Chapter Eight
The power was on the next morning and the roads were passable. All of Kyle’s surgeries the day before had been cancelled since the patients couldn’t come in. Their hospitalist had covered their rounds, allowing him to stay with Dixie. Now that light traffic was moving on the main streets and the world was emerging from the weather-imposed hibernation, he had to get to work.
He drove her to the diner for her seven o’clock shift. The sidewalks were cleared and the lights were on inside.
“Looks like we’re back in business,” she observed with a weighty sigh. “After being cooped up for two days, people will be anxious to be out and about. We’ll be swamped.”
“I hate for our snowbound break from reality to come to an end, but duty calls, even when it comes to feeding those suffering a bad case of cabin fever.” He leaned in and kissed her. “I’m on ER surgery rotation this weekend, but I’ll call you.” He keyed in the password for his smart phone and passed it to her. “Program your numbers in for me.”
She took it and opened his contacts. “I only have a cell, no landline,” she murmured as she awkwardly typed in her number on the touchscreen. “You can always catch me at work.” With a few more beeps, undo’s, and restarts, she added the diner too, then returned it to him.
He tucked it into his pocket, then held out his hand, palm up. She studied it for a moment, then laid her own in his, palm down.
Grinning, he gave it a squeeze. “Baby, I need your phone to give you mine.”
“Oh,” she said sheepishly and fished it out of her deep coat pocket.
His brows slanted together as he flipped it open, though he didn’t say a word as he punched his number into her cheap ass, thirty-dollar TracFone with its outdated keyboard and pay as you go calling plan, which was all she could afford.
When he returned it to her, he leaned in again. “Next weekend, I’ll be attending the Annual Charity Gala for the Arts. I thought you might enjoy going.”
“A gala? Doesn’t that mean formal?”
“Yes, it’s held in the Vanderbilt Room at the Biltmore. There will be dinner, dancing, and the guest list will include many of the art patrons in the area. It will be a good opportunity to rub elbows with influential people who would be interested in your work and your friend Penny’s gallery.”
She peeped down at her shabby coat and scuffed shoes. Her wardrobe outside of work consisted of jeans and t-shirts, not designer ball gowns. “I’m not sure, I might be scheduled to work,” she lied, knowing full well she was on this weekend and would be off the day of his gala.
“See if you can swap with someone and I’ll give you the details when we talk this weekend.” He kissed her then, his lips warm and demanding, his tongue delving inside to thoroughly possess her, although much too briefly.
Dixie waved as he pulled away, her thoughts turning to Saturday and how she couldn’t afford to buy a nice dress, let alone shoes. She decided to hit up the consignment shop in town instead of immediately making an excuse or declining. She wanted to go for so many reasons, mostly to be out on the town on a real date with Kyle, but also to see the Biltmore House. She’d lived in the greater Asheville area her entire life and had never toured the huge Vanderbilt mansion. At Christmas time, it was supposed to be decorated with close to one hundred trees and thousands upon thousands of lights. Friends had told her they also had string quartets playing most evenings, carolers, and other seasonal attractions. And, as he’d said, it would be a chance to network with the local art patrons.
As she entered the diner, she calculated how much she had in savings, including her ceramic pink pig, but with rent due soon, it wasn’t nearly enough. Perhaps, in the spirit of the season, the Christmas crowd would tip generously this week and she could scrape something together; otherwise, she’d have to say no, as she had to do to so many things.
* * *
Saturday and Sunday came and went, without a word from Kyle. She checked constantly with her coworkers for a message, which eventually ticked them all off. And she called him, several times, getting his answering service every time. She didn’t leave a message, feeling awkward about leaving personal information on his work service.
By Monday, she was out of prepaid minutes and doubting every word he’d said, calling him a horn-dog as she had for years, in between nursing a bruised ego and a wounded heart.
When Wednesday arrived and he still hadn’t called, she was bitter, angry, and feeling used, yet again. And her work suffered. She mixed up orders, which wasn’t like her, and came up short on her cash float, twice. It was only a dollar and change, but she hadn’t ever been off before.
When Miss Emmaline arrived for lunch, she barely managed a smile for her friend as she brought her the special and her glass of tea. “We’re out of peach today, hon. Apple or pumpkin?”
