Little Black Dress with Bonus Material (7 page)

“Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle,” I murmured as I glimpsed myself in the bureau mirror. It suited me beautifully. My body looked fit yet feminine beneath the black silk, and the garment glinted flirtatiously beneath the light as it had when Anna had worn it.

I watched out the window for Jonathan's truck and was at the front door before he could ring the bell. Instead of inviting him in, I stepped outside and shut the door behind me.

“You look nice,” I told him, as he'd dressed in a pressed white shirt and creased trousers, his boots buffed to a warm shine. His eyes widened at the sight of me, so I did a little twirl with a curtsy at the end. “Do you like it?” I asked.

“Do I like it?” he repeated and let out a low whistle. “My, oh, my, you clean up awfully well,” he said with the most satisfied smile on his lips. He could hardly take his eyes off me to drive his pickup into Ste. Genevieve for supper.

As we rode, Jon chatted with me, telling me about his job as a barge and boat mechanic, how much he liked to fix things, and how he had started taking apart toasters and radios and putting them back together before he could read. I listened and remarked in all the right places. I wanted to believe that it was me and not the dress that emboldened me. I had a renewed confidence, like every move I made and every word I spoke had a purpose.

But there was more to it than that, an energy I couldn't define that made me laugh more easily and smile more often. Normally, I was not inclined to get affectionate with a man I barely knew—not that I'd had a lot of opportunity—but I found myself replying, “Yes, you may,” when Jon asked if he might kiss me good night. With a confidence rarely felt, I reached for his shoulders to hold him closer, and I shut my eyes as his lips touched mine.

Another vibration rocked my senses, and I saw a second vision: Jonathan held both my hands in his as we stood before a man with an open Bible, and we pledged to love and honor each other until death did us part.

The image was real enough to unsettle me, and I pulled apart from him, my eyes wide and pulse rapid. If my heart had jumped out of my chest at that moment, I wouldn't have been surprised.

“I have to go,” I said, my cheeks hot. I ducked my head, afraid to look at him.

“You felt it, too, didn't you?” He caught my arms, not letting me go, and I finally peeled my gaze off my shoes to see that he was startled by what had passed between us, too. “There's something very different about you, Evie, something about us. I can't put my finger on it, but it's there just the same.”

I stood there like a mute, blinking at him, unable to put to words what I'd just seen. How could I tell him it was the black dress and its voodoo, playing tricks on our minds? What if the Gypsy hadn't lied and the dress could show destiny? Had I just put some kind of spell on him? Or did he truly find me so special?

“Whatever's going on, I like it,” he whispered and leaned his brow against my hair. “I could stand right here and hold you all night. You smell so good, so soft and sweet,” he said, and I wanted to tell him I wasn't wearing cologne. It made me sneeze. Then I realized what he meant because I could smell it, too, emanating from the silk of the dress.

It was lily of the valley, my sister's scent.

But how was that possible when the dress had been carefully cleaned and submerged in the muddy river before that? Somehow, it remembered Anna, as if it still claimed a part of her; and now it had claimed me as well.

“I fished you out of the drink, and you've gone and got me hooked,” Jon said, his voice low and tremulous.

His words made me shiver and set my heart to pounding in a way it never had before. I felt that odd warmth again, the tingling where the dress touched my skin, and I knew deep down in that instant that Jon and I would be together forever. Maybe Anna hadn't exaggerated about the dress and its mysterious effect. Perhaps there
was
something magical about it; although, if anything, that made me distrust it even more. What if the next thing it showed me wasn't good at all but horrifying?

When I finally said good night and went inside, I headed straight for my room and peeled off the dress. I packed it away in an old flowered hatbox and stowed it on my closet shelf, hoping it would stop whatever it was doing and leave well enough alone.

But the dress had other plans, of course.

