Barefoot in Lace (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 2) Page 18

  Like a dad would ask. But he wasn’t her dad, and he never would be.

  “Yeah.” She glanced at Gussie, trying to silently communicate her desperation with her eyes. “Let’s just…go.”

  While they said a quick round of good nights and thanks, Alex slipped out and got next to Gussie, quietly tugging her arm toward the apartment, just as she would have if her mother had been there.

  Thank God, Gussie immediately got the message, speeding things along and heading toward their apartment, giving Alex a closer examination while they waited for Uncle Tommy to get the key and unlock the door.

  “I need to talk to you,” Alex mouthed behind him, darting her eyes toward the hall to their rooms, hoping that communicated that the talk had to be alone.

  Gussie nodded and patted Alex’s arm, which only made the lump in Alex’s throat grow about six inches bigger. Why couldn’t this be Momma? Why?

  “I’m going to help Alex get ready for bed,” Gussie said quickly, earning a surprised look from Alex’s uncle. Who could blame him? She was long past the age of needing to be tucked in. In fact…

  Remembering what she had to tell Gussie, Alex hoped that he bought it.

  “I’m going to have a nightcap on the balcony,” he said. “If you want to find me later.” They shared a flash of a smile, and everything became instantly clear to Alex.

  Maybe she should have stayed overnight with Lizzie. But no, she couldn’t. Not now.

  With Uncle Tommy gone, Gussie led them both into Alex’s room, quietly closing the door, then giving her an expectant look.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Alex’s knees almost buckled. She so got it. She got it, and that was like being handed a pile of gold. Emotion welled up and choked her again, but this time, Alex didn’t fight the sob that threatened. She was so grateful to have Gussie. What would she have done if this had happened and she’d had no one to tell?

  Gussie launched forward to hold her. “Alex, what’s the matter? Why are you crying?”

  Because I miss my mother! She tamped down the obvious answer and hoped Gussie understood. “I’m b-b-bleeding.”

  Gussie gasped, inching back to search her face and body. “Where? What happened? Are you…” Her words trailed off as she finally read Alex’s look.

  Just to make sure it was clear, Alex pointed a finger…down there.

  “Ohhh.” Gussie dragged out the word, then her eyes widened. “First time?”

  Alex nodded, still working not to cry.

  “You know about this, right?” Gussie asked.

  “Oh, yeah, my mom told me everything. I know what it is, but…”

  “But it’s still a shocker the first time.”

  Alex exhaled with relief. “It’s just so…red.”

  Gussie smiled, taking Alex’s hands. “Do you have anything?”

  She shook her head. “I rolled up some toilet paper, but…” A little panic rose. “What do I do? You’re not going to tell my uncle, are you?”

  “God, no.” She started to step away with a look of determination, then stopped, putting her hands on Alex’s shoulders and slowly guiding her to the bed. “This must be hard for you. First time, and you’re a million miles from home and your…your mom’s not here.”

  There went the waterworks again. “Yeah,” she admitted. “I really…”

  “I know you miss her,” Gussie finished, and her own voice hitched. And her eyes misted up, which only made Alex want to cry more. “Oh, you poor thing.” Gussie pulled her all the way into a hug, which was nothing like Lizzie’s but everything like Momma’s. Warm and tight and utterly secure.

  “I thought I wet my pants laughing,” she admitted. “But then I went to the bathroom and…”

  “Well, at least you were having a good time.”

  Alex felt a smile pull. “I was flirting with Eddie Stone.”

  “Ah.” Gussie’s eyes twinkled. “The cute boy.”

  “Yeah, but I had to get out of there.”

  “Of course you did. Now let me see what I have for you in my room.” Gussie got up, but before she left, she leaned over and kissed Alex on the head. “I think I’m supposed to say something about how you’re a woman now and maybe some drivel about the fact that you can have babies, but if you even think about that, I’ll have to kill you.”

  Which meant she cared. Alex almost collapsed in half at the thought. While Gussie disappeared across the hall, Alex pulled up her knees and gave herself a little hug. This was going to be fine, even without Momma. This life was going to happen, without Momma, and there was nothing she could do to change that.