She keyed in on her mood right away, and reached out for her hand. “What’s wrong, dear? You look frazzled and like you haven’t been sleeping. Are you ill?”
“No, only distracted. How about that pie?”
“Pumpkin with whipped cream, if you have it.”
“That we do. Coming right up.”
As she was slicing a hearty wedge, a courier came in with a huge white box tied with a bright red bow. “Delivery for Dixie Culbertson,” he announced.
“That’s me,” she replied, coming forward hesitantly. “There must be a mistake,” she added, seeing the Adrianna’s sticker. The Italian boutique downtown carried European fashions from above average to overly pricey, neither of which fit in her current budget. She’d gone browsing there in the past, then quickly moved on.
“No mistake if you’re Dixie Culbertson.” He held up a glossy shopping bag with the same logo. “This comes with it too.”
He didn’t wait for a tip or for her to sign anything, just left in a hurry.
“Open it, Dixie,” Janice said, peering over her shoulder.
“Such a pretty box; what’s inside is even lovelier, I bet,” Miss Emmaline said excitedly from the other side of the counter.
Tugging the ribbon carefully, not wanting to rip or damage it in any way, she set it aside. She then held her breath as she eased off the lid. Packed in tissue paper, a stunning gold beaded fabric peeked out between the folds.
“Ooh,” Jan said, clapping like it was for her. “I love presents.”
She lifted it from the box to a chorus of ‘ohs.’ The floor-length beaded gown was stunning. From a high rounded keyhole neckline that would show a hint of cleavage, the bodice and waist were form-fitting to the hips where it fell in soft folds to the floor.
“Check out the back,” Jan whispered.
Turning it, she saw that it dipped very low with a sheer overlay so she wouldn’t feel completely exposed. It was sexy, yet sophisticated.
“I don’t think this is from the boutique in town,” Emmaline declared as she examined a section of the skirt through her reading glasses. “This appears hand stitched.”
Jan stepped up and helped her search for a label, finding it first. “Adrianna Pappell?”
“That’s a designer label,” the older woman advised, “and they start at three hundred dollars.”
“It’s a mistake,” Dixie cried. “Put it back before we get something on it.”
“There’s a note,” Emmaline said, as she passed her an envelope.
Shaking, she opened it and started to read a printed-out email message.
For Saturday night…
I haven’t been able to reach you by phone, and you didn’t respond to the message I left with Pete. I hope all is well.
I was called away on an urgent consult in South America, but will be home Friday. Cell signal is patchy in this little village and I won’t be able to call, unless I can get to a satellite phone.
Since I couldn’t pick this out myself, I gave my sister, Alana, explicit instructions. Sophisticated and alluring, but not baring all because that’s mine.
Can’t wait to see you all decked out for the gala.
Thinking of you always,
Kyle
When she was done, she took a shuddering, hitching gulp of air.
“Uh-oh, we need napkins, stat,” Janice said, reaching for the aluminum holder in front of one of the customers at the counter.
“Who is it from?” the woman whispered.
“I don’t know yet,” Jan whispered back, only she was loud enough for everyone to hear. “Stay tuned.”
“I thought he du-u-umped m-me…” she stuttered, breaking down in sobs, which she hardly ever did. “But he was o-ou-out of town helping a sick child. I’m an awful p-pe-person and do-don’t…” She sniffled, grabbing a wad of napkins from the holder Jan held out to her. She blew her nose. “I don’t deserve him.”
“Who?” Jan demanded.
“Kyle.”
“Prescott?” the customer asked.
“Yes…” Dixie answered on a quivering breath.
“I didn’t know you were seeing him? He hasn’t been in for a while,” Jan pointed out, “so I thought he gave up.”
“We’ve only been seeing each other for a week.” She began wailing again. “And… and… I suck as a girlfriend.”
“What the hell is going on out here? Are we having a knitting circle or are we running a diner?” Pete bellowed from the kitchen doorway.
Dixie spun on him and stormed his way. “Did you take a message from Kyle?”
“Who?”
“Kyle Prescott,” the entire diner full of customers replied.
“The football player?” Pete asked, blinking in surprise.
“Yes, did he call and leave me a message?”
“Sure, on Saturday during the lunch rush. I tacked it up on the board.”
