SOMETIMES EVERYTHING YOU LEARNED ABOUT YOURSELF IS WRONG.
Fashion is a fickle industry, a frightening fact for twenty-four year old model Ivy Clark. Ten years in and she’s learned a sacred truth—appearance is everything. Nobody cares about her broken past as long as she looks beautiful for the camera. This is the only life Ivy knows—so when it starts to unravel, she’ll do anything to hold on. Even if that means moving to the quaint island town of Greenbrier, South Carolina, to be the new face of her stepmother’s bridal wear line—an irony too rich for words, since Ivy is far from the pure bride in white.
If only her tenuous future didn’t rest in the hands of Davis Knight, her mysterious new photographer. Not only did he walk away from the kind of success Ivy longs for to work maintenance at a local church, he treats her differently than any man ever has. Somehow, Davis sees through the façade she works so hard to maintain. He, along with a cast of other characters, challenges everything Ivy has come to believe about beauty and worth. Is it possible that God sees her—a woman stained and broken by the world—yet wants her still?
BONUS CONTENT
The Cast
Behind the Scenes with Ivy Clark
Behind the Scenes with Davis Knight
Behind the Scenes with Marilyn Olsen
Discussion Questions
- Do you think A Broken Kind of Beautiful is a good title for this book? What do you think it means? If you were to give the title a different title, what would it be?
- Ivy Clark is not your typical Christian novel heroine. Did you like her? Why or why not? What are some of Ivy’s redeemable qualities?
- Our past plays a huge role in shaping who we become and what we believe. How did Ivy’s past shape her beliefs and who she became? In what ways has your own past shaped who you are today and what you believe? Do you think it’s possible to overcome our past? Why or why not?
- All right, let’s gush! This is a romance novel, after all. What was your favorite romantic moment between Davis and Ivy?
- Although t his is technically a romance novel, there was a romantic thread that went deeper than the burgeoning love between Ivy Clark and Davis Knight. What was it?
- Beauty is an important theme in this novel. How does the world define beauty? In what ways do you struggle to measure up to the world’s definition?
- Marilyn Olsen is not the archetypal wicked stepmother. What made Marilyn best suited to share Christ’s love with Ivy? Who has exemplified Christ’s love in your life?
- Marilyn felt God calling her to love Ivy, the daughter of her cheating husband and his mistress. How would you have reacted if you were Marilyn? Have you ever had a moment where you felt called to something that didn’t make sense?
- Davis struggles with fully accepting God’s forgiveness. Because he can’t let go of the guilt he feels over what happened to Sara, he punishes himself by refusing to do what he loves. Could you relate to Davis’s struggle? Why or why not?
- Sara came to see the blessing in her condition. Has God ever used tragedy in your life to bring about blessing? Share with the group.
ENDORSEMENTS
“Both beautifully written and honestly told, A Broken Kind of Beautiful is captivating! Faith is the resounding heartbeat of this poignant story, but Ganshert also breathes to life a tender romantic tale and a powerful inner journey as soothing as sweet tea on a hot summer day.”
—Denise Hunter, best-selling author of Dancing with Fireflies
“Ganshert’s fresh, riveting novel of shattered dreams, second chances, and true love is one that will capture reader’s hearts and refuse to let them go. This story reveals the deep truth that we can trust our fractured hearts to the God who specializes in Mosaic tiles–the One Who formed the universe from words, man from dust, and has no trouble figuring out how to bring beauty from the broken.”
—Betsy St. Amant, author of All’s Fair in Love & Cupcakes
“Katie Ganshert has created characters so real my heart ached for them as I longed to know them more and soothe the hurts in their pasts. The truth threaded through the pages is one to savor as is this story of a journey from brokenness to redeemed beauty.”
—Cara Putman, award-winning author of Shadowed by Grace
“In A Broken Kind of Beautiful, Katie Ganshert writes her most compelling novel yet, where imaginary characters seem to step off the pages. Readers will embrace both Ivy and Davis as they struggle with who they are and who they want to be. The story lingers with you after you close the book, like a melody you want to listen to again and again.”
—Beth K. Vogt, author of Catch a Falling Star and Somebody Like You
“A Broken Kind of Beautiful is beautifully written and populated with characters that tugged at my heart from the first page. This story is about The Story — the best story of history — that of God’s redeeming grace and pursuing love. I found it moving, inspiring, and wholly satisfying. Another Katie Ganshert novel for my keeper shelf!”
—Becky Wade, author of Meant to Be Mine
“Katie Ganshert’s A Broken Kind of Beautiful is poignant, heart-felt fiction at its finest. A gentle story of hope and healing wrapped in the kind of romance that keeps the reader turning pages. I love the emotional depth, lyrical writing and strong sense of place. Most of all, I love that days after closing the book, the characters are still alive in my head.”
—Melissa Tagg, author of Made to Last and Here to Say
“With a setting that becomes its own kind of character, a tender romance and soul-stirring symbolism, Katie Ganshert’s A Broken Kind of Beautiful is a shining example of how God’s grace can restore the brokenness in our lives. Her gorgeous writing voice pulled me in from the first page and kept me thinking about her characters after the story ended. Katie’s novels are to be savored and enjoyed again and again.”
—Lisa Jordan, award-winning author of Lakeside Reunion, Lakeside Family
BOOK DETAILS
Publisher: Katie Ganshert
Copyright @2022
Kindle ASIN: B09VB3YGB2
Audio ASIN: B07HCSCP81
Paperback ASIN: B0C9K6HZLG
Amazon Paperback ISBN: 979-8850092221
CHAPTER ONE
The girl with the haunted eyes reentered his life on the other side of a lowering casket, humidity and the shrill song of cicadas tangling together in the South Carolina heat. Aunt Marilyn pressed trembling fingers against her lips and swayed as if the wet ground had risen up and pitched her forward. Davis Knight tightened his grip beneath his aunt’s elbow and looked away from her pain. That’s when he saw her—standing like a statue, her waif-like form shrouded in grief.
Ivy Clark. All grown up.