  For the first time, that thought didn’t make her want to tear her hair out and scream in misery. For the first time since Momma died, a spark of…of something…flickered in her heart. Hope? Maybe that was it. Gussie gave her hope that life could be near normal someday.

  Gussie breezed back into the room, carrying two different pink and blue boxes. “I have options,” she announced. “We can start with one and work our way up to the other. Tomorrow, I’ll sneak out and get you something different if this isn’t comfortable or working. Oh, that reminds me. Your uncle signed me up to be a model in his campaign.”

  Alex took the boxes, but her physical predicament was suddenly forgotten. “Huh?”

  Gussie laughed. “I know, right? Listen, you go do what you need to do. And I’m going to tell him—”

  “No!”

  She grinned. “That I’m not going to stay up any longer.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Gussie reached to stroke Alex’s hair. “Would you feel more comfortable if I hung out in here until you fall asleep? Would that make you feel better?”

  For a second, Alex couldn’t breathe. She closed her eyes and put her head down and simply couldn’t breathe. It was stupid that she wanted to say yes. Immature and babyish. It was her period, for crying out loud. Everyone knew it was coming sooner or later.

  “Alex?”

  “Yeah, I would.” The words were rough on her throat and pride, but she said them anyway.

  “Oh, honey.” Gussie folded right down on her knees and wrapped both arms around Alex’s waist. “Don’t worry. You’re not alone in this.”

  Alex nodded and put her cheek on Gussie’s head, giving back the embrace. Without thinking, Alex hugged hard, like she would have if it were her own mother. As she stroked Gussie’s head, her fingers suddenly hit the smooth skin where most people had hair.

  “Did you say you’re going to model for the water ad?” The question popped out so fast, Alex couldn’t stop it. And immediately regretted that. They both knew why she sounded surprised.

  But Gussie laughed. “I’m praying for a hat, a wig, or really good Photoshop. And I’m not actually going to model, just be a test subject for them.”

  “It’s so cool that you would do that.”

  “Cool or crazy. Will you come along or do you want to stay and flirt with British Boy?”

  She giggled. “I want to come.”

  “All right, I’ll go tell your uncle and then I’ll be back. You go take care of things and don’t be afraid. Of anything.”

  For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t. “’Kay.”

  When she left, Alex stayed on the bed, staring at the boxes that seemed so foreign in her hand, but familiar, too. Her mom had used this brand.

  “Momma,” she whispered, digging her nail into the cardboard box. “Thank you for sending her.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  They ended up in Cannes after a forty-five-minute limo ride through the Riviera, which would have been enough of a thrill, but the final destination was a high-end studio where movies and commercials were made, including promotions for the famous film festival. So Tom told them to expect a top-of-the-line crew and stylists, all connected to a huge set that took up two picturesque city blocks.

  Tom disappeared minutes after they arrived, and Gussie and Alex were swept into a waiting room that looked down over the wide boulevard where they’d be shooting.

  While they waited, Alex munched on the over-the-top buffet, chatting with Gussie and pressing her face against the window to see the goings-on below. Gussie tried not to chew her lip while she tried to figure out how she’d gotten herself into this particular predicament. It was supposed to be liberating and exhilarating and once-in-a-lifetimey.

  Instead, she felt raw and terrified, every flaw exposed.

  “Holy crap, she must be the professional model.”

  Gussie joined Alex to get a look. Oh, yes. The model. Of course she was a tall, stunning, jaw-dropper of a blonde with the longest legs Gussie had ever seen climbing out of a limo. A glamazon of pure perfection with a mane of whiskey-gold hair, wicked-sharp cheekbones, and a body that made couture designers weep with joy.

  “Her name’s Johanna Holt,” Alex said. “I heard one of those guys with the headsets who brought us up here call her your competition.”

  Gussie rolled her eyes. “Like that’s a fair match.”

  Alex scowled. “You’re not going to back out, are you, Gussie? I’d hate that.”

