Kathryn Springer - Family Treasures

Devon had discovered that he couldn’t. That world—the one that Ashleigh had enthusiastically embraced—seemed so fake. But because it had been important to his wife, Devon had supported her dreams. Until the day Ashleigh had demanded a divorce and he had to accept he was no longer part of them.

Devon didn’t bother to hide his disgust. “Image. I don’t care about that kind of thing.”

Caitlin regarded him for a long moment. “And that is exactly the image you present, Mr. Walsh. That you don’t care.”

The quiet statement hit Devon with the force of a two-by-four and he stared at her in disbelief. “You’re basing a lot on a pair of blue jeans and…” Devon glanced down to see what he’d fished out of the drawer that morning. “A sweater, Ms. McBride.”

“It’s not the clothes you’re wearing—it’s the chip on your shoulder that completes the ensemble. The one that might make a person, let’s say a judge for instance, wonder what else you don’t care about. Paying the bills? Making sure your children are fed? Safe? Well-adjusted?”

“Chip on my—” Wait a second. Ensemble? Men didn’t have ensembles. Devon’s back teeth ground together. “You are way out of line. You can’t determine whether I’m a good parent by the label on my back pocket.”

“You’re right. I can’t,” Caitlin said simply. “But Jenny is obviously worried that someone will. And if I’m not mistaken, that’s the reason she entered you in the makeover contest.”

All the fight drained out of Devon at the sound of his daughter’s name. And at the realization that he’d been more concerned about the press discovering his children’s whereabouts than he had been about the reason Jenny had sent in the entry form in the first place.

Devon scraped his fingers through his hair and then wondered how it had gotten so long. He’d had it cut in…

Six months ago.

Devon stifled a groan. How had the time gotten away from him?

He knew how. Because over the past six months he’d poured his heart and soul into rebuilding his family.

If he lacked a social life it was because he preferred it that way. His brief but memorable experience with the media had forced him from his hometown to a city large enough to allow him to fade into the background.

Unlike Ashleigh, Devon avoided the limelight. An eccentricity his publisher assumed he’d eventually overcome.

Devon knew better.

Since Jenny and the boys arrived, he’d been forced to widen the narrow boundaries of his social circle—what remained of it anyway—to include the small congregation of New Hope Fellowship.

Devon had started attending the church after moving to Minneapolis. He acknowledged the importance of meeting with other believers, but he’d still managed to keep the people there at arm’s length.

He knew the sudden appearance of his children would raise questions, but when Pastor Albright found out their mother had recently passed away, kindness trumped the natural curiosity their presence created in the congregation. After a gentle, collective offer to “let them know if they could help,” people maintained a respectful distance.

And even though Devon had appreciated the friendly smiles and genuine concern, he’d been careful not to need any help.

Because what he needed the most was time. Time for him and the children to get to know each other. Time to collect every piece of information—no matter how small or seemingly insignificant—and piece it together to form a picture of the lives they’d lived while they’d been apart from him.

And even though Devon tried to convince himself that another judge wouldn’t separate them, he’d thought the same thing at the first custody hearing. The one Ashleigh hadn’t even bothered to attend. She’d sent her attorney instead, who’d dissected Devon’s life and displayed it to the court. And made it look as if he were the last person capable of raising three small children.

Maybe it was time to ask for help.

Devon’s first impulse was to reject the thought. Okay, his hair did need a trim. And he could use a trip to the men’s department for some new clothes. But that didn’t mean he needed help from a professional image consultant….

Did he?

A verse suddenly filtered through Devon’s mind, as if in response to his silent question.

Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.

Devon winced, knowing he couldn’t argue with that. And like it or not, it backed up Caitlin’s business logo. Now the question came down to whether or not he was going to swallow his pride and take advantage of her expertise.

And the gift certificate.

Devon hooked his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans as he silently scrolled through his options. And tried to ignore the one standing right in front of him.

For the first time, Devon pondered—very briefly—the timing of their meeting. It occurred to him that his tendency to avoid civilization was working against him at the moment. When it came down to it, he didn’t know many people….

But Caitlin McBride, Lord? You’ve got to be kidding me, right?

The woman was wound way too tight. Not to mention that she’d be impossible to work with. Devon had no doubt she could straighten up a platoon of soldiers simply by lifting one perfectly arched eyebrow.

Devon’s gaze shifted and he caught Caitlin in the act of surreptitiously blowing a few wayward strands of hair out of her eyes.

It seemed that every time Devon thought he’d figured her out, he caught an intriguing glimpse of another side of her personality. A softer side.

But that wasn’t the reason he decided to give in. He gave in because he could suffer anything for the sake of his children. He could even suffer through a brief consultation with a certain blue-eyed drill sarg—image consultant.

“So, what does this gift certificate get me?”

“Excuse me?”

“The gift certificate for the style analysis,” Devon said patiently. “I want to use it. What do I get?”

Silence. And then, “The initial assessment. You fill out a questionnaire and then we discuss the results.”

“How long does that take?”

“About two hours.”

“That’s it?”

Caitlin blinked. “For that…portion. Most people decide after that whether they want to take advantage of some of our other services.”

Call him a glutton for punishment, but he was actually going to ask. “Like what?”

“Like achieving the right look as it pertains to a person’s professional goals and lifestyle roles. Finding the appropriate clothing styles for um, specific body types.” To Devon’s fascination, the color in her cheeks deepened. “Choosing an appropriate hairstyle and appropriate clothing.”

Devon got it. Appropriate. The secret weapon for success. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay to everything you just said.”

Something that looked like panic sparked in her eyes. “Maybe you should just make an appointment for the assessment. The rest is rather…expensive.”

“How expensive?”

“I charge one hundred and twenty dollars an hour.”

The air emptied out of Devon’s lungs. His attorney hadn’t charged near that amount. “No pro bono work?”

She didn’t smile at the joke. “Mr. Walsh—”

“Call me Devon. We are going to be working together.”

“Fine.” Her husky voice crackled. “I’ll set up an appointment and have Sabrina call you.”

“Great. I hope you can be a little bit flexible with my schedule. Things get kind of hairy at home sometimes.” Speaking of which…Devon realized he’d been gone a lot longer than he’d originally planned. “I have to run. I promised the kids I’d be home to make supper.”