Home Fires

by Barbara Delinsky

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

New York Times Bestselling Author

BARBARA DELINSKY

HOME FIRES

From America's beloved storyteller, Barbara Delinsky, comes a classic novel about looking for love in all the right places—and finding a place to call home…

The young widowed heiress to a hotel empire, Deanna Hunt isn't one to mix business with pleasure. But when she first lays eyes on Mark Birmingham, she just can't help herself. In a moment of passion, she spends a wildly romantic night in this handsome stranger's arms—in the very hotel that is her heart and her home. If that weren't awkward enough, it turns out that Mark is the architect for the Hunt Foundation's children's hospital, which makes Deanna his boss. If they hope to work together, Mark and Deanna will need to cool off before they ignite a scandal. But even if the sign on the hotel room door says "Do Not Disturb", the home fires are still burning…and hearts are ablaze.

Previously published as Beyond Fantasy by Billie Douglass

Release date: June 26, 2012

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 186

Sample

HOME FIRES (Chapter 1)
"Good morning, Mrs. Hunt. Have you decided what you'll have for breakfast this morning?"

Deanna Hunt raised her eyes from the morning paper. With rare exceptions, she had eaten breakfast in the dining room of the Hunt International-Atlanta Hotel every morning for the past ten years. A menu was unnecessary.

"Any fresh strawberries today, Frank?" she asked softly.

Frank Pareto smiled and winked. "Fresh and sweet. With a little cream, perhaps?" he coaxed gently. In the years he'd been serving her, never once had he heard a condescending word pass her lips. Despite her youth, when Lawrence Hunt had married her and brought her to Atlanta to live, she had always been poised and gracious. Frank looked forward to her arrival in the dining room each morning. "The pecan rolls are particularlygood today," he added on a note of temptation. "May I bring you a basket?"

Deanna returned his smile with a hint of chiding. "Are you trying to fatten me up, Frank?"

"That's my job, Mrs. Hunt." The waiter tipped his head, not in the least hesitant As had many on the Hunt staff, he had grown more protective of her since the death of her husband nearly fourteen months earlier. She inspired that kind of caring.

"You do it very well." Deanna's compliment preceded a decisive nod. "Make it strawberries with cream and one pecan roll." She arched an auburn brow to emphasize the strict limit. Now that she had finally replaced the weight she'd lost after Larry's death, she no longer looked painfully thin. In fact, she had begun to notice gentle curves that had not been there when she'd first married. She had been nineteen then, barely out of her teens. Now she was several months short of thirty and a wealthy widow. It was a situation some women would have envied, yet Deanna increasingly sensed its flaws. With not a material worry in the world, she had no outward cause for complaint. What, then, explained the growing restlessness she felt?

Her disconcerted eye returned to the paper as Frank quietly disappeared into the kitchen and another waiter unobtrusively poured her coffee. He was a newer member of the hotel staff and slightly in awe of the presence of the head of the Hunt Foundation. Only Deanna knew her role to be a titular one. Like a queen, she was pampered and revered while the true power lay in the hands of others.

"Deanna?" A restrained male voice broke into her sober reverie, drawing her head up seconds before it brought a spontaneous smile to her lips.

"Jim, what a pleasure to see you!" she exclaimed,warmly extending her hands to meet his clasp. "It's been a long time."

James Drummond was relieved by the welcome. Though he knew that Lawrence and Deanna had purposely formed the habit of breakfasting in the dining room in order to be accessible to the hotel's guests, he feared that he had caught Deanna in a moment of private thought. She had borne a look of utter vulnerability in that split second before the mask of the hostess had fallen over those deep inner emotions.

"I haven't been in Atlanta for months," Jim explained, releasing her slender hands slowly. "It seems that business has been concentrated around New York and Boston lately." He paused. "You're looking very well, Deanna."

"Thanks, Jim," she acknowledged his concern. "I'm doing well. The foundation goes on and I try to keep busy." Her eyes brightened. "How's Angie?"

At the mention of his wife, Jim smiled. Deanna had always been the perfect hostess, with a distinct knack for remembering such things as the name of the spouse of even a minor Hunt business associate such as himself. "Angie is just fine."

"And the boys? The youngest must be … getting ready for college?"

"Entering Duke University next month," he replied with renewed admiration for her memory. "He may just bring us in your direction more often."

