The Man She Married

“All right, Gideon,” she said briskly. “I’m going to bring the fashion world a bright new star and possibly save a marriage in the bargain. Is there an aunt anywhere more wonderful than I?”

“I doubt it,” he replied. “Go to it, Auntie.”

She hung up, obviously pumped to come through for him.

All he had to do was wait.

And he might invest in a little body armor, just in case.

CHAPTER FOUR

PRUE SORTED THROUGH her orders, listed them according to garment and size to place her fabric order, then listed names and phone numbers in preparation for setting up a fitting schedule. She sipped at a cup of coffee, stared at her long list and fought a sense of panic. She’d have to work flat-out—with help—in order to get everything done so that her first customers could wear their fall and winter fashions before spring came!

She fell back against her chair, momentarily daunted by the task, and looked around at the studio she’d finally acquired after years of dreaming about it. It was far more functional than glamorous—a lot like her life. The room had a collection of tables, one for cutting fabric, one that held two sewing machines, one for simply working out patterns. There was a rolling rack of finished and half-finished projects, two overstuffed chairs for collapsing into, shelves with bolts of fabric, drawers with trim, buttons, notions.

On the wall above her desk, a bulletin board was covered with fabric swatches, design ideas, fast-food coupons and the occasional business card.

It occurred to her that she finally had this place because Gideon had sent her half the proceeds of the sale of their condo.

But she didn’t want to think about him right now, and was happy to be distracted by the ringing telephone.

She picked it up, hoping it wasn’t a client already wondering when her order would be filled.

“Hello,” she said with false cheer.

“Hi, darling! I never sent your wedding present and I’m coming to make it up to you!”

Prue was surprised by the vaguely familiar female voice and the odd, completely out-of-sync remark.

“Ah…” she began hesitantly.

“It’s Aunt Georgette, darling!” the theatrical voice clarified. “Remember me? We only met once, but I’m generally considered to be pretty unforgettable.”

Prue had to laugh, remembering the tall, attractive woman in head-to-toe Gucci she’d met in New York at the engagement party Gideon’s parents had given them.

“What a lovely surprise.” Prue remembered finding her funny and sincere. But she couldn’t imagine why the woman was calling her. Last she’d heard, Georgette lived in Europe with a new husband, who’d since passed away.

“I’ll tell you why I’m calling,” Georgette said, launching into a story about receiving a fax of the Globe story about Prue’s fashion show, and how she wanted to prepare an advertising campaign for her through the firm she’d inherited from her husband. “I’m so sorry I missed your wedding, but I’d like to make up for it now. What do you say?”

Prue was flattered, astonished, and very aware of just what such exposure could do for the future of Prudent Designs.

“Well, I’d love that, of course,” she said, then felt honesty required that she tell her just what had happened since the wedding she’d missed. “But I think you should know, Aunt Georgette, that Gideon and I—”

“Were getting a divorce,” Georgette interrupted. “Gideon told me. But since you’ve patched things up, you’re still deserving of a wedding present.”

Prue repeated dumbly, “Patched things up?”

“Gideon explained about the misunderstanding, but I’m so happy you had the good sense to hear him out and trust that he’d never do such a thing to you.”

Prue was trying hard to grasp what Georgette was telling her, but her brain just wouldn’t make sense of it.

“When I decided to offer this little gift, I called Maggie.” Maggie Hale was Gideon’s mother. “She told me Gideon had followed you to Maple Hill. He must really love you to leave New York for a tiny town on the edge of the Berkshires to put your marriage back together.”

Prue opened her mouth but could think of nothing coherent to say with it. A male voice in the background shouted Georgette’s name.

“Got to go,” she said quickly. “I have a few things to clear up before I leave. Oh, incidentally, when I first got this idea, I thought we’d have to hire a male model to be in the shots with you, but now that you and Gideon are reconciled, I can’t imagine a more photogenic couple. What do you think?”

“I…I…”

“Good. And it’d simplify things for me if I could just bunk with the two of you while I’m there. I’ll book a hotel, motel, whatever you’ve got there for the photographer.”

“Ah…”

“I’ll be there in three days.”

Prue’s mind tumbled over and over itself trying to make sense of what was happening. Then necessity made her grasp the important issue. A very influential woman in fashion was going to create an advertising program for Prudent Designs. At the moment, that was all she needed to know.

“We’ll see you then.”

“Good. I’ll call Gideon with details of my arrival.”

The moment she hung up the phone, Prue realized what she’d done.

She’d gotten herself an ad campaign! And into a tangled mess.

She called Berkshire Cab. “Paris, you’ve got to take me to Gideon’s!”

Paris’s voice exuded hope. “Really?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m going to kill him. You know where this A-frame is?”

Paris sighed. “Yes, I do. He bought a new truck this afternoon. I dropped him at the car lot, then tooled by later to see what he’d decided on. It’s beautiful!”

“Can you pick me up?”

“Do I have to search you for weapons?”

“Paris…”

“I’ll be right there.”

THE A-FRAME WAS on the wilder, less populated side of the lake. It had a full front porch and big double-glass doors. On either side of the doors was a large pot of flowering cabbage, and the boxes under large square windows were filled with yellow mums.

Parked near the porch steps was a red pickup. Prue remembered that Paris had told her he’d bought a truck, but it hadn’t registered at the time. As long as she’d known him, he’d driven a sports car.

Then the doors opened and he appeared with a Berkshire Cab coffee mug in his hand. Paris had had the blue-and-white mugs printed when she’d first started the company, offering them to anyone who took a trip of twenty miles or more. It was easy, Prue thought, to see whose side she was on.

He wore jeans and a gray Whitcomb’s Wonders sweatshirt with red lettering. The jeans were as out of character for him as the truck, though he looked wonderful in them—long-legged, lean-hipped and dangerously informal. She didn’t like the fact that her pulse accelerated ever so slightly.