Little Black Dress with Bonus Material (15 page)

How else could the dress fit the petite yet shapely Anna as well as the tall and slender Evie, not to mention Toni, too, who was somewhere in between. Without a brilliant seamstress and extra material, such tricky alterations couldn't be done, could they? So what the heck did it mean?

She kept squinting beneath the yellow haze of the bare bulb until the picture blurred before her eyes.

“Antonia? Are you up there?”

Toni started at the bark of Greg's voice, and the photograph fell from her hands. “I'll be down in a second,” she called back as she scrambled to collect the image and shoved it into the breast pocket of Greg's button-down.

“Will you come back to bed? It's still too early to get up, but I can't snooze without you there,” he groggily explained, and she heard the creak of his tread on the bottom steps.

Was he heading up? No, no, no, that wouldn't do at all.

She hollered, “Be down in a sec!”

Toni hurriedly pushed the hatbox back beneath the wicker chair.

“Coming!” she promised and, brushing the dust off her hands, scurried down the stairs, flipped off the light, and closed the door.

B
ridget called at a quarter past ten, just before church, offering to swing by after to fix Toni lunch; but Toni told her that Greg had come down from St. Louis and he'd be sticking around until the evening.

“If you need me, I'll be near,” Bridget kindly reminded, and Toni assured her she'd be fine before saying good-bye.

Greg offered to accompany her to the hospital to visit Evie but Toni firmly told him no. He had never met her mother, and she didn't want their introduction to be in the Blue Hills ICU. “Greg, there's my mom, Evelyn Ashton, the white-haired woman hooked up to the ventilator. Mother, if you can hear me in there, this is Greg McCallum, the man I've been sleeping with for two years who apparently doesn't love me enough to marry me.”

Yep, that would pretty much suck.

And truthfully—selfishly—Toni needed to spend time with Evie without Greg hanging over her shoulder. There were things she felt compelled to say, whether Evie could hear her or not.

So she packed a few specific items in an old knapsack and left Greg pouting in the den with a chicken salad sandwich and a cup of hot tea. She'd stuck him in her dad's beat-up desk chair with Charlotte and Joseph Morgan frowning at him from their portraits over the fireplace. Surrounded by piles of magazines, junk mail, and paperwork, he'd appeared none too thrilled.

“What exactly am I supposed to do while you're gone?” he'd asked, eyes blinking behind his dark-rimmed specs.

“See if you can make sense of this stack of financial statements, would you? I'd appreciate it if you could figure out whether or not Mother's as bad off as Bridget seems to think,” she'd explained and kissed him on the cheek.

Then she'd ducked out before he could further complain.

Not ten minutes after, she stood before the nurses' station at ICU, where she got the okay to use her laptop in her mom's room. Once Toni shed her winter gear and set the knapsack on the floor, she pulled out her computer and positioned it on the table beside Evie's bed. She brought up her music library, selected a handful of songs to be played then set the volume down a smidge.

Softly, Nat King Cole began crooning “Unforgettable,” a tune she'd heard sung more than once as the first dance at weddings, but still it got to her. There were others in the queue, too, music equally beautiful, songs whose lyrics were commanded by the likes of Sinatra and Crosby. She knew Evie would approve. Her mother had always adored the old crooners.

Toni had sent her a set of Michael Bublé CDs last Christmas, and when she'd phoned on the holiday to wish Evie merry, her mother had remarked, “The boy's not bad, but he's no Frankie.”

You're welcome, Ma.

“I figured you'd be bored in here listening to nurses' babble and machines beep,” she said to her mother as she dragged a chair up to the bed. “Doesn't it make you want to get out of this joint? Maybe get up and dance?” she joked, wishing Evie would wake up and say, “Is that Nat King Cole? I hope you've got some Sinatra as well.”

But, of course, that didn't happen.

