Текст книги "A black tie affair"
Автор книги: Sherrill Bodine
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“Drew, neither one of you knows what you’re talking about. I’m an expert on vintage clothing and have had my head up dozens more skirts than either one of you.”
Now she couldn’t mistake his smile. It curled his beautiful mouth deep at the corners. “In that department I can’t speak for Dr. Stemmer. Only myself.”
The Clayworth confidence and the Clayworth reputation with women set her on fire. She thrust up her chin. “Probably I’ve had my head up more skirts than you. Vintage ones for sure!”
“That’s debatable,” he muttered, lowering his lids for an instant over those cornflower eyes.
“Of course, how could I possibly have forgotten?” she drawled, helpless not to. “I remember the item Rebecca ran about you and your cousins closing down a restaurant in Paris while cavorting with a troupe of topless can-can dancers.”
His lips twitched and his eyes lightened to a silvery blue. “You can’t believe everything you read. Even in Rebecca’s column. It was Prague, and the ladies were wearing Bohemian costumes.”
“No doubt fine vintage,” she snapped.
He laughed. “Yeah. Costumes and women.”
Their eyes met and her body tingled back to life. No way. I will never ever again be sucked in by the Clayworth charm. He doesn’t mean it. It’s all show.
I can see it in his eyes.
PRAISE FOR TALK OF THE TOWN
“4 Stars! A funny, energetic, and charming story that’s sure to entertain many readers… The depth and reality of Bodine’s characters make the story come alive, and readers will finish the novel with a happy feeling inside.”
–Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine on Talk of the Town
“Fun, fresh, and entertaining, Bodine’s work sparkles for those who like a little dish and a little romance.”
—Parkersburg News and Sentinel (NC)
“I love this book! Fizzy, frothy fun expertly blended with sexy romance, powerful friendships, much warmth, and lots of laughter. Don’t miss this witty and wonderful page-turner.”
—BARBARA BRETTON, New York Times bestselling author of Casting Spells
“Charming and a fun escape.”
—JandysBooks.com
“What a hoot! Laugh-out-loud rollicking romance… Juicy gossip, fashion advice, delish recipes, and sexy romps; Talk of the Town is destined to be the talk of romance readers everywhere!”
—SingleTitles.com
“I thoroughly enjoyed Talk of the Town.”
—ArmchairInterviews.com
ALSO BY SHERRILL BODINE
Talk of the Town
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Sherrill Bodine
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Forever
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
www.twitter.com/grandcentralpub.
First eBook Edition: January 2010
Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-446-55855-6
Contents
COPYRIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
EPILOGUE
THE DISH
This book was made possible by the generosity of new friend Timothy Long, curator of costumes at the Chicago History Museum and friend extraordinaire Laurie Davis, owner of LuLu’s at the Belle Kay. Thank you both for introducing me into the fabulous world of vintage haute couture.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHICAGO IS FULL OF FASCINATING PLACES! Like the secret fallout shelter, now a treasure trove of historical artifacts, which I’ve disguised so no one can ever follow my directions.
CHICAGO IS FULL OF FASCINATING STORIES! Yes, Tim Long truly was poisoned by a black Dior evening gown, which was the inspiration for this book.
CHICAGO IS FULL OF FASCINATING CHARACTERS—many of whom I’m fortunate to call friend and who helped to bring this book to life…
Meghan Smith, who has the very best job as collection manager for costumes and textiles at the Chicago History Museum.
Dr. Alexander Stemer, supreme diagnostician and always the hero in my book.
Dr. Marc Karlan, Jack Rickard, and Tom Adams, international yachtsmen and companions on many an adventure on Lake Michigan.
Klaren Alexander, pilot, entrepreneur, and the only man I would allow to fly my private jet if I had one like his.
And
Always, I must thank Michele, Amy, Samantha, and all at Grand Central Publishing for allowing me to reveal the heart beneath Chicago’s glitter.
Chicago Journal & Courier
Sunday Talk of the Town
by Rebecca Covington-Sumner
Many of us are saddened—yours truly included—by the abrupt “early retirement” of Alistair Smith, former treasurer of Chicago’s iconic, exclusive department store John Clayworth and Company. Tongues are wagging about why Mr. Smith was so quickly tossed his gold watch, not to mention why he departed for Palm Beach posthaste… and methinks all the Clayworth men doth protest too much!
