side to side, trying to see through the crowd of women, then pointed. “That’s her, next to my grandma.”
Brooke put an arm across the back of the booth as she swiveled to look behind her. Whitney was thin and elegant, looking the picture of a boutique owner from San Francisco. She was talking animatedly to Julie Jacoby, the redheaded summer hostess from the Halftime Sports Bar, who must be home from college on Thanksgiving break. They seemed to be discussing one of the sketches of a long-legged woman in a black bustier, wearing black boots up above her knees.
“How did all these sketches come out?” Brooke asked, starting to feel uneasy. Men and women sat in booths or gathered in twos and threes, some looking affronted or worried. She recognized most of them, even the ones she didn’t see regularly enough to know their names. A few were obviously tourists, some so in love they couldn’t stop holding hands even though they sat side by side. Valentine Valley tended to do that to people for some inexplicable reason.
But she wasn’t going to let it do that to her, not right now. And then Adam’s boot touched hers, and lingered. She didn’t meet his eyes. He was her secret, and she wasn’t going to share him. It was more exciting than she could have imagined.
Adam slouched back in the booth. “Grandma had me take her to the building Whitney is thinking of buying. We broke the news to her about the resistance among some of the townspeople, so Grandma invited her to dinner.”
“Here?” Brooke asked, baffled.
“I made it a point to say it might not be wise. We haven’t seen Galimi yet, so I’m hoping that means he’s gone home for the day. Whitney had promised to show her next year’s sketches, and before I knew it, Grandma was passing them around. It’s getting kind of loud, isn’t it?”
“And people can’t get in the door,” Monica said, giving Brooke a worried look.
“I think we’re pressing our luck hanging around this long,” Brooke said. “Let’s you and I collect the sketches before Sylvester makes an appearance.”
No sooner had they all started to get out of the booth, then a man roared, “What the hell is going on in here?”
The rumble of voices died to a murmur as heads swiveled. Coming to her feet, Brooke could see that Sylvester must have just emerged from the swinging doors leading into the kitchen. He normally wore a suit every day, but he was in shirtsleeves now, his tie loosened, as if he’d been working in his office. He was red-faced with anger, and Brooke wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam covering his glasses.
Mrs. Palmer limped toward the counter with the help of her cane. “Good evenin’, Sylvester,” she said, her thick Western twang making her sound innocent and cheerful all at once.
“Are you here to disrupt my business just to punish me for disagreeing with you, Renee?” he demanded, looking around to make sure people got the point.
Brooke exchanged a glance with Adam, whose expression was no longer amiable but one of cold intensity.
“Heavens, no!” Mrs. Palmer said, her wrinkled face full of surprise. “We came to enjoy your staff’s fine cookin’.”
“Then what’s all this?” he demanded, coming around the counter.
He stopped in his tracks when he saw a sketch propped on the first booth table—a woman in a bra and thong so tiny . . . and what was obviously a leather collar around her neck.
Brooke winced.
“That—that’s—” he sputtered, “that’s—pornography!”
Voices rose again, this time the indignant ones.
“My children are here!”
“Where are your morals, Renee?”
“Whose filth is this?”
Brooke rolled her eyes and said to those around her, “Oh, please, your children can see lingerie at Walmart!”
Nobody was listening to her.
Whitney stepped forward, chin raised, to stand beside Mrs. Palmer. “My name is Whitney Winslow. These sketches are from my company, Leather and Lace.”
As gasps and cries of recognition filled the air, Brooke saw her brother Josh shoulder his way through the crowd by the door. Their glances met across the room. His incredulous frown said, What’s going on? and she splayed her hands in the air on either side of her head, implying, Beats me, but I’m panicking!
Sylvester literally backed up a step from Whitney, as if she smelled unpleasant. It was so over-the-top, Brooke could have laughed.
“You’re the young lady—young . . . woman responsible for this pornography?” Sylvester said, gesturing wildly to the sketches.
“They’re not pornography,” Whitney said, smiling her disbelief.
Brooke looked