A distant rumble of thunder rolled across the blackened sky, leftover remnants from a tropical storm. A raindrop brushed his ear; another grazed the tip of his nose. Pastor Voss bowed his head. So did everyone else, including Ivy. A slight breeze ruffled wisps of hair around her downturned face and fluttered the butterfly sleeves of her dress. The last time he’d seen her in the flesh, he had just returned to Greenbrier for a short summer stint after completing his freshman year at NYU. Ivy had been twelve going on fifty. Tall and gangly with eyes too large for her face—twin souls the color of honey, staring and deep as if she saw and understood every sadness in the world.
Then she had disappeared, and so did he, in a way. A few years later he began following her career because it was in his interest to follow it, but even with all professional motives stripped bare, he would have followed it anyway.
Pinpricks of sweat beaded along Davis’s temples. His sister, Sara, wrapped her arm around his and squeezed. Pastor Voss’s prayer ended in time for Ivy Clark to look up and catch him staring. Familiar territory to her, no doubt, given her career. Not so familiar to him.
He would have looked away, but her awareness of his attention triggered an intriguing metamorphosis. It seemed her eyes had learned some tricks over the years. Like how to bat in just the right way. How to dance in invitation. How to swallow the grief that had wrapped around her shoulders moments ago, when she thought nobody watched. She smiled a smile Davis knew well, one he’d seen hundreds of times on a hundred beautiful faces— the type of smile that had lost its allure two years ago.
He glanced down at the grass—thick green blades framing his black loafers—and patted his sister’s hand, his own personal reminder of why a woman like Ivy Clark could not be a part of his life. Ivy belonged to a world that took and took and took so subtly and connivingly that a person didn’t notice until there was nothing left to give. It was a world he never wanted to be a part of again.
Still, he looked one more time. Ivy stared back, a smirk on her face.
* * *
“Now’s not the time to talk about this, Ivy.” Bruce strode through the long grass toward a line of cars parked along the brick path, texting a message into his phone.
The drops of rain turned into a mist that settled over Ivy’s arms, cooling her skin. If only the drizzle could quench her fear. Who was he texting? She lengthened her stride, trailing him like an evening shadow. “You’re the one doing business.”
“How do you know it’s business?” He dug into his pocket, pulled out his keys, and clicked the button on the remote to unlock the car doors. Two short beeps interrupted a chorus of chirping birds hiding somewhere in the Spanish moss that dripped from gnarled tree limbs overhead.
Ivy rolled her eyes. Only Bruce would lock his car inside a cemetery in Greenbrier, South Carolina. “This isn’t New York City.” The two places existed on opposite poles. “I don’t think any burglars are prowling around waiting to break into your car.”
He stopped in front of the black Lexus with rental plates.
She stopped too. “I need to know, Bruce. It’s my future we’re talking about here.”
“If you were so concerned, you should have kept your mouth shut.”
“I made one lousy suggestion. You’re telling me O’Banion’s getting bent out of shape because of one small—”
“It’s not your job to make suggestions, especially not to a photographer like Miles O’Banion.”
Ivy’s stomach knotted. What would happen if that one slip cost her two years of security? Her twenty-fifth birthday crept closer each day. As hard as she tried, she wasn’t getting any younger and people were starting to notice. If she wanted to continue modeling, she needed that contract.
Bruce ran his hand down his face. “It’s your job to keep your mouth closed and work for the camera. That’s what you get paid for. Nobody cares about your opinions.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Then why didn’t you listen?”
A small group of women dressed in black stopped conversing. Bruce painted on a smile and gave them a polite wave. He leaned close to Ivy and spoke from the corner of his mouth, his smile unwavering. “We’re not talking about this here. Let’s show a little respect.”
Her muscles coiled. Respect? James didn’t deserve her respect. She didn’t care how touching the eulogy, how beautiful the flowers, or how crowded the funeral. Why should she care about losing a man who never wanted her in the first place? Why should his unspoken I love you echo in her mind? She refused to pretend her father’s death had any bearing on her life. Because it didn’t. She wouldn’t let it. She gathered her mounting anger and stuffed it in the empty place inside her chest.
Bruce opened the passenger-side door. “Get in the car.”
She folded her arms. “If you know something, as my agent, you have no right to keep it from me.
“I don’t know anything. And when I find out, we can discuss it back in New York.”
“Why did Annalise tell me I lost the contract?”
“Because Annalise feeds off gossip, or haven’t you figured that out yet?”
Despite the stagnant heat, a chill crept across Ivy’s skin. As her friend, Annalise wouldn’t have pulled this out of thin air. It had to have some substance. She gripped her elbows, as if the harder her fingers dug into flesh, the less any of this would matter. “Gossip always starts with a seed of truth.”
“Look, either get in the car or I’m leaving you here. Your choice.”
Ivy looked over her shoulder at the rows of polished tombstones. Her throat tightened. She hugged her arms and stepped closer to the car. “I want to go to the airport.”
“We’re going to the luncheon.”
“Why?”
“He was my brother and your father. We’re not leaving now.”
“He was hardly my father.” The emptiness expanded, carving her out like a pumpkin-turned-jack-o’-lantern. She was nothing but a shell. A beautiful, empty shell.
An SUV pulled out from behind them. An engine rumbled in front. Except for a few stragglers in the distance lingering over her father’s grave, the cemetery cleared.
Bruce drummed his fingers on the top of the car.
“I’m not going to sit in that house, eat cucumber sandwiches, and pretend to care that he’s gone.”
“You don’t have a choice.” Bruce opened the door wider.
Her shoulders sagged. Ivy slid into the passenger side, pulled the seat belt across her body, snapped it into place, and stared straight ahead. Why had she said anything to O’Banion? So what if he wanted to keep her in the same overdone pose? She shouldn’t have said a word. If there was one mistake to avoid in her world, it was wounding the pride of a notoriously prideful photographer.
Bruce’s door opened. He got inside and set his phone in the cup holder. As soon as he started the ignition, the phone vibrated, rattling loose change in the console. He swept up the device and held it against his ear. “Bruce Olsen.”
Nothing but the unintelligible chatter of a female voice from the other end.
A muscle pulsed in Bruce’s jaw. He scratched his chin and looked out the window, hiding his expression. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Could we meet then and talk this over?” He clicked his seat belt into place and nodded. Another long pause. More unintelligible chatter. A sigh from her uncle. “I understand. Thanks for getting back to me.”