She pushed by him and ran to the wall-mounted bulletin board by the phone. It took sifting through five days of messages to find the wadded-up napkin containing Pete’s Sanskrit shorthand.
Called out.
S.A.
Patchy signal.
KP
“Oh, my God!” she squealed. “He probably thinks I’m ignoring him.”
“Text him,” someone suggested.
“Call him,” another advised.
“Kill Pete.” This last shouted piece of advice came from Emmaline.
“Hey!” her boss protested. “I did what I was supposed to. The phone rang, I took a message—one that wasn’t diner related, I might add—then I wrote it down and stuck it there.” He pointed at the cluttered board. “It’s not my job to keep up with all of your social lives.”
As Pete stalked into the kitchen, she was dialing Kyle, getting his number from her useless out-of-minutes phone and using the diner extension, instead. Again, she got his answering service, but this time, she left a message.
“Tell Dr. Prescott when he checks in that I got the package and the message, today. Make sure he knows I got both today, that’s very important. And tell him I’ll be ready when he picks me up on Saturday.” She listened as the woman read the message back, then thanked her and hung up.
When Dixie returned to her friends and curious customers, she was over her crying spell and wiping her face.
“Hey, Dix,” Janice said. “I’m glad this is all figured out, but you forgot something.”
She frowned, her eyes going to the dress and the note she still held. “What’s that?”
Her friend held up a box that was labeled Valentino. “Shoes, girl!”
* * *
She got one more message from Kyle, on Thursday, again at the diner when she wasn’t there to speak to him directly. This time, Janice had taken the call and her message was written neatly—and legibly—on real paper. Of course, he didn’t say much that was personal through a third party, but he did say he was delayed by two other consultations while they had him there, which meant he wouldn’t be back until late Friday night.
But she didn’t hear from him then, or all day on Saturday. And she spent the fifty-dollar tip that Mrs. G. had slipped into her pocket this week on more minutes, to be sure she wouldn’t miss him again. At four o’clock, she was standing in her robe and panties, putting her makeup on, unsure if her efforts would be a waste of time, though determined to have faith that he’d be there as promised.
When a buzzing sounded against the counter beside her at four-ten, she jumped. Her fingers were shaking so hard that when she opened her phone, she fumbled and dropped it, watching in horror as it bounced off the toilet seat. When it veered onto the floor rather than into the water, she almost collapsed in relief.
To keep it from happening again, she dropped onto the floor on her knees as she flipped it open.
“Hello?”
“Dixie?”
“Kyle, land’s sake! I almost dropped the phone in the toilet and missed you again.”
“Sweetheart, I swear, I’m investing in satellite phones for two for next time.”
“I wanted to strangle Pete. I thought you had dumped me.”
There was silence on the other end. Oops, maybe she’d been too honest in her communication.
“Did you think after the two days we shared that I’d do that to you?”
“Um…”
“Dixie!” His voice dropped to a low rumble as he demanded the truth.
“I did. I’m sorry. But I called and called and always got your service.”
“And I called your phone and got nothing. That doesn’t mean I thought you ended things.”
He was right, and the lack of phone access was as much her fault. More so, since she was in North Carolina, not an entirely different country. “I ran out of minutes.”
“So even though your phone was out of commission, you assumed I’d dumped you?”
“I know. I’m awful.”
“No, you’re not, but you do have trust issues. We’ll begin working on overcoming those tonight.”
She didn’t respond, not asking how that would be accomplished, but having a pretty good idea. Instead, she changed the subject as she caught a glimpse of her watch. He was supposed to be at her apartment in thirty minutes and take her to dinner.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I’m taxiing to the airport terminal as we speak.”
“You’re calling from the plane?”
“It’s a private jet, so that’s allowed. I’m sorry, darlin’, but I’m running way late. I’ll have to meet you at the Biltmore. I still need to shower, shave off this seven-day beard, and get into my tux. I’m sending a car for you.”
“You’ve got a beard?” she whispered, picturing what that was like.
He chuckled, his irritation evaporating. “Baby, focus.”
It was hard. Kyle with a beard sounded hot.
“I’ll meet you at the venue at six o’clock.”
Imagining walking in all alone made her forget everything else, and a wave of alarm made her belly quiver.
“You still there, Dix?”
“You won’t be late, will you?”
