Family Treasures

Even the dachshund vanished through the doggy door.

The wariness in Devon’s eyes turned to confusion. “Contest?”

“The makeover contest for Twin City Trends magazine.”

“Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that Jenny entered a makeover contest?”

“No—”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“She entered you.”

Devon heard three words—Twin City Trends—and suddenly found himself wishing that Caitlin McBride was a lawyer. Because magazines meant reporters…and reporters meant publicity. And publicity? Well, that was something he’d successfully managed to avoid. Until now.

But if Caitlin McBride was telling the truth, somehow his daughter—his serious, sweet, painfully shy daughter—had brought it right to their front door.

The question was, why?

“Would I be correct in assuming you didn’t know anything about the contest, Mr. Walsh?” Caitlin’s question tugged Devon back to reality. And scraped against his senses. Somehow her husky, bluesy voice didn’t match up with the stylish clothes and cool demeanor.

Devon didn’t let himself dwell on the intriguing contradiction. Not when his relationship with Caitlin McBride was only destined to last another fifteen or twenty seconds. Tops.

“Oh, you’d definitely be correct about that.”

“And that you don’t have a secretary?”

“Two for two, Ms. McBride. I’m sorry you wasted your time coming here this morning. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get to the bottom of this.” Devon forced a polite smile, started to close the door and suddenly discovered Caitlin McBride standing next to him in the foyer.

“Good idea.” She smiled up at him. “I’m a little curious myself.”

Devon blinked, wondering if he could blame his momentary lapse in homeland security on the scent of Caitlin’s perfume—a rich blend of exotic spices that definitely packed a punch to the senses. Or maybe it was her smile. The one that warmed up the indigo eyes like sunlight on water.

Get a grip, Walsh. Somehow she’s involved with the media.

“No offense, Ms. McBride, but this is a family matter.”

“A family matter I received a personal invitation to when Jennifer entered you in the makeover contest.”

Makeover contest.

Devon winced at the reminder while silently scrolling through his options. If he told Caitlin to leave, it was possible she’d turn up again with reinforcements. That had been his brief but memorable experience with the press in the past. She might claim to be an “image consultant” but it didn’t mean she wasn’t employed by the magazine. Or that a single headline wouldn’t disrupt his life. Again.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Devon decided to take the old adage to heart. And because he couldn’t figure out which category Caitlin McBride belonged in, he decided to let her stay.

All he had to do was get Jenny to admit she’d entered him in the contest as a practical joke and Caitlin would be on her way. To find another victim.

“Roundtable meeting, Jenny,” Devon bellowed as he passed the staircase. “Parlor. Five minutes.”

He strode down the hall, surprised that Caitlin managed to match him step for step in shoes jacked up by pencil-thin heels. And even though she stared straight ahead, Devon had the strangest feeling she was taking in everything around her.

Great.

Devon was well aware the house had its shortcomings, but he still considered it an answer to prayer. Proof that God wasn’t silent and far away but close and listening. And real. That the ramshackle Victorian needed a lot of work hadn’t bothered him. And even though it would have sounded strange if he tried to put words to it, from the moment Devon had glimpsed the For Sale sign in the knee-high grass behind the fence, he’d felt an immediate kinship with the house.

After he’d signed the papers and accepted the overwhelming task of remodeling it room by room, the project had done more than fill long hours. It had started the healing process.

Not something the average visitor would understand or even appreciate. And he wasn’t going to apologize for the multitude of little things that still needed attention…

Devon sent Rosie’s rawhide bone spinning out of the way with a discreet kick and then noticed the innocent-looking cardboard box positioned against the wall just outside the parlor door.

His lips twitched. Subtle, the twins weren’t. Thank goodness.

Lately, they’d started to act out scenes from the book he’d been reading to them after supper. A book that happened to be an action-adventure novel—loaded with peril and cool gadgets—about Matt and Marty Ransom, teenage brothers on a quest to find their missing father while staying one step ahead of the resident villain.

Without even auditioning for the part, Devon had been drafted into their reenactments and cast in the role of evil Dr. Chamberlain. Over the past two days, he’d found a miniature tape recorder hidden in his medicine cabinet and the bedroom doorknob dusted with something Devon guessed was a homemade version of “fingerprint” powder. He even stumbled into an ingenious trap made out of paper cups and shaving cream.