T
oni ended up running back and forth to the hospital the better part of Saturday. She stayed with her mother for ten-minute intervals—longer if the ICU nurses would allow it—sometimes sitting quietly and holding Evie's hand but more often regaling her comatose mom with snarky monologues about the Dimplemans' elaborate anniversary party, a
Town & Country
debutante's posh coming out, or a particularly demanding bridezilla. When she took a break, she hit the cafeteria for coffee and returned endless calls from Vivien, anxious mothers-of-the-bride, and myriad vendors for upcoming events. She also responded to the chronic texts from Greg asking for updates on her mother, whether or not she was moving in with him, and when she was coming home.

Evie's still N coma,
she typed.
I won't leave until she's awake and OK.

She didn't touch the moving-in question. That was a whole other can of worms. Although it got her to thinking about how long Dr. Neville would keep Evie unconscious and how much time she could afford to stay away from St. Louis, her business, and Greg. Her laptop and BlackBerry were lifesavers but they didn't make up for missing face-to-face meetings with brides and society ladies. She could stand to pack a proper suitcase, too. Not that she couldn't wash the pair of sweaters, tees, and single pair of jeans she'd tossed in her bag or sleep in a Madonna tour T-shirt for the next week, if she had to. Hell, she'd lost luggage en route to destination weddings and ended up in her J. Jill Wearever tank dress and cardigan for two days straight.

Toni figured she'd hold out awhile longer, even if it meant digging through her closet and finding something that fit from the 1980s (leggings were apparently back in style). Sticking around Blue Hills would give her some much-needed breathing room besides, as she had yet to decide about her future living arrangements. Honestly, it was the last thing on her mind.

Later that afternoon, she left Evie when a nurse appeared with an orderly to roll Evie up the hallway for a CT scan. Back at the Victorian, she put in a few hours on “the big dig,” as she'd dubbed the task of sifting through Evie's mess in the den. She and Bridget tackled the bills first, putting them in order, with the latest unpaid utilities prioritized. Then they tracked down as many bank statements as they could find and set those in a file organized by date. It was a start anyway.

“Heaven knows, your mother kept every piece of paper that came into the house, which wasn't so much of a problem until Mr. Ashton passed, bless his soul,” Bridget said with a frown, and the creases in her brow deepened. “She was always so tidy and everything had its place.”

“When I was little, she used to stack cans of veggies in the pantry in alphabetical order,” Toni remarked, and Bridget nodded.

“Once Miss Evie lost your father, everything fell
out
of place. Now it's impossible to tell at a glance what's important and what's not, so we might have to go through each piece of it.”

“Nothing seemed important after Daddy died,” Toni remarked, because that was precisely how she'd felt for a spell.

Her dad had been her heart and soul, and for a while the world had seemed so still without him. She'd walked around with a hole inside, one she wished desperately to fill. That was when she'd met Greg at a fund-raising brunch she'd put together at the Forest Park Boat House. He'd remembered her mentioning how much she loved Mozart, and he'd invited her to the Symphony to hear a celebration of Mozart piano concertos. She'd agreed to meet him there so long as he promised not to make fun of her if she teared up (beautiful music made her weepy). Not only had he refrained from teasing her when she'd cried, but he'd handed over a neatly ironed handkerchief for her to wipe her eyes. When he'd called the next week, she'd suggested an indie flick at Plaza Frontenac, a subtitled Swedish film based on a book she'd adored, and he hadn't even balked. She had thought she'd glimpsed some of Jon Ashton in Greg back then, in his careful way with people and the way he thrived on his work; only she'd realized through the course of their relationship that Greg lacked her father's sensitive nature and his unconditional love for the woman in his life. Maybe she'd been more afraid of ending up alone than admitting she wanted more.

“My dad was devoted to my mother,” she said quietly. “She lost her honest-to-God soul mate, and those are hard to find. Once that happens, what's there to live for?”

“Oh, but she didn't lose all that was dear.” The older woman ceased what she was doing and met Toni's eyes. “There was always you, child. If only you knew half the things she did for you,” Bridget murmured, turning away as she tossed more unread magazines into a box they'd labeled
RECYCLE
. “She didn't just miss your father. She missed you, Antonia, more than you could imagine.”

