I can’t,” Caitlin said simply. “But Jenny is obviously worried that someone will. And if I’m not mistaken, that’s the reason she entered you in the makeover contest.”

All the fight drained out of Devon at the sound of his daughter’s name. And at the realization that he’d been more concerned about the press discovering his children’s whereabouts than he had been about the reason Jenny had sent in the entry form in the first place.

Devon scraped his fingers through his hair and then wondered how it had gotten so long. He’d had it cut in…

Six months ago.

Devon stifled a groan. How had the time gotten away from him?

He knew how. Because over the past six months he’d poured his heart and soul into rebuilding his family.

If he lacked a social life it was because he preferred it that way. His brief but memorable experience with the media had forced him from his hometown to a city large enough to allow him to fade into the background.

Unlike Ashleigh, Devon avoided the limelight. An eccentricity his publisher assumed he’d eventually overcome.

Devon knew better.

Since Jenny and the boys arrived, he’d been forced to widen the narrow boundaries of his social circle—what remained of it anyway—to include the small congregation of New Hope Fellowship.

Devon had started attending the church after moving to Minneapolis. He acknowledged the importance of meeting with other believers, but he’d still managed to keep the people there at arm’s length.

He knew the sudden appearance of his children would raise questions, but when Pastor Albright found out their mother had recently passed away, kindness trumped the natural curiosity their presence created in the congregation. After a gentle, collective offer to “let them know if they could help,” people maintained a respectful distance.

And even though Devon had appreciated the friendly smiles and genuine concern, he’d been careful not to need any help.

Because what he needed the most was time. Time for him and the children to get to know each other. Time to collect every piece of information—no matter how small or seemingly insignificant—and piece it together to form a picture of the lives they’d lived while they’d been apart from him.

And even though Devon tried to convince himself that another judge wouldn’t separate them, he’d thought the same thing at the first custody hearing. The one Ashleigh hadn’t even bothered to attend. She’d sent her attorney instead, who’d dissected Devon’s life and displayed it to the court. And made it look as if he were the last person capable of raising three small children.

Maybe it was time to ask for help.

Devon’s first impulse was to reject the thought. Okay, his hair did need a trim. And he could use a trip to the men’s department for some new clothes. But that didn’t mean he needed help from a professional image consultant….

Did he?

A verse suddenly filtered through Devon’s mind, as if in response to his silent question.

Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.

Devon winced, knowing he couldn’t argue with that. And like it or not, it backed up Caitlin’s business logo. Now the question came down to whether or not he was going to swallow his pride and take advantage of her expertise.

And the gift certificate.

Devon hooked his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans as he silently scrolled through his options. And tried to ignore the one standing right in front of him.

For the first time, Devon pondered—very briefly—the timing of their meeting. It occurred to him that his tendency to avoid civilization was working against him at the moment. When it came down to it, he didn’t know many people….

But Caitlin McBride, Lord? You’ve got to be kidding me, right?

The woman was wound way too tight. Not to mention that she’d be impossible to work with. Devon had no doubt she could straighten up a platoon of soldiers simply by lifting one perfectly arched eyebrow.

Devon’s gaze shifted and he caught Caitlin in the act of surreptitiously blowing a few wayward strands of hair out of her eyes.

It seemed that every time Devon thought he’d figured her out, he caught an intriguing glimpse of another side of her personality. A softer side.

But that wasn’t the reason he decided to give in. He gave in because he could suffer anything for the sake of his children. He could even suffer through a brief consultation with a certain blue-eyed drill sarg—image consultant.

“So, what does this gift certificate get me?”

“Excuse me?”

“The gift certificate for the style analysis,” Devon said patiently. “I want to use it. What do I get?”

Silence. And then, “The initial assessment. You fill out a questionnaire and then we discuss the results.”

“How long does that take?”

“About two hours.”

“That’s it?”

Caitlin blinked. “For that…portion. Most people decide after that whether they want to take advantage of some of our other services.”

Call him a glutton for punishment, but he was actually going to ask. “Like what?”

“Like achieving the right look as it pertains to a person’s professional goals and lifestyle roles. Finding the appropriate clothing styles for um, specific body types.” To Devon’s fascination, the color in her cheeks deepened. “Choosing an appropriate hairstyle and appropriate clothing.”

Devon got it. Appropriate. The secret weapon for success. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay to everything you just said.”

Something that looked like panic sparked in her eyes. “Maybe you should just make an appointment for the assessment. The rest is rather…expensive.”

“How expensive?”

“I charge one hundred and twenty dollars an hour.”

The air emptied out of Devon’s lungs. His attorney hadn’t charged near that amount. “No pro bono work?”

She didn’t smile at the joke. “Mr. Walsh—”

“Call me Devon. We are going to be working together.”

“Fine.” Her husky voice crackled. “I’ll set up an appointment and have Sabrina call you.”

“Great. I hope you can be a little bit flexible with my schedule. Things get kind of hairy at home sometimes.” Speaking of which…Devon realized he’d been gone a lot longer than he’d originally planned. “I have to run. I promised the kids I’d be home to make supper.”

“Why are you doing this?” Caitlin’s voice stopped him as he reached the door.

When Devon turned around, she hadn’t moved. He had no idea how to answer the question, so he asked one of his own. “Jenny didn’t really take second place in the contest, did she?”

The flicker of guilty surprise in Caitlin’s eyes gave her away.

Bingo.

He smiled. “That’s why.”