He hit the End button and started the car.
Ivy pressed her fingers against her sweat-dampened palms.
Bruce pulled out onto the brick street and steered toward the iron gate. “It seems Ms. Reynolds wants a fresh face for her cosmetic line.” He flipped on the radio. Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name” blasted Ivy’s ears. “Sorry, kid. They’re not renewing your contract.”
CHAPTER TWO
The sound of chattering guests and clinking plates swirled around Davis as he leaned against a doorframe, unable to erase the sorrowful image of Ivy Clark standing over her father’s grave. The first time she entered his life, he had been the one who had just buried his father—the one who had stared in disbelief as the ground swallowed up the man who gave him life— right before moving with his mom and sister across the country to Greenbrier, South Carolina. Away from his friends in Telluride and everything he knew at the impressionable age of sixteen. And what had gripped him about this mysterious wisp of a girl moving silently about his aunt’s house were her haunted eyes.
She, too, had been taken from all that was familiar and plunked into a world where she didn’t belong. Her prison, however, would only last a month each summer. His, it had seemed, would last forever.
But now, as he scanned the crowd, Davis knew that Greenbrier was not the prison he had made it out to be. In fact, it had become the opposite—a sanctuary. Sure, it had some thorns, but they were tolerable. If only he had realized this as a teenager, perhaps he wouldn’t have been so eager to escape.
Across the entry in the great room, Grandma Eleanor leaned against Grandfather’s arm and cooled herself with a handheld, rose-patterned fan. She chatted with Mom and her husband, Mike—a high school math teacher with a paunch and an expanding bald patch on the crown of his head. Much to his grandparents’ chagrin, Davis’s mother met Mike on an Internet dating site, married him two years ago, and moved to his house in West Virginia, escaping the reach of Grandfather’s indomitable thumb.
Grandfather met Davis’s stare. He wasn’t sure what Grandfather hated more—Davis’s first career as a fashion photographer or his current one as a church maintenance man. Not in the mood to discuss his professional future at a funeral, he looked away, shifting his attention from the chandelier hanging over the dining room table to the art decorating the foyer walls before catching sight of his sister. She stood on the landing of the wide staircase with one arm extended in front of her, fingertips grazing the frame of a water-colored fresco Marilyn purchased several years ago, her posture etched with such longing Davis could feel her ache.
He frowned and moved toward her when Aunt Marilyn descended the stairs. With a ghost of a smile and red-rimmed eyes, she took Sara’s elbow, whispered something in her ear, and guided her down the rest of the steps.
Davis walked to the north-facing wall instead, covered in arched windows that opened to a manicured front lawn spotted with azaleas and shaded by a large oak. A line of cars wound down the long drive and spilled onto the cul-de-sac. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool glass.
“She sure is a beauty.”
His attention perked.
“Someone said she was on the cover of Vanity Fair.” This voice belonged to somebody different, slightly younger and not quite so southern.
“And InStyle,” the first voice whispered, loud enough for Davis to hear.
“Is she really James’s daughter?”
“Can’t you see the resemblance? Those eyes. Her hair. She’s the spitting image.”
“But James and Marilyn celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary last spring. That girl doesn’t look a day over twenty.” A pregnant pause followed the statement, saturated with so much subtext Davis could practically hear their churning thoughts. “You mean Marilyn stayed married to him after such a scandal?
“Bless her heart, the poor thing must have loved him.”
“Well, he couldn’t have been all bad. I heard he donated a lot of money to the county hospital.”
“I don’t care how much money he donated. If my Cal unzipped his pants for another woman, he’d be out of the house quicker than that.” Fingers snapped.
His own dug into the frame of the window.
“She could never have kids of her own, you know. Such a shame. And then to find out about this girl. News like that would have sent me straight to the grave. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive him.”
Enough gossip for one funeral luncheon.
Davis stepped out of the shadow cast by the heavy velvet curtains and cleared his throat. Trudy Piper, daughter of Pastor Voss and wife to Cal— the owner of a local bar and grill—stood face to face with someone Davis didn’t recognize. Likely an out-of-town guest. The two women blanched, then strained their eyes and tightened their lips into appropriate funeral expressions.
“Davis.” Trudy clasped her hands. “I’m so sorry for your family’s loss. It’s a shame for James to have passed so young.”
“The cancer took him fast,” the other woman added.
Trudy gave him a hug, the floral scent of her perfume overpowering, and the pair melted into the crowd in the dining area. He watched them go, his jaw clenched. Pastor Voss had two grown daughters. Trudy was the younger of the two and, much to the pastor’s chagrin, the town gossipmonger. Aunt Marilyn didn’t need a woman like that gossiping behind her back. She had enough to deal with. He turned around and set his palm against the window frame, then straightened to full height.
Ivy Clark was in Marilyn’s front yard, sitting on a white bench with one sinewy leg crossed over the other. Shaded beneath the oak, her toffee- colored hair fell in long waves past her shoulders as she stared off toward the street. He noted the elegance of her neck, the angle of her body. Except for her bouncing foot, she invoked an almost ethereal stillness, one that had him leaning closer to the window. There was a story there—hidden beneath her frame and her posture—and it begged to be captured.
Davis stepped away from the window and wove through the crowd. He plated a sandwich from the dining table and walked out into the humidity. If Ivy noticed him coming, she didn’t look up. Not even when he sat beside her on the bench, holding up the sandwich as an offering. “Hungry?”
She traced lazy circles around her kneecap. “Not much of an appetite at the moment, thanks.”
He set the plate down on the grass.
She leaned back on her palms. “Do you stare at women at funerals as a rule, or should I be flattered?”
It took him a while, but he found it. In her irises. A barely there pulse of the girl he remembered from way back when, before the world had its way with them both. It kept him on the bench when everything else begged him to leave. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
She shifted away and looked him in the eyes.
He decided to help her out. “Marilyn’s nephew?”
“Davis Knight, you don’t say.” She tipped her chin. “So what does that make us—cousins?”
“Step cousins, I guess.” If there was such a thing.
“And here I thought I was running out of family.” She looked him full in the face, her expression bored or maybe challenging. Like she dared him to entertain her.