“Then why didn't she ever say it?” Toni asked, exasperated, because Evie clearly hadn't shared anything important with her, most certainly not her emotions. “I love you” had come so easily to her dad, but not to her mother.

“Listen to me, child.” Bridget seemed to weigh her words carefully. “I've been around Miss Evie for long enough to know she wasn't the type to wear her heart on her sleeve, except perhaps with Mr. Ashton. She's so very different from”—she stopped herself and pursed her lips before she finished—“well, from you, isn't she? She keeps everything bottled up tight inside.” She tapped her sternum. “But that doesn't mean she doesn't feel things just as deeply.”

Thank you, Dr. Phil,
Toni was tempted to quip but bit her tongue.

“You broke her heart when you left,” Bridget went on, and Toni sighed.

Okay
,
here we go
. “I couldn't stay. There was nothing for me here. Did she expect me to work at the Tastee Freeze my whole life? Or take over the bookkeeping at the winery? I would've gone bonkers.”

“It was more than you not sticking around.” Bridget blushed, nostrils flaring, the fiery redhead she'd once been surfacing despite how her curls had faded. “You didn't have to keep away for so long once her life turned upside-down, did you? When your daddy was dead and buried, how often did you visit, and St. Louis just an hour or so away? It's too bad it took her getting sick like this for you to show how much you'd hate to lose her.”

Wow.

Toni sagged back against the wall, like she'd been hit, wondering how she could respond to that politely. But she was out of clever repartee and had no excuses but the usual, “I was busy living my life,” which, even though true, wouldn't sit well with Bridget.

“I'm not sure how to answer that,” Toni finally replied, shell-shocked by how quickly the conversation had gone from Evie's clutter to her apparent deficiencies as a daughter. “What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry for being an ungrateful child?”

“Oh, dear Lord, no.” The housekeeper rubbed her nose, chin ducked, contrite. “I'm sorry, Miss Antonia. I shouldn't have said what I did. It isn't my place to determine what's right or wrong, because sometimes the line's so thin it's impossible to make out. All we can do is what's best at the time, or what we believe is best. Besides it's all spilt milk anyhow.”

“That it is,” Toni agreed and hoped the attack was over. Going back and rehashing things that couldn't be undone didn't do a damned thing except make her feel like crap.

“Good, it's settled.” The frown melted away and Bridget smiled, her expression softening as the storm blew past. “I will say this again, dear girl, I'm very happy you've come home at last. It warms my heart to see your old room put to use again. And I figure that, by the time your mom's out of the hospital, we'll have this place spick-and-span. It'll be so nice that you won't want to leave.”

Fat chance,
Toni thought but wisely kept her lips zipped.

“And once we're done down here”—Bridget paused, and a thick-knuckled hand left its spot on her knee to gesture at the ceiling—“then we'll start on the junk in the attic. There's so much of her history that Miss Evie couldn't bear to deal with. Perhaps it's time someone else sorted through it for her.”

“You want me to go through my mother's things?” Toni squinted at the woman like she'd gone off her rockers.

The Evie Ashton she knew would bust a gut if she came home and realized they'd been pawing through her personal paperwork, much less her private mementoes. Not to mention the fact that the last time Toni had peeked into the attic, it had looked like an overcrowded U-Store-It. Hell, they'd be lucky to get through everything in the den before Toni had to return to St. Louis. How could they possibly add more clutter to the list? The days already didn't have enough hours to do all that needed doing.

“Sorting the stuff in the attic could take the rest of my natural life,” she said, blowing wisps of hair from her brow.

“Then so be it.” Bridget came off the folding chair. She brushed tiny bits of paper from her polyester slacks. “When Miss Evie's well again, she needs to look to the future with a clear conscience. In fact, the other day, I told her, ‘You can't face your past and you can't let go of it either. You cannot leave Antonia with such a frightful mess.' Which is probably why she went up there yesterday morning. Maybe she'd been thinking about finally making peace with what's done and forgiving those who need forgiving.”