Deanna's smile broadened. "I hope so. You'll make a point to stop back again soon, won't you?"

"Of course, Deanna," Jim assured her, sensing her sincerity. "Take care now." With a brief salute, he was gone. Deanna's smile dissipated with his departure and she looked absently around the dining room for other familiar faces.

Lawrence Hunt had believed in elegance and that was what he had created when he'd built the hotel fourteen years before. This formal dining room embodied an old-world charm that had been abandoned in much of modern Atlanta. Here one dined in low-keyed splendor beneath graceful crystal chandeliers while seated in high-backed armchairs and served on fine white linen, with exquisite china and silver. If the cost of such grandeur was nearly prohibitive, the guests were undaunted. They returned repeatedly to visit the Hunts.

Catching sight of a familiar face at a table across the room, she smiled and nodded, then dropped her gaze to frown at the crease that her pale pink fingernail had distractedly inscribed on the padded linen tablecloth. There were always people to see and things to be done. Her days didn't lack for activities of her choosing. So what could be lacking?

Frank arrived with her breakfast. As she moved her hand aside to make way for the ice-embedded bowl of strawberries, she chanced to glance toward the far corner of the dining room, where the sun streamed through graceful bay windows. In the echo of a heartbeat she stared. There was a new face, one she didn't recognize. Surely she would have remembered had she seen this man before, for he was quite striking as his eyes captured hers.

"Powdered sugar, Mrs. Hunt?" Frank interrupted, the sugar bowl in his hand, its spoon poised to sprinkle.

Deanna tore her gaze from that of the stranger. "No. No, thank you. Cream will be fine," she told him in the soft tone that now hid her uncertainty. Before she could reach for the small porcelain pitcher, Frank raised it and swirled its rich white contents over the ripe red berries. Cupping the empty vessel in his left hand, he used his right to nudge an opening between water goblet andcoffee cup for the lone pecan roll she'd ordered and its small rose-shaped butter pat.

"Will there be anything else now?"

"This will be fine." She smiled her quiet appreciation and ever so subtle dismissal. She took her fork, then savored the sweet taste of several strawberries before venturing to look up again toward that far corner and that new face.

Eyes averted now, he read his own newspaper, his head bent. The morning sunlight filtered into the room, reflecting off the flatware before him and bouncing up to play among the chandeliers before spraying pale copper sparkles through hair that was every bit as thick and auburn as her own swept-up tresses, though far shorter. Even seated, he seemed tall and graced with dignity.

Deanna was held in his spell by the powerful masculine command he exuded. She helplessly admired his dark business suit, crisp yellow shirt and silk rep tie, all complementing his dark hair and bronzed skin perfectly. From a distance, she guessed him to be in his late thirties.

Despite her intent regard, the width of the room kept the fine details of his features hidden. Perhaps it was just as well, she realized with a jolt. For, while she would have liked to have examined him more closely, she found her interest new and frightening. He was different. Very different.

As his attention momentarily left the paper to focus on the plush burgundy carpet, Deanna felt an odd premonition. Then, as she had known he would, he lifted his gaze to meet hers directly and she felt strangely excited. The man was absolutely compelling. His expression contained an enigmatic blend of curiosity and vulnerability, all somehow rooted in a potential for strength that held her rapt for several long moments before she finally managed to force her eyes downward once more and slowly released the breath she'd been holding.

Her hand was less steady as she ate another strawberry, her thoughts on the riveting man with the most unusual expression on his face. He was different. But in what way? She had seen many attractive men come and go over the years, many just as charming, equally good-looking and as virile. What set this one apart from the others?

She sipped her coffee, not quite daring to confront him again. Looking in the opposite direction, she spotted a couple approaching and smiled quickly, grateful for the diversion. "LeeAnn and Tom! What a nice surprise!" Half rising, she offered a cheek to each of the pair in turn before sinking back into her chair.

LeeAnn Walker was an attractive brunette of roughly the same age as Deanna. The two women had been tennis partners for several years. "I couldn't resist showing you that he's actually taking me to breakfast," LeeAnn quipped, slipping her arm affectionately through her husband's as she looked at him. "We're doing it in style."

Deanna laughed. "I can't argue with that. How are you, Tom? I see your better half often enough, but not you," she scolded softly.