Devon was thrilled. For two boys whose lives had been scheduled down to the last second of the day, their imaginative play over the past few weeks had been a major breakthrough.

Not that he could begin to explain all that to the woman walking beside him. He slanted a glance at Caitlin McBride and saw her lips flatline as she stepped delicately over the misshapen bedroom slipper that Sunny and her favorite partner in crime, Rosie had been wrestling over that morning.

No, Caitlin McBride wouldn’t understand. And because he doubted she’d find a shaving-cream bomb humorous, he paused before approaching the box.

“Wait here for a second.”

Caitlin blinked. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Apparently not. Because instead of answering her question, Devon sidled up to an ordinary cardboard box as cautiously as a bomb-squad tech. Caitlin’s back teeth ground together. She was convinced the man was deliberately trying to drive her crazy in an attempt to get her to leave.

Not that it wasn’t tempting. But she’d made the decision to stick around a split second after Devon had smiled politely and tried to shut the door in her face. And only one thing had prevented her from admitting defeat and calling the runner-up in the contest.

Jenny.

When the girl had peeked around her father, Caitlin had had a flashback of herself at the tender age of twelve. Confused. Hopeful. Scared. A bundle of conflicting emotions reflected in that pair of large copper-brown eyes.

My mom is gone and my Dad needs some advice on clothes. He thinks he looks okay but he could use some help from a professional….

The rest of Jennifer’s earnest essay had replayed in Caitlin’s mind. She couldn’t deny that Jennifer’s father did need both help and advice but she had a feeling he wasn’t the type of person who would accept it graciously.

And that’s why she’d decided to stay. Because whatever Jennifer’s reasons were for sending in that contest entry, Caitlin was going to make certain the girl wasn’t punished for it.

Devon picked up a piece of hose hanging out of the side of the box and spoke into it. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to put this box out with the recyclables.”

Caitlin held back a smile as his words raised a duet of muffled protests from inside the box. Devon ignored them and motioned for her to follow him. When they reached the end of the narrow hall, he stood to the side.

“It should be safe in here.”

The warmth of the room surprised Caitlin. Granted, the old-fashioned parlor, painted a soft, seashell-pink and trimmed with oak crown moldings, needed a serious update but there was a certain “shabby chic” charm to the brushed-velvet furniture and hand-hooked wool rugs scattered on the hardwood floor.

A round coffee table anchored the center of the room like the hub of a wheel with four colorful, oversized pillows arranged like spokes around it.

While Caitlin silently worked out the challenge those pillows presented to a knee-length skirt without a kick pleat, Jenny slipped into the room.

Now that the girl wasn’t hiding behind her dad, Caitlin had a chance to study her more closely. Already tall for her age, Jennifer Walsh’s final growth spurt would put her at a willowy five foot nine or ten inches. At the moment, though, she was all arms and legs and awkward motion.

Jenny’s hair, as dark as her father’s and with a natural wave she probably hadn’t learned to appreciate yet, was subdued in a long ponytail. The wire-frame glasses that had slipped halfway down her nose magnified the unusual color of her eyes.

Eyes that widened in panic when they met Caitlin’s.

Caitlin gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile and perched on the edge of a Windsor chair next to the sofa.

“Take a seat.” Devon motioned to a pillow and Jenny hesitated. The uncertainty on the girl’s face made Caitlin’s mouth dry up.

Was she afraid of her father?

Parent and child stared at each other across the table and Caitlin discreetly fished around in her purse until her fingers closed around her cell phone. Just in case.

Devon crossed his arms. “Okay, Jenny—you’ve got some ’splainin’ to do.”

Caitlin sucked in a breath. Devon’s voice had changed. But it wasn’t angry or threatening. It sounded suspiciously like an impersonation of Ricky Ricardo from an episode of I Love Lucy.

Jenny giggled.

Devon gave his daughter a teasing wink and a smile.

And Caitlin forgot how to breathe.

Because the wink erased any remaining signs of a scowl. And the tender smile he aimed at Jenny…

Dawn had been right. Devon Walsh’s smile alone would launch a thousand subscriptions.