“Now that I’m on US soil once more, I’m bound and determined to see you. That I can’t kiss, hold, and make love to you before we go to the gala is disappointing. As is the fact that I can’t give you the spanking I owe you—”
She wasn’t sure what, of all that he said, caused the panic to morph into arousal. Maybe it was the promised kisses, or the spanking, or simply that she was going to see him for the first time in over a week, but it sent a current of longing straight to her nipples and clit. He said something else that she couldn’t make out over the loud thudding of her heart in her ears.
“Dixie?”
“Hm?”
“Are you with me?”
“Sorry. I missed you, Kyle, a lot.”
“Me too, darlin’, but I’ll see you very soon; at six sharp.” Then the call disconnected.
Her trembling hands made it hard to apply mascara and do her smoky shadow. Nothing was easy while intensely aroused or when her brain kept replaying the deep mellow timbre of his voice, and the images his words had inspired. His lips claiming hers, or her breasts, hungrily sucking and nibbling on her nipples, and of his face between her thighs as he brought her to a toe-curling climax. With all of that swirling in her head, it was hard to think, let alone function, especially when her thoughts turned to being ass up over his lap as he lectured her on trust, his hard hand making her bottom hot and tingly.
Heaving a sigh, she resigned herself to the inevitable and went to her room to change her wet panties.
An hour and a half later, she handed her Michael Kors black wool ruana to the coat check girl. It was a prize she’d found at The Attic, the consignment shop in town, and the only thing she could think of that was warm and not tacky to go with her designer gown and five hundred dollar shoes—Jan had priced them online.
She wore her hair up in a jeweled clasp—fake, of course—letting it falling in soft waves from her crown down her back. The only real jewelry was the diamond teardrop earrings that her dear friend had made a special trip by the diner to loan her for the night. Such a lovely old southern lady.
A word of advice was also gifted to her as she left on Walter’s arm. “Knock ‘em dead, dear. If only I could be a fly on the wall.”
Dixie smiled, thinking if Emmaline Goodwin wanted to attend the gala, crashing it uninvited, not a soul would utter a word.
As it was, she followed the flow of guests making their way through the gorgeous, high-ceilinged, cavernous, amazing mansion, glancing frequently around for her date in the sea of black tuxedos. She bypassed the short and the portly, keying in on tall men with sandy hair, and swept past a handsome bearded man waiting by the door. The blueness of his gaze penetrated her anxiety-laden brain and she tracked back.
It was Kyle, his teeth flashing white in a neatly trimmed beard as he grinned at her. He moved forward and pulled her to the side, out of the flow of traffic. His arm slipped around her waist as his mouth lowered to hers. The kiss was soft and sensual at first, becoming more heated as the tip of his tongue flicked along her lower lip. A frustrated groan followed.
“Two hundred fifty rooms in this behemoth of a house, thirty-five of them bedrooms, and I can’t use one of them to fuck my woman after being apart from her for eight days.”
She should have been shocked, but she was so glad to see him, she smiled up at him.
“Welcome home, honey.” She couldn’t resist going up on her toes for another kiss, returning the same caress of her tongue along his lower lip. His beard, while soft and sexy, tickled.
“Damn, how I’ve missed you,” he groaned, pulling her so close that she could feel the hard length of him pressing into her belly. He held her for only a moment. “We better go in before I get us thrown out of here when I lift that beautiful dress and bend you over one of the millions of tufted couches.” His eyes skimmed down the front of her, lingering on her bodice, hips, and the shoes that peeked out beneath her hem. “You look beautiful, baby. And Alana did great; I couldn’t have picked out something more perfect for you myself.”
“You haven’t seen the full package.” She spun, watching over her shoulder as he took in the sheer back and further below where the dress hugged her backside.
“You better stay close to me tonight. I don’t want to have to fight off any poor saps that fall under your spell.”
“The dress is very beautiful.”
He hauled her up against his front once more, turning her back toward the wall as one hand slid down to cup her bottom. “It isn’t the dress, Dix.”
She felt the heat of her blush suffuse her cheeks at his compliment.
He formally offered her his arm. “Shall we go in and show one and all what a gorgeous girl I’ve found for myself?”
“And what a handsome man, I’ve found. You look great in a tux and I like the beard, but it tickles.”
