Fairytale Come Alive (9 page)

It was also one of the myriad reasons Laurent replaced her, the other mostly had to do with the fact that he was a jerk.

“It smells pretty, like flowers,” Sally commented.

“That’s what it’s supposed to smell like.”

“How do they do that?” Sally asked and Isabella set the mat aside and crouched next to the child.

“They mix special oils with wax when it’s hot and liquid, like the top of that one.” She used her head to indicate the candle. “Then they pour it in and
voila!
” She threw her hands out and shook her fingers.

Sally giggled and asked, “Are they magical oils?”

Isabella moved the child’s long hair off her shoulder and replied, “Well, yes, I guess so, since they’re from nature and nature’s magical.”

Sally wrinkled her nose. “Nature’s not magical. It’s nature.”

Isabella leaned in close. “Then you haven’t seen a fabulous sunset or an apple tree in bloom or a Japanese oak in Autumn. I’d say all of those are magical.”

“To be magic, there has to be pixie dust,” Sally declared with authority.

Isabella smiled at her. “I think you got me there.”

“Sally,” a deep voice said behind them and they both jumped and turned to see Prentice standing inside the door.

“Mrs. Evangahlala has magic candles!” Sally cried.

Prentice’s eyes moved to Isabella and she held her breath as she slowly straightened. He watched her do this and then his gaze roamed down her body then up and over her hair.

Then, for some reason, his mouth got tight and his eyes moved back to his daughter.

“Sally, go put away your rucksack.”

“Okay,” she agreed happily then turned to Isabella. “Are you cooking dinner?”

Isabella kept her eyes firm on Sally when she answered, “Yes.”

“Can I help?”

Oh dear, what did she do with that?

She just stopped herself from biting her lip before saying, “I don’t think so, sweetheart. It mostly involves the stove and oven and that’s probably not safe.”

Sally’s face fell.

Instantly, Isabella felt like a screaming bitch.

“Maybe you can scoop out the ice cream for dessert,” she offered.

“
We’re having pudding?
”Sally screeched and her effervescence so surprised and charmed Isabella that she couldn’t stop herself from laughing.

“Yes, honey, you’re having pudding,” Isabella replied and stopped, glanced apprehensively at Prentice then back at Sally. “If it’s okay with your Dad.”

Sally whirled to her father. “Can we have pudding? Can we, can we, can we?”

“Books in your room,” Prentice answered. “We’ll talk about pudding later.”

Sally beamed then leaned toward Isabella and confided in a (very) loud whisper, “Daddy’d have said no right away if we weren’t having pudding.”

Isabella chuckled and then, all of a sudden, Sally threw her arms around Isabella’s legs.

She froze.

It had been a long time since anyone had touched her with spontaneous affection and she didn’t know if she’d ever, in her life, been hugged by a child.

It felt good.

Really
good.

Lost in Sally, Isabella’s hand lifted and she lightly stroked the girl’s soft, beautiful hair.

Sally threw her head back, gave Isabella a sunny smile then dashed from the room.

Isabella watched her then her eyes moved to Prentice.

He looked ready to commit murder.

Oh dear
again
.

Before he could blow, Isabella spoke, “I need a word. Can you close the door?”

Prentice didn’t hesitate; by all appearances he needed a word too.

Or maybe several of them.

When the door clicked and he turned, Isabella quickly launched in, “The sundaes are Annie’s idea. So is all the food in your kitchen. She went shopping with me and got a little carried away.”

Prentice just stared at her but she was pleased to see he didn’t look like he wanted to strangle her anymore.

“She’s prone to doing that,” Isabella went on.

Prentice continued staring at her then he said on a sigh, “Aye, she is.”

Isabella couldn’t help it, it looked like she was getting away with it and she allowed herself a small smile.

Prentice’s eyes narrowed on her mouth.

She stopped smiling.

Then she started talking. “I’ll make dinner and then come up here. I’ll tell the kids I have jetlag or something. The hot fudge is already made, in the covered pot on the stove, you just have to heat it up and pour it over the ice cream. There’s whipped cream and cherries and I chopped up some nuts…” She hesitated when his face changed in a way she couldn’t read but she valiantly forged ahead mostly in order to get this over with, “If they like that kind of thing.” She paused again and he remained silent. “Nuts, that is.” More silence. “Kind of the All-American sundae.”

“When are you going to eat?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“You said you’d make dinner and come up here. When are you going to eat?”

“I’ll bring something up with me.” Then she wondered if he wouldn’t like that, these were nice rooms, clean and tidy, maybe he didn’t want food up there. “If that’s okay.”

Then he said something completely bizarre.

“So it’s the martyr.”

She was so stunned, she couldn’t control her reaction and she blinked.

“Pardon?” she repeated.

“Your game this time. The martyr.”

It felt like he slapped her and reflexively her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“I’m not playing the martyr,” Isabella denied softly.

“You had no dinner last night, no breakfast this morning, unless you had something at Fergus’s. You’re behaving like you’re chained to these rooms.”

“You told me you wanted me to spend my time in your house…” she lifted her hand and flicked it out, “in here.”

“I believe I said ‘as often as possible’, not every fucking minute.”

“Isn’t ‘as often as possible’ pretty much the same as ‘every fucking minute’?” Isabella asked, genuinely perplexed.

“Don’t play word games with me, Isabella. I have a university degree. I own a business, a home. I know the fucking English language.”

There it was again, the non-physical slap.