He reached out and tweaked the girl’s foot. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s going on so we can get on with our day and Ms. McBride can get back to work?”

“I entered you in a…makeover contest I heard about on the radio last week,” Jenny admitted.

“As a joke, right? Did the boys put you up to it?”

“No!”

Devon frowned. “You think I need a…makeover?”

Jenny looked at Caitlin, who nodded imperceptibly. Yes, tact was the key word here.

“You…I, um…”

Caitlin came to her rescue. “Would you like me to show your dad the essay you wrote?”

The girl didn’t say so out loud, but the relief mirrored in her eyes had Caitlin reaching into her purse once again. She handed Devon the entry form.

Devon scanned the short paragraph on the back and if anything, he looked more confused than before.

“Professional help,” he muttered and glanced up at Caitlin.

She inclined her head in answer to the unspoken question.

Yes, that would be me. The professional.

“I don’t understand, Jenny.” Devon plowed his fingers through his hair. “Why didn’t you talk to me about this first?”

Jenny twisted her fingers together in her lap. “I heard you talking on the phone to Aunt Vickie,” she finally said in a low voice. “She wants to take you to court to get us back—”

“Jenny!” Devon’s gaze cut to Caitlin as his daughter rushed on.

“And she called you a…bum. I thought if you won the contest, the magazine people could help you look good in front of the judge. Then we’d be able to stay with you.”

Chapter Three

A dozen thoughts crashed over Devon at once, immobilizing him.

Jenny had overheard his recent phone conversation with her aunt, Vickie Heath. And even though Jenny hadn’t heard both sides, somehow she’d guessed the woman’s intentions correctly. Which probably had something to due with the fact that Vickie had shown up at the airport to confront Devon the day he’d arrived to take his children home.

Not caring that her niece and nephews were huddled together within earshot, Vickie had claimed he was an unfit parent. A selfish recluse who planned to deny Jenny and her brothers the life of privilege and opportunity that Ashleigh, their mother, had wanted them to have.

If Devon remembered correctly, Vickie had also thrown the words worthless bum into the mix.

Until Vickie’s phone call, he’d assumed his former sister-in-law’s tirade at the airport was simply a release of the stress and grief over Ashleigh’s untimely death. Never in a million years had he dreamed that his ex-wife’s sister planned to contest the placement of the children.

His children.

Somehow Jenny had gotten wind of Vickie’s intentions and decided that if a judge had to choose a parent, it wasn’t going to be the guy with unfashionably long hair and faded blue jeans who didn’t appear to have a steady job.

Devon stifled a groan. By bringing Caitlin McBride, an image consultant who had a professional relationship with Twin City Trends, to their door, Jenny had complicated the situation instead of helping it. All it would take was a few careless words from Jenny or the boys and he’d have reporters camped out on the sidewalk.

Devon wasn’t about to sign his family up for that three-ring circus again.

Lord, it took so long to get the kids back. To be a family. I don’t want to lose them now.

Even as Devon sent up the silent appeal, he couldn’t think of one thing to say to Jenny that wouldn’t allow Caitlin further access to their family business. It was bad enough she’d heard the reason that prompted Jenny’s contest entry; there was no telling what Caitlin would do if she knew the rest of the story.

Their eyes caught and held over Jenny’s head.

It was time to show the lady the door. Again.

“Ms. McBride—”

She didn’t let him finish.

“One of the contest rules is that the person chosen for the makeover must be over eighteen. But because of Jenny’s well-written essay we made an exception,” Caitlin interrupted, aiming a warm smile in his daughter’s direction. “I stopped by today to congratulate you, Jenny, and let you know your entry took second place. My assistant will be sending you a gift certificate for a style analysis from IMAGEine.”

Devon gaped at Caitlin as she rose to her feet and held out her hand. To his daughter.

“Congratulations. It was nice to meet you, Jenny. And you, Mr. Walsh.”

Automatically, Devon followed her lead and extended his hand, too. After a slight hesitation, Caitlin pressed her fingers against his. He expected her touch to be as cool as her eyes, but instead the brief touch sparked a current that jump-started a part of his heart he’d thought lay dormant.

Maybe that was the part of the reason Devon didn’t realize the truth until later on in the day, when he replayed the unusual conversation that had taken place in the parlor.