"That's because I'm busy earning the money to support not only the club membership but breakfasts at the choicest spots in town," Tom countered, not in the least disturbed by either expense. Deanna knew of the success of his law practice. The couple had recently moved into a new house, then shortly after had taken a trip to the Orient. She might have liked to have gone herself … had Larry been alive.

Determinedly thrusting aside the might-have-beens, she spoke to Tom. "LeeAnn tells me how well everything is going for you."

Tom's grin confirmed it. "Very well. And very busy. Bythe way, I'm hoping to do some work with Jay Knowlton for your fund-raising drive." Jay Knowlton was chief legal counsel for the Hunt Foundation and the fund-raising drive in question was for a new children's hospital to be heavily endowed by the foundation.

"Really?" Deanna brightened. The hospital had become her pet project "I didn't know that! Hmmph." She scowled in feigned exasperation, first at LeeAnn then back at Tom. "I'm often the last one to know these things." It had been happening more often than she'd like lately, and her exasperation was only half in jest "I think that's great! We could really use your help—both of you!"

LeeAnn warded her off with a wave of her hand. "Don't look at me, Deanna. I've already enlisted."

"I know." Deanna smiled more gently. "And I'm pleased. It'll be fun working together." She meant it. Given her own quiet personality, good friends her age had been hard to find. While she was socially poised and knew the right things to say at the right times, she was, and had always been, a basically private person. The outwardly confident and polished woman she portrayed was a product of years of practice and loving encouragement, first on the part of her parents, then her husband. But her innate introversion had on occasion been mistaken for aloofness by her peers, keeping them at arm's length. LeeAnn and she, on the other hand, had formed a warm relationship and now spent the better part of three mornings a week together at the club playing tennis, enjoying a sauna and massage afterward. Both women accepted the fact that their social lives went in different directions, Larry's group had been older and now that he was gone, Deanna rarely went out.

The maître d' appeared by Tom's side. "Your table is ready, Mr. Walker."

LeeAnn grinned at Deanna. "I'll see you at ten?" It was Wednesday. Their standing court time was from ten to eleven.

"Sure thing, LeeAnn. It was great seeing you, Tom. Enjoy your breakfast"

LeeAnn swooped close with a stage whisper. "Any recommendations?"

Deanna shot a glance at her own plate. "I'm told that the pecan rolls are good today. I'm trying one. Why don't you order a basket?" she asked, grinning mischievously. "You can work it off later." It was a standing joke between the two. If Deanna was often two pounds short of ideal, LeeAnn was two beyond.

"Why don't you have the basket?" LeeAnn rejoined wryly, then followed the quip up with a gentle laugh that faded as she allowed herself to be led to her table. Tom's parting wave said they'd see her later. Once more, Deanna's smile slowly evaporated. She had never minded being alone. It was part of her personality. Why, then, did she now feel lonely?

On an inexplicable impulse, Deanna sought out that far corner of the room. A glimmer of anticipation passed through her, quickening her pulse. But the table was empty. The handsome stranger had left. Her hope faded as quickly as it had arisen. With a quiet sigh of resignation, she returned to her breakfast.

By the time she had finished her second leisurely cup of coffee, it was nearly nine o'clock. At her request, one to which he was accustomed, Frank bagged several additional pecan rolls, then held her chair as she stood to leave. For a brief minute he watched her go, silently admiring the class of this woman who was always so polite and soft-spoken. She might own the hotel, he mused, but there was not an ounce of arrogance in her.

Frank's wasn't the only eye to follow her departure. Almost everyone who knew her shared a similar admiration.She had survived Lawrence Hunt's sudden death with a dignity that would have made him proud and she now carried on the Hunt tradition he had worked so hard to establish.

She made a striking figure as she wove through the tables, smiling gently and nodding at one acquaintance or another on her way to the door. Slim and of an average height that was accentuated by strappy gray high-heeled sandals, she wore a cream-colored linen blouse with a loose V neck and generous billowing sleeves that were gathered at the wrist. Her skirt was of the peasant variety that no peasant could dream of affording, a rich mix of browns, grays and écrus that floated gracefully about her as she walked. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of simple gold earrings, a wide-banded gold necklace that lay flat on her bare throat and the plain gold wedding band she had taken a preference to wearing over the more elaborate rings her husband had bestowed on her. In her simplicity, she was as elegant as the dining room she left.

