Second Chance Girl
Page 7
She’d gotten up early to make chicken salad for sandwiches and had stopped by the bakery for the cookies Carol liked. But now that they were seated at the large table in Violet’s faux-loft apartment above her small store, she found her attention straying.
It wasn’t her fault, she told herself soothingly. She was being tempted beyond what a normal person could expect to withstand. Because there, on the counter, tantalizingly out of reach, was a package about the size of a shoe box.
The mix of various colorful postage stamps had told her it had been sent from England—from the Dowager Duchess of Somerbrooke, to be specific. She had an idea of what was inside, but couldn’t know the exact contents—not until she opened it. Oh, if only the mail lady had delivered it after her lunch with Carol, she wouldn’t be squirming like a four-year-old waiting on Santa.
“For her modeling career,” Carol added drily. “You know, with that large coffee manufacturer.”
Violet turned back to her sister and tried to put the pieces together. She was pretty sure they’d been talking about Bronwen and her injuries. Bronwen being a gazelle at the animal preserve her sister ran...or managed...or whatever you called the job of person in charge. Animal keeper?
And not important, she told herself. They’d been talking about Bronwen, so how on earth had they gotten to a modeling career and who was—
The pieces fell into place. Violet sighed.
“Sorry. I was listening.” Um, perhaps that wasn’t her best tack. “I mean I wanted to listen. I do care about your work.”
“I can tell.” Carol sounded more amused than upset. “If it makes you feel any better, your buttons are about as interesting to me as my gazelle and her injuries are to you.”
Violet wanted to protest. Bronwen was great and all but still just a gazelle. While the buttons were...magical. They came from all over the world. A lot were junk and of little use to her, but every now and then there were actual treasures. The rare, the perfect, the unexpected.
Once a lady in India had sent her eight perfectly matched enamel and onyx buttons edged in gold. Another time she’d received carved wooden buttons that dated back to the fifteen hundreds. Buttons were interesting and dynamic and a surprisingly excellent source of income. Compared to that, all a gazelle could do was eat, sleep and walk around. Still, Carol loved all her animals and Violet loved her sister.
“I am sorry that Bronwen was hurt and I’m happy she’s pursuing her modeling career. She always wanted that.”
Carol’s brown eyes twinkled with amusement. “Shall I send her over to you for tips?”
Violet did her best to keep smiling. Her sister wasn’t being unkind. Carol had no way of knowing that talking about that part of her past was painful—mostly because Violet always lied about it. Yes, she’d been a model for all of five seconds back when she’d been eighteen. She’d been famous and then it had all gone away. She told herself she was better for the experience and, on her good days, she believed it.
“My biggest advice would be for Bronwen to cut down on the snacks. The camera really does add ten pounds.”
Carol laughed. “She’ll be crushed. Maybe I should put my foot down and tell her she’s going to have to grow up a little more before I’ll let her out into the world.”
“Probably best for both of you.”
Her sister nodded at the package. “Go ahead. You know you want to see what that English lady sent you.”
“That English lady? Nana Winifred is the dowager duchess and grandmother to the current Duke of Somerbrooke.”
“You call her Nana Winifred. It’s hard to be impressed.”
“She adores me. I’m like family and she sends me buttons.” Violet thought about saying she was happy to wait until after their lunch was finished, but Carol would know she was lying.
She grabbed the package and ripped off the protective paper before slitting the tape holding the top on the box. She took a deep breath, then lifted the lid and gazed inside.
Nana Winifred did not disappoint. Nestled in a cocoon of tissue paper were over a half dozen small plastic bags. Each contained a set of buttons.
The first one Violet picked up held seven green buttons about an inch in diameter. She pulled a pair of white cotton gloves out of a drawer and put them on. Only then did she pour the buttons onto her palm.
They were carved to look like flowers. Or maybe lotus blossoms, she thought, willing herself to keep calm. She would have to do some research, but her first, best guess was these were jade. Hand-carved jade. Chinese for sure and maybe two or three hundred years old.
“Those are nice,” Carol said, her tone doubtful.
“They’re exquisite. Look at the detail. It was all done by hand.” Her heart fluttered. “I’m so excited to see the rest of what’s in there.”
She returned the buttons to the protective bag, then took off her gloves. “Thank you for letting me get a peek at what she sent. I can wait on the rest.”
Her sister shook her head. “You’re so weird. They’re just buttons.”
“I know. Isn’t it great?”
