Her phone played the Funeral March, and Tre plucked it up and answered it. “Hello, Livinia, are you ready to apologize to your daughters yet?”
Even from across the four-foot-wide granite counter, Harmony could hear her mother screaming.
“We talked about this. You’re welcome to call back when you’re prepared to be civil and act like an adult instead of a spoiled child.” Tre hung up the phone and looked at Harmony. “Is Lyric keeping her promise to not answer your mother’s phone calls? Heath and I have let Livinia know in no uncertain terms that if she wants to yell at someone, she’s welcome to call the two of us, but that all contact with her daughters must come through us or not at all.”
“Have I told you lately that I love you?” Harmony had just about resigned herself to never having a loving relationship with her mother. It was okay … sort of. She fixed Tre a latte and placed it in front of him.
“Yes, but I can stand to hear it again.” Tre sipped his latte and smiled at her over the rim. “Family is complicated. God knows mine is.”
It broke Harmony’s heart that Tre was estranged from his family. When he’d come out to them, they’d kicked him out with only the clothes on his back. They were Southern Baptist and ready to throw away their son just because he was gay. She wanted to run his parents over with her bakery delivery van.
In the last few days, Harmony had learned that family was made rather than born.
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it.” Tre stood and stretched.
“No, sit. You’ve been on your feet all day. I’ll get it.” Harmony had been on her feet all day too, but she hadn’t spent the last ten hours dealing with the public. She opened the door to find a delivery man holding a black garment bag. “Can I help you?”
“I have a delivery for,” the man looked down at the tag on the outside of the garment bag, “Harmony Wright.”
“I’m Harmony. Thanks.
” She reached for the garment bag. She hadn’t ordered anything. Roberto Modesto was written on the side. She couldn’t afford Roberto Modesto—maybe resale, but they were few and far to come by.
“Can I get you to sign for it?” He held out a smartphone.
With her finger, she signed her name. “Thanks again.”
“Have a good day, and enjoy.” He waved as he turned and walked back to the nondescript white delivery van parked next to the mailbox.
She closed the door and walked into the kitchen. “Someone sent me something from Roberto Modesto. Was it you?”
“I love you more than my own sister, but if I scraped together enough money to buy something from Roberto Modesto, it would be for me.” Tre clapped in excitement. “Open it. I can’t wait to see it.”
She pulled the zipper down, and a small white envelope fell to the floor. She leaned down and picked it up. After gently laying the bag on the back of a kitchen chair, she opened the card.
She read the card out loud. “I know you’ve been busy, so I took the liberty of picking out a dress for you to wear to the cocktail party. I hope it fits. I love you. Dalton.”
“Ohhhh.” She and Tre squealed like little girls—Tre because of the dress, and her because Dalton had just said that he loved her. In three words. For the first time. In a card. Well, the first time had been at his apartment when they were having sex, but she didn’t know if that counted. Men said all kinds of things when they were inside a woman, and it wasn’t like he’d repeated it since then. Before now. She wasn’t sure the “love you” text counted, since it was only two words.
“Mr. Tall, Dark, and Yummy is so thoughtful.” Tre’s eyebrows bobbled up and down. “I want one.” Harmony wasn’t sure if he meant a Dalton or a Modesto. Maybe both.
He picked up the garment bag and pulled the dress out.
They both stood there speechless. It was royal-blue chiffon with a high collar, five rows of ruffles, and no discernable waist. It reminded Harmony of a ruffle-y bedsheet with two armholes. And not in a good way, if there even was a good way …
She looked at Tre and he looked at her.
“Maybe it’s one of those dresses that looks better on.” Tre sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as her.
They walked to her bedroom, where she slipped out of her clothes and into the dress.
She turned around and Tre just stood there with his mouth hanging open.
“Say something.” She pulled at the dress, trying to see what the designer and Dalton had both seen in this dress. Had Dalton really picked this out for her? Was this who he thought she should be? He’d wanted her to tone things down, but this was a little over-the-top toned down. It covered her from neck to toe, and if it had any shape at all, it would have been toga-esque.
Maybe Dalton hadn’t picked it out at all. Maybe he’d just called the store and told them to pick out something for his girlfriend. But he didn’t seem the type to have someone else pick out something so personal and important to him. And she felt like she was important to him—the man had told her he loved her.