reminder brought Caitlin up short. She focused on a point just past Devon’s shoulder and deliberately kept her tone brisk and businesslike.
“Well, if you aren’t here about Jenny, Mr. Walsh, what can I do for you?”
Landing on her feet, Devon thought with admiration, was obviously something Caitlin McBride had perfected.
And it didn’t even require shoes.
How much energy did it take to keep the slight edge honed on that husky contralto? To keep her features as smooth and expressionless as a marble statue?
But Devon knew he’d glimpsed something…some flicker of indefinable emotion in her eyes when she’d asked about Jenny.
And it made him curious.
“The gift certificate. I…” Came to return it. That’s what Devon had planned to say. But for some reason, the words that came out of his mouth didn’t sound like that at all. In fact, they sounded more like “I have no clue what a style analysis is.”
That Devon even remembered the term shocked him.
Caitlin appeared a little shocked, too.
Somehow, it made Devon feel better.
She crossed her arms and eyed him like a boxer sizing up an opponent on the other side of the ring. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Walsh?”
Devon frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Humor me.”
Don’t forget, you started this, Devon reminded himself with a sigh. “I’m a writer.”
“A writer.” Caitlin’s straight little nose pleated like an accordion, the only evidence of her opinion about his chosen career. “But what do you do for a…living?”
“That’s what I do.”
Caitlin’s eyebrows arched in doubt, giving Devon the impression that if his answers were earning points, his response had just plunged him into the negative digits.
“All right. And do you work out of your…” A delicate pause while she searched for the right word. “Home…or do you have an office?”
“My home.”
“Interests?”
Keeping his family together immediately came to mind. But Devon wasn’t about to open that door. Not even a crack.
“I do a little carpentry. Remodeling projects. Are you, ah, going somewhere with all this or did you forget the original question?”
Caitlin’s lips twitched but Devon wasn’t sure if she was trying to hide her irritation or subdue a smile.
“I didn’t forget the question. These are some of the things I ask all my clients during the initial assessment. You see, everyone has a unique style based on a number of different things. Personality. Profession. Lifestyle. Hobbies. Together these form the image we present to others. I help people project their true—”
Devon stopped listening.
That’s what it always came down to, he thought cynically. And it was all Ashleigh had cared about after her modeling career had taken off.
I can’t let people know that I grew up in this little hick town. I have to wear designer clothes—that’s what people expect. Devon, don’t wear those old blue jeans when we go out. You are so stubborn. Can’t you at least pretend to care that a photographer might be watching?
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