“Do you remember when Daddy used to come home from work, and he'd catch you around the waist, holding you cheek to cheek and swaying, whenever an old song came on the radio? You'd laugh and swat him, but you looked so happy. You both did. I loved those moments. They were great.”

They were some of her best memories.

Toni felt an ache between her ribs and missed her father all over again, missed the light he'd brought into her life. Would she ever get over him? He could make Evie smile when no one else could or take a tense situation and defuse it, as he had so many times between Toni and her mother. Greg was stalwart and reliable, to be sure, but he didn't have Jon Ashton's spark, his compassion, his lack of inhibition when it came to showing affection. Toni wondered how she could have ignored it for so long, how she could have pretended she didn't crave the connection, the
passion
her parents had shared.

“. . . that's why, darling, it's incredible that someone so unforgettable, thinks that I am unforgettable, too,” Nat cooed, and tears she hadn't meant to unleash skidded down her cheeks.

“He was good for you, you know,” Toni said and set her chin on the cool metal bed rail. “When he held you, and you beamed, it was like for those few minutes you'd stop worrying, because you always seemed to worry so much, especially about me. Sometimes the way you held on so tightly scared me. It made me want to leave.”

She covered her mother's thin hand with her own, mindful of the IV.

“Please, come back to me, okay? Whenever you're ready, I'll be waiting. Maybe we can figure out how to make you smile like you smiled for Daddy.”

Toni paused and sucked in a breath, desperate to keep it together. She needed to ask her mom a question that she wasn't even sure how to ask. Before she could, she dragged the knapsack nearer and removed the second item she'd packed.

Toni came out of the chair and draped the black dress over the bed rail, so the skirt fell across Evie's hip.

“When you wake up, you'll have to tell me about this,” she started slowly, brushing her hand across the fabric to smooth it. “It's the dress you put on the morning you collapsed. The one the hospital cut right off you that somehow fixed itself. Because I wore it last night”—a light charge of static rose from the silk and tickled her palm—“I put it on and it fit, and I don't know how, because we're not built alike, you and I.”

She watched her mother's face as she carefully moved Evie's hand. She set it atop the black dress before covering it with her own. “Hunter Cummings was there. I didn't know it was his restaurant. He touched my shoulder, and I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. I know this sounds weird but I had this vision of us together, him and me, and it was like no dream I've ever dreamed. It seemed so real. I have no clue what to think about any of it.” Her cheeks heated up at the memory, and the hand that covered Evie's began to tremble. “Please, Mama, please,” she whispered desperately, “you have to tell me what's going on. Tell me I'm not going crazy.”

A sudden jolt skipped from Evie's hand to her own, a wave of energy pulsing through her, and Toni squeezed her eyes closed as a vivid scene played out in her head.

She stood as she was now, beside her mother's bed, the black dress spread over Evie's torso. Next to her was a woman with a cap of white hair and eyes so deep a blue they looked indigo. “Oh, Evie,” she tearfully said. “Don't leave us. Please, don't go. It's not supposed to end like this.” And then the damnedest thing happened: with a flutter of lashes, Evie's eyes opened.

Then it was over, just like that.

A soft gasp escaped her, and Toni blinked, clearing her head to focus on Evie.

She could swear she saw her mother's eyes darting frantically beneath the closed lids, as though her mind was thinking, whirring, dreaming.

You are not nuts,
Toni reassured herself.

Instead of freaking out, she took a slow, deep breath and then another. She didn't hyperventilate or rush off to the nurses' station. They wouldn't have believed her even if she'd told them what had happened. Toni barely believed it herself.

She stood there quietly, her heart racing, her hand resting on Evie's atop the silk dress as Nat King Cole's voice drifted off and the music segued to Sinatra singing, “I've got you under my skin,” while the ventilator sighed, the monitors beeped, and Evie's chest gently rose and fell in perfect rhythm.

