The Charm Offensive. Cari Lynn Webb
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I get home.” Kay placed her headset back on.
Sophie nodded and hurried outside. She needed to check the contracts she’d signed and reread the section on cancelations and penalties. She couldn’t handle forfeiting the 50 percent deposit she’d given the caterer and the venue. More than the lost money was the damage to her reputation and the Pampered Pooch. She’d forged relationships, given her word to service-dog breeders and foster organizations. She’d vowed to find homes for every rescue she encountered and minimize their costs with affordable vet services and discounted dog supplies.
An hour later, Sophie stood in front of the insurance corporation and stared at her distorted reflection in the silver-plated serving tray. She wanted to bash the platter against the cement wall of the building, but the dish was worth at least a hundred dollars at the silent auction. That money alone could feed a kitten like Stormy Cloud for several months.
Three sponsors lost in one day. A savings account emptied overnight. And her full-time employee on bed rest. The day was turning out to be something for the record books. She squeezed the embellished silver handles, wanting to absorb the steel into her spine, and stepped into the fog that refused to give way to the sun.
Her first encounter with the city had been on a foggy night, when she’d stepped off the passenger bus holding her sister’s hand. Her grandmother had emerged from beneath a dull streetlamp to wrap both girls in her embrace. There’d been comfort in that night such that Sophie had always welcomed the fog. Greeted the fog like a lost friend.
Except today. Today, no one was coming forward from the mist to embrace her and lie to her about everything being all right, like her grandmother had done all those years ago.
BRAD TOSSED THE wrapper from his breakfast burrito into the trash and checked the time. He’d planned on returning to the Pampered Pooch after a quick breakfast, but Evelyn Davenport had texted while he was in line at the Gourmet Burrito that she wanted to meet with him as soon as possible. He’d taken his burrito to go and messaged her that he was heading back to his temporary living quarters at his friend Zack’s loft. She hadn’t arrived yet, so he took a spot on the couch and left a voice mail at Delta Craft asking for an update on the Freedom Seeker’s restoration.
Two photos filled the screen of his laptop on the steel-and-chrome coffee table. One picture was of a well-groomed, debonair man in his early fifties. The other was a woman in her late twenties with a baseball cap, ponytail, purple sweatshirt featuring a familiar paw-print logo, and running shoes. Sophie and George Callahan might dress differently, but they shared a similar undeniable charm. Sophie was the girl next door every boy wanted to ask to prom, and George was the one the accounting floor went to happy hour with every Thursday night at Mac’s Tavern—a guy’s guy and a woman’s best confidant.
People were masters at pretense: pretending to listen to their children, pretending to be committed to charity work, pretending to be good, honest citizens.
But there had been nothing fake about Sophie’s interaction with Ella, from the tenderness in the kiss she’d pressed to the girl’s forehead to the patience and understanding in her calm voice.
Brad’s mother had treated her boys like adults from the time they could crawl. The Harrington boys did not need toys—Nancy Harrington’s boys needed calendars to keep them on task, wristwatches to keep them to a schedule and foreign language tutors to keep them civilized. She’d happily listened to their Latin recitation and would never have pandered to such a nonsensical thing as pairs day.
But Sophie had given pairs day the utmost importance because it mattered to Ella. And that had touched Brad on a level he wasn’t entirely comfortable acknowledging. Sophie’s compassion hit somewhere close to that tender spot he still harbored from the morning his mother had summoned him to her sterile office to enlighten him about the truth of Santa.
She’d considered it a favor to her five-year-old son, who considered it a betrayal, a childhood robbery that stole the magic from the season. He’d bet Sophie gave Ella a Christmas full of magic, wonder and fantasy. Good thing he’d long since filed Christmas into one more retail marketing scam, or he might’ve entertained the idea of spending the holiday with Sophie and Ella, just for the experience. Not that it mattered, since he intended to be lounging on some empty beach on some forgotten island this December twenty-fifth.
A new email message from his assistant Lydia flashed on his screen. A very large sum of money had been withdrawn yesterday from the Callahans’ joint account. That wasn’t the update he’d expected on George Callahan. Fortunately, the teller at Pacific Bank and Trust was a former client of Brad’s firm, and even more fortunate was the teller’s penchant to divulge too much information.
He clicked over to Sophie’s picture. Surely she’d given George the funds so that he could pay back the money he’d stolen from Evelyn Davenport. Now Evelyn was on her way over to surely tell him the matter was closed. Brad scrubbed a hand along his jaw, pleased to be done with the case. He could install Sophie’s security system and move on, like he wanted. Like he planned.
It wasn’t as if he wanted to see more of Sophie Callahan. She’d made him lie. To his good friend and then to her. Zack had never rescued a dog, although he’d talked about it on his last trip when he’d come across the stray near a dirt airstrip. Now Brad could stop with all his pretending.
A buzzer pulled Brad away from his indigestion. Opening the front door, he greeted Evelyn.
She thrust several large shopping bags at him and wiped her knee-high plaid rain boots on the welcome mat. “This loft is smaller than I expected, but it’s much more lived in and comfortable than that last boxy, sad condo you referred to as home.”
Brad walked into the kitchen. “It’s like that because it belongs to my friend and not me.”
“I should have known.” She set a stack of three plastic containers on the table.
Brad peeked into the shopping bags and grinned at the cookies inside. “Let me guess. George Callahan returned your money with copious apologies and all is forgiven. Case closed.”
“Bradley Trent Harrington, you cut off the bulbs of all my tulips and roses in my award-winning garden when you were four years old.” Evelyn untied the thick scarf that matched her rain boots and frowned at him. “You of all people know I do not forgive easily.”
“Nor do you forget.” Brad opened the top container. “I just want to stress that I’d turned four the week before the garden incident.”
“You didn’t leave one flower intact.” She ripped a paper towel off the roll and tossed it at Brad.
“I’d discovered the power of scissors.” Brad lifted a still-warm banana muffin from the container. His mother had never baked anything, not even the ready-to-bake cookies that required only several knife cuts to complete. And now he blamed his mother for his insatiable weakness for home-baked goods.
“If only you’d stopped with the flowers.”
“It isn’t my fault Shakespeare liked to sleep away his afternoons in the garden.”
“He never left the house after his haircut.” She tightened the lid on the banana muffins.
“Shakespeare lived longer as an indoor cat. I did him a favor.” Brad laughed and lifted the muffin toward her. “If these aren’t celebratory baked goods, what are they?”
“Products of a guilty conscience.” Evelyn unzipped her raincoat and draped the down jacket over a chair. “They’re guilt goods.”
“You made a mistake. Those happen.” Brad finally sampled the muffin.
“I’m not guilty because I chose to date George. I was lonely and vulnerable and stupid. I’m working through all that.” Evelyn pulled out the tall chair at the kitchen bar and sat, her shoulders dipping forward as if she was an inflatable