A Baxter's Redemption Page 9

  Isabel glanced out the long, narrow windows. The sun was slipping down behind the mountains, crimson light pouring over the rugged foothills and trickling down the flatlands. She paused, absorbing the beauty of the scene. Outside, birds twittered their last calls, and the light grew dimmer and dimmer, until she reached over and clicked on the lamp beside her bed. The peaked ceiling gave her enough room to sit comfortably in the center, and the windows, like long gables, opened up the rest of the world around her.

  This tiny house felt like a cocoon, and right now, she needed that. She needed somewhere to lick her wounds and figure out who she was now with these scars. More important, perhaps, she had to decide who she wanted to be.

  She stretched her leg out to admire her toes, shining softly in the light of the lamp and the last of the sunset. It was ironic that the only part of her body that hadn’t been changed by the accident was her feet. Her short toes, the half-moons of her nails, the pale skin—her feet were the last part of her that remained from her beauty queen days—and they were the part that people cared about the least.

  There were countless times that Isabel wished she still had her mother—like whenever she had a question during puberty, or before she went to dances in the school gym, or when the other girls snubbed her. That had happened more often than she cared to admit. The girls were always waiting for her to tumble from her pedestal.

  And right now. When the whole world saw you at your worst, your mother would still see her little girl...just like her father did, except she hoped that her mother would have been able to recognize the woman in her, too.

  Isabel reached for a small photo that she kept by her bed. The frame was silver, blackened with age in the corners. It was a picture of her parents when they were first married. Her mother sat on a sofa, her legs crossed, looking down at her wedding ring. Her father sat next to her, gazing adoringly at his young wife. Her mother had been a rare beauty—dark hair framing her face and long lashes brushing her cheekbones. The colors in the photo were faded—though not even the oranges and browns from the late seventies could diminish her mother’s good looks. Stella Baxter had been a timeless beauty, and she’d passed those magnificent looks down to her daughter.

  Thinking about it now, Isabel realized that she’d never heard anything else about her mother. Her mother was beautiful, and that was what mattered most. Her father always told her that she had her mother’s good looks, but no one ever mentioned her mother’s intelligence or talent of any kind. It wasn’t that Stella hadn’t been both intelligent and talented, because she had maintained a massive garden, designed all of the landscaping around their home and even grew a vast array of herbs along the kitchen windowsill. Isabel remembered her mother’s penchant for green things well. But nobody else did. To everyone else, Stella Baxter was a rare beauty, and that was where she stopped.

  Isabel had looked just like her mother, so she got the same attention focused on her looks. And if Isabel were honest with herself, she hadn’t minded so terribly before the accident. Before, she was still the prettiest girl in the room and she could get her way easily enough. Did she want her father to recognize her abilities? Of course, but she hadn’t lost sleep over it. After the accident, however, those views that failed to take her mind into account chafed a whole lot more. She didn’t have the looks to offset it anymore.

  Isabel looked down at the photo of her mother. Had she cared about the excessive focus on her looks? She’d died young, so she’d never lost that beauty. Isabel had taken this picture from her parents’ bedroom after her mother’s death. Isabel had been only eleven at the time, and the cancer that claimed her mother had been swift, leaving Isabel with only her father to help her to navigate the world.

  The cardboard back of the frame jiggled now, and Isabel looked closer. It was an old frame, and the stand had been getting looser and looser over the years, but this wasn’t just the stand. The clasp that held the frame together was also weakening. She leaned toward the light, and as the backing came off, something fluttered free.

  Isabel picked it up. It was a black-and-white picture of a newborn baby in a woman’s arms. The baby wore one of the tiny caps that hospitals gave out, and there was a tube running from the baby’s nose and out of sight. Next to the tiny face was the diamond pendant that Isabel knew so well.

  “Is this me?” she asked aloud, but when she looked closer, it couldn’t be her. She’d been born with a full head of black, spiky hair, but this baby was bald. As far as she knew, there hadn’t been any complications when she was born, either. There was no explanation. No writing on the back to indicate who this baby had belonged to... Just a photo of a newborn sleeping in Stella Baxter’s arms secreted away behind a photo of her parents.

  Isabel frowned. A cousin, perhaps? A friend’s baby? But why keep it hidden? Unless it was put back there by accident, somehow. She turned the picture around in her fingers, her mind working over the problem, until she sighed and put it back where she found it.

  She’d ask her father about it the next time she saw him. There was probably some silly explanation.

  “Oh, that’s your mother’s cousin’s baby,” she could hear him saying in that slightly distracted way he had when talking about anything other than business. “I think we were godparents, but then the parents got divorced and we never heard from them again.”

  Most of the family history she knew had been told in backhanded comments.

  “Oh, your grandmother? She was from Poland and agreed to marry your grandfather sight unseen.”

  “Who, Uncle Neville? No, he’s not actually a relative. He was my father’s best friend, and my father liked him better than family.”

  Her father didn’t like history. He liked the promising glow of the future better, and he answered her questions in only two sentences or less.

  That was another reason that she wished she had her mother back. She needed an interpreter...someone to tell her the bigger stories that her father avoided.