Caitlin McBride wouldn’t have bothered to set up an appointment to meet with them if Jenny had come in second place. They would have received a polite letter of congratulations, accompanied by the gift certificate she’d mentioned, and that would have been the end of it.

Jenny had won the contest.

But for some mysterious reason, Caitlin had walked away.

“You have a warm skin tone, so that means you want to choose clothing from this color palette.” Caitlin spread some swatches out on the table for her client to look at. “Something on the order of this gold satin would be perfect for the dress you’ve been looking for to wear to your anniversary party.”

“I don’t know.” Maxine Butterfield fidgeted with the enormous jade elephant dangling from a gold chain around her neck. “What about pink? People always compliment me when I wear pink.”

Caitlin resisted the urge to demand names and phone numbers. “I’ll drape a piece of this fabric around your shoulders and you’ll see what I’m talking about.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Caitlin saw the light on the telephone blink out a rapid SOS from Sabrina Buckley.

“Excuse me a moment, Mrs. Butterfield.”

Maxine smiled and immediately reached for a swatch of pink suede as Caitlin walked back to her desk.

“Sabrina, I’m with a client right now so—”

“He’s here.” Sabrina cut her off with an excited whisper.

“Who’s here?”

“Him.”

“You have to be a little more specific.”

“Him. Mr. Makeover. From the contest. You know…the guy you said has awesome cheekbones. Devon Walsh.”

“He’s in the office?” Standing next to your desk? Listening to every word you just said about awesome cheekbones?

And it wasn’t even Monday.

“He wants to see you.”

Caitlin’s heart skipped a beat. Over the past week, she’d tried to put the whole episode with the Walsh family out of her mind. It hadn’t been easy. Because for some odd reason, in the rare moments when Caitlin’s thoughts weren’t focused on her clients, they kept returning to Devon Walsh like a compass needle irresistibly drawn to the north. And she couldn’t forget the stricken expression on his face when Jenny told him why she’d entered him in the contest.

We’ll be able to stay with you.

Caitlin firmly pushed the memory aside. IMAGEine was her business, she reminded herself, not the Walsh family.

“He just poured himself a cup of coffee.” Sabrina kept up a whispered play-by-play. “Now he’s looking at the before-and-after photos on the wall.”

And he can still hear every word you’re saying.

“Tell Mr. Walsh that I’m booked solid for the next three weeks but if you check my calendar, you might be able to pencil him in after the etiquette class a week from Wednesday.”

“He said he doesn’t need an appointment.”

Caitlin blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Of all the nerve. Only her immediate family, consisting of her father and her sisters, Evie and Meghan, had permission to bypass standard office protocol.

“Everyone needs an appointment.”

“He said he doesn’t need an appointment because he has a gift certificate.”

A gift certificate.

The one she’d asked Sabrina to drop in the mail the day after she’d been at the Walsh’s. The one she’d promptly forgotten about because she assumed it would end up lining the bottom of an iguana cage.

“Is this a chocolate factory, Sabrina?”

“Ah…” Sabrina hesitated a fraction of a second. “No?”

“So a gift certificate from IMAGEine isn’t the equivalent of a golden ticket from Willy Wonka, is it?”

“Are you talking about the original or the remake? Because I heard there were some differences, and I saw the one with Johnny Depp but missed the first one with that other guy so I’m not sure—”

“Sabrina.”

“Right. He needs an appointment. But he—”

Caitlin heard Maxine laugh gleefully as she unearthed a bright raspberry, chiffon swatch from the summer color palette. “Just a second, Sabrina. Mrs. Butterfield…look at that attractive pumpkin-and-black houndstooth check.”

Maxine’s double chin wobbled, warning Caitlin she’d already lost ground.

“He says he doesn’t mind waiting,” Sabrina rushed on.

“Fine. I’ll be done in an hour. If Mr. Walsh doesn’t want to set up an appointment, I can spare five minutes after that.”

“Oh.” Sabrina’s upbeat tone deflated like a balloon animal in a room full of preschool children.

“Is something wrong?”