“We’ll see if you like it even more come morning.”
Her mouth fell open as the notion of his beard brushing over her inner thighs, and the smooth lips in between, filled her head.
“Damn,” he muttered as he moved her into the flow of traffic headed for the Vanderbilt ballroom, “it’s gonna be a long night.”
In reality, it flew by for Dixie. Once inside, he was charming and attentive, and not nearly as bold and risqué as when they were in private. He kept her close as he introduced her to key people, and only left her side early on to retrieve two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. And when it came time for supper, he seated her at the table and included her in conversation with their dinner companions, all of whom he knew.
The topic was art, naturally, which Kyle smoothly directed to Dixie’s paintings and the work she had on display at Penny’s gallery downtown. By the time dessert came, she’d given out the gallery address to them all.
While coffee was served, the band that had been playing quietly in the background stepped it up and the staff cleared an area for dancing.
“Can you dance in those shoes?” Kyle murmured in her ear, while leaning in.
“I’m on my feet twelve hours most days. I think I can take it.”
“I doubt you wear four-inch heels working at Pete’s.”
“Try to keep me from dancing, Doctor. It’s been forever and I don’t care how much it hurts; I’m not sitting this out.”
He smiled as he pulled out her chair and she rose to her feet. “If you like to dance, we’ll go often.”
“Dr. Prescott?” The intrusion came from a young man dressed in period clothing, standing behind them. “There’s a call for you.”
“Why didn’t they call my cell?” he wondered aloud as he pulled out his phone and checked for messages.
“The signal inside the mansion is patchy. All the stone, they think.”
He glanced at her. “Do you want to come with me?”
“No, I’ll stay and watch, and enjoy the band. I’ll be fine for a few minutes.”
“I’ll make it quick,” he assured her as his lips brushed her cheek, then he followed the man toward the front entrance to the ballroom.
He hadn’t been gone for a minute when two women approached her. Both tall and slender, one fair-haired, the other with light brown curls piled high atop her head. They sparkled with diamonds at their ears, throat, and on several fingers, showing off their obvious wealth.
“You came with Dr. Prescott tonight, didn’t you?” questioned the blonde bluntly, not bothering with an introduction, although she offered her hand. Dixie took it automatically, and struggled to contain a grimace at her ice-cold touch and limp grip. She must have failed, because the woman laughed without humor and raised her glass. “That was my champagne holding hand, my bad.”
The brunette at her side giggled, although Dixie didn’t get why that was funny. What she did know was that these two were making her feel distinctly uncomfortable.
“Are you a family friend, a cousin maybe?” the blonde asked.
“No, Kyle and I have been seeing each other.”
“Oh, Trisha, please,” the brunette cut in. “We Prescotts are related to the Vanderbilts; never would we have someone named Dixie in the line.” Saying this as if she were an heir to the British throne, not an American, she turned to Dixie and smiled like she hadn’t directly insulted her name. “Someone mentioned you were an artist. Or was it a sculptor?”
“I paint; the gallery owner where I display my work is a potter.”
“Ah, that must have been it.” She appeared bored, obviously not giving a crap about her art.
Trisha spoke up next. “Dear Kyle, he is so kind to the less fortunate, and he has a soft spot for up and comers. I imagine he’ll have done his philanthropic duty by you after tonight. Has he introduced you to the patrons? Once he gets you connected, he’ll move on to his next lost cause.”
Dixie paled, stunned that she would say such a thing to her face. “It’s not like that with us,” she bit back, unsure why she felt the need to explain.
“Oh, Marcy, look at that. Bless her heart. She must have thought he was interested in more.”
“Poor dear,” the brunette murmured while shaking her head. “He tends to do this, doesn’t he, Trisha?”
“It was a little preschool teacher last year; I think her name was Cecile. Kyle helped her get back into school to earn her license with a full grant. The poor thing was so grateful, she eagerly spread her legs for him in thanks.”
“I think you both should stop talking now,” Dixie advised, turning and scanning the crowd by the front doors for him.