“You’re a lot different than I remember,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows. “And just how much do you remember, Dave?”
“You were sad a lot.”
“Well, there wasn’t much to be happy about back then. And I’m not a little girl anymore.” One corner of her mouth quirked into a private grin. “But I think you noticed that all on your own.”
Of course he’d noticed. Any man would. “I’ve followed your career.”
“Oh yeah?” She leaned so close her shoulder brushed against his. “Are you a fan? You want me to sign something?”
The woman in front of him bore no resemblance to the one he’d watched out the window. That woman had looked lonely. This one wielded seduction like a weapon. So which was the real Ivy Clark? “It’s hot out. You should come inside.”
“I’ll pass.”
“So you’re just going to sit out here the whole time?”
She slipped her phone from her purse and checked the display.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
“A cab.”
“In Greenbrier? I didn’t know they existed.” The island town might boast twenty thousand, but something about its slow-moving pace made it feel half that size.
“Apparently they only have one. It’s taking a long time.”
“Where are you going?”
“The airport.”
“Already?”
“Why the twenty questions, Dave?”
Why indeed? He nudged the plate with his shoe. A red ant scuttled toward the bread as silence settled between them, every bit as pronounced as the humid air. A swallow filled the void with song.
Ivy sighed. “I never hear the word ‘escape’ without a quicker blood…”
He cocked his head. “Emily Dickinson?”
“You know it?”
The surprise in her question matched his own. She was as unlikely a candidate as he to quote poetry. “I had an English lit professor who was in love with Ms. Dickinson. That’s what he called her too—Miz Dickinson. I think her postmortem status truly depressed him.”
A genuine smile tugged at her lips, but before it could take full form, she looked down and fiddled with the charm bracelet around her wrist. “If you really must know, Dave, I’m running away. Do you know what that’s like?”
“Unfortunately.”
She raised an eyebrow, like she didn’t believe for a minute somebody like him would have anything to run away from.
“It’s something I did for a long time,” he admitted, wondering, even as he did, why he was opening up to her.
“Oh yeah? And how did it work out for you?”
Sadness spread its fingers and laid a heavy hand over his chest. “Not well.”
A cab grumbled down the cul-de-sac and stopped behind the line of parked cars crowding the driveway. Ivy stood. He joined her. In her high heels, she came almost level with his six-foot-two frame. He wasn’t used to looking a woman in the eye, especially not on his feet. “Good luck,” he said.
“With what?”
“Stopping. We all have to sooner or later.”
Something broken flickered in her eyes but disappeared before the lethargic shutter in his mind could capture it. She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his cheek, her breath minty and warm. “Happy mourning.”
She pulled her purse over her shoulder and sauntered to the cab.
* * *
Taking a temporary respite from the condolences, Marilyn Olsen clasped the cross on her necklace, sliding it back and forth along the silver chain, watching as Ivy slid into the backseat of the yellow taxi.
Marilyn’s house was full of people—if not mourning, at least acknowledging James’s end—yet from the moment she caught sight of Ivy at the funeral, her thoughts ceased being about her late husband. Some might think that callous, but in truth, Marilyn did not dread widowhood as many women might. Her good-bye to James was not one of holding on and clinging tighter; it was more akin to slowly stopping after a long, grueling race. The flood of emotion she felt now was all about the girl riding away in the backseat of a cab.
Lord, my heart…
Sometimes obedience could feel like trudging through the mud, each acquiescent footstep weighted with resistance. That’s how it was with James. Marilyn didn’t want to forgive him, but who was she to ignore the words God continued to place in the palms of her outstretched hands whenever she prayed? Absolve. Pardon. Exonerate. Their crisp, sharpened edges left no room for misinterpretation.
Other times, though, obedience was unavoidable.
During her dark years, when James started drifting away and infertility defined her days, Marilyn took on the morbid habit of reading labor and delivery books. One author described the act of pushing like a train barreling forward at full speed. The doctor says “Push,” and the woman in labor doesn’t have to think twice. Her body takes over her will, bearing down with a fierceness that is nearly impossible to thwart.
As a woman who had never experienced such a phenomenon, Marilyn couldn’t fathom what that might feel like. Until she saw her—an eight-year- old girl with a Cinderella backpack who kept looking at James with a mixture of timidity and admiration. Only he never looked back. He didn’t acknowledge her at all. And as Marilyn beheld this girl standing in their foyer for the first time, taking in all the ways Ivy resembled James but not her, she could hear the whisper…
Love this one.
It was as if God had shouted in a holy voice, “Push!” She couldn’t have stopped it if she tried.
“Marilyn.” The greeting sounded so much like James that for one illogical second she thought it actually belonged to him.
Pressing the silver cross into the hollow of her clavicle, she turned around. “Bruce.” His name escaped on an exhale. What James and his younger brother lacked in closeness, they more than made up for in resemblance. Looking up at him now brought on an eerie sense of déjà vu.
He reached out and squeezed her elbow—as close to affection as the two had ever come. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“And yours,” she said.
“Yes, well.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers, his attention not quite meeting hers. “I didn’t know the cancer would take him so quickly. If I’d known…”
Marilyn let the unfinished sentiment fade into the chatter around them. She might have offered something comforting. Nobody imagined he would go so fast. Or James knew you loved him. But in truth, she didn’t have the energy to offer Bruce placations. Her concentration returned to the white bench where Ivy had been. Davis sat there now, elbows on his knees, playing with a sandwich he’d picked up from the plate between his feet. “How’s Ivy doing?”
“Hanging in there, I think.”
“I see her on those makeup commercials from time to time.”
“Unfortunately, she won’t be on them anymore.”
Marilyn looked at her brother-in-law. “What do you mean?”
“Reynolds has decided not to renew Ivy’s contract. They want a younger face.”
“What will she do?”
Bruce puffed up his cheeks and released a long breath. “I’m sure she’ll figure something out. Ivy always does. I know you had your doubts, but the kid’s had quite a run. A lot better than most.”
The words smarted. How could Bruce be so shrewd in business yet so obtuse in other areas of life? Yes, Marilyn had had her doubts, but they were never in Ivy.
“Speaking of our girl, have you seen her?”