  She could hear the honesty in the girl’s voice and knew if she changed her mind, then she’d somehow let Alex down. Not to mention Tom.

  “I’m not,” she promised. “But I still don’t know why one of the other three billion women in the world who aren’t models couldn’t do this.”

  “But you represent la femme ordinaire!” She grinned at Alex’s perfect imitation of Madame Suzette.

  “Viva l’ordinaire!” Gussie joked, giving her knuckles.

  “Look at all those people she brought.” Alex pointed back to the model, who glided across the street trailed by three men, one carting garment bags, one rolling an oversize makeup case, and the other a beefy bruiser who was no doubt carrying a Glock.

  “Bodyguard,” Gussie murmured.

  Alex turned, her eyes wide and jaw loose. “No way. She gets a bodyguard to come to her shoot?”

  “Well, I get you.”

  That made Alex laugh while they watched more people scamper around Johanna like she was royalty. The last group to arrive on the scene included Tom, who was on the phone, camera around his neck, a few hangers-on following him.

  He greeted Johanna with a warm smile and a two-sided Euro air kiss.

  “Don’t be jealous,” Alex said.

  Gussie snorted. “Why would I be jealous?”

  “Because you like him.”

  “One of us has to.”

  “Mademoiselle McBain?” The door popped open, and their escort, a young man wearing a headset, came into the room. “Je regret the delay. Mademoiselle Holt was slightly delayed. Can you come to hair and makeup now, s’il vous plait?” He stepped away from the door and started speaking in French into a microphone.

  “Hair and makeup are my favorite words,” Gussie quipped. But this time? Not so much.

  “C’mon,” Alex whispered, nudging her a little, probably sensing Gussie’s hesitation. “You can do this.”

  Gussie shot her a look of gratitude.

  “It’s your birthday and your freecation,” Alex added.

  “How do you know it’s my birthday?” Gussie asked, shocked by the revelation.

  “You told me the day I met you that you were born on August first. And I know you’re not forty.”

  Gussie laughed, shaking her head, oddly touched.

  “I told my uncle. Didn’t he say happy birthday yet?”

  “No, but he’s a little preoccupied.”

  “He will.” Alex sounded so certain, it was kind of endearing.

  The French escort made his impatience known with a dramatic clearing of his throat. “Jean Claude is waiting.”

  Gussie made a quick face at Alex, who giggled some more.

  “Then by all means,” Gussie said, nudging Alex ahead, “let’s get to my personal idea of…” Hell.

  But she didn’t want to reveal that to Alex. Being camera shy and insecure were such unattractive traits and not something she’d like to model for this impressionable young girl. On the contrary, she longed to show Alex the importance of strength, confidence, and fearlessness. Conquering her own fears was a great way to do that. Agonizing, but great.

  “Your personal idea of what?” Alex prompted.

  “Challenge,” she said, reaching for Alex’s hand. “Come on, I need moral support.”

  She squeezed her fingers around Gussie’s. “You got it.”

  They followed their escort to another floor into a styling salon, where he directed Gussie to a makeup chair. Alex took the empty one next to her.

  Another man came in seconds later, clapping his hands like a schoolteacher. “The world’s greatest beauty specialist has arrived,” he announced in a heavy French accent. “I am Jean Claude. And you must be my test du jour.”

  Might as well get right out there and be the ugly American. Literally. “Brace yourself, monsieur. I’m opinionated and”—she lifted her ponytail—“I’m partially bald.”

  “I am more bald, mademoiselle.” He rubbed his own hairless head and adjusted hipster-style black-rimmed glasses to get a better look at her scar, then gently pulled her hair out of the silky tieback. Gussie watched his expression in the mirror, waiting for the usual sympathy or even disgust.

  He frowned, gnawing on his lip, angling his head from one side to the other, studying her scar like it was a work of art he couldn’t quite understand.

  “Mmm.” He looked into the mirror to meet her eyes. “May I?” He fluttered his fingers.

  “You may.”

  He started to lift and finger-comb her hair, which was thick enough in the front and sides that from this angle, she looked perfectly normal.