“I think you’re wrong, Trisha. Last year it was Katy. Cecile was a nurse’s aide at the hospital, the year before that.” Marcy addressed Dixie next, leaning close as if confiding in a friend. What a bunch of crap. “She needed an in for RN school, you see,” she went on, ignoring Dixie’s scowl. “And the year before that another wanted to be a physical therapist. He made sure she had glowing recommendations. I believe she’s in her second year now on a full Kyle Prescott ride, and I don’t only mean tuition-wise,” the brown-haired bitch giggled.
“Yes, my Kyle believes in advancing the impoverished through education.” The emphasis she put on my was like a knife twisting in Dixie’s belly. “Working miracles, fixing one underprivileged slut at a time. He’s done that with women in the past. Except me, I didn’t need fixing.”
“You work at the diner and paint on the side,” Marcy stated. “Which is your calling, Dixie dear? Art school, or do you want to be a chef? Perhaps you have big dreams to own your own diner one day?”
Lost in her own misery, she tried to let their catty remarks and insults bounce off her. Sticks and stones, her mama used to tell her when her brothers teased her. She couldn’t do it.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Trisha,” the blonde said, her voice laser sharp. “I’m also Kyle’s fiancée. We haven’t set a date because I wasn’t ready to settle down and have babies quite yet, which is what the dear man wants. I think I’ve changed my mind. I’d make a lovely spring bride, don’t you think, Marcy?”
“Stunning, sweetie. Tall, gorgeous, and rich, you’re the perfect bride for our Kyle.”
Dixie finally had enough. She whirled without another word, barely avoiding a collision with a waiter balancing a full tray of drinks.
“Oh, dear, we’ve hurt her feelings,” Marcy said from behind her, clearly amused and not sorry one bit. “Was it something we said, Trisha?”
“I imagine the truth hurts. But c’mon, hon, don’t go away mad. Just go away, and leave Kyle for me. He’s mine! Has been for years, no matter what trashy trailer park he strays into.”
Her first inclination was to push through the crowd and escape, but something deep within her, something completely out of character, bubbled up and spilled over. It was a need for retaliation, no matter how small. Without a second thought, she lurched to the side as if her heel was snagged and fell into the waiter holding the tray of brimming glasses.
At the same time, someone caught her arm and kept her from falling flat on her face, and a collective gasp rose from the people around her. It was followed by silence, then a few seconds later, titters of laughter. Once again on her feet, she turned and looked at the witches who had blindsided her with their vicious attack.
They stood in muted shock with wine dripping off the end of their noses, expensive hairdos drooping and soaking wet, and their pretty party frocks completely ruined as rivulets of red wine ran down the front of them.
“You did that on purpose,” Marcy shrieked suddenly.
“Did I? These darn shoes,” Dixie said as she glanced down at her heels as though it truly was their fault. “I’m not used to heels. I don’t often get to wear dress-up shoes in the trashy trailer park.” She looked back up, first at Marcy, who was wiping her face with the back of her hand, then to Trisha, who was staring at her with contempt. “Oh, dear,” she said with mock sympathy. “I’m afraid you need some fixing now, Trisha. You’re a bit of a mess.”
“You’ll pay for this,” she hissed.
“Will I?” Dixie smiled. “Or perhaps it’s the two of you who are paying even now as we speak. I’ve always heard that karma’s a real bitch. Kind of like you.”
More laughter rose from the onlookers and if she wasn’t mistaken, a smattering of applause. It increased as the two women whirled and it followed them as they shoved through the crowd on the way to the exit.
The small sense of satisfaction coming from her revenge couldn’t overcome the hits she’d taken to her pride, as well as the profound hurt she’d felt over Kyle’s deception. As she turned to leave, she found the waiter staring at her dumbfounded.
“This was all my fault,” she said, truly sorry for getting him mixed up in her drama. “If you need me to speak to someone so you don’t get in trouble—”
“No need, miss. I’d willingly quit to see that again. Those two come here often and are rude to the staff. My only regret is that more of us couldn’t be here to witness their downfall.”
She patted his arm, glad she could make someone’s night happy, even if hers had turned to shit. Then she began winding her way toward the exit.
* * *
When she reached the door, Kyle was headed that way. She didn’t slow or act as though she saw him.
“Dixie?” he called.
It was cowardly, not to stay and confront him, but after dealing with the two witches of Asheville, she didn’t think she was up to it tonight. She moved faster, which wasn’t easy in heels, heading down the hall, past the restrooms, weaving through the crowd as quickly as she could in the direction of the main entrance.