“She left in a cab just now.” Marilyn spoke the words to the glass.
Bruce stepped closer, following her line of vision. “She left?”
The disapproval in his tone raised her hackles. Of all the things he could care about, it was this? Never mind the fact that Ivy was barely fourteen when Bruce invited her into a world built on empty promises. Never mind the fact that he saw nothing wrong with exploiting a hurting girl’s God-given beauty.
“I’m really sorry, Marilyn. I didn’t think she’d call a cab.”
“She’s not a prisoner, Bruce.”
Isn’t she?
The question might as well have been another one of God’s holy shouts. Just because the bars weren’t visible didn’t mean Ivy wasn’t a prisoner. They’d only grown stronger, more resilient in the ten years since she had last walked out of Marilyn’s life. Still, the whispered words that wrecked her all those years ago echoed in the deepest part of her heart. The place where mothers were made.
CHAPTER THREE
Ivy tore through her closet, pulling tops off hangers and discarding them onto the floor. A trail of black, turquoise, and plum, Versace, Chanel, and Vuitton made its way onto the tile of her bathroom. She removed a black sequined top from a plastic hanger, held it up to her chest, then flung it out the door.
“Whoa!”
Ivy poked her head out from the walk-in closet. “Annalise!”
Her friend was dressed in a black miniskirt, silver Louboutin heels, and her signature red beret. She dangled the sequined top off the ends of her fingers. “Clothing crisis?” Crisis came out sounding more like cry-sees. Even after ten years in America, Annalise still spoke in a thick French accent.
“I can’t find the top I’m looking for.” Ivy gave up her futile search and stood in front of the large bathroom mirror. “How was Miami?”
“Very hot.” Annalise dropped the shirt alongside the others and sat her lithe body on the edge of the Jacuzzi. “You know, Ivy, you really should not leave your front door unlocked. I could have been a crazy stalker. Haven’t I taught you anything?”
Apparently, Ivy was a slow learner. Otherwise she’d have kept her mouth shut and would still have a contract with Reynolds Cosmetics. A full week after Bruce delivered the news, and weariness still dragged at her soul—a cloying, oppressive heaviness that refused to leave. Ivy leaned over the counter, close to the mirror, and scrutinized her hair. She fished out a bobby pin from the top drawer of the vanity and wedged it between her teeth.
“I put your mail on the counter. It was sitting in front of the door. Along with a vase of flowers.” Annalise wagged her black eyebrows at Ivy’s reflection. “A dozen red roses and a box of gourmet chocolates. Who is the guy?”
Ivy pulled back a lock of hair and removed the pin from between her incisors. “Probably the one who took me out on Friday.”
“Si romantique. The sparks flew, no?”
Ivy lifted her shoulder.
Annalise chuckled. “One of these days, you are going to mess with the wrong man. Tread carefully, my friend. You do not want to get hurt.”
Ivy’s insides twisted at the irony. The only man who ever had the power to hurt her lay six feet underground. And even there, he managed to reach up from the grave and clench an iron fist around her heart. She stuck the pin in her hair, freezing the pouf in place. James only had as much power as she allowed him, and she’d allowed him too much already. “I’m pretty sure my heart’s safe.”
“I was not talking about your heart. We all know that is untouchable.”
Ivy studied her reflection. She needed to look perfect tonight. Clara Vans—the new fashion editor for Friction—would be at the launch party. Maybe Clara would want Ivy for an editorial shoot. How long had it been since she’d last done one? Nine months? They paid hardly anything, but money wasn’t the issue. The exposure she needed to catch the eye of potential clients was.
“So what is the news with Reynolds?”
Ivy’s posture wilted. “Apparently, you were right. I lost the contract.”
“How terrible.”
Ter-ee-bul indeed, but she shrugged like it didn’t matter.
“How was your father’s funeral?”
And there was a topic she wanted to talk about even less than Reynolds. “Death be not proud, though some have called thee…”
“You are quoting poetry at me, Ivy. I want to know how you are feeling.”
“I barely knew him.”
Annalise raised her eyebrows but didn’t push further. She picked up a black minidress with a deep-plunge neckline off the floor. One of the outfits Ivy walked in during last fall’s fashion week. Annalise tossed it at her. “Wear this. It makes you look like a goddess.”
Ivy stepped in the dress and zippered the side. She gave her reflection one more look and walked to her kitchen to check the mail. She picked up the stack and shuffled through it until her gaze connected with a familiar return address. New York University.
Last winter, she’d happened upon a course catalog—the sheer thickness of it something to behold—and spent three consecutive nights perusing the selection of classes, highlighting her favorites, picturing herself in one of those lecture halls with a fresh notebook and a brand-new gel pen. She imagined the professor’s imparted knowledge filling her back up again, replacing all that had been stolen over the past ten years. She imagined herself as a person with substance, someone who could do something besides model. The idea became so enticing that Ivy got on their website and filled out the application, and now her one and only backup plan had sent a reply.
She held the small package, its size doing little to still the sudden bout of nerves inside her stomach. Annalise’s heels clicked across the hardwood floor. Ivy turned away from her friend and blocked the letter. Nobody knew she’d applied. Not even Annalise.
Her friend walked to the kitchen island and buried her nose in the rose petals.
Ivy’s thumb twitched over the envelope’s seal. Should she open it?
She bit her lip. If she didn’t open it now, she’d think about it all evening. She couldn’t risk a muddled brain. Not tonight. Not with Clara Vans in attendance. Taking a shaky breath, she slipped her finger beneath the flap. She unfolded the letter with trembling fingers and blinked at the typed words. It opened with a polite thank-you for her application and ended with an even politer rejection.
She hadn’t gotten in. The university had rejected her.
“What are you doing over there so secretively?”
Ivy hid the letter behind her back.
“Come on, Ivy. We do not want to be late.” Annalise stepped in front of the door, an amused smile drawing up the corners of her mouth. “In the words of our main man, Bruce-y, forget what is bothering you and show me your sexy face.”
Show me your sexy face.
Bruce’s motto. Her life’s purpose. A sudden surge of anger pushed against Ivy’s despondency. She crumpled the letter in a tight fist and shoved the paper ball down the sink. She flipped on the garbage disposal. The blades growled and gurgled as they shredded the paper into soggy confetti.
