A Baxter's Redemption. Patricia Johns
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Diner. 2 pm is perfect. Thank you, James.
There was something about the words that struck him as sweet, and he pushed any softening feelings firmly away. For the moment, he had an important appointment with his sister and the ice-cream parlor.
“HOW LONG HAS it been, Izzy?” Carmella asked, hitching her apple-green Coach bag higher up onto her shoulder. She looked away from Isabel’s face uncomfortably and shot a smile at a passing waiter instead. They stood inside the foyer of the little bistro with Britney, the tinkle of cutlery and the clink of glasses melting into the murmur of chatting customers.
“Only a couple of years,” Isabel said with a chuckle. “Remember, I was here when you got married.”
“Feels like longer, doesn’t it?” Carmella cast Isabel a tired smile, then lowered her voice. “Are you and Britney okay being in the same room together?”
“Perfectly,” Isabel replied. It was mostly true. She could be polite. Carmella and Isabel had been friends in high school, and with Isabel gone, Britney and Carmella had gotten chummy. Girlfriend loyalty went only so far in a town this size, where there weren’t many people to choose from.
Isabel glanced around the little restaurant. She remembered this place well. This was where her father used to take her to celebrate her birthday every year. It hadn’t changed since she’d been gone. The same watercolor art hung on the walls, and even the smell of the place was the same. A server approached them—a young man with a mane of dark hair and dark, smoldering eyes. His smolder didn’t seem to be very discerning, however, since he gave each of them the same sultry look, including a woman in her seventies behind them. He knew how to get tips, that much was obvious.
“Hi, Carlo,” Carmella said. “Just us girls. Are you going to be serving us?”
“Of course,” Carlo replied with a smile. “Women as lovely as yourselves need the best service.”
Isabel winced. Carlo was probably barely out of high school, and if she’d been the babysitting type as a teenager, she probably would have babysat him. Britney pursed her lips into an oval mirror in her hand and dabbed at her lipstick, looking up only when Carlo led them into the dining room and over to a table by a window.
“I hate to intrude on your brunch,” Isabel said as they sat down.
“You aren’t intruding, right, Brit?” Carmella rolled on without waiting for a response. “Carlo, let’s start with some mimosas. What do you say, girls?”
“Make mine virgin,” Britney sighed. “You want one, too, Izzy?”
“Sure.”
Carlo winked, mostly for Carmella’s benefit, it seemed, and disappeared once more, leaving them in quiet.
“Britney said you were back in town,” Carmella said, “but you didn’t call.”
“I’m sorry,” Isabel replied. “I meant to. I’ve been busy getting things set up.”
“Set up for what?” Carmella’s brows rose.
“I’m moving back. For good.”
This didn’t seem to be news to Carmella, and she and Britney exchanged a look. Then Carmella leaned closer. “I see there’s no ring on your finger, but is there a guy in your life at all...?” She let the question hang there.
They didn’t have much else to talk about. That was the problem with leaving town for several years—you were no longer part of the same rumor mill. Carmella was trying to make conversation, but the question still grated.
“No. Not at the moment,” Isabel replied.
“Well, Britney and I could take care of that,” Carmella suggested. Her gaze went to Isabel’s scars once more and she cleared her throat. It was a friendly offer that Carmella couldn’t make good on. Not anymore, at least. Besides, the implication that the kind thing was to “get her a man,” chafed.
“Let’s just get this out into the open,” Isabel said. “I’m badly scarred. Things are different now. And I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”
Just as the words came out of her mouth, Carlo returned with three champagne glasses filled with mimosas—just orange juice for Britney—and set them in front of each woman at the table. They all smiled weakly up at him, and when he’d left, stared at each other in uncomfortable silence.
“What about plastic surgery?” Carmella asked at last.
“I’m not doing any more of that. I had one reconstructive surgery done after the accident and I had a bad reaction to the anesthetic. I just about died. So this is me. I’ll just have to get used to it.”
The table went silent, and Isabel glanced at the tables around them. Most people were engrossed in their own conversation, but an older woman across the dining room was looking at Isabel, an expression of pity on her face. She dropped her gaze when she was spotted.
“Maybe some good makeup?” Britney asked weakly.
Isabel wasn’t pleasantly disposed toward Britney on a good day, and she held back her desire to snap in response.
“It would take a pound of foundation to cover this up,” she replied with a wry smile. “And the men that we’re talking about wouldn’t be interested anyway.”
“That’s not true,” Carmella protested, but her tone said even she didn’t believe it.
“Sure it is,” Isabel replied. “These guys can get any woman they want, and they want a beautiful wife. That boat has sailed.”
Britney’s cheeks blushed pink, but Carmella shrugged coolly.
“They aren’t all that shallow,” Carmella replied. “Besides, you’re still a Baxter. Don’t lower your standards now. If you want a comfortable life, you’d better marry a man who knows how to provide it.”
Isabel understood Carmella’s sentiments perfectly. She’d been the same up until the accident, expecting to “marry well” so that her lifestyle wouldn’t change. That meant marrying money that could match her own. She used to look down on plain girls, pitying them because she knew that she had something they could only dream of. Well, now she’d joined their ranks, and she was intimidated.
“You both still have your looks, and you’re married to wealthy men,” Isabel replied evenly. “I’m playing in a different game now.”
“I didn’t marry for money.” Britney’s voice was low, and she was clearly offended.
Isabel regarded her young stepmother evenly.
“I didn’t!”
“My dad is old enough to be your father,” Isabel retorted. “There was a teeny, tiny incentive there.”
“I love him.”
“Would you have married him if he had no money at all?” Isabel asked.
The atmosphere around the table got uncomfortably silent again. This had been a bad idea. If she couldn’t make nice, she shouldn’t be sitting around drinking mimosas.
“What about Greg Cranken?” Carmella asked. “He comes from a good family.”
Greg Cranken was short, balding and narrow-shouldered. He was the pariah of dinner parties since none of the women wanted to be stuck sitting next to him. His father was in the beef business, but even all that family money hadn’t been enough to entice a woman to marry him. Isabel shook her head.
“I’m not looking.”
“So what are you doing,” Carmella asked, lifting her drink to her lips, “if you aren’t looking?”
“Starting