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“That’s all right.” He set down the sketch. “You can say what you really think. Believe me, I’ve said a lot worse.”
“Hey!”
“The first time I saw her was at a street carnival.” He walked over to inspect the countertops. “She had her face stuck through one of those wooden cutouts, so naturally she caught my attention. You’ve got to admit that face is something. By the time I saw the rest of her, it was too late.”
“I’m sitting right here,” Blue reminded them.
“There’s nothing exactly wrong with her.” April’s statement didn’t carry much conviction.
“She has a lot of other wonderful qualities.” He inspected the hinges on a cupboard door. “I try to turn a blind eye.”
Blue had a fairly good idea where the conversation was headed, so she ran her finger over the sugar in the bottom of the doughnut box.
“Everybody isn’t into fashion, Dean. It’s not some big sin.” Spoken by a woman who could have hopped up from the table at exactly that moment and waltzed down a runway.
“Once we’re married, she’s promised she’ll let me buy her clothes,” he said.
Blue’s gaze wandered to the refrigerator. “Are there maybe some eggs in there? A little cheese for an omelet?”
April’s silver earrings tangled in a ribbon of blunt-cut hair. “You’ll have to live with this, Blue. When he was three years old, he’d throw a fit if his Underoos weren’t a perfect match. In third grade everything had to be Ocean Pacific, and he spent most of junior high in Ralph Lauren. I swear he learned to read by sounding out clothing labels.”
April’s trip down memory lane was a mistake. Dean’s top lip thinned. “I’m surprised you remember so many details from the blackout years.” He wandered back to Blue, and the possessive way he curled his fingers around her shoulder made her wonder if his engagement ruse might also be designed to send out the silent message that he had someone indisputably in his corner. He didn’t realize he’d fallen in with Benedict Arnold.
“In case Dean hasn’t gotten around to sharing,” April said, “I was a junkie.”
Blue had no idea how to respond to that.
“And a groupie,” April added bluntly. “Dean spent his childhood either with nannies or in boarding school so I could follow my dream of getting high and nailing as many rock stars as possible.”
Blue really had no idea how to respond to that. Dean dropped his hand from her shoulder and turned away.
“Uh…how long have you been clean?” Blue said.
“A little over ten years. Respectably employed most of them. Working for myself the last seven.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a fashion stylist in L.A.”
“A stylist? Wow. What exactly does that involve?”
“For God’s sake, Blue…” Dean snatched up his empty coffee mug and carried it to the sink.
“I work with actresses, Hollywood wives—women with more money than taste,” April said.
“It sounds glamorous.”
“It’s mainly a diplomat’s job.”
Blue could understand that. “Convincing a fifty-year-old soap star to give up her minis?”
“Watch it, Blue,” Dean said. “You’re getting personal. April’s fifty-two, but you can bet she has a closet full of minis in every color.”
Blue took in his mother’s endlessly long legs. “I’ll bet every one of them looks fantastic.”
He moved away from the sink. “Let’s go into town. I have some things I need to get.”
“Pick up groceries while you’re there,” April said. “I have food at the cottage, but there’s nothing much here.”