“An interesting way to recycle.” Annalise opened the door. “Are you out of garbage bags?”
Ivy plucked her purse off the counter, strode past her friend, and did the only thing she was any good at. She put on her sexy face.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ivy followed Annalise past the crowded line of clubgoers, her shoulders back, hips swaying as a balmy nighttime breeze caressed her skin. The women in line swiveled their heads to watch her and Annalise pass. Several men whistled. Ivy let their attention fuel her waning confidence, because that’s exactly what she needed if she was going to impress Clara Vans. They stopped in front of the velvet rope where two familiar bouncers stood guarding the entrance.
“Good evening, ladies. You here to enjoy the launch party?”
“Ventino’s new line of purses?” Annalise quipped. “What’s not to enjoy?”
The taller bouncer unclipped the rope and swept his gorilla hand toward the entrance, his attention moving up Ivy’s legs as she stepped past.
The muffled beat of dance music throbbed through the heavy door. As soon as the bouncer swung it open, the music spilled out into the night and pulsed through Ivy like the deep thud of jungle drums. More fuel.
He offered his elbow. “Allow me to escort you to the back room.”
She took his arm, Annalise took his other, and together, they moved with him through the throng. Their escort stopped in front of an open room filled with purse-lined tables and a crowd Ivy knew well. Men dressed in Armani, women clad in the latest and greatest fashion trends, all standing in small cliques, holding drinks and hiding personal agendas behind pretense and gossip. She understood the rules and subtle nuances. She’d played the game since she was fourteen.
“Have fun,” the bouncer said before turning to leave.
Ivy smiled her thanks, then leaned close to Annalise so she could be heard over the music. “Is Gary coming?”
Gary was Annalise’s quasi-boyfriend and a successful photographer. The two had met at a photo shoot for Ralph Lauren in the Dominican Republic a couple of winters ago. Annalise pointed toward one of the tables. “He’s over there.”
“Do you see Clara Vans anywhere?” Ivy asked.
“You aren’t wasting any time, are you?”
“Let’s just say I didn’t come to look at purses.” Ivy scanned the crowd. “I need a drink. I’d offer to get you something, but I’m sure Gary will take care of you.” Gary always took care of Annalise. He took care of all his models, using his under-the-table connections to feed a whole host of habits, the most popular being cocaine and diet pills. Annalise partook of both. Ivy, neither. She’d seen firsthand what addiction had done to her mother. She squeezed her friend’s hand before making her way to the bar and sliding onto one of the leather stools.
A man dressed in a business suit claimed the seat beside her. He leaned his elbows on the bar top and looked at her with open interest. Ivy feigned naivety. Losing her contract. NYU’s rejection. All of it melted away. Here was something she was good at.
A bartender approached. “What can I get you, beautiful?”
“An apple martini, please.”
He nodded and went to work.
Ivy reached for her purse, a premeditated action. Just as she expected, the man beside her put his hand on her forearm. “Allow me.”
She looked up with wide eyes, pretending to notice him for the first time. He looked a few years younger than her father and every bit as handsome. “You sure?”
“For you? Anything.”
She shifted her weight, mirroring his posture.
The bartender placed her martini in front of her. The man dipped into his wallet and handed over a bill. “Gin and tonic.”
That’s when Ivy noticed it. A hint of a tan line circling his left ring finger. She blinked, then brought the martini to her lips.
“I recognize you,” he said.
She ran her fingers over her necklace. “You do?”
“You’re the woman on those makeup commercials. You have to be.” The bartender slid the man’s gin and tonic across the bar top. He took a sip, ice clinking together in his glass. The flush in his face told Ivy it wasn’t his first drink. “Am I right?”
Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be for very much longer. “You are.”
He whistled. “You’re even more stunning in person than you are on television.”
The words tickled her ego. This man would empty his wallet just to sit beside her for the rest of the night. If she let him, he’d buy her roses and jewelry and perfume. All because he wanted her. He burned with it. She could see the desire in his eyes. She brought her chin to the top of her knuckles and flashed her dimple.
“What do you say we dance when you finish that drink?”
“I don’t usually dance with strangers.”
He leaned one elbow on the bar and swiveled his chair toward hers. “What if I told you my name—would that help?”
“It might.”
He leaned closer. “Brian.”
Ivy took another long drink. His leg brushed against hers, but she didn’t pull away. “You want to dance with me, Brian?”
His eyelids fluttered. “Uh-huh.”
She traced her finger around the outside of her martini glass. He watched her movement. “What do you say?”
“Here’s what I have to say.” She set her hand on his knee and paused, listening to the catch in his breath. Disgust blistered beneath her skin. “Get your ring out of your pocket, and put it back on your finger.”
He drew away, his mouth hanging open.
“Be a man, Brian.” She picked up her drink. “Go home to your wife.” Resisting the urge to knee him where it hurt, she sauntered back to the private room and found one of Bruce’s assistants standing off to the side. A breath of fresh air in a room full of clichés. Maya was a perpetual wallflower, which probably explained why she tugged at Ivy’s heartstrings.
Ivy walked over and offered a friendly smile. “Hi, Maya.”
Maya melted with relief. “Ivy!”
“Let me guess—Bruce asked you to make an appearance?”
“He wanted me to keep an eye out.”
Ivy drank the last of her martini. “For promising new clients, no doubt.”
“I really don’t like these parties,” Maya said, fidgeting with her scarf.
Her dislike was painfully obvious, but what Maya lacked in social acuity she more than made up for in hard work and kindness. “You know,” Ivy said out of the corner of her mouth, bending her knees a bit to compensate for their height difference, “if you decided to call it a night, I don’t think Bruce would be any wiser.”
“Really?”
“I wouldn’t say anything.” Ivy plucked the slice of apple from the rim of her glass. “Besides, Bruce has plenty of clients already.”
Maya darted a few glances around the room, then hitched her purse strap over her shoulder. “I do want to catch up on some episodes of The Bachelorette.”
“I’ll be curious to know what you think of her latest decision.”
“Will do. Thanks, Ivy!” Maya gave her a side hug, then wove through the crowd until she fell out of sight.