My heart goes out to Mr. Smith’s beautiful daughters, Athena, Venus, and Diana. These lovely young women are so often compared to the internationally famous Cushing, Bouvier, and Miller sisters, all of whom made brilliant social and royal marriages.
Our Smith sisters endeared themselves to me a few years ago when they declared they were content to wait until they found their soul mates, be they princes or paupers. I can attest to the wisdom of their choices, being blissfully, madly, happy with my own Prince Charming.
Darling Athena, Venus, and Diana, hold your heads high! I’m rooting for you. And so should all of you, by attending the grand opening of Pandora’s Box, their vintage couture bazaar, in honor of their late mother, Ann. And, best of all, twenty percent of all profits from Pandora’s Box will go to the Ann Smith Scholarship Fund for Young Chicago Fashion Students.
As head buyer for Clayworth’s, Ann had a fabulous sense of style that made the Fashions of the Hour Shop a legend within the store.
Now Pandora’s Box promises to open up the secrets of Chicago’s finest closets to all of us. Be there!
Athena’s Story
“When you enter a woman’s closet, you get a glimpse into her life: who she is, who she has been, and who she has hoped to be.”
CHAPTER
This was the day. The day for which Athena Smith had begged, borrowed, or stolen every favor and debt ever owed her. And now she was so late she might miss it.
On purpose?
The thought stopped Athena cold as she eyed the distance to the elegant doors of the Fashion Institute of Chicago.
No! Nothing will stop me, not even the Clayworths!
Realizing she had no other choice, she hiked up her pencil skirt and ran the last three city blocks in her favorite but impractical heels and burst through the doors.
Her tinted glasses tipped off the end of her nose, and she pushed them back into place, not to see, but to hide her real feelings when stressed. No one needed to know she wasn’t like Athena, goddess of wisdom, although she always tried to be. In reality she was more like Athena, goddess of too many mistakes.
Her chest ached from the final one-block sprint as she gazed up at Leonard, the museum’s oldest security guard.
“Please tell me I’m not too late,” she gasped.
He grinned yet somehow still looked solemn, as befitted his duties.
“Nope, Miss Smith. The Town Car Clayworth’s Department Store sent for you and your intern is running late. They called to say they’d be here in ten minutes.”
“Thanks, Leonard. You’ve made my day.” She sighed, waved, and headed to the staircase.
The treasure trove of Bertha Palmer gowns the Clayworths had locked away in their Secret Closet danced before her eyes. It was the Holy Grail, the Golden Fleece of Chicago historic costumes.
She shouldn’t be diving headfirst into their Secret Closet, because if she saw any of them up close and personal she’d just as likely tell them to go to hell as say, “Thank you very much for your support of the museum.” But despite the wretched Clayworth men, she would get her hands on those dresses for the exhibit and scholarship benefit.
After all, it’s my duty as curator of costumes. My duty to help fund Makayla’s scholarship fund. My duty to set a good example for her. Thank God she’ll be with me to remind me to behave.
Of course today was so much more important for Makayla. An opportunity like this was very rare indeed for an intern. It was one of the reasons Athena had fought so hard to make it happen.
Blissful, despite the Clayworths, that this day had finally arrived, Athena swept into the Costume Collection office.
She loved this room with its heavy carved crown moldings. Sometimes, when she stared upward, trying to brainstorm new ideas for the museum, the wood carvings looked like faces to her.
But today the rich ruby Oriental rugs and antique furniture in front of the stone fireplace didn’t give off their usual cozy, old-world vibe.
Something’s wrong.
Athena eyed the cup of green tea cooling on Makayla’s desk. She should be here, fussing around the office like the perfect intern she’d become.
Worried, Athena headed out to find her.
She stopped when she heard the powder room door across the hall open, then close, followed by sturdy, slow, oddly heavy footsteps coming toward the office.
Makayla Elliott hopped into the room, her right foot and ankle swaddled in a thick Ace bandage.
“My God, what happened to you?” Athena rushed to help her ease down on the red velvet sofa.
“I was working last night at my part-time job at Maggiano’s and I dropped a bowl of spaghetti on my foot.”
Kneeling, examining Makayla’s swollen toes, painted a vivid purple, Athena ached with worry. “Those bowls are big enough to feed a family of ten. Is anything broken?”
“No,” Makayla shook her head so hard her black ponytail flicked her cheek. “No problem, Athena. I’m awesome, ready to go when you are.”
