Catherine Lanigan - His Baby Dilemma

Grace reached out to touch his sleeve. “Excuse me, would it be possible to get some help with my bags when we stop? I’ve been traveling for nearly fourteen hours and—”

“Not my job,” he barked back and started to move away.

Grace gripped his sleeve. “Sir. I’m most happy to pay for the service and I—”

“We don’t take tips.” He peered at her, taking in her clothing. “You’re not from around here.”

“I just flew in from Paris.”

“Let me guess. You’re the one with the huge bags blocking the exit?” He glared at her.

Grace wasn’t about to be shut down. “I only need help off the train.”

He continued to glower at her. Hard.

“Thirty dollars?”

“I’ll meet you by the door.” He looked down at her high-heeled boots. “Think you can manage the steps in those things?”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him with a bright smile.

Grace wasn’t sure if the man was angling for more money or if he was criticizing her apparel. Either way, she’d gotten what she wanted out of the bargain. Her bags were overloaded and overweight—and for good reason. She would be staying in Indian Lake for over a month, helping her Aunt Louise at The Louise House ice-cream shop while she recovered from back surgery.

Aunt Louise’s request was one that Grace wouldn’t have dreamed of declining. Louise was the only family Grace had left. Grace’s father, Jim Railton, had died when she was very young and her mother, Amanda, had died the day after Grace’s high-school graduation.

However, Aunt Louise was always a prominent part of Grace’s life and all of Grace’s happy childhood memories featured Aunt Louise’s quirky presence.

Louise had always treated Grace as the daughter she never had, and because Grace had dreamed of a career in fashion design, Louise had insisted that only Parsons, one of the best design schools in the country, was good enough for her talented niece. Grace had already saved nearly half the tuition from her Junior Miss Illinois and Miss Teen Illinois pageant winnings. Since Grace had grown up in fashionable, urban Chicago, the competition for the crown was stiff, but her determination and talents had bloomed early. Louise had generously offered to cover the rest. Once she graduated, Grace had diligently sent Louise a check every month, though she’d never asked to be repaid. Grace was no longer in financial debt to her aunt, but she wasn’t sure she could ever repay the kindness and support Louise had given her over the years. Helping her at the ice-cream shop was merely a drop in the bucket.

The train rumbled past a riot of autumn-bronzed trees and rolling farmland, golden now with harvested corn shocks and soybeans. The land was serene and lush with abundance, and Grace realized she’d never quite felt the same about any other place. Not even the South of France, with its vineyards, cobblestone streets and outdoor cafés, held the allure for her that Indian Lake did.

Odd, it’s taken so long for me to return here.

The last time she’d been in Indian Lake she’d been two months shy of her sixteenth birthday. Her mother had still been alive. Grace had been the first runner-up in the Miss Teen Illinois contest. After winning the crown for Junior Miss Illinois in prior years, Grace was blindsided by her near miss. She’d been certain she would win. Her piano performance was impeccable. The gowns she’d designed and that her mother had helped her make were perfection. She’d delivered answers to the judges’ questions with insight and flawless diction. She should have won. But she hadn’t.

That summer was a turning point in her life. After that summer, Grace had altered her goal of becoming a model and directed her ambition toward fashion design. It had been a summer for growing up. That much was certain.

Grace ran her palm over the lapels of her jacket, making certain they lay flat.

Nervous habit, she groused to herself and dropped her hands. She’d worked hard on the design she was wearing. Her fingers traveled over the wool fabric she’d snagged at a bargain price from Johnstons of Elgin. The cashmere was from Nepal, but Grace believed the Scots knew how to weave it best. As comforting as her black jacket and slim skirt were, she was anxious.

She leaned her head against the hard seat and exhaled. She had to calm down.

“You coming back home?” the man across from her asked.

Grace had been so deep in thought, she’d barely noticed anyone else on the train at all.

“Yes. No. Yes,” she replied, looking at him. Attractive was an understatement. He was tall and trim in his well-tailored black business suit, white cotton shirt and conservative tie. The clothes were not expensive, off the rack. He had a good eye for putting himself together and watching his budget. She liked that.

His blue eyes danced and a wave of thick chestnut hair fell over his forehead.

“Can’t decide, huh? Think you’ll get off when we stop?” He smiled broadly.

He was observant. She had to give him that.

Grace couldn’t hold back her own smile. She was used to men striking up conversations with her in cafés. Trains. Airplanes. She’d worn a rhinestone crown since she was ten, and didn’t give it up until she was fifteen. Sometimes she thought men could still see the glimmer, even though the glamour and floodlights had faded for her long ago.

He leaned forward. Just a bit. Not so much that the gesture cut through her personal space. “Dylan Hawks.” He extended his hand and she took it.

“Hawks? I know that name. Are you related to Isabelle Hawks?” she asked.

“My sister,” he said, lifting his chin proudly. “She’s why I’m home for the weekend. Her bridal shower.”

“How nice.” Grace swallowed hard. She limited thoughts of brides to design projects, never imagining herself in that role. “I’m Grace Railton, by the way.”

“Pleasure.” He smiled and then continued. “It’s a big couples’ thing at our friend’s house. Mrs. Beabots.”

Grace’s spirits lightened. “I know her very well. She was practically my mentor.”

“Mentor?”

“It’s a long story,” Grace replied. After high school, Grace had left for New York and entered Parsons School of Design. While her friends went to parties, she drew, created and studied. When they went to Florida for Spring Break, she wrangled appointments with fashion house assistants and design team members. Over large lattes—which she bought for them—Grace picked their brains and soaked up information. In the summers, she took part-time internships on Seventh Avenue. She hadn’t cared how menial the job; she’d only wanted to learn. Like striving for one of her pageant crowns, she had to be the best.

She’d graduated at the top of her class and landed a summer internship at Tom Ford. Grace knew that the very best designers worked in Paris, and she’d believed that until she had a chance to prove her talent in the biggest and toughest arena in the world, she’d never be happy.

Aunt Louise had told Grace of Mrs. Beabots’s former life in Paris, where she had “done something” at Chanel, though no one in town was certain what, since Mrs. Beabots was as tight-lipped, as Louise put it, as the seal on a coffin. Grace had gotten to know Mrs. Beabots during her visits to Indian Lake in high school. Grace had taken an instant liking to the older woman and they shared an admiration for beautifully made clothes. Mrs. Beabots had eventually suggested Grace sketch the dresses she envisioned and send them to her. Grace did precisely that. Throughout high school and college, Grace had corresponded with Mrs. Beabots, sending drawings and photos of her designs. Grace had pleaded with her her aunt to enlist Mrs. Beabots’s help in making connections in Paris, and by that autumn after her college graduation, Grace was on a plane headed to Paris as an assistant to an assistant at Jean Paul Gaultier. Grace’s penchant for perfectionism had gotten her noticed within weeks and she had been challenging herself ever since. Now she was an independent designer with her own team, hoping they would be “brought on” to a top couture house. Under an iconic umbrella, they would have respect, clout and the freedom to create their own line of clothing and accessories, with Grace’s name and logo stamped on every ensemble. They would have security and respect. Fortunately, up to this point, her designs had sold enough to keep them all afloat. Barely.