A half hour later Carol left to go back to work. Violet cleaned the kitchen before heading down to her shop. She turned the sign to Open and unlocked the front door. Confident she wasn’t going to be seeing any customers for the next couple of hours—most of her clients made appointments first—she spread a large cloth over the counter, then opened the package again and began to sort through the buttons.
There were the jade ones she’d studied earlier, and two sets done in mother-of-pearl. She studied a set of twelve brass buttons—obviously military and a couple of centuries old. She knew at least two New York designers who would jump at the chance to buy them.
Her front door opened and a tall, dark-blond-haired man with piercing blue eyes stalked into her shop. He looked stern. No, not stern, furious. Under other circumstances, she would have been completely intimidated—only she couldn’t be. Not when she recognized the steady gaze, the firm mouth and the strong jaw.
Ulrich, Duke of Somerbrooke, might be twelve years older and even better looking—if that was possible—but everything else was just as she remembered.
In less than a heartbeat, she was that gawky fourteen-year-old again, visiting England with her mother. Violet had been beyond awkward, all long limbs and frizzy hair, with acne and braces. The phrase unfortunate didn’t begin to describe her hideous self.
Through a family friend, she and her mother had been invited to a summer party by the dowager duchess and there Violet had fallen madly and passionately in love with the young duke-to-be, as she’d thought of him then.
He’d been all of eighteen and charming. His friends had rolled their eyes when they’d seen her, but not Ulrich. He’d been gracious and lovely and when he’d asked her to dance, she’d thought she was going to die. Right there, in front of the dowager duchess and everyone. Only she hadn’t died. She’d danced and he’d chatted and she’d listened, even as her heart had been swept away.
Violet couldn’t remember if he’d done all the talking or if she’d managed to cough out a word or two. What she did know for sure was that at the end, he’d leaned close, kissed her cheek and whispered, “You’re going to be a beauty, Violet. Give it some time. You’ll get there.”
The kind promise had sustained her through six more months of ugly. Then the braces had come off and her skin had cleared up and she’d learned how to tame her hair into gorgeous curls. Three years later one of the most famous photographers in the world had discovered her and claimed her as his muse. What followed had been a disaster, but none of that was Ulrich’s fault. He’d promised her she would get there and she had. And he’d danced with her and kissed her cheek. Seriously, what more could her fourteen-year-old self have asked for?
It wasn’t her fault, she told herself soothingly. She was being tempted beyond what a normal person could expect to withstand. Because there, on the counter, tantalizingly out of reach, was a package about the size of a shoe box.
The mix of various colorful postage stamps had told her it had been sent from England—from the Dowager Duchess of Somerbrooke, to be specific. She had an idea of what was inside, but couldn’t know the exact contents—not until she opened it. Oh, if only the mail lady had delivered it after her lunch with Carol, she wouldn’t be squirming like a four-year-old waiting on Santa.
“For her modeling career,” Carol added drily. “You know, with that large coffee manufacturer.”
Violet turned back to her sister and tried to put the pieces together. She was pretty sure they’d been talking about Bronwen and her injuries. Bronwen being a gazelle at the animal preserve her sister ran...or managed...or whatever you called the job of person in charge. Animal keeper?
And not important, she told herself. They’d been talking about Bronwen, so how on earth had they gotten to a modeling career and who was—
The pieces fell into place. Violet sighed.
“Sorry. I was listening.” Um, perhaps that wasn’t her best tack. “I mean I wanted to listen. I do care about your work.”
“I can tell.” Carol sounded more amused than upset. “If it makes you feel any better, your buttons are about as interesting to me as my gazelle and her injuries are to you.”
Violet wanted to protest. Bronwen was great and all but still just a gazelle. While the buttons were...magical. They came from all over the world. A lot were junk and of little use to her, but every now and then there were actual treasures. The rare, the perfect, the unexpected.
Once a lady in India had sent her eight perfectly matched enamel and onyx buttons edged in gold. Another time she’d received carved wooden buttons that dated back to the fifteen hundreds. Buttons were interesting and dynamic and a surprisingly excellent source of income. Compared to that, all a gazelle could do was eat, sleep and walk around. Still, Carol loved all her animals and Violet loved her sister.
“I am sorry that Bronwen was hurt and I’m happy she’s pursuing her modeling career. She always wanted that.”
Carol’s brown eyes twinkled with amusement. “Shall I send her over to you for tips?”