When Ivy turned around, she spotted Clara Vans at one of the purse tables. Taking a delicate bite of her apple slice, she set her martini glass on a table and made her way over, selecting a zebra-print handbag from the collection. “Ventino is a genius.”
Clara looked up from the black clutch she held out in front of her. “Isn’t he?”
“I did some work for one of his collections a couple years ago.”
“Did you?”
Ivy held out her hand. “My name’s Ivy Clark.”
“Oh yes. You’re one of Bruce’s girls, aren’t you?”
She nodded as a bartender entered the room, a tray full of champagne flutes balanced on the palm of his hand. Several people raised their drinks in gratitude. Ventino himself nodded his thanks at the bartender before catching Ivy’s eye, a lazy smile spreading across his face. The two of them had a fling a while back. According to Annalise, Ivy had broken Ventino’s heart. Obviously, Ventino didn’t hold a grudge. And unlike that creepazoid Brian, he wasn’t married. She smiled back before refocusing on Clara.
“Bruce is wonderful,” Clara said.
“He is.” She set down the zebra bag, gathering her courage. “I absolutely adore the direction you’ve taken Friction. I’ve been in several issues in the past. I’ve always admired the magazine’s vision, but even more since you came on board.”
Clara picked up a red leather purse and held it beneath her nose. “This is exquisite.”
“In fact, I was talking to Bruce the other day about how much I’d love to do some more work if you ever—”
“Ms. Vans, just the woman we were looking for!”
Ivy turned to her left, toward the voice booming over the music. Charles Creighton, another hotshot agent, escorted the most exotic-looking girl Ivy had ever seen. She couldn’t be a day over sixteen, yet she held a glass of wine like it was a natural extension of her body.
Clara abandoned the purse.
Creighton spun the girl around, like she was up for bid. The apple martini soured in Ivy’s stomach. “I’d like you to meet Gabriela Gerbasi. She’s been in almost every fashion magazine across Europe. She’s a sensation in Milan and Paris. I’m telling you, Clara, people are in love with her.”
The girl took a drink of her wine and had the audacity to look bored.
Ivy shifted. She used to be the one editors drooled over. The one her agent paraded around clubs like a trophy. But it hadn’t lasted. That high that came with being loved by the world? It didn’t last at all.
Creighton turned to Ivy, as if noticing her for the first time. “Iris, how are you?
“It’s Ivy.”
“Right, Ivy. How’s Bruce?” The two were longstanding competitors. Several times early in Ivy’s career, when she was the promising one, Creighton had made her under-the-table offers—swearing to take her career places her uncle never could. Maybe she should have taken him up on them. Or maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference.
“Fine, thank you.” Her words fell like icicles.
“I heard about losing that contract with Reynolds. You really ought to be more careful with your reputation. O’Banion said you were downright argumentative.”
Ivy blanched. Downright argumentative? O’Banion was slandering her name. A simple suggestion was hardly argumentative. She shot a furtive glance at Clara. “O’Banion exaggerates.”
“No need to get riled up. It wasn’t because of him that you lost the contract. It’s just the nature of this industry. New faces are always flooding the market. Competition is especially fierce at the moment. Wouldn’t you say, Clara?”
Clara didn’t seem to hear a word. She was too busy salivating over Creighton’s Brazilian-looking commodity. “I’d love to talk about getting her an editorial, Charles. She’s exactly the right fit for my magazine.”
Creighton kissed Gabriela’s cheek and took Clara’s hand. “Let’s have a drink, shall we?” He led Clara away, abandoning Ivy with the girl, who sipped her wine and rummaged through the purses as if she hadn’t understood a word that had been spoken. Maybe she hadn’t. Ivy had gone through the same thing abroad. Bruce auctioning her off in foreign languages, always fishing for the highest bidder.
The emptiness she’d tried to tuck away all evening ripped open inside her chest. She searched the room for Annalise. Instead, she found Luis Ventino. He leaned against a high table, surrounded by three women, but he stared at her. She moved to the drinks the bartender had dropped off, picked up a flute, and took a long sip. When the champagne was all gone, Ivy strutted toward Ventino and fought against the empty chasm the only way she knew how.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cool air greeted Davis as soon as he stepped inside his darkened apartment. An early morning run along the beach with a buddy, followed by a solo ocean swim, and he still couldn’t divert his thoughts from last night’s dream—about funerals, overexposed photographs, and a pair of haunted eyes. The funeral had been a week ago, so why the dream now? He flipped on the light switch and tossed his keys. They clattered, skidded, and came to a halt in front of his answering machine.
His stomach grumbled. He pushed sweaty hair up his forehead and ran his hand down the front of his face, scruff scratching at his palms. He hadn’t gone grocery shopping in a good two weeks, but he did have some leftover Frogmore stew and pecan pie that he’d picked up from Fried Greens after his slow-pitch softball game last night. That beat a bowl of cereal any day.
Hopping on alternating feet, he yanked off his running shoes. They clunked onto the welcome mat. He shuffled into the kitchen, washed his hands, and pulled out the stew. He opened the container and placed it inside the microwave, but when he hit Start, nothing happened. Well, great. How was he supposed to eat without a microwave? He checked the plug, his stomach snarling.
“I know. I know. You’re hungry.”
Davis turned in place, searching for something ovenproof, and found a flashing red light on his answering machine instead. He pushed the button and pulled open a skinny cupboard between his refrigerator and stove. Grandma Eleanor had helped him unpack his things when he moved in a couple of years ago. He had no idea where she’d put his baking sheets. Or if he even had any.
“Hey, Davis, it’s your favorite aunt.”
He paused his search at the sound of Marilyn’s voice. She sounded okay—definitely not upbeat, but not despondent either. Over the past week, whenever he stopped by for a visit, she’d seemed understandably adrift.
“So I have something I’d like to run past you. It’s an idea I had a while ago, before…” Her words fell away. Over the past six months, she’d spent her time caring for James, helping him fight and then accept a sickness that descended and destroyed with the quickness and ferocity of a raging wildfire. “Anyway, I’ve decided I’m going to put together an advertising campaign—something to market my new line of wedding gowns.”
