She did, however, put on a forest-green tunic that had wide sleeves and a deep slash down the neckline that opened across her collarbone, fell in a hood at the back and exposed her plum camisole.
She kept her feet bare.
In that time she also decided that Prentice had given her permission to be around the children.
Well, not exactly permission, as such, but pretty much, or, at least, she was going to go with that thought.
So Isabella wasn’t ever going to be Sally’s new best friend and watch her grow into a beautiful young woman whilst Sally shared her secrets about boys she had crushes on and Isabella imparted crucial wisdom on Sally like how to know when your mascara tube was drying out.
But Isabella at least didn’t have to hide from her and break her little girl heart by acting like a cool, remote, American bitch.
Isabella no sooner got out of her room when she heard a discordant plucking of guitar strings.
By the time she made it to the great room, she noticed three things. The first, Prentice was at a drafting board in his study with the double doors that led to that room off the great room open. The second, Sally was sitting on the floor by the huge, square coffee table in front of the big, fluffy royal blue couch, drawing. The third, Jason was lying on the couch plucking, and not very well, on Fiona’s guitar.
Isabella looked at the guitar and she felt tears crawl up her throat.
She’d forgotten about Fiona’s guitar.
Fiona didn’t take the guitar everywhere but she wasn’t often separated from it. She loved it. She’d strum it when they were sitting in a pub and she’d often play it while they were lounging on blankets around a bonfire on the beach.
Isabella was so impressed by (and envious of) Fiona’s talent that she’d taken secret lessons when she got home. Her father preferred her playing the piano and violin, both of which he forced lessons on her from the time she was six until she was eighteen.
She’d practiced a lot, sliding the guitar out from under her bed when her father wasn’t around but she’d never been as good as Fiona.
Eventually, she’d quit playing and, when she’d divorced Laurent and moved back to Chicago, she’d found her guitar and gave it to a charity to auction.
“Mrs. Evangahlala!” Sally yelled, Isabella looked at her, swallowed her tears and, with effort, smiled.
“I think I’ve figured out something you can do to help me with dinner. But we’ll need a stepping stool or –” Before Isabella could finish, Sally was up and racing down the hall, rounding the corner on one foot to disappear in the mudroom.
Isabella stared after her not knowing if she should follow when Sally reappeared dragging, with some difficulty, a stepping stool.
“She’s mental,” Jason muttered from behind Isabella and Isabella turned her smile on him.
He blushed.
She turned away from Jason, strode forward and helped Sally set up the stool by a counter in the kitchen.
“Get up on the stool, honey, you’re going to flour the chicken,” Isabella told her.
“I am?” Sally breathed, like flouring chicken was akin to walking down the red carpet at the Academy Awards.
“You are,” Isabella confirmed and got out the marinading sliced chicken br**sts and the Ziploc bag of seasoned flour she’d prepared earlier. Then she started to open and close drawers, looking for tea towels. “We just need a few tea towels in case it gets messy.”
“Third drawer down, by the sink,” Jason mumbled and Isabella’s head jerked to the side.
He’d joined them and was slouched in a stool across the counter from Sally. He was feigning disinterest but Isabella wasn’t deceived. His eyes (and, incidentally, his eyes were exactly like his father’s) were on the Tupperware of chicken. There was a spark of interest in them, not much, just a spark, but it was something.
Isabella figured boys liked food and not just takeaway.
She was pleased he’d joined them. She didn’t show this, however.
She wrapped a tea towel around Sally’s waist and one, bib style, around her neck and showed her what to do.
“Now, if you’ve got the buttermilk marinade on your fingers, don’t get it near your eyes. It’s got salt and Tabasco in it and it’ll burn,” Isabella warned.
“Okay,” Sally said, carefully pulling out a chicken slice and making a face at the squishy feel of it.
“If you don’t want to do it –” Isabella started.
Sally interrupted her by shouting, “I wanna do it!”
“All right, sweetheart,” Isabella murmured on a grin. “Have at it.”
Sally stuck her little tongue out the side of her mouth while she concentrated on wiping off the marinade before she tossed the chicken slices in the flour mixture and Jason watched her doing it.
Isabella moved away and started preparations for the rest of dinner.
Then, for some crazed reason that was beyond her to understand, she asked, “Is that your Mum’s guitar?”
Then she wished she could take the words back.
What was she thinking?
Why’d she ask that?
Why?
“How’d you know that?” Jason’s voice was gruff.
“It just looks like the one she used to lug around all the time,” Isabella mumbled, her mind tripping over itself to find another topic of conversation.
“You knew my Mum?” Jason queried, sounding surprised.
Oh Lord, now what had she done?
Of course they didn’t know about her, the awful American who screwed over their father before he met and fell in love with their mother.
That likely wasn’t bedtime story material.
Oh well, she started it, she’d have to go with it.
She turned from filling a pot with water at the sink to look at Jason. “Yes. A long time ago we used to be friends.”
“Did you ever hear her play?” Jason asked and Isabella couldn’t help her reminiscent smile.
She turned off the water and took the pot to the stove. “Yes, I’ve heard her play. She used to do it all the time. I was jealous of her. She was very talented.”
“You were jealous of Mum?” Jason sounded incredulous and Isabella, surprised at his reaction, looked over her shoulder at him.
He looked as incredulous as he sounded.
She turned and walked up behind Sally, doing what she’d wanted to do since the moment she laid eyes on the girl. She pulled Sally’s long, soft hair back in both of her palms and then ran its length down Sally’s back through her hands.
While she did this (and repeated it then repeated it again), she said with utter truthfulness, “Yes, Jason. Your Mum was hilariously funny and incredibly sweet and very, very talented. There was a good deal to be jealous of.” Isabella’s voice went quiet when she said, “She was also lovely. You and Sally got the best of her. I can see it all over you.” Then she paused before she finished on a smile, “But you have your father’s eyes.”