The hotel elevator quickly whipped her up to the fortieth floor, where she lived in the sumptuous suite that had been hers and Larry's through their nine plus years of married life. Friends had often wondered why they hadn't bought a spacious home in one of the suburbs of Atlanta. Larry had offered it to her more than once, but she knew he enjoyed the hotel. Perhaps if they'd had children they might have made the move. But children had never come and they'd remained here. It was as though Larry had known that then people would be around to look after her in his absence.

Deanna paused outside her door long enough to punch out the numerical combination to unlock it, then pushed it open and stepped into a wide foyer. "Irma?" she called once, then again more loudly as she closed the door and scanned the empty living room.

"Right here, Mrs. Hunt." Irma materialized instantly from the far end of the suite. She was a small bundle of energy in a gray and white starched uniform, the image of warm-blooded efficiency. "I was just changing the linens," she explained, stuffing the same into a pillowcase. Irma had served as Lawrence Hunt's housekeeper since he'd moved into the hotel. Her husband, Henry, was chauffeur, handyman and messenger wrapped into one wiry, white-haired package. They shared a smaller but still roomy suite conveniently adjoining the kitchen and their sole duty now was to see to Deanna's needs. On occasion, Deanna turned the tables.

"Here, Irma." She extended the bag of rolls toward the older woman. "Pecan rolls for you and Henry. They're delicious today." She leaned forward, listening. "Is he out already?" When Henry was at work cleaning or polishing around the suite, there was always a telltale sound to be heard, a whistling, a humming, even a scratchy chatter to himself. Now everything was quiet.

Irma tucked the pillowcase under her arm and accepted the bag. "He's gone ahead to the garage to polish the car. I'll give him a buzz when you're ready to leave. And … thank you for the rolls," she added with a self-conscious smile. "You really shouldn't bother yourself about us."

Deanna's cheeks dimpled as she squeezed the woman's arm gently. "Don't be silly, Irma. It was no bother. Enjoy them!"

"Oh, we will. Pecan rolls are Henry's favorites. But you knew that, didn't you?"

Deanna passed off the observation with a sheepish shrug, then began to move away. "I'll be working in the den for a little while. Will you have Henry bring the car around in half an hour?"

"Certainly. Your bag is all set to go. I'll bring it right out Oh, and Mrs. Hunt?"

Halfway down the hall now, Deanna turned. "Uh-huh?"

"I thought I'd make a roast lamb for dinner. Is there anything special you'd like for lunch?"

Deanna considered the matter briefly before dismissing it and continuing down the hall. "Something light," she called back over her shoulder. "Perhaps an omelet?"

Irma smiled and shook her head at the disappearing figure. She knew just how Deanna Hunt liked her omelets: moist, with cheese and spinach. It was a simple meal to prepare. She half suspected that Deanna chose it often for that very reason. But Deanna was as undemanding in other things as well, which was remarkable, since she had grown up amid nearly as much wealth as she currently enjoyed.

Indeed, Irma mused, it would not have been surprising had she been spoiled and demanding, yet she was neither. She was an easy woman to please, her temper calm and controlled even during those times when her eyes held that well of loneliness she kept so stoically to herself. Through the months following her husband's death she had held her emotions in check. Now over a year had passed and she did no differently.

It seemed odd that a woman as young and attractive as Deanna Hunt should lead such a simple existence. Not quite the poor little rich girl, she was outwardly content. But surely she should be out more, with people, enjoying life. Surely she should be having fun, leading a less structured life than she did. Perhaps … in time. Shaking her head in silent regret, Irma headed for the laundry room.

Meanwhile, in the den, Deanna lifted her pen to write another of the letters she was personally sending to each of two hundred potentially major contributors to the hospital project "Dear Monte and Diane," she wrote, then let the pen fall idle once more. Monte and Dianewere friends of Larry's, contemporaries of his rather than hers. What were her own contemporaries doing with their lives?

More often now than ever in the past, she wondered what things might have been like had she gone on to college as her brother had, rather than marrying fresh out of high school and becoming Larry's wife and hostess. Certainly she would have formed a different, if smaller, circle of friends. She might even have married someone her own age rather than a man twenty years her senior whom her parents had known for years. Larry had courted her gently, offering her the care and protection she had come to depend on. He had loved her, and she him, but in a way that was somehow different from what she had imagined it to be in her wildest dreams.