He opened another cupboard and smiled. Aunt Marilyn thrived at her boutique. She was making quite a name for herself. Blushing brides all across the Lowcountry came to Something New to try on her dresses. A campaign sounded like the perfect distraction—something to occupy her time as she transitioned into the realities of widowhood.
“Remember my friend Joan Calloway? She’s a fashion editor for Southern Brides magazine. She contacted me a few weeks ago, asking to do an editorial spread featuring my dresses. I couldn’t commit then, but now I can. She thinks they’re quirky and fresh.”
He pulled out a plastic bowl and a misplaced corkscrew and reached into the back of the cupboard, his palm moving over empty space and the grain of unfinished wood, then caught something promising. Something that felt ovenproof. He brought it out. “Aha!”
“Anyway, I was hoping you might consider being my photographer.”
The smile slid from his face.
“Now please don’t get mad, but I mentioned your name to Joan. She called me back a little while ago raving about you. Apparently, she looked up some of your work online.”
Davis went to the sink and rinsed the dust from the ceramic dish. “She wants to meet with me tomorrow for dinner to go over the details of the photo shoot we’re going to do next week. I told her you probably wouldn’t be there. But, Davis”—she let out along breath, a note of desperation in the sigh—“this is important and there isn’t any other photographer I want to work with. Or one I trust so implicitly. Besides, I think it could be a fun experience. Stop by and we can talk about it, okay?”
A loud beep swallowed Marilyn’s farewell. Davis tore off a paper towel and wiped the dish dry, his mind no longer on the food.
* * *
Sunlight dappled through the leaves of the large oak trees lining Marilyn’s street, speckling the colonial houses with pinkish gold. Davis caught sight of his aunt trimming the confederate jasmine climbing up her trellis as he pulled down her long drive and parked in front of the three-car garage. He didn’t want to disappoint his aunt, but there was no getting around it. He made a vow two years ago, and a fun experience, as Marilyn had called it, was not a strong enough reason to break it.
Letting out a deep breath, Davis stepped outside into a heat that was already starting to swelter, despite the early hour. Usually the full brunt of summer’s wrath held out until July, but June was proving to be an exceptionally nasty piece of work. He shut his door.
Marilyn set down her pruning shears and waved, her face barely visible beneath her floppy hat.
Davis cut through the lawn and met her in front of the butterfly bushes. “Hard at work already?” He surveyed her flower garden, which had grown more expansive throughout the years. The powdery-fresh fragrance of the crepe myrtle with its fuchsia popcorn trusses and the sweetness of the purple four o’clocks perfumed the air. When his kid sister Sara was young, she loved helping Marilyn water and prune and pull weeds. She loved chasing the butterflies that flitted and floated around the bushes too.
“You know what they say about early birds.” Wisps of sweat-dampened hair escaped from beneath her hat and stuck to her neck. She pulled off her gloves and her hat, revealing a messy bun and cheeks pinked by the heat. “Did you get my message?”
Davis scratched his jaw. “I did.”
She held up her hand. “Now before you say anything, I think you should know what you’d be saying no to. Sara and I were up late last night, brainstorming ways to make the campaign into something bigger. And we came up with a charity fashion show. It’d be a great way to highlight my dresses, bring some excitement to Greenbrier, and raise money for a good cause.”
His curiosity piqued. “What’s the cause?”
Marilyn’s face lit up. “You know that new art program Sara’s been talking about? I’m hoping we could raise enough funds to bring that program to Greenbrier’s community college. We’d have all the proceeds from the fashion show, along with twenty percent of the sales I make from now until next year.”
Davis blinked, completely unprepared. Marilyn’s suggestion undid his resolve, tangling his motivations into a knot that was impossible to tease apart. A couple of months ago, Grandfather had read about the program in the newspaper—some leading-edge art program for the visually impaired, founded by Frank Calvin Boritz, a world-renowned painter who also happened to be blind. Part of Davis wanted to jump in and say yes, of course. Anything for Sara. But the other part of him resisted. Who was to say he wasn’t merely jumping on the first excuse to take up his camera again?
Marilyn looked up at him, hesitant and hopeful. “Thoughts?”
He scratched his jaw, watching as a Carolina wren hopped along the alabaster branch of the crepe myrtle. It stopped, cleaned its plumage, then spread its wings and flew away. “If I say yes, what would I be getting myself into?”
“You’d do the editorial shoot for Joan. After that, I’d want you to do some photographs for advertisements—a brochure, maybe even some billboard space along the highway. And then, of course, I’d need you for the fashion show. Not just to shoot pictures, but to help organize it. You know much more about this stuff than I do.”
Too much. He knew too much.
His aunt reached out and touched his arm, as if sensing his thoughts. “It’s time to put that knowledge to good use, right?”
Davis stuck his thumbs through his belt loops and chewed over the proposition. He had vowed to himself that he was done with photography. He had no business taking up his camera when Sara could no longer take up her paintbrushes. But what if picking up his camera again meant giving his sister back a piece of what she’d lost? a piece of what he’d taken?
“Joan’s convinced my bridal wear is going to be the next big thing. I’m not sure about that, but I already know your pictures are going to bring in customers. You’re brilliant, Davis.”
He let the praise bounce away. He didn’t need to hear it. His ego had inflated enough last time. “How long of a commitment are we talking about?”
“A couple months, give or take a few weeks.”
A couple months. He could reinstate his vow after that, right? Sure, he’d be doing photography again, but this time it wouldn’t be about him or his selfish desires. It would be about helping Sara. Besides, it was wedding photography in South Carolina, a world apart from high fashion in New York. He let out his breath and made a quick decision. “Okay.”
“You’ll do it?”
Ignoring the tightening in his stomach, he stuck out his hand. “What’s my first assignment, boss?”
Marilyn squeezed his hand. “Dinner tomorrow with me and Joan— she’s very eager to get going. Then you can pick Ivy up at the airport when she arrives, hopefully in a few days. It might be a good idea for you two to get better acquainted. It’s good to build a certain amount of rapport with your model, right?”
“My model?”
“I spoke with Bruce. She’s going to be the new face for my bridal wear line.” A thousand tangled emotions twitched inside Marilyn’s smile. “Ivy’s coming home.”