  Isabel put the frame back together again and put it gently on the floor next to the lamp. Then she lay down on her pillow and let the memories wash over her until her eyes drooped and finally closed in slumber.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY, James stood by the reception desk, drinking a mug of coffee. It helped to change his scenery a little bit when clearing his head, and he glanced up as the main door opened and Mr. Baxter stepped inside.

  “Good morning, sir,” James said with a smile. “Looking for me?”

  “I am.” Mr. Baxter nodded briskly. “Let’s do this in your office, shall we?”

  George Baxter strode off down the hallway toward James’s office, and James exchanged a look with the receptionist. He followed his client inside, then shut the door behind him. Mr. Baxter shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “Have a seat,” James said, gesturing to a chair opposite his desk before going around to his own. “What can I do for you?”

  “How are we doing with that lawsuit over the land with the tainted water supply?” the older man asked, still standing. This lawsuit was serious—and Mr. Baxter’s company would be liable. The question was how much would Baxter Land Holdings owe, and while James didn’t get to see into the bank accounts, there was a lot of tension surrounding this lawsuit, more tension than seemed necessary. Mr. Baxter had been sued several times before and had settled out of court every time. It was cheaper, and it kept the story out of the papers. But George was nervous about this lawsuit.

  “We’re close to a settlement that should be acceptable to them.”

  “How close are we talking?” George’s gaze drilled into him.

  “Well, let me show you what they faxed us this morning.”

  Mr. Baxter took a seat and they talked for a few minutes about legal issues and liabilities, all of which were important but didn’t require a personal visit. This could have be
en taken care of with a simple phone call, which made James suspicious. George always said that he liked to look a man in the face when he talked to him, and James respected that. A man didn’t rise as far as Mr. Baxter had without developing a unique wisdom along the way. But this was still a bit much.

  When they’d exhausted any legal updates, Mr. Baxter fell silent but didn’t look inclined to stand up again, either.

  “Is there anything else, sir?” James asked.

  “I want to redo my will,” Mr. Baxter said at last.

  It seemed like they had finally gotten to the real purpose of this visit. James had seen his client’s current will, and it appeared fair, stipulating that the bulk of his business was to be run by a hired general manager with a generous percentage of profits paid out to his daughter quarterly. The house and a chunk of investments were left to his wife. It was relatively straightforward, as far as wills went.

  “If there are any changes you want to make, just let me know and I’ll adjust it for you—”

  “No, I mean I want to completely redo my will,” Mr. Baxter said. “Things are changing. I have a child on the way. I want to start from the floor up. I’ll make an appointment for next week.”

  Change his will completely? Change it how? James swallowed his surprise and nodded. “Sure. Not a problem.”

  They were silent for another few beats, but Mr. Baxter still made no move to go. James leaned back in his chair, determined to wait him out. His client had something else on his mind, he could tell, and Mr. Baxter was not a man who allowed himself to be rushed.

  “I like you, James,” Mr. Baxter said, breaking the silence.

  “Thank you. The feeling is mutual.”

  “So I’m going to ask a favor of you,” Mr. Baxter continued slowly. “I want you to ask my daughter out.”

  James nearly choked. “Excuse me, sir?”

  This was far from professional—it was a blatant abuse of Mr. Baxter’s position. James was working for him, and any kind of personal relationship he might have with Isabel should have nothing to do with her father. It felt seedy.

  “Ask out Isabel. On a date.”

  James stared at Mr. Baxter, wondering if he were joking, or perhaps testing him to see if he were attracted to Isabel, but Mr. Baxter simply stared back, his expression deadpan.

  “Are you sure that’s wise, sir?” James asked carefully. “I don’t like to mix business and pleasure.”

  “Oh, this wouldn’t be pleasure,” Mr. Baxter replied. “Trust me on that.”

  A smile tickled the corners of James’s lips. “You don’t have a very high opinion of your daughter, then, sir.”

  “No, no.” Mr. Baxter batted his hand through the air. “The thing is, she’s not doing well.”

  “How so?”

  “That accident... You know how gorgeous she was before. And now, she’s—” Mr. Baxter swallowed “—she’s lost something, her sparkle. She’s not the same girl she was.”

  “That kind of thing would definitely change a person,” James agreed. “But I don’t understand how my asking her out would help.”

  “Because she’s been single ever since,” Mr. Baxter explained. “That isn’t like her. She always had a boyfriend and several men in line waiting for a chance to take her out, and now, she’s just...alone.”

  “Being alone for a little while isn’t the worst thing in the world,” James said. “I’ve been single for a couple of years now, and it’s not a tragedy.”

  “We aren’t talking about you, James,” Mr. Baxter replied curtly, and James chuckled.

  “Understood, sir.”

  “We’re talking about my daughter. I don’t expect you to get serious. She just needs to get her feet wet again.”

  “Because of Britney,” James concluded. With Mr. Baxter remarried, perhaps he felt a bit guilty seeing Isabel dealing with her struggles on her own. Did he think that a man in her life would set things right?