Violet did her best to keep smiling. Her sister wasn’t being unkind. Carol had no way of knowing that talking about that part of her past was painful—mostly because Violet always lied about it. Yes, she’d been a model for all of five seconds back when she’d been eighteen. She’d been famous and then it had all gone away. She told herself she was better for the experience and, on her good days, she believed it.
“My biggest advice would be for Bronwen to cut down on the snacks. The camera really does add ten pounds.”
Carol laughed. “She’ll be crushed. Maybe I should put my foot down and tell her she’s going to have to grow up a little more before I’ll let her out into the world.”
“Probably best for both of you.”
Her sister nodded at the package. “Go ahead. You know you want to see what that English lady sent you.”
“That English lady? Nana Winifred is the dowager duchess and grandmother to the current Duke of Somerbrooke.”
“You call her Nana Winifred. It’s hard to be impressed.”
“She adores me. I’m like family and she sends me buttons.” Violet thought about saying she was happy to wait until after their lunch was finished, but Carol would know she was lying.
She grabbed the package and ripped off the protective paper before slitting the tape holding the top on the box. She took a deep breath, then lifted the lid and gazed inside.
Nana Winifred did not disappoint. Nestled in a cocoon of tissue paper were over a half dozen small plastic bags. Each contained a set of buttons.
The first one Violet picked up held seven green buttons about an inch in diameter. She pulled a pair of white cotton gloves out of a drawer and put them on. Only then did she pour the buttons onto her palm.
They were carved to look like flowers. Or maybe lotus blossoms, she thought, willing herself to keep calm. She would have to do some research, but her first, best guess was these were jade. Hand-carved jade. Chinese for sure and maybe two or three hundred years old.
“Those are nice,” Carol said, her tone doubtful.
“They’re exquisite. Look at the detail. It was all done by hand.” Her heart fluttered. “I’m so excited to see the rest of what’s in there.”
She returned the buttons to the protective bag, then took off her gloves. “Thank you for letting me get a peek at what she sent. I can wait on the rest.”
Her sister shook her head. “You’re so weird. They’re just buttons.”
“I know. Isn’t it great?”
A half hour later Carol left to go back to work. Violet cleaned the kitchen before heading down to her shop. She turned the sign to Open and unlocked the front door. Confident she wasn’t going to be seeing any customers for the next couple of hours—most of her clients made appointments first—she spread a large cloth over the counter, then opened the package again and began to sort through the buttons.
There were the jade ones she’d studied earlier, and two sets done in mother-of-pearl. She studied a set of twelve brass buttons—obviously military and a couple of centuries old. She knew at least two New York designers who would jump at the chance to buy them.
Her front door opened and a tall, dark-blond-haired man with piercing blue eyes stalked into her shop. He looked stern. No, not stern, furious. Under other circumstances, she would have been completely intimidated—only she couldn’t be. Not when she recognized the steady gaze, the firm mouth and the strong jaw.
Ulrich, Duke of Somerbrooke, might be twelve years older and even better looking—if that was possible—but everything else was just as she remembered.
In less than a heartbeat, she was that gawky fourteen-year-old again, visiting England with her mother. Violet had been beyond awkward, all long limbs and frizzy hair, with acne and braces. The phrase unfortunate didn’t begin to describe her hideous self.
Through a family friend, she and her mother had been invited to a summer party by the dowager duchess and there Violet had fallen madly and passionately in love with the young duke-to-be, as she’d thought of him then.
He’d been all of eighteen and charming. His friends had rolled their eyes when they’d seen her, but not Ulrich. He’d been gracious and lovely and when he’d asked her to dance, she’d thought she was going to die. Right there, in front of the dowager duchess and everyone. Only she hadn’t died. She’d danced and he’d chatted and she’d listened, even as her heart had been swept away.
Violet couldn’t remember if he’d done all the talking or if she’d managed to cough out a word or two. What she did know for sure was that at the end, he’d leaned close, kissed her cheek and whispered, “You’re going to be a beauty, Violet. Give it some time. You’ll get there.”
The kind promise had sustained her through six more months of ugly. Then the braces had come off and her skin had cleared up and she’d learned how to tame her hair into gorgeous curls. Three years later one of the most famous photographers in the world had discovered her and claimed her as his muse. What followed had been a disaster, but none of that was Ulrich’s fault. He’d promised her she would get there and she had. And he’d danced with her and kissed her cheek. Seriously, what more could her fourteen-year-old self have asked for?