A
nna?” I said, because I thought I was dreaming and perhaps I was, as somewhere in the back of my head I heard music playing, the soft croon of Sinatra's voice. I felt a shiver up my spine and blinked to clear my eyes, but Annabelle was still there, which made no sense at all. How could she be standing on my porch with that silly grin on her face after four years gone? It seemed impossible, though I'd willed it to happen so many times since I'd last seen her, even in moments when I'd come close to hating her.

“Hello, Evie darling,” she replied with a giggle.

She seemed ten years old again with her pixie-cut hair and big blue eyes. She even exuded a childlike energy, clutching hands at her belly and rolling from heel to toe in chunky sandals, unable to stand still.

Where have you been, Annabelle?
I wanted to shout.
How could you keep us in the dark? Do you know how horrible it was for Daddy and Mother, grieving over you as if you were gone for good?

The questions rang inside my head, daring me to voice them. Instead, my stoic nature took over as it always did, and I stared at her, tight-lipped.

“Evie sweet, are you all right?” she asked when I didn't rush to fling my arms around her. Nervously, she reached for the strand of cheap beads around her throat and twisted them. “Do you despise me? Can you forgive me for being away for so long? I thought of you often and missed you terribly, but each day went by so fast that I got caught up in it.” She paused and her breathy tone turned sober. “Besides, I couldn't come home too soon. It would have ruined everything.”

You have ruined everything already,
I wanted to snap.

How, I wondered, could I ever truly forgive her? How could I forget the aftermath of her abandoning us? I had to remind myself that Anna was still my sister, my flesh and blood, and I had sworn that I wouldn't cut her out of my life as my father had. Though I could hardly welcome her back with hugs and giggles, acting like nothing had happened.

“The days may have passed quickly for you, but they felt like forever to us,” I said flatly, deciding not to sugarcoat it. “You do know that Mother's dead? If you'd come back sooner, she might still be alive.”

Anna ceased her restless movements. “I'm sorry I wasn't here,” came her hushed reply. “I wish I'd seen her one last time, but I couldn't have done anything differently.” Her slim brow creased. “Surely, you don't blame me? We all walk our own paths, Evie. She chose hers, and I followed mine.”

She
chose
hers?

Could she possibly know that our mother had taken her own life—since it wasn't common knowledge—or was it merely a poor choice of words? Even as a child, Annabelle often spoke without thinking, oblivious to the reaction of others. That she continued to do so wasn't surprising but only further served to exasperate me. And I was tired enough as it was.

I felt drained by our brief conversation; my limbs were shaky, my skin hot, and my eyelids heavy. Despite the shade of the porch, I'd had enough of the fresh air and morning sun.

“I'm worn out, Anna, and the surprise of seeing you makes me dizzy,” I said, desperate to escape inside the cottage. “If you're a figment of my imagination, you can disappear now. If you're not, you can follow me.”

With that, I slowly walked toward the door.

“But I am real!” she insisted from behind me, and I heard the thump of her footsteps as she followed. “Evelyn Alice, I am back, and I swear I'm no ghost.”

I had barely entered when she caught my hand, and I turned as the screened door slapped loudly behind her.

“You feel this, don't you?” she asked and squeezed, her fingers gripping mine so tightly I winced.

I nodded.

“Good,” she said and loosened her hold without letting go. “Please, let's sit.” She drew me toward the toile-covered settee. “Are you all right?” she asked as we settled in.

“Yes,” I lied, though I did feel slightly better for coming inside. The room was cool and dim as I'd kept the drapes drawn for days.

“Look at me, Evie,” she said, shifting her body so she faced me, “and ask whatever it is you want to ask.”

I wished I had a glass of water at hand. My mouth felt so dry. But I managed to meet her eyes and find my voice. “Were you forced to stay away? Were you kept locked up without a way to escape?”

She looked appalled. “No! Of course I wasn't.”

“Then why?” I said, pain strangling the words. “Why did you do it?”

“You know I couldn't marry Davis,” she started to say but I brusquely interrupted.