There was one thing Isabella Austin Evangelista knew how to do. She knew how to retreat from anger.

Therefore, she whispered, “All right, Prentice.”

His brows drew together over angry eyes and he stared at her. She calmly held his stare and her breath.

Then Prentice murmured, “Christ, it’s like I’ve never met you.”

She wasn’t surprised at his reaction. Twenty years ago their relationship hadn’t been totally perfect.

What it had been was passionate.

They’d fought and they’d been good at it.

Back then, she would never have backed down. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her with his anger. How she knew this, she didn’t understand, in the beginning.

Later, she would realize it was love.

Therefore, she felt safe fighting with him.

Isabella wanted to tell him that he
hadn’t
ever met her. She wanted to tell him that the girl he knew never really existed.

He’d created her.

Well, Annie did by asking her to spend that first summer in Scotland.

But Prentice had breathed life in her.

This
was the real Isabella.

Instead, she remained silent.

They continued to stare at each other.

Then he looked away, opening the door, muttering, “Eat dinner downstairs, up here, I don’t give a fuck.”

She watched him walk down the stairs and turn on the landing, out of sight.

Then she started breathing again.

Then she wondered if maybe her doctor had been right and she really
shouldn’t
have stopped taking her medication.

Then she turned, picked up her yoga mat and blew out the candle.

Chicken Bits

Isabella

Isabella waited half an hour (exactly) before she went downstairs.

In that time she decided to keep her hair up in the messy knot because it wasn’t that attractive, with bits sticking out everywhere, and it might look like she was trying to be all girlie-perfect in order to cook a simple dinner if she did something with it. She also decided to stay in her yoga clothes because she’d look like an idiot if she changed clothes; she wasn’t going to make dinner for the queen, just a family.

She did, however, put on a forest-green tunic that had wide sleeves and a deep slash down the neckline that opened across her collarbone, fell in a hood at the back and exposed her plum camisole.

She kept her feet bare.

In that time she also decided that Prentice had given her permission to be around the children.

Well, not exactly
permission
, as such, but pretty much, or, at least, she was going to go with that thought.

So Isabella wasn’t ever going to be Sally’s new best friend and watch her grow into a beautiful young woman whilst Sally shared her secrets about boys she had crushes on and Isabella imparted crucial wisdom on Sally like how to know when your mascara tube was drying out.

But Isabella at least didn’t have to hide from her and break her little girl heart by acting like a cool, remote, American bitch.

Isabella no sooner got out of her room when she heard a discordant plucking of guitar strings.

By the time she made it to the great room, she noticed three things. The first, Prentice was at a drafting board in his study with the double doors that led to that room off the great room open. The second, Sally was sitting on the floor by the huge, square coffee table in front of the big, fluffy royal blue couch, drawing. The third, Jason was lying on the couch plucking, and not very well, on Fiona’s guitar.

Isabella looked at the guitar and she felt tears crawl up her throat.

She’d forgotten about Fiona’s guitar.

Fiona didn’t take the guitar everywhere but she wasn’t often separated from it. She loved it. She’d strum it when they were sitting in a pub and she’d often play it while they were lounging on blankets around a bonfire on the beach.

Isabella was so impressed by (and envious of) Fiona’s talent that she’d taken secret lessons when she got home. Her father preferred her playing the piano and violin, both of which he forced lessons on her from the time she was six until she was eighteen.

She’d practiced a lot, sliding the guitar out from under her bed when her father wasn’t around but she’d never been as good as Fiona.

Eventually, she’d quit playing and, when she’d divorced Laurent and moved back to Chicago, she’d found her guitar and gave it to a charity to auction.

“Mrs. Evangahlala!” Sally yelled, Isabella looked at her, swallowed her tears and, with effort, smiled.

“I think I’ve figured out something you can do to help me with dinner. But we’ll need a stepping stool or –” Before Isabella could finish, Sally was up and racing down the hall, rounding the corner on one foot to disappear in the mudroom.

Isabella stared after her not knowing if she should follow when Sally reappeared dragging, with some difficulty, a stepping stool.

“She’s mental,” Jason muttered from behind Isabella and Isabella turned her smile on him.

He blushed.

She turned away from Jason, strode forward and helped Sally set up the stool by a counter in the kitchen.

“Get up on the stool, honey, you’re going to flour the chicken,” Isabella told her.

“I am?” Sally breathed, like flouring chicken was akin to walking down the red carpet at the Academy Awards.

“You are,” Isabella confirmed and got out the marinading sliced chicken breasts and the Ziploc bag of seasoned flour she’d prepared earlier. Then she started to open and close drawers, looking for tea towels. “We just need a few tea towels in case it gets messy.”

“Third drawer down, by the sink,” Jason mumbled and Isabella’s head jerked to the side.

He’d joined them and was slouched in a stool across the counter from Sally. He was feigning disinterest but Isabella wasn’t deceived. His eyes (and, incidentally, his eyes were exactly like his father’s) were on the Tupperware of chicken. There was a spark of interest in them, not much, just a spark, but it was something.

Isabella figured boys liked food and not just takeaway.

She was pleased he’d joined them. She didn’t show this, however.

She wrapped a tea towel around Sally’s waist and one, bib style, around her neck and showed her what to do.

“Now, if you’ve got the buttermilk marinade on your fingers, don’t get it near your eyes. It’s got salt and Tabasco in it and it’ll burn,” Isabella warned.