As Makayla struggled to the edge of the sofa to stand up, Athena saw pain in her kohl-lined eyes.
In that split second, Athena swore the carved crown moldings looked like the laughing faces of those three nasty Greek Fates, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, gazing back at her, secure in their absolute power of deciding everyone’s destiny. Lately they’d been doing their worst with her. Well, she wouldn’t let them mess with Makayla. Being orphaned, living in a group home, and working two jobs and an internship was enough already.
Laugh away, Fates. No way will I let my dear, sweet, brave Makayla traipse through the Clayworths’ closet if she’s in pain.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re going to be disappointed, but I can’t let you go today when you’re in so much pain. You might do real damage to your foot. I’ll do provenance on the Bertha Palmer dresses alone,” Athena informed her in her best boss voice.
“No way!” Makayla wobbled to her feet, hanging on to the sofa’s fat padded arm for balance. “No way… I mean…” she stammered, widening her brown eyes like she always did when worried. “I mean, I gotta go. It’s an awesome opportunity for me. And what if you, like, run into any Clayworths so soon after your dad’s… retirement? And I’m not there to… help you?”
Oh, no, does everyone know I want to tell them to go to hell for dear old Dad?
Disappointment for Makayla burned in her chest, but Athena plastered on her best PR smile. “Please don’t worry about me. We at the museum love the Clayworths for everything they do for us. Plus, we need to convince them by hook or crook to donate the Bertha Palmer dresses to the exhibit and benefit so we can raise more money for your scholarship. That is more important than my feelings.”
“Excuse me,” Leonard called from the open door. “The Clayworth Town Car is here, Miss Smith.”
Once again adjusting her glasses, Athena turned and smiled, ready for the glamour and romance of the Secret Closet, even if she must go alone.
“Thanks, Leonard. Please tell the driver I’ll be right down.”
She swept up the white lab coat, blue rubber gloves, and tape recorder from her desk.
“Wait, Athena.” Makayla hobbled toward her, little wisps of fine dark hair clinging to her damp cheeks and her pale lips parted in a grimace of pain. “The Costume Collection manager is on maternity leave for another six weeks. You’re already doing two jobs. You’ve got a meeting with Miss Keene tomorrow, and she’s always breathing down your neck. Pandora’s Box is opening on Saturday. You’ve got too much to do. I’ve gotta help you no matter what.”
Gently but firmly, Athena urged Makayla back down on the sofa. “I’ll handle the deputy director. Pandora’s Box is ready to fling open its doors. You can help me by taking care of yourself. Put your foot up and stop making me feel guilty for depriving you of the joy of examining those beautiful gowns we’ve been plotting for months to get our hands on.” She squeezed Makayla’s warm fingers. “I’m so sorry. I know you’re terribly disappointed not to go.”
“It’s a bummer. Everyone I know wants to see the awesome stuff the Clayworths are hiding out there. It’s like an urban legend. But I don’t feel so great.” Makayla’s lips quivered into a smile.
“I know.” Looking into Makayla’s pale face, so young, so earnest, Athena knew this wasn’t another mistake. “Tomorrow I promise to tell you everything about the treasures buried out there.”
Sighing, Makayla lifted her foot up onto the sofa. “You’re awesome, and so are your sisters and your dad. That Rebecca Covington-Sumner is right on in her column about your dad. I think the Clayworths gave him a bum deal after all the years he worked for them.”
Athena blinked and curled her mouth into her “oldest-sister smile.” The one she’d perfected to protect those younger and more vulnerable from learning about an unhappy possibility sooner than necessary.
Or Dad made a horrible mistake. Or he’s covering something up. Otherwise surely he would have stood and fought like he taught me to do instead of running away.
Like she was fighting now to fix everything she and her dad had messed up.
Which was why, without so much as a blush, a tremble in her voice, or more than a tiny shred of guilt, Athena told the second-biggest lie of her life. “I agree with Rebecca, too.”
Athena spied Bridget O’Flynn waiting next to the black Lincoln Town Car and swayed to a stop, nearly toppling off her heels.
Why in the world would the den mother to the Clayworth men and head of security for John Clayworth and Company be driving me out to the Secret Closet?
“I cleared my schedule so I could get the chance to see you,” Bridget called, as if she’d read Athena’s thoughts.
Before the debacle with her dad, Athena would have loved spending time with her, but right this second she wanted to run and hide like she’d been doing for weeks.
