Maybe Freddie’s brain was in one place and her heart in another. Chicago, with Alana and Mother and the Senator, and now wherever Toby and the band were. Freddie compartmentalized more effectively. One task accomplished, she moved on to the next, while Alana’s brain wandered down rose-strewn paths or academic detours, seeking, seeking, always seeking. Freddie was at home in herself wherever she was, while Alana never quite fit in anywhere but in the stacks of a library.
She stepped outside into the bright spring sunshine that now threatened more than promised heat. The rosebushes lining the driveway positively oozed sap and longing. She crouched and examined the stalks rigidly seeking the light, then tucked a few into the trellis. They bent fairly easily now, but in a few weeks training them would be much harder. Would the next tenant take the time? Would Lucas?
Lucas’s truck pulled into the driveway. He’d left the department’s Blazer at the station in case it was needed while he was gone, and was driving a green F-150 crew cab. She smiled up at him, then straightened to standing.
“We need to . . .” His voice trailed off.
“We need to what?”
He lifted one hand to her cheek. “I forget what I’m going to say around you,” he said quietly. “You look amazing.”
“I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt,” she said.
“And that jacket. I like that jacket.”
It was a gift from Freddie—purchased at a boutique in Paris after the fashion shows—who had insisted the dark caramel color was perfect for Alana’s coloring. “Not a cliché?”
“You’re anything but a cliché,” he said, and bent his head.
“Should you kiss me here?”
“No,” he murmured, and did it anyway. Quick and light and sweet, his long fingers gently holding her jaw like he was afraid she’d get away. “Made you blush.”
“You always do.”
He reached into the kitchen, snagged her case, and set it in the backseat. Alana climbed inside and surreptitiously brushed her fingers over her lips. Five minutes later they pulled into Adam’s mother’s driveway. Alana climbed out to give Darla Collins the front seat for the drive to Huron.
“My suitcase can go in the truck bed,” she said. “I’ll take the backseat with this.”
She reached inside and removed a white dress sheathed in two layers of clear plastic, carefully knotted at the bottom.
“What’s that?” Alana asked.
“Marissa’s wedding dress,” Darla said.
Her eyes widened, and she jumped forward to help Darla and the dress get arranged in the truck’s backseat. Lucas locked up for her. She twisted in her seat, trying to get details about the dress. Silk, obviously, and she could see soft folds. Not a Cinderella ball gown. “Did you do the design?”
“It’s based on a Romona Keveza dress, but I worked out the pattern based on Marissa’s measurements. The ruching gave me fits.”
Alana gave up trying to ascertain details through two layers of thick plastic and looked at Darla’s clothes instead. The woman wore a silk camisole, a tailored jacket with elements of vintage Chanel made modern, and slacks. “Did you make your outfit?”
“I did,” she said.
“That’s gorgeous. Last year’s New York show, right? I was there.”
“You were?” Darla’s face lit up.
Freddie and Toby had front row seats to all of the major shows. Alana had made sure Freddie had what she needed, then had met up with a schoolmate to get a tour of the New York Public Library’s research division on Fifth Avenue. “In a manner of speaking,” she said.
She knew enough to keep the conversation going all the way to the Huron Regional Airport. When they pulled into the parking lot, one regional jet sat at the terminal, waiting for the incoming flight from Denver. Lucas parked his truck at the back of the lot. Darla carried the dress, Alana managed her suitcase and purse, while Lucas gathered both his and Darla’s cases in one hand.
“Everyone got everything?”
They set off across the lot, through the building, and out the back again, where a small jet waited on the tarmac. A shorter, stouter man in a pilot’s uniform chatted idly with a taller man dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt. When he saw them, he ended the conversation and lifted his hand in greeting. Alana’s heart sank as he strode toward them.
Lucas was out in front, whether because his legs were longer or because he automatically shifted his body between a possible threat and two women and a wedding dress. Being several feet back with Darla and the dress meant she couldn’t whisper anything to Nate, asking him not to say anything about . . . anything.
“Lucas Ridgeway? Nate Martin.”
The two men shook hands, then Nate turned to Alana and did a classic double take. “Hey, I know you.”
“Hello, Nate,” she said, and turned her cheek for his automatic kiss. “How are you?”
“I’m fine. Good. It’s all good. You? What are you doing here? Last I heard, you and Freddie were headed to India and Pakistan.”
She could have fallen at his feet with gratitude. Nate surely knew about the debacle with David and had the wit not to bring it up. “Slight change in plans,” she said with a smile. “Freddie went. She’s in Chile now. No, I’m wrong. She’s in Brazil, with Toby. What are you doing here?”