Skin Deep by Marissa Doyle

cameras in our faces,” she said aloud.
    “Thank God for that.” He smiled and nodded as a waiter brought a free-standing ice bucket with a bottle of champagne and two flutes to the table. “I hope I didn’t mistakenly assume you liked champagne.”
    “I don’t think you’re capable of making mistakes, Rob Mowbray.” She caught a glimpse of the label on the bottle. “Oh, my. So what’s the occasion?”
    The pop! of the cork once more focused the eyes of the entire dining room on them. Rob ignored them and leaned forward, lifting his flute to hers. “Oh, I don’t know. Just because. Because I like champagne. Because I like you.”
    For a fleeting second, tears started to her eyes. Just because. She had spent the last fourteen years of her life with a man who viewed everything in life as items on a balance sheet to be totted up as credits and debits. And now she sat across from another man who’d ordered a bottle of hundred-and-fifty-dollar champagne “just because.”
    “I like you, too,” she whispered, and touched her glass to his.
    He smiled a slow, sweet smile. “I’d hoped you say that.”
    A soft wind seemed to blow through the room. Without looking up, Garland was able to guess what it was: the whispers of the other diners, watching them.
    “Don’t look now, but I think I saw a camera,” she said, hoping her tone was light.
    He glanced around the room. There was an abrupt clatter of cutlery as everyone suddenly remembered the plates of rapidly cooling food in front of them. “You were joking, right?” he asked, smiling uncertainly.
    She sat back and took a sip of champagne. “Mostly. Do you think Alasdair and Conn will be okay?”
    Rob’s smile faded. “They’re fine. Don’t worry about them.”
    Their waiter arrived then to take their orders. Garland was glad for the interruption. Why was she brooding about Alasdair, when Rob was here plying her with Veuve Clicquot Reserve and telling her he liked her a lot? Then again, being part of the evening’s entertainment for everyone else in the restaurant wasn’t helping matters. She felt stiff and uncomfortable suddenly.
    Rob cleared his throat. “Speaking of Alasdair, I got hold of the guy I know at the Mattaquason Mariner and told him about you. His name is Jim Barnes, and he’s one of the staff writers. One of two.” He smiled wryly.
    “You told him about me?” Garland had a flashback of Kathy making her stand on her chair at the Captain’s Bridge.
    “You and finding Alasdair and Conn on the beach. Jim was shocked that he hadn’t heard about it. Anyway, he said of course he wanted the story and that he’s free tomorrow morning if that’s all right with you. I’m kind of surprised that they haven’t been sniffing around already—something like this should be big news in off-season Mattaquason. Hell, the middle school spelling bee was on the front page last week.” He shook his head. “The only thing is, I’ve got office hours on alternate Saturdays till twelve-thirty. Do you mind if I’m not there when Barnes comes?”
    Here was a chance to recapture the evening’s earlier mood. “Of course I’ll mind,” she said. “But I’ll let you make it up to me.”
    Rob’s grin flashed as he refilled their flutes. “I’ll have to see about that.”
     
    * * *
     
    Alasdair had not been happy when Garland said that she was going somewhere with the healer and would be leaving him and Conn alone that evening. Even though she promised she’d lock everything and showed him how to press a button on the “phone” that would make it so that he could talk to her on the tiny one she carried with her, he was still uneasy. He turned every light in the bedroom on, even her special sunshine lights and the tiny lights on her sewing and quilting machines. He thought about taking the coverings off the lamps but wasn’t sure if that would annoy her when she returned.
    Conn was not happy either; he’d clung to Garland while the healer checked