  “I didn’t ask you to psychoanalyze me,” Mr. Baxter snapped. “I asked you to take my daughter out for dinner. Something civilized. Something chaste. Nothing too intimate...just remind her that she’s still a woman.”

  That’s a tall order, James thought wryly. Keep it simple, somewhat formal, don’t get too close, but remind her that she’s a woman. That’s quite the tightrope.

  Aloud, he said, “I see her quite often as it is, sir. And if you don’t mind me saying, I don’t think you have to worry. She’s doing well. She’s strong, confident. She’s got it together.”

  Mr. Baxter raised a brow. “You seem to like her.”

  James grinned. “You want me to take her out, but you don’t want me to like her? You don’t have to worry about me, sir. I’m not interested in crossing that line.”

  “So it’s agreed, then.” Mr. Baxter rose to his feet. “Thank you, James. I knew I could count on you.”

  “Wait a minute.” James felt a surge of panic. “I’m not agreeing to this. This could really complicate things. I’m your lawyer, not—”

  Mr. Baxter shot him an annoyed look. “She’s my little girl, James. I need to make sure that she’s okay, and no offense, but I know her better than you do. I’m asking you to do me a personal favor. Personal. This isn’t about business.”

  James nodded. Mr. Baxter was his client, but he’d also been kind to Jenny, allowing her to live in one of his rental houses free of charge. It was a strange balance between professional reserve and generous offers like that one that made turning down a request for a personal favor so difficult.

  “Okay,” he agreed grudgingly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Baxter moved toward the door, then turned back. “And make sure you toe the line, James. No breaking hearts, you understand?”

  “Completely, sir.”

  As Mr. Baxter shut the door behind him, James glared at it from across the room, daring it to open again.

  This was a terrible idea. It wasn’t that he didn’t find Isabel appealing, because he did—a whole lot more appealing than Mr. Baxter would be comfortable with, he was sure. He had no intention of dating Isabel. He didn’t get involved with women he couldn’t see a future with, and Isabel wasn’t the kind of woman who could help him take care of Jenny. He’d just agreed to something very stupid. Chances were, this whole thing would blow up in his face.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THAT EVENING, ISABEL sauntered down the aisle of Haggerston’s small grocery store. It was a brick building with a too-small parking lot with signs that said Grocery Customers Only in front of each spot. It was right next to the town’s second hardware store, and the stores battled over parking with rare aggression. Haggerston had a cheese shop and a bakery on Main Street, but the grocery store provided all the other essentials, and while it wasn’t a large store—having exactly fourteen carts and three checkouts—it tended to be busy.

  Living in her tiny house had changed the way Isabel shopped for food. She bought enough food for two days, and then she shopped again. There was a time when she would have gone through the store with a cartload of groceries intended to last, but with cupboard space the size of a playhouse, and a fridge that fit under the counter, planning was more important than stocking up.

  Planning. She’d been trying to plan for her life, too, but she couldn’t foresee the pitfalls ahead—a little piece of wisdom that her accident had made painfully obvious. She used to plan for sunny skies, but over the past year she’d become more pragmatic. She planned for aching scars when it rained. She planned for lonely evenings when everything caught up to her. She planned for steak dinners for one—a small luxury she could enjoy whether she had a special occasion or not.

  She already had a tub of yogurt, some tomatoes and a bag of fresh green beans in her basket. She headed in the direction of the meat fridge, gliding pas
t the cereal aisle.

  As she came around the corner, she stopped short. Standing with his back to her, James perused the cuts of local beef. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his tie and jacket missing. His shoulders, wide and strong, sagged ever so slightly, broadcasting his tiredness.

  “James? Is that you?”

  He turned, and when he saw her, a smile flickered at the corners of his lips. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “Well, a girl’s got to eat.”

  “True enough.” He shot her a grin and stepped aside to give her space.

  Isabel turned her attention to the packaged meat. “Long day?”

  “Very long,” he agreed. “How about you?”

  “I finished that sideboard. I’ve got the blisters to prove it.” She held up a hand with a few bandages covering the worst of her blisters.

  “Ouch.” He took her hand in his for a closer look, and she felt her cheeks warm at the gentleness of his touch. “I hope the end result was worth it.” He released her, and she pulled her hand back quickly.

  “Absolutely. You’ll have to come see it.” A smile flashed across her face at the memory of the sideboard, gleaming in its new coat of varnish. Granted, it would need to dry for a few days, but the bulk of the work was finished, and she’d moved on to an antique bookshelf that would display her wares.

  “Although, I have to say,” she added, “I’ve moved on to an electric sander. It’s that much faster.”

  She’d gone to the hardware store next door and picked one up. She’d gone to school with the store manager, and they’d stopped to talk for a few minutes. He was one person who didn’t seem entirely antagonistic toward her, and she’d bought the more expensive sander as a result. Funny—she used to be the one who manipulated with kindness.

  James nodded, eyeing her as if he were pondering his options, and she smiled uncomfortably.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I’m impressed.”

  She turned back to the meat again. “Thanks.” She dropped a steak into her basket.