  “I know several styles that can almost completely cover it,” she said. “If you just—”

  “Non!” He barked the word, startling her. Then he broke into a grin. “We can use it.”

  Use it? “Um, don’t you want a wig? I can’t wear extensions because—”

  “Marie!” He clapped his hands as he called the name, and instantly an assistant appeared. Then he spewed a string of incomprehensible French.

  Marie nodded. “Et Suzette?” she asked.

  “Oui, oui, oui!” He clapped again, dismissing her. “We do makeup first.”

  “And then…”

  He glared at her like she was a disobedient child. “Makeup first.” More clapping. More assistants appeared, one carrying a load of color palettes, the other rolling out a satin bag of makeup brushes with the same flair as a chef presenting his cutlery.

  “What is all this stuff?” Alex whispered as the others chattered in French.

  “Other than heavenly?” Gussie asked. “Oh, Alex, those are Kevyn Aucoin brushes that retail for about a hundred apiece.”

  No less than three artists went to work with those pricey brushes on Gussie’s face, speaking rapid French with no regard for the fact that she didn’t understand them.

  “You have perfect skin,” Jean Claude said, brushing Gussie’s cheek. “Marie says it is like a baby’s ass.”

  Alex snorted.

  “And your bow!” He tapped her upper lip. “Deep and delicious. Made for kissing.”

  This time, Alex cleared her throat in her own distinct ahem.

  “But it is your lovely symmetry that makes you a true beauty, cherie.” He stroked her face from cheekbone to cheekbone. “You have been kissed by the beauty gods.”

  And here she thought she’d been dissed by them.

  When they finished, Gussie opened her eyes and blinked, stunned at the results. For her, makeup was extreme or nothing, but this was subtle, warm, and beautiful. Before she could comment, the door opened, and six more people crammed into the room, led by the stately LaVie executive Suzette, who was obviously calling the shots today.

  French volleyed back and forth, the conversation loud and bubbling with constant interruptions, with all attention riveted to her scar.

  Due to the perfectly applied foundation, Gussie couldn’t see her face flush, but she could feel her entire body burn with embarrassment. They looked at her like she was some kind of museum exhibit.

  During the discussion, Alex slipped off her chair and took Gussie’s hand. The simple moved cracked Gussie’s heart, opening it like she had to make room for the girl. They exchanged a smile, and then, suddenly, all of the French people went silent.

  Every eye in the room fell on Suzette, who stared at the scar with her arms crossed.

  Gussie couldn’t take it anymore. “I wear wigs,” she said. “I wear them very well, as a matter of fact. Would you like to see how well?”

  Suzette finally took her gaze from the back of Gussie’s head to meet her eyes. “A wig? La femme ordinaire does not wear wigs.”

  Well, la bald femme did. “I’m sure we can find one that’s very natural.” Gussie swallowed hard, but refused to let her voice waver. “Or another model.”

  Suzette shook her head. “No. I like it. I like it very much.” She gave a gesture of permission to Jean Claude. “He will finish up,” she said, the English clearly for Gussie’s benefit. “Johanna’s set is nearly complete, and they will be ready in fifteen minutes.” She smiled coolly at Gussie. “You are perfect.”

  Gussie gave a sardonic grunt. “Since you just had a twenty-minute discussion about how imperfect I am, that’s really not true.”

  “Au contraire, mademoiselle. Our campaign celebrates the beauty on the inside. Beauty that is more enhanced by LaVie than any of this.” She swept her hand over the makeup brushes strewn on the counter. “I believe your imperfection, as you see it, is something women can relate to.”

  “Not exactly,” Gussie said. “A few extra pounds, less-than-creamy skin, a weak chin. These are flaws women can relate to. A scar that leaves a bald spot on the back of your head? That’s not relatable.”

  “We shall see,” she countered. “We all have the scars, inside and out. And in the hands of TJ DeMille, you will be indescribably beautiful.”

  She’d like to be in the hands of TJ DeMille right now. And not for sunrise sexy times. She’d really rather strangle him for putting her in this situation.