“It’s just that I have a date for dinner tonight, remember? If you add in rush-hour traffic, a shower and twenty minutes to fix my hair, I’ll be late. And you always stress how important it is to be punctual….” Sabrina’s voice trailed off into a hopeful silence.

Caitlin suppressed a smile. Hoisted with her own petard. “I’ll close up tonight.”

On time, Caitlin thought as she hung up the phone. She was confident Devon would view an hour spent in the reception area, with nothing to read but fashion magazines, with the same enthusiasm he’d have while waiting in a dentist’s office for a root canal.

The longer Devon waited for Caitlin to make an appearance the more he questioned his sanity.

If the glossy style magazines artfully fanned out on chrome-and-glass-topped tables hadn’t convinced him that he didn’t belong there, the wall of pictures featuring IMAGEine’s clients should have sent him running from the building. The photos provided all the proof he needed that Caitlin’s entire business centered around the warped philosophy that the only thing that really mattered was what a person looked like on the outside.

Because a First Impression Lasts…

The words, stenciled in gold letters below the IMAGEine logo on the wall, made Devon wonder why Caitlin hadn’t put her business’s tagline around a full-length mirror.

If it hadn’t been for Jenny, he wouldn’t be here at all.

Unfortunately, it had been his daughter’s turn to pick up the mail the day the letter arrived with IMAGEine’s return address stamped in the corner.

Jenny had immediately tracked him down and extracted the gift certificate with an enthusiasm Devon hadn’t seen since she and the boys had moved in with him. But when Devon had hemmed and hawed about actually exchanging the gift certificate for a free style analysis—whatever that was—Jenny’s copper-brown eyes had darkened with concern.

“You have to use it, Dad. You’re the one who’s over eighteen. Ms. McBride’s feelings will get hurt if you don’t.”

And because he cared about his daughter’s feelings, he’d given in. Jenny didn’t have to know that he planned to give Ms. McBride the gift certificate back and suggest she give it to someone else.

Someone who needed it.

“Mr. Walsh?”

Devon looked at Sabrina Buckley, wondering if Caitlin’s assistant ever spoke above a whisper. Studies did prove that a stressful work environment took a toll on a person.

“It’s two minutes to five. I have a date tonight and it takes twenty minutes to straighten my hair with a flat iron so I’m going to scoot out now.”

Whatever a flat iron was, it didn’t sound like something that should be used in the same sentence as hair. But what did he know?

“Have fun.”

Sabrina flashed a charming smile as she gathered up her things. When she reached the door, she paused and looked back. “It’s a shame you’re too busy to be in our makeover contest, Mr. Walsh. You do have really great cheekbones.”

“Thanks.” I think.

The young woman slipped out of the office, and Devon tilted his head thoughtfully.

It’s a shame you’re too busy to be in our makeover contest.

So that was the spin Caitlin had put on the situation. And it affirmed that his original suspicion had been right. For some inexplicable reason, she had let him off the hook.

When the door behind the reception area opened a few minutes later an elderly woman, dressed from head to toe in lavender, emerged and made a beeline for the exit. Muttering something about swatches and pumpkins.

She spotted Devon and pointed her finger at him. “Don’t let her push you around,” she muttered. “Everybody looks good in pink.”

Devon closed his eyes.

Tell me why I’m here, Lord?

When he opened them again, the first thing Devon saw was Caitlin. She swept into the room with the easy, unaffected grace of a ballet dancer. Clutching both of her shoes in one perfectly manicured hand while she tugged her hair free from a gold clip with the other.

Devon grinned.

She needed to change her logo. First impressions didn’t always last.

Chapter Four

She had to be dreaming.

Or hallucinating.

Those were the only explanations Caitlin could come up with when she saw Devon Walsh in a casual slouch next to the coffee station, his lean frame and tousled dark hair a striking contrast against the ivory and apricot wallpaper.

Caitlin ignored the sudden, erratic thumping of her heart and let her professional instincts kick into gear.

With a practiced eye, her assessment began at the scuffed loafers on Devon’s feet and went from there. Jeans so faded they looked more white than blue. The loose, uneven hem of his black fisherman’s sweater proved he hadn’t followed the proper washing instructions on the label: Hand Wash, Dry Flat. He’d pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, revealing corded forearms still tanned a golden brown from the summer sun.