In place of starbursts and rainbows she had found companionable serenity. While Larry lived, it had been enough. Now, as she faced a future alone, she wondered. What would it be like to do something wild? Something irresponsible? Something selfish? Could she ever kick up her heels and truly let loose? Her brother had done it and the results had been tragic.

Shaking her head free of the sad memories, Deanna grimaced at her inappropriate thoughts. She was simply not the rebellious type. Even had her brother not died so young, she probably would always have stayed close to home. After all, she did enjoy her life and its comforts. She couldn't deny that. And there was definite psychological merit in devoting oneself to philanthropic concerns such as those encompassed by the Hunt Foundation.

"Dear Monte and Diane …" She reread the salutation aloud, put pen to paper and proceeded to complete the letter from one of the prototypes she'd worked out with the public relations department. By the time she hadfinished and signed her name with a disciplined flourish, it was time to leave.

This Wednesday passed as did every other Wednesday. Henry dropped her at the club for the morning and picked her up later. She ate lunch back in her suite in the sunny, informal breakfast room, which was never used for breakfast, only for lunch and dinner. The larger, more formal dining room, which seated sixteen easily, had been unused for over a year.

Her afternoon was spent quietly at home, ostensibly heading the Hunt Foundation from the comfort of her den, in reality serving as a high-ranking social secretary. She received her customary call from Robert Warner, the executive director of the foundation, in whose hands true power rested. The call was filled with pleasant words regarding what she should be doing that day, what the next day's meeting would discuss and any small tidbits that Bob chose to pass on. There was, in fact, little substance to the conversation. But it had been that way for months. Why should Deanna be frustrated by it now?

She wrote ten more letters to add to the growing stack, kept up with other personal correspondence to one friend or another of Larry's who had dropped her a note, then made several phone calls on minor foundation business. She picked up the novel she'd bought the day before and read for an hour before dinner, then for several more after dinner, before bathing and retiring to begin again the next morning.

But this would be Thursday. Tuesdays and Thursdays held a special place in her heart. Though the afternoons were spent at the Hunt International offices several blocks away, the mornings were her own. Few people knew that she spent them in the pediatrics ward of the Atlanta General Hospital, talking with, reading to or sometimes simply holding those children whose parents could not bethere. It filled a special need of hers and she would have given up almost any other activity before she gave up this one. There was an added lightness to her step when she entered the hotel dining room Thursday morning and took her regular table.

"Good Morning, Mrs. Hunt." Frank welcomed her with a half bow and a smile. "How are you today?"

"Just fine, Frank." Deanna cocked her head in the direction from which she'd just come. "Was that a slice of honeydew I just passed?"

The waiter grinned. "It was."

"May I have one? And an order of cinnamon toast, please?"

"With honey?"

"Without honey." She cast him a humorous look that recalled the previous day's chiding and enough was said Frank moved off, clearing the way for her to see to the far corner near the window. Instantly her senses came alive. He was there again, that tall, auburn-haired man, looking at her with that same profound expression that took her breath away. It hadn't occurred to her that he'd return—she hadn't allowed herself to think it. Yet there he was! Was he a guest at the hotel?

Fascinated by the unspoken depths of the stranger's gaze, Deanna couldn't look away. His presence tugged at her, evoking sensations of silent communication she'd never experienced before. His eyes said "Good morning" and hinted at a smile when hers returned the greeting. "Who are you?" he asked wordlessly, and "Where are you headed?"

"Here you are, Mrs. Hunt" A gleaming china plate bearing a generous wedge of succulent green melon was slid into place before her. Startled, Deanna snapped her attention back.

"Oh! Thank you, Frank," she murmured, thenbreathed deeply to steady her pulse as she watched the waiter carefully set down a plate of toast with its heat-saving silver dome.

Who was that man? Deanna opened her mouth to ask Frank, but shut it just as quickly and let the waiter leave without another word. Only then did she scold herself for her foolishness. If Frank hadn't known the stranger's name he could easily have discovered it. Deanna often made similar requests when she couldn't find the name to fit a face she recognized.

