“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 around at the women who’d just been excitedly examining Whitney’s work. Most stood behind her resolutely, but a few had melted into the disapproving half of the restaurant. Julie, who’d been talking to Whitney moments before, quietly began to gather up all the sketches.
“Now, Sylvester,” Mrs. Palmer began, firmness overtaking the joviality in her voice.
Whitney interrupted. “These sketches are samples of my collection, underwear, nightgowns, robes. I don’t know what the big deal is—”
“The ‘big deal,’ Miss Winslow, is that we don’t need your racy kind of store in our town.”
“But this is Valentine Valley,” Whitney said, her voice growing cooler. “I’ve done my research. Why do you think I picked your town? You’re all about weddings and engagements and romance. And so is lingerie.”
Across the room, Josh was watching Whitney, his easygoing expression turning into admiration. He gave Brooke a nod as if to say, She’s handling herself just fine.
Julie brought the sketches to the booth. From beneath the table, Adam produced a large leather case and zipped the sketches away inside.
“People can buy it in brown paper packages off the Internet if they like,” Sylvester continued righteously, “but they don’t want to see it displayed where innocent eyes will be watching.”
“My window displays are tasteful and beautiful,” Whitney responded with indignation. “There would be nothing inappropriate.”
“So you say now,” Sylvester responded, “but once you own the building, you’ll reveal your real agenda, corrupting the morals of our children!”
Whitney’s face went red, and her mouth dropped open.
Mrs. Palmer’s eyes had gone cool with distaste. “That is unbelievably rude, Sylvester, to call our guest a liar.”