by Lynn LaFleur
Most of the houses on Roxbury Bluff Road had been built in the twenties, all bungalows similar to Aunt Rose’s. They perched on huge lots on the rise of a bluff. Giant sycamore trees lined both sides of the street with perfectly manicured lawns, pristine white picket fences, gazebos and trellises, gazing balls and hammocks.
Exhausted on her feet, Abby climbed the steps to the master suite in time to hear the chimes of the grandfather’s clock striking midnight. Her back ached, her toes screamed in her boots and her fingers still stung from dozens of thorn pricks. How had Aunt Rose done this for so many years?
She stripped off her clothes and boots and dropped them where she stood, then ducked in and out of a blissfully hot shower. Wrapped in a warm terry robe, she padded across the hall to Rose’s study and her stash of wine and brandy.
The shower had washed away the grime of dirt and roots and shoots, yet Abby still felt keyed up enough that she knew she’d simply toss and turn if she tried to sleep now. Curled up on the couch Rose kept next to her computer, Abby dialed Brett’s number.
If he were psychic, he couldn’t have answered quicker.
“Abby? I was getting worried something happened to you on the way home.”
“I’m fine,” she purred. “Curled up in a robe and sipping some ancient cognac my aunt kindly left behind.”
“Sounds good. Bet you’re tired.”
“Right to my bones. I don’t know how my aunt does it.”
He laughed. “Rose is a remarkable woman, who’s smart enough to hire people to do what you did tonight. She supervises them from that little backless stool you were sitting on this morning.”
“I’m jealous. You know Aunt Rose better than I do.”
Brett’s voice loss its playfulness. “You should have visited more often, Abby. Rose is a great lady.”
A great lady in the best tradition of Katherine Hepburn. Wise, attractive, driven and successful.
“You’re right.”
“She’ll be back sooner than you think.”
“Really? And you know this because?”
“I know Rose. She’s too committed to Seaside to stay away.”
Abby stretched her legs. What would Brett say if he stood in the doorway watching? Especially when the lapel to her robe fell open. “How did your visit with Mom go? Did the roses do their job?”
“If you knew my mother, you wouldn’t bother to ask. She’s focused, single-minded, a slave driver right up there with Simon LaGree.”
Abby clicked her tongue sympathetically. “You poor baby. I suppose she drove you mercilessly?”
“Merciless would have been a piece of cake by comparison.” She heard the smile in his voice. “She’s lucky Dad left his pickup behind. We filled her car, mine, and couldn’t have forced another garland, streamer, or frou-frou bric-a-brac in the back of Dad’s truck if we’d used a hammer and trowel.” The warmth of his chuckle, riding on the tail of the cognac, shot straight to the parts of her crying out to be touched. Her fingers crept toward her pussy. No. She pulled her hand back. Hers would never bring the pleasure Brett’s had. Tomorrow couldn’t come too soon.
“What about you, sweetheart?” he said. “I have the perfect cure for aching muscles and cuts and scratches.”
She sucked in a breath. “I bet you do.”
“Give me two minutes. You’ll be a new woman.”
“Two minutes?” She giggled. “That’s not much to look forward to. I was hoping for maybe two hours.”
If he tried to stifle his groan, it didn’t work. “My god, woman, why are you there instead of lying here beside me?”
“Because I promised Rose I’d look after Love In Bloom. And like Rose, I always keep my promises.”
“You promised to let me make your fantasies come true. You’re not going to change your mind?”
She took a deep swallow of the smooth brandy before answering. “Those proverbial wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”
“From Whispers, or from me?”
“From both of you.”
“We could get a head start if you’d let—”
“Uh-uh. I’m going to finish the last sip of this wonderful brandy, drop my damp robe—”
“Your damp robe?”
“Yep, I stepped out of the shower only seconds before I called you.”
“Oh.” The sound was a mixture of need and want.
“And crawl between silky, soft sheets—”
His groan sounded like a man in pain. “Stop. You’re killing me.”
“And dream about the fantasy you’re going to make come true.”
“I can be there in ten minutes.” The words rushed out of him. “Five if I take the Porsche.”
She laughed, rich, hot and kittenish. “Until tomorrow, bonne nuit, mon joli.”
“Good night to you too, mon amour.”
*
Abby remembered falling asleep in Aunt Rose’s study after talking to Brett. Some time after three, she’d awakened, trekked down a dark hallway and crashed in the first bedroom she found.
Now she patted the nightstand until her fingertips brushed up against the chain pull that lit the bulb and bathed the room with a rose-colored glow. Abby looked at her hands, at her chipped and broken nails, at the cuts and scratches from her new trade, and at her bare ring finger.
“You’re better off without that ball-less, car-stealing sonofabitch,” Rose had declared when Abby told her Pierce had taken off to find fame. “Lily, my darling girl, there’s a special someone waiting for you to find him. Open your eyes. Don’t just look—see!”
“A special someone is the last thing I need right now,” Abby had retorted and meant it. She wasn’t so sure anymore. She smiled. What would Aunt Rose say if she knew where her darling Lily would be spending the evening?
*
Abby grabbed the brown bag lunch and a bottle of water from the fridge, and headed for the front door. She stepped into the crisp morning air. “What on earth?”
She stopped in mid-stride.
While she gaped, a small limousine turned into her aunt’s driveway. Besides stopping only a breath short of tapping the rear bumper of Rose’s BMW, the limousine blocked her exit. She knew Judy would kill her if she was late this morning, and she was quite certain Judy had not sent a car to make sure she’d arrived on time.
Fascinated, she watched a man somewhere near her dad’s age slide out from behind the wheel. He wore a chauffeur’s full attire—a black suit and tie, crisply starched white dress shirt, and even white gloves.