“No! That's not what I meant!” I glared at her, furious. “Why did you go and leave me? I couldn't replace you, I could only be me. You broke our family in two, and I could not keep us from falling apart!” My chest heaved, my breaths coming so fast I could hardly breathe.

But Anna merely blinked, sad but not surprised, and I knew then and there that I would never get the answer I wanted.

“Poor Evie,” she said, not for the first time and, with a sigh, let go of my hand. She plucked at her loose-fitting dress, her gaze falling to her lap. “There are things that had to happen before my return,” she explained and folded her arms over her middle. “Davis had to marry Christine, and there was someone I had to meet first, something that had to come to pass.” At that, she blushed and sighed again. “Even if I'd known how sick Mother was, I couldn't have come sooner. I can't have changed what was meant to be.”

“But she needed you.
I
needed you,” I said, despising the betrayal of tears that filled my eyes. “You should have been here—”

“For the funeral?”

My chin jerked up, and I fumed at her, angry that she still didn't see. “You should have been here for
me
.”

“I missed your wedding, didn't I?” she said softly.

Oh, it was far more than that. Only I couldn't begin to describe the gaping hole her absence had left. We had been different, yes, but a part of each other. If not for Jonathan, I may have fallen into despair like Mother or withdrawn completely like Daddy. Jon had kept me afloat.

“You could have written,” I whispered.

“But I did!” she insisted, eyes wide as buttons. “I wrote a postcard from every single place.”

“I never got them.”

“Maybe they were lost or else—” A ripple of confusion crossed her face, and her voice trailed off. She frowned, looking angry.

I waited for her to finish, to say that Daddy must have intercepted them, because that was my first thought. I had to wonder if that was the case. Had he burned postcards from Anna in the fire that day out back? Or was she lying about writing them? “What else?” I prodded, hoping to get some kind of answer.

But she accused no one. She merely shrugged, and the scowl disappeared. “It doesn't matter now, does it?” She reached for my legs and leaned over, setting her head in my lap as if she were a little girl again. “I hope I can make it up to you someday very soon.”

I wasn't sure how she'd attempt to do that. But I began to stroke her hair as I'd done so many times growing up, and I found myself hoping she'd make it up to me, too.

“Do you remember the black dress?” she asked quietly, her voice muffled against my thigh. “The one I bought from the Gypsy the day before the wedding?”

“Yes,” I told her but said no more.

“The Gypsy was right, Evie. There is magic in it. It gave me visions that night, ones too vivid to ignore.”

“About Davis and Christine, and the sons they would have,” I murmured, thinking of what she'd said earlier, guessing now how she'd known.

“That was part of it, of course, but there was more, so much more.”

“About you leaving us,” I said, “about when you could return.”

“That, too.”

“So the dress is responsible, not you,” I said, as much an answer as a question, and a sob caught in my throat. A part of me ached to tell her how foolish she was to have allowed the dress to run her life. But that would make me a hypocrite, wouldn't it? Because the dress had led me to Jon, I had followed its visions to the altar, and I was
still
waiting desperately for another of its prophecies to come true. If I believed all that then I had to believe her, too.

She moved her head against my thigh in mute agreement.

“What exactly did it show you?” I kept stroking her hair despite the tremor in my fingers. I wanted her to go on. I needed to know what had driven her away that night so long ago and what had finally compelled her to come home. “Tell me why you were so afraid.”

Anna shifted position so that her face tipped up toward me. “I wasn't afraid, not the way you think. But I did see Antonia. I saw her all grown up, and I knew her entire future depended on me. I couldn't let her down. I had to be very careful, Evie.”

“Who is Antonia?” My hand stilled, and a sudden fury gripped me. “And why in God's name would she convince you to hide from your family?”

“No, no, you've got it all wrong.” She sat up, her cheeks pink, and the faraway look in her eyes came into focus. “Antonia didn't tell me to keep away from Blue Hills. But I had to do it
for
her.”

