Free A Broken Kind of Beautiful by Katie Ganshert Page B

responsible for her life lowered into the ground had turned her off toward exploration. Now, however, with nothing but dread keeping her company, she sought out the diversion.
    She straightened and craned her neck around Davis, who blocked the majority of her view. Spending forty minutes squished between him and Jordan Ludd, who didn’t seem any more comfortable with Davis than Davis seemed with him, had lost its intrigue after the second mile. She’d tried flirting with the young man in an attempt to rile Davis, but she might as well flirt with a pile of bricks, and all Davis did was stare out the window, his jaw pulsing like a heartbeat. She chalked up the kid’s lack of interest to his equal lack of IQ, but she could find no excuse to explain Davis’s indifference. The whole ride left her with a bruised ego and sticky from the less-than-impressive air conditioner.
    Davis leaned back in the seat, granting her access to the world outside the cramped cab of the tow truck. “Ivy needs to be dropped off at Something New before we go to the shop.”
    Jordan mumbled his reply, or more like grunted, and turned through a roundabout showcasing a hibiscus-framed stone heron spouting water from its beak. The island town was much the same, with manicured lawns surrounding antebellum homes, the kind that made Ivy feel as though they’d time-warped into the nineteenth century. Like any minute she might hear cannon fire in the distance or see Confederate soldiers strapped with muskets marching down the street to the waving of women’s handkerchiefs.
    The truck pulled onto a lopsided street called Palmetto Boulevard. Lopsided because shops adorned only one side. The sun peeked over the row of multitiered brick buildings and cast elongated shadows across the cobblestones—fat, black arms reaching toward the palm-tree-dotted white shore. Jordan stopped a few blocks down, in front of a black awning with white lettering.
    Something New.
    The boutique Marilyn had opened ten years ago, the year Ivy left for New York City permanently, stuck out more than the others. Couture was not something Greenbrier knew well, but somehow, someway, her stepmother made it work. A sheen of sweat slicked Ivy’s palms. Marilyn was inside. Bruce had warned Ivy, over the phone, to behave. He’d reminded her that Marilyn was a paying client, and this was her chance to get back on track. To let things settle in New York City while she made waves down south. Good waves. She took a deep breath and wiped her palms against her shorts. She’d dealt with many clients throughout her career. Marilyn didn’t have to be any different. Ivy only needed to go inside, ask about the time frame and details for this particular assignment, and find a place to stay while she served her sentence.
    Davis opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. Ivy unpeeled the backs of her thighs from the vinyl and scooted off the seat to join him. The ocean air smelled so different in South Carolina than it did on Staten Island. Even the sky looked different, as if somebody had flipped a brightness switch and made it bluer. And the street wasn’t just clean; it was “take your shoes off” clean. No litter by the curbs. No cigarette butts. Not even a sidewalk crack for the cigarette butts to fall into, if there were any. The perfection of it unnerved her. Having grown up in Chicago, then moving on to places like New York and Paris, Ivy preferred a little dirt and grit beneath her feet.
    Davis walked around to the back of the truck, where he’d wedged her luggage, uncorked her suitcase, and handed it over. “As soon as my car’s fixed, I can give you and Marilyn a lift to the house.”
    The house. Ivy didn’t like the way he said that. Like it was the only one on the island. Like he expected her to stay there. “Marilyn doesn’t have a car?”
    “She rides her bike to work.”
    “Her bike?” Ivy hitched her purse strap higher up her shoulder. “A Schwinn or a Harley?”