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“New designs? What? I’m so excited. Where are they?” Lyric looked around as though she was looking for the actual pieces.
“Right here,” Tristan answered, holding up her sketchbook, which Lyric snatched out of her hand.
Ten minutes later, Lyric and Liv were still flipping pages back and forth, trying to decide their favorites. “When does production start?”
“I asked the same thing,” Liv answered Lyric. “And then I told her to make one of each in my size.”
Lyric high-fived Liv. “Right on! For me too.”
“What are you looking at?” asked Bree, walking down the stairs.
“New designs for Lost Cowboy.”
“Let me see.” She took the book out of Lyric’s hand the same way Lyric had taken it from Tristan.
“Hey,” Lyric snipped. “You got a serious entitlement thing goin’ on. You think I won’t smack a pregnant woman? You’re wrong.”
“Give her a turn.” Liv beamed at Tristan. “See? I told you to share them.”
“None of these will look any good on me,” groaned Bree. “Do you have any designs for bigger women?”
“You’re pregnant, not big,” insisted Lyric. “Before you know it, you’ll pop that kid out and be back to a size two.”
Bree cring
ed. “I’ve never been a size two.”
Liv followed Tristan when she walked in the direction of the patio. “You should know Lyric well enough to realize she wouldn’t hesitate to tell you her honest opinion. If she didn’t like what she saw, she’d tell you. As I said, your designs are fabulous. Have you thought of a name for the line?”
Tristan had been thinking about it. She wasn’t ready to share it yet. First she needed to present the idea to her father. She didn’t know whether he would sign off on producing a whole new line of clothing. Telling Liv, or anyone else, the name she’d come up with seemed premature, and she didn’t want to jinx it.
Bullet drove to the park in town and let Grey loose on the playground. He sat on the grass, close enough that he could catch him if he climbed too high or got into some other kind of trouble.
Grey was just like him. Gram would say there was never a minute in Bullet’s childhood when he didn’t have a scraped knee or elbow.
“You must take after your father,” she’d tell him. “Your mama could go play in a mud puddle and come out of it clean as when she walked outdoors.”
Bullet could see that. His mother didn’t necessarily stand out in their group of friends, not visibly anyway. She looked and dressed the part of a rocker’s wife. There was just something about her, her aura maybe, that set her apart. Gram said she named his mom after Guinevere in the movie, Camelot. “Doesn’t she look just like Vanessa Redgrave?”
Bullet had never seen the movie, and he didn’t know who Vanessa Redgrave was, but when Gram showed Lyric and him the picture of the king and queen in the movie, he had to admit his mom looked a lot like the lady.
He wasn’t sure about taking after his father. If he and Lyric weren’t twins, Bullet might think he was adopted. He didn’t seem to take after anyone in his family.
His father met his mother when he was touring with his first band. They were the opening act for a band that wasn’t much more successful than they were. His dad would say he’d never doubt his wife’s love, because she’d loved him when he was a starving, struggling musician. Unlike some of his bandmates’ girlfriends, she’d loved him before he made it big. She loved him still, and would even if it all ended tomorrow.
Bullet wasn’t sure if he would ever love a woman the way his father loved his mom, who he probably never cheated on. Unlike Bullet. He’d cheated on Callie. While she was pregnant.
When Bullet told Gram he was going to marry Callie, she told him she wouldn’t try to talk him out of it, just like she didn’t try to talk him into marrying Pearl’s mama. “If you’re enough of an adult to make a child, you’re enough of an adult to make a decision.” She hugged him that day and whispered, “Slow down, Bullet. Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up.”
He remembered feeling old that day, old enough to be considered a grown up. Looking back on it, he wasn’t. He was pretending to be mature and responsible. He wasn’t then, and he wasn’t much more so now.
Gram’s friends would say that Lyric got the responsibility gene when the two were in the womb together. They’d say Bullet didn’t have a lick of the sense his sister had. Gram wouldn’t say much in response, but she would look at Bullet and wink. “We know better, don’t we?” she’d say later, when her friends were gone.
She may know, but he sure didn’t. Bullet thought Gram’s friends were right. Lyric was the responsible one. She never got in trouble, had good grades, and was already a successful businesswoman. What did he have? He’d had a lot of fun. And a couple of kids to show for it.
He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket when he felt it vibrate. He looked at the screen and saw Bill Patterson was calling.
“Hey, Bill. Uh, I’m at the park, with Grey. Everything okay?”