She should have known she didn’t stand a chance of outdistancing his long strides. In no time, she heard him closing in behind her. His fingers curled around her upper arm gently and brought her to a halt.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m leaving.”
“And you weren’t going to tell me? Why?” Surprise, more than anger tinged his voice.
“I don’t belong here, Kyle. I was stupid to have come.”
“What happened? You were fine before I got waylaid with this phone call business.”
“Nothing happened except my bad judgement.”
“Being with me is an example of your bad judgement?”
“No… I mean, yes… I mean… You’re twisting my words.” She spun again to storm off.
He caught her around the waist and pulled her around to face him, nudging her stubbornly held chin up to face him. “Why don’t you explain so that I’m perfectly clear.”
“I’m beer and pizza.”
“Not this again, Dixie, I swear.”
“You are tuxedos, fancy dresses, women who don’t fall off their Valentino shoes as they try to be seen in the illustrious shadow you cast.”
“Something, or someone, happened.” He looked behind her and began scanning the crowd. “Not my mother, she declined this year, and she wouldn’t dare. Aunt Barb? Her daughter Marcy? Or her BFF Trisha.”
She stiffened at the familiar names and could have kicked herself.
He grunted. “I should have guessed they were behind it when I got to the phone and no one was there. Those two have been trying to fix me up with Trisha for years. I saw through her sugar-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth act the first time I met her. Don’t believe a word of what they said.”
“So you didn’t help a girl get into college to become a teacher last year, and a nurse’s aide into nursing school the year before that?”
His jaw which had tightened, fell slack. “Well, yes, that is what we do.”
Pain at his betrayal knifed through her and she wrenched her arm free. “So what am I, your latest project? I appreciate the offer, but I can finish school on my own, without having to spread my legs to earn my tuition.”
It was as if she’d slapped him, but she was too livid to care. He had come right out and acknowledged what the two shrews had told her. She whirled to go, before she cried, or got sick. But he was too quick and spun her back around, his fingers firm on her upper arm.
“Whoa. Stop right there. What do scholarships awarded by the foundation have to do with you, school, and sex, for that matter?”
“You said you helped them get into school, these old girlfriends.”
“No, I said that’s what we do, the Prescott Foundation. It’s the charitable arm of my father’s business. I’m on the board that awards educational grants and scholarships, but anytime I know someone who has applied, I recuse myself from the decision to avoid a conflict of interest. All the board members do.”
It was her time for her jaw to go slack. “The Prescott Foundation,” she repeated.
“Yes, do you honestly think I’d exchange a scholarship for sex, Dixie?”
“I think I messed up.”
“You did. And they set us up,” he said coolly. “A fake call to get me away from your side so they could go in for the kill. My money is on Marcy or Trisha. Or Aunt Barb. They’re all bitches.”
“I think you’re right,” she whispered.
“You think me that low? I thought we were past that.”
“Think about where we are—a freakin’ Vanderbilt mansion. And here I stand, a greasy spoon waitress playing dress-up. Can we ever get past the wall of money, power, and influence that separates us?”
“You’re the one hiding, Dixie. And the wall you’ve built is high, deep, and impenetrable; granted from twenty-eight years of hard times, but also from resentment and a narrow-mindedness of your own making.” She barely contained a flinch at his words, and as he stared down at her, the expression on his face was achingly familiar. It reflected the same sadness and disappointment it had in her craft show booth three weeks earlier, the day he’d walked away. “I’ll have the car brought around and drive you home.”
She dropped her gaze, unwilling to let him see the tears that burned her eyes, or the pain and regret for what might have been. As he escorted her down the hall, words of apology sat like a lump in her throat, choking her, but she didn’t say them. What was the use? Maybe it would have been different if they hadn’t been born into such vastly diverse circumstances, two widely diverse social sets, with family and friends who would never look at one another with acceptance.
Yet she knew that too was a bunch of bull. It all boiled down to her father, a player who had walked away from her mother, leaving her broken, and his five children messed up, unable to love unconditionally, or trust in something without always waiting for life to come crashing down in a bitter end. Maybe it was better for this to end now, before they both got in deeper and her skewed, fucked-up view of men and relationships caused them both more pain.