“Why?” I cried, because I had no earthly idea what she was talking about, or, more particularly,
who,
but Anna didn't seem in any hurry to explain. I curled my fingers, dug my nails into soft skin, enraged that a woman—a
stranger
—would have a greater influence in Anna's life than I did. “Why?” I asked again, and it emerged as a moan.

“You'll see,” she leaned to whisper in my ear and then rose from the settee, drifting away.

Anna went toward the stone fireplace until she stood before the mantel. On it rested several framed photographs of Jonathan and me. I saw her nod to herself before she turned around, beaming.

“Your marriage is a good one,” she said. “I can tell. You look so happy with him.”

“He's my life,” I replied quietly. “I would do anything for Jon.”

“And he for you, I'll bet.”

For a few minutes more, I watched my sister meander about the room, touching this and that, and I wondered how she could change the subject so quickly; how she could be so careless with my feelings.

“I was so pleased when I heard you'd moved into the cottage,” she said and paused to finger a painted vase that I'd dug out of the attic. “I always liked living here better than the drafty old Victorian packed with Charlotte and Joseph's dusty things. It's so peaceful and cozy. I'd almost forgotten how lovely it was.” She went to the window next and pushed aside the linen drapes, bending forward to peer out to the gravel road. “And still it's close enough to Daddy that he must be tickled.”

“I guess he is,” I said, struggling to stay calm and willing her to get back to the question of who Antonia was and why she was so damned important.

“You were always the one who pleased him, you know, never me.”

I wasn't sure how to respond to that. “Perhaps it's not too late for you to try,” I suggested, and Anna laughed bitterly.

“Believe me, Evie, it's way too late for that.”

She let the drape fall, and I noticed the way her dress pulled against her as she straightened and shifted her gaze from the window. When I'd seen her last, she had a nipped-in waist, so tiny I could nearly span it with my hands. Now she seemed fuller across the middle. Even her breasts seemed to strain against the fabric of her dress.

When she caught me looking at her, she paused to glance down and clasped her hands around her belly. There was something purposeful about the movement, but I didn't grasp what it meant, not at first.

“You look different,” I remarked, “so grown up.”

She smiled, as if I'd said the very thing she'd wanted me to say. “Do you think so really?”

“You've got more curves,” I told her, uncertain of any other way to phrase it.

“And I'm bound to get curvier still,” she remarked, grinning broadly.

I couldn't imagine what was so funny about that. I crossed my arms tightly and leaned back, withdrawing.

“Oh, Evie, I don't mean to tease.” She came toward me, arms extended, and I sighed, rising from my seat to catch her hands in mine. We stood at an arm's length, far enough apart that my gaze took in everything about her, all the bits and pieces of her that four years apart had changed.

“I can't put my finger on it,” I murmured.

“But you will,” she assured me. “It's why I've returned, why it's been a long time coming.”

I noticed then she wore no wedding ring, nothing at all to suggest she had news of marriage to share. So it must be something else.

“Can't you see? Can't you guess?” Anna detached herself from me and backed up, turning left and right, cupping her hands beneath her stomach this time so that her dress pulled tight.

“Oh!” I gasped. It hit me then like a sack of bricks, why her breasts seemed fuller and her hips rounder. All the pieces clicked together in my wounded mind, and I raised a trembling hand to my lips. Why I hadn't seen it sooner, I wasn't sure. Maybe I hadn't wanted to know because I'd been there; I'd been so close. “Annabelle,” I said breathlessly, “you're pregnant.”

“I am!” The dimpled grin deepened. “It's early still, somewhere between three and four months, which is why I couldn't stay away any longer. It was my fate—our fate—to share this child. I've understood for the longest time that it would happen but not when precisely. It was just a matter of waiting—”

“I know,” I said, not letting her finish, and my voice shook as much as the rest of me. “I've been waiting, too. Only I didn't realize exactly what the dress had meant, not until this very moment.”