Bridget smiled at her, and Athena couldn’t resist. She’d always adored her, so she smiled right back.
Walking slowly toward the car, Athena glanced around, half expecting the Clayworth brothers, who were widely known to be off overseeing their far-flung empire, to have suddenly returned to cause more problems. The way this day was going, Bridget’s nephew, Connor, the stuffy lawyer with the body of a Greek god, would probably pop up in the back seat. Or, God forbid, Drew might climb out of the trunk to torment her.
She tried to think back to the days when she’d been friends with all the Clayworth men. Well, she’d been more than friends with Drew, but that was ancient history.
Now good manners and real affection made Athena slide into the passenger seat next to Bridget instead of hiding in the back to lick her wounds like she’d planned.
“What’s wrong, Athena? Why are you still wearin’ those dark glasses?” Bridget’s voice held the familiar note of gruff, kind concern that made her so lovable.
“Just a bit of eye strain.” Athena glanced over and got caught in Bridget’s sharp green stare.
“You’ve been wearin’ those shades since your dad left town. Have you seen a doctor?”
Athena adjusted the offending glasses, painfully aware that Bridget never minced words.
“It’s nothing to worry about. I keep straining my eyes at work.”
“Humph!” Bridget snorted through her aquiline nose. “Seems to me you’ve had nothin’ but a ton of strain lately. Sure you want to visit the closet yourself today?”
“Absolutely!” Athena said with real feeling. Her fate might be sealed, but she would defeat it. If she saw any of the Clayworth men, she’d simply shove them out of her way and get to those clothes. “Everyone wants a peek into that closet. Mom once told me that in the old days they covered the eyes of all who went out there because of the treasures locked away in its depths.” She slid Bridget a hopeful look. “Are you going to put a blindfold on me? Any Clayworth skeletons for me to find out there?”
Bridget chuckled. “No skeletons and no blindfolds. I trust you.” She gunned the high-horsepower engine. “All right, then. Rest your eyes a while. We’ll be there in about an hour. Dependin’ on traffic.”
Athena turned her head toward the window, but she couldn’t close her eyes. Now that she was on her way to the family’s top-secret fallout shelter, built beneath a farmer’s field during the Cold War, which currently housed many of their treasures, including Bertha’s priceless gowns, excitement made her feel warm all over, like it had her entire life. Like she’d felt when word came that the Clayworth family had agreed to the museum’s request to examine the dresses for possible inclusion in the exhibit.
Why had they agreed? Guilt? For old times’ sake?
Their tangled friendships were such old, old news. Yet since her dad’s firing, the Clayworths and everything they’d meant to her filled her mind nearly every waking moment. She shoved them away again, determined to focus on her goal of doing provenance on the department store’s impressive, never-before-seen collection of vintage couture clothing.
Warm and eager, she watched the city fade away into flat prairie. Travel on I90 appeared lighter than normal. Thirty minutes later, Bridget exited onto a two-lane highway. She seemed to know the road by heart, anticipating the bad patches and the sharp twists. Prairie gave way to slightly rolling cornfields. Bridget slowed and turned onto a one-lane black-tar road. She sped up, a clear, smooth stretch of road before them. All at once the tar turned to gravel and Bridget made a sharp right onto a bumpy dirt track leading into a soybean field.
She braked to a halt, and Athena, getting more eager by the second, sat up straighter. They were plop in the middle of Midwest farmland, surrounded by low soybean sprouts and rustling stalks of short young corn.
Athena pressed her nose to the window. “There’s nothing here.”
Bridget laughed. “They built it so it couldn’t be seen from the air. Look again.”
When she’d been a child whiling away the long, hot summer afternoons, lying on the grass in their back yard in Lincoln Park, Athena’s family would play the cloud game. She squinted her eyes looking for the secret. Once she’d been the best at spotting everything from her cat, Drusilla, to the Field Museum in the clouds, and once, absolutely, she still swore to this day, she saw Abraham Lincoln in his top hat.
In this case, at first she thought she must be simply gazing at good black Illinois dirt, but no.
I’ve found it!
A steel door big enough to back a semi trailer into. The rolling field of soybeans directly in front of her had to be the roof.
“I see it!” Athena quickly stepped out and followed Bridget to the enormous black wall. She paused to read the sign engraved into the steel: “When the alarm sounds, a blast has occurred. You have three minutes to get inside.”