But this was different. He was different. Hadn't she known it from the start? Though Deanna willed herself not to look up again, his face was indelibly etched in her mind. It was a strong yet gentle face, sun-touched and manly. Today his suit was of a lighter shade, a misty gray that emphasized the dark thickness of his hair and the even darker, deeper awareness in his eyes. Today the distance between them seemed to fade, bridged by an incredibly sensual familiarity. Absurd as she knew it to be, Deanna felt that she had known him for years. She stared at him, stunned by the force that flowed between them. It was as though they were emotionally tuned to one another. It was strange, but she sensed that he needed her.

Then she caught herself. That was ridiculous! She didn't know the man! Scoffing at her runaway imagination, she dragged her gaze downward and raised a spoon to the waiting melon. But she paused before making the first gouge that would mar the perfection of the slice. Was it ridiculous? Was there such a thing as an instant attraction that could explain the wild fluttering in her stomach? Wild fluttering? With a quiet chuckle of self-indulgence, she realized that this soft internal fluttering might be the wildest thing she would ever feel. And then she sucked in her breath as an even wilder thoughttitillated her senses. Blushing warmly, she forced it from her mind with a piercing thrust of her spoon into the melon's soft flesh.

Reaching for the morning paper which was always left for her, Deanna applied herself to the news of the day with greater intentness and less success than ever. Had Anthony Broad and his two out-of-town clients, the three old acquaintances of the Hunts, asked her what she'd read when they paused to greet her moments later, she might well have been embarrassed by her ignorance. But it didn't matter. Her purpose was served. She returned to the paper, ate breakfast with a painstakingly unhurried air, smiled at those who dropped by—all the while denying to herself the presence of that man and his startling effect on her.

As on the previous morning, the mystery man was gone long before Deanna finished. When she threw caution to the winds and glanced helplessly toward his table there was only a lingering sunbeam to mark where he had been. With a sigh that was as much of relief as disappointment, she forced herself to close the book on a short-lived fantasy. Decisively shouldering her bag, she headed directly for the spot in front of the hotel where Henry and the car were waiting.

The morning was as gratifying as she might have hoped, as rewarding as it was tiring. Henry picked her up at the hospital at noon and chauffeured her home for lunch, then delivered her an hour later to the executive offices of the Hunt Foundation, where she spent the afternoon in conference with various members of the foundation organization.

Bob Warner arranged these meetings as efficiently as he did most everything else. He offered Deanna only what information she needed to be generally aware of foundation activities, answered her questions patiently and gave his advice freely. He had been frankly startledwhen, soon after Larry's death, Deanna had asked to be given these regular briefings. With her total lack of business training, it might have been easier for her to have handed over the reins completely. But she had needed to participate in some small way, and though Bob's word was more often than not the law, her twice-weekly presence among the office staff carried a subtle and understated force. She was quiet and unobtrusive, but her questions were pithy, her inquiries pointed. She possessed good common sense and a knack for diplomacy, both of which Bob Warner channeled into useful avenues.

In this case the avenue was the drive toward the building of the Greater Georgia Children's Hospital and the bulk of the afternoon session revolved around the fund raising in which Deanna was already deeply involved. After much coaxing, she had finally agreed to hold a series of private dinner parties in her own suite, each courting eight to ten potentially significant supporters of the project. Though Bob and his wife would be at each, along with at least one or two other foundation bigwigs, Deanna had not entertained since Larry's death and never alone. As intimidating as the thought had been at first, Bob's argument was valid. There was an emotional value to be gained from Deanna's visible activity and Larry's vivid memory. It had been Larry's last hope to see this project a reality.

Deanna was exhausted when Henry finally shuttled her home at six. She ate alone, reflecting on the afternoon's meetings as Irma quietly served her a private feast of rock cornish hen and wild rice. Later she retreated to her bedroom to read before sinking at length into a restless sleep.

When she arose Friday morning it was with a vague sense of anticipation. She took greater pains in dressing than she had on either of the past two mornings. Even ontennis mornings such as this she would never have thought to show herself in the hotel dining room looking anything less than well groomed. Today, however, she wanted to do even better.

Sorting through the rack of late-summer fashions, she chose a pale lavender sundress, a one-piece wrap that was strapless, self-sashing and bottomed by gay white high-heeled sandals. Her jewelry was simple: small hoop earrings, a necklace, a ring. But she added an extra coat of mascara to her lashes, giving them the illusion of even gr