Good Lord.
Toni felt a twinge begin at her temples.

Bridget cocked her head and glanced ceiling-ward. “She must've gone up before breakfast, bless her soul, because I didn't find dishes in the sink when I arrived at eight. She'd taken off her nightgown and put on a black dress, and there were dog-eared photographs scattered around her. She was curled up like a baby. At first I thought she was sleeping.” She bit her lip, growing teary. “If only she'd waited till I arrived. Maybe things would've been very different.”

“What do you think she was doing?” Toni asked, because wearing a black dress at the crack of dawn and rummaging through photographs didn't sound at all like Evie.

“She must've had her reasons.” Bridget sniffed and mopped the damp from her cheeks with the cuff of her sweater. “Could be she wasn't in her right mind by then. The minute I saw her, I folded her nightgown and put it underneath her head. ‘You hang in there, Miss Evelyn,' I kept saying as I stowed the pictures away in her hatbox before the paramedics came running. I didn't want anyone stepping all over them.”

“It's just so strange,” Toni murmured, wondering if Evie had been searching for anything in particular.

Her mother had never liked it when Toni had gone up in the attic to play; in fact, she'd shooed her out every time. “Go outside,” she would say, “where there's fresh air to breathe and not dust.”

She thought of her conversation with Hunter Cummings about his father's broken engagement to Annabelle Evans. Was Evie looking for something of Anna's in the attic? Was one of the dog-eared photographs Bridget found scattered around her of the sisters? Was it Anna who needed forgiving?

“Did you know my aunt Annabelle?” she asked out of the blue, and Bridget gave her the oddest look.

“Well, of course I did,” the housekeeper answered and glanced down at her knees, brushing invisible lint from her slacks. “Everyone in Blue Hills knew Miss Annabelle. I figure she's the only girl in town who'd ever said no to a Cummings. That's something worth remembering.”

“Yeah, I guess it would be.” Toni wondered if that's why Anna had never returned to Blue Hills, because the town wouldn't let her forget. Sometimes it wasn't easy to be who you wanted to be when people knew too much about you. Good luck trying to start over with that kind of baggage.

“All right, enough gum-flapping,” Bridget said and slapped hands on her thighs, getting Toni's attention. “I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. What do you say I go fix us some chicken salad sandwiches for lunch? I figure we could both use a break, and you need something in your belly besides coffee from the hospital cafeteria. That swill's unfit for man and beast.”

“Sure, I could eat something.”

The housekeeper grinned. “That's my girl.”

Toni watched her leave but she didn't follow. What she did was take several deep breaths, the way she'd learned in the yoga class she'd attended twice before quitting. Bridget's accusations had gotten her stomach twisted in knots. She had to calm down. She couldn't go back to the hospital with her insides feeling so tense and tangled.

You didn't have to keep away for so long . . . did you? When your daddy was dead and buried, how often did you visit?

She wished like hell that Evie had expressed her devastation instead of suffering in silence. She wished, too, that she'd hung around longer for her mom after her dad's funeral instead of taking off as soon as she could. But Evie had given her no reason to stay. “I can take care of myself,” she had said, and not for the first time. “It's your life to live, so do what you need to.” And Toni had always believed her.

Evie had been so unfailingly capable and self-sufficient, never asking for a hand or a shoulder, and Toni had felt in the way and unneeded. Had she let her mother down? Maybe she had, if Bridget's words were any indication. How crappy it made her feel, thinking that the housekeeper was the only soul who'd stuck around for Evie to lean on.

Well, Bridget and apparently Hunter Cummings.

She took another deep yoga breath before she chanted to the cluttered den, “I am not my mother's keeper, I am only her daughter, and I'm doing the best I can.” Then she repeated it a few more times to ease the frantic beating in her chest.