“Gives you the willies, doesn’t it?” Bridget shuddered. “Wait until you see the rest.” She punched a code into the panel on a smaller door, barely visible, and led Athena into silent blackness.
Athena blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim, vast cavern looming in front of her. She pulled off her glasses to get a better look.
The cooler air sent goose bumps crawling along her arms, and she rubbed them away. “This constant underground temperature is the best storage.”
Beside her, Bridget chuckled. “You don’t need to whisper. Let me turn on more lights so you can see the place. It’s a real time capsule.”
The harsh glare of fluorescent lights made Athena blink again. Now she could see they were standing in a small entrance to the huge cave that stretched out before her. To her right loomed an oven big enough to roast an ox.
“This is the decontamination chamber.” Bridget moved briskly forward. “That oven is the incinerator where we would have burned our clothes.” She glanced back, her wide smile splitting her pale face. “I guess they would have been naked as the day they were born until they got to the bedroom.”
Athena burst out laughing. “The Clayworth men running around naked. Now, there’s a sight half the women in Chicago have dreamed about seeing.”
Bridget shook her head. “Those boys are too good-lookin’ for their own good. I fear half of those ladies have had their dreams come true.”
And I’m one of them.
She felt herself getting warmer.
Bridget shot her a sharp, inquisitive look. “Are you all right?”
“Great! Love it. What’s next?”
“The bedrooms.”
Athena followed Bridget into a room lined with rows of bunk beds and one appropriately green-tiled 1950s-style bathroom. Beyond she saw a kitchen with appliances in the same color and a Formica dinette set, straight out of a vintage television sitcom.
“What kind of clothes did you find here when they decided to turn it into their Secret Closet?” Athena asked. The curator in her was already planning an exhibit of what would have been worn in a fallout shelter like this one during the Cold War.
“Don’t know. Back in the day they must have planned to have somethin’ to wear while they were here.” She pointed to a chain-link fence holding back small boulders stretching out for six yards beyond the kitchen. “The idea was to stay down here for two years. Then tear apart this fence holdin’ back rocks. Dig their way out into what was left of the world.” Bridget shook her head so hard the gold clip holding up her white-streaked strawberry curls came loose. With a yank she shoved it firmly back in place. “Whole thing was crazy. But the vault was the craziest of all.”
Totally entranced, Athena followed her deeper into the cavernous underground shelter. They passed row after row of the store’s famous glass-window wagons and a fleet of electric broughams, all with the famous John Clayworth and Company logo brazened in gold letters on the side.
They stopped in front of the largest safe door she’d ever seen, even in pictures of the U.S. Mint.
Using both hands, Bridget turned the giant tumbler. “They built this to keep the credit records of all the store’s customers.” She snorted. “Like anyone would care about their bills when the world’s comin’ to an end.” She swung the door wide open. “Now all that foolishness is behind us, they store Bertha’s gowns in here.”
A golden glow fell out into the gloom. Light glistened off rhinestones, silver cord, and gold beads.
The four Bertha Palmer dresses beckoned Athena into their world, the way mythology had, when her father made it come alive. Her senses dazzled by the dresses worn by one of her mother’s idols, dresses that when used properly could make her dreams come true, Athena rushed past Bridget into the vault.
Struck by a blast of warm air, she gasped. “The temperature in here should be better controlled. And these dresses shouldn’t be on mannequins. They should be in their own specially built archival boxes.”
“Good golly, you almost sound like your old self.” Bridget laughed. “That’s the spirit. You and your sisters used to give those boys hell when you were youngsters. They need to be put in their place once in a while.”
Part of her would like nothing better than to tell the Clayworths what she thought of them for casting her father aside so cavalierly, but she had to put the past behind her to get what she needed.
Maybe I’m wrong again.
She slowly shook her head. “Maybe it’s just me. It’s probably cool enough. I’m just so thrilled to be here, I’m feverish with anticipation. It’s an honor for the museum to have the opportunity to establish the provenance on these dresses.”
Bridget cocked her head, slanting a long glance into Athena’s deliberately blank face. “Sure you’re all right with all of this?”
“Sure. Can’t wait to get my fingers on these dresses.” She tried to beam good cheer but felt naked not being able to hide behind the glasses she’d rammed into the lab coat pocket. She turned away to slip on the coat and rubber gloves. “I’ll get to work. I don’t want to keep you here all day.”
“I’d best leave you to it, then.” Bridget sighed. “If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen doin’ paperwork.”
Athena nodded without looking around. She sensed Bridget wanted to say more, but Athena couldn’t discuss her dad now. It still felt too raw.
Determined to push away every thought except these dresses, she stepped in front of the first mannequin. Her breath caught in a tremble of excitement before she spoke into her tiny handheld tape recorder.
“I’m here in the Clayworth family Secret Closet to establish provenance on four Bertha Palmer gowns. I am starting with a dress of black corded grenadine with green and pink stripes over green taffeta. Trimmed with loops of narrow pink satin and green grosgrain ribbons.”
Unable to resist, she delicately traced the bodice with her fingertips. “The bodice is made to look like a corselette of black satin with jet passementerie interlaced with narrow pink satin ribbon outlined with one-and-one-fourth-inch double-faced satin ribbon.”
She dropped to her knees to peer up into the sleeves, again reverently touching the exquisite, delicate fabric. “The small leg-of-mutton sleeves are lined to the elbow with green taffeta.”
Wanting to better view the workmanship, she stretched out on the concrete floor. The cold seeped through her lab coat, thin cashmere sweater, and cotton skirt.
Shivering, she carefully lifted the hem of the gown and peered up inside. “The skirt is gored with gathers at the back. Blind pocket of white taffeta lined with soft green fine rep silk taffeta. The construction is exquisite. There are twelve bones in the bodice. Each is sewn with stitches so tiny and fine I can barely see them.”
Something kept irritating the back of her throat, and she stifled a cough. “Bertha Palmer wore this gown in the summer months, and it is reported to have been one of her favorites.”
Her voice hoarse from holding back the cough, she slid out from beneath the gown to clear her throat. She brushed at her cheeks, trying to get rid of whatever tickled her skin.
The second mannequin, the one on her right, began to shimmer, giving it the sudden, odd appearance of movement.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. Instead the world spun slowly around and a rush of euphoria made her giddy. Happier than she’d felt in months. She didn’t understand what was happening to her, but right now, here, she didn’t care.
She giggled, doing a little dance to the gown. Her body tingled with recklessness, daring her to do something forbidden. Like the time she dared Drew to go skinny dipping with her in the pond at the far end of the Clayworth estate in Lake Forest.
She shook her head to clear her thoughts. Away with you! she commanded. But the memory wouldn’t obey. She just kept swelling and swelling with the same excitement and fear she’d felt then, knowing if her parents found out she’d be sent to boarding school. She ripped off her gloves to stroke the heavy champagne silk satin gown with her bare fingers.
She’d seen countless pictures of this famous Worth gown when Mrs. Potter Palmer wore it at the Court of Saint James’s in London, but the photos didn’t do it justice. It mesmerized her. Totally irresistible.
Athena slid her fingertips down the elegant, heavy white velvet train and lifted it around her shoulders, wrapping herself in its beauty. Again and again she traced the white satin iris design, each flower done by hand, which made the dress so unique, so special. She turned the train over in her arms so the lining of silver tissue and rhinestone edging glistened back at her.
Seeing and touching this gown made her feel connected to her mom’s passion for vintage haute couture fashion. She had been the epitome of beauty and had taught Athena to appreciate the grace of this lost world.
She ached to slide her body up and through the princess-style dress the way Bertha would have done. She ran the old, soft silk tulle along her neck and arms, loving the feel of it.
Drawn by the exquisite detail of the double white net ruffle around the hem, she sank down upon her knees and then lay on her back. She scooted beneath the skirt to look up at the white taffeta lining. She brushed her hot cheek against the cool fabric and sighed.
It felt so cool, so comforting she didn’t want to move. The dress fell around her like a wedding veil, beautiful yet protective. She felt content to merely lie beneath the gown, breathing in its history. She wanted to stay here forever, safe in Bertha’s kinder, gentler world. She heard a string quartet playing a waltz like they would have done that afternoon in London for Bertha. Athena closed her eyes, lost in the music, lost in a world she adored. Far away from the reality of the last few months.
She floated in peace until the musicians started repeating the same stanza, over and over and over again. She opened her eyes, angry at this rude, discordant interruption of her bliss.
“Athena! Athena! Athena! Can you hear me? Athena! Athena!” Bridget called excessively. “Come out from under that skirt. You’ve been lyin’ there for an hour!”
Athena tried to shake off Bridget’s strong hands tugging at her ankle, but she couldn’t. “No, I don’t want to come out. I like it here,” she shouted back.