“Good morning, Ms. Horton.” He smiled up at her and actually tipped his hat, something she thought they did only in the movies.
“You are Ms. Horton?”
Abby nodded. “And you are?”
“Carlton.” He literally purred the name, softening the “r” in the rich, smooth tradition of the Deep South.
In his right hand, he carried a parcel the size of a shoebox, wrapped with silvery iridescent paper and a silver and black bow. Before handing the box to her, he presented her with a small envelope. She saw her name scrawled across the front in black ink and recognized Brett’s handwriting from the credit card slip he’d signed yesterday.
Hands full, she stared first at the envelope and then at Carlton. She had no experience with chauffeur protocol.
Carlton must have sensed her confusion. “May I take those?” He pointed to her lunch bag and her bottle of water.
She handed them over. Now what did she do? Open the envelope and read the message in front of him? Turn her back?
He answered those questions too, by taking a step backward and averting his eyes.
Brett had tucked the back flap inside the envelope instead of sealing it. She pulled the flap up and eased out the card.
Good morning, pretty lady. Shoes to dance the night away.
He’d ended the message with a single B.
When she looked up Carlton handed the box to her.
“Thank you.” Rather than open the pa
ckage, she slipped it under her arm and rearranged the position of her purse on her shoulder. “I’ll take those now.”
“As you wish.” He handed her things back to her and tipped his hat. “Have a good day, miss.” He turned and hurried down the steps with the quickness of a much younger man.
Abby followed in his footsteps. While Carlton backed out of Aunt Rose’s drive and headed to wherever chauffeurs awaited their next assignment, she sat behind the steering wheel of Rose’s car debating whether to open the beautifully wrapped package now or wait until she found a quiet moment at the shop.
A quiet moment two days before Valentine’s Day? Get real.
She ripped the bow apart, tore the paper at its seam and tossed it aside. In her lap, she now held a shoebox made of some sort of sturdy clear plastic, lined with silver and black lamé to match the bow. If not a glass slipper, slippers in a glass box.
Nestled inside, she saw what Brett had promised, shoes to dance the night away. She picked up one of the T-strap pumps and turned it in her hands. Silky black satin, smooth, delicate to the touch, trimmed with the softest calf’s leather, and a deadly four-inch sculpted stiletto heel. She smirked, thinking what a weapon the heel would make if Brett stepped out of line.
She thought again. That’s exactly what she hoped he’d do.
Reluctantly, she returned the shoe to its cradle. She had drooled over a similar pair at Bergdorf’s, until she saw the $400.00-plus price tag. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not wipe the smile off her face.
*
From the moment Abby set foot inside Love In Bloom that morning, the phone never stopped ringing. Nor the angry voices that sometimes floated up the hallway into the showroom, the tantrums of an overworked design staff.
Judy had taken time to ooh and aah with her over the shoes. “Can’t wait to see what Brett sends next,” she said.
“You think he’ll send something else?”
Abby winced at Judy’s best “you-poor-naïve-lamb” look before she turned and headed back to the studio to quell a squabble between Ronn and one of the interns. “Trust me, there’ll be more, and they’ll be spectacular.”
An hour and what seemed like fifty orders later, Judy rushed up the hall to within shouting distance of the showroom. “Abby, get me a couple of the teddy bears from the window display,” she called to her. “Can you believe the driver left two boxes on the truck? He’s coming back, but we need at least ten right now.”
The window displays had been in place long before Abby arrived in town. She didn’t know the first thing about how they’d been set up, what was attached to what, what was wired to the alarm, and damn it, there went the phone again. “I’ll get them in a min—”
“Never mind, I’ll get them myself.” Judy’s voice had lost all of its cheer, bordering now on hostility. “If you’d quit mooning over those darned shoes and do what I ask… Oh my god, would you look at that?”
“At what? That?” Outside the shop, she saw a monster-sized RV coasting toward the only open space on the block, next to a fire hydrant. The vehicle, painted metallic silver, had black lettering on the side—House of Duvalier, Haute Couture.
“Look out!” Abby covered her eyes. “They’re going to slam right into that birch tree.”
Judy burst out laughing. “Oh, this is such a hoot. Not because they’ll probably wreck the tree, but if Rose were here, she’d shoot out their tires for even thinking about parking on this street.”
Abby uncovered her eyes. “What?”
“I’ve got to get a picture of this.” Judy cupped her hands and shouted, “RONN, BRING THE CAMERA AS FAST AS YOU CAN!” She turned back to Abby. “Rose is going to love this.”
Within seconds, Ronn raced into the showroom, camera cocked and ready. “Oh this is wonderful,” he crooned when he saw his target. “Rose will eat this up.”
He took pictures from every angle as the giant vehicle came to a gentle stop.
Abby leaned against the window frame. “I think I’m missing something here.”
“Trust me, the fun hasn’t even begun,” Judy answered. “Ronn, get the camera out of here before they see it.” When he didn’t move, she snapped, “Ronn, go back to the studio. I’ll handle this.”
Ronn stood for a moment, a hand on his hip. “Well, fine. I’m good enough to fetch for you, but not good enough—”
Judy narrowed her eyes. “Ronn, the studio—now!” She stepped away from the window and stationed herself near the door. Feet firmly planted, arms crossed over her chest, she barked at Abby, “Get behind the counter. Pretend you’re on the phone.”
“Judy, what the heck is going on?”
“Let me handle this. Whatever you do, don’t let them know you’re Lily.”
“I’m not Lily, I’m—“
“Shhh! Here they come.”
Moments later, the door opened and a man and woman, looking as normal as she and Judy, and without the slightest trace of danger, walked inside.
“Good morning. How may I help you?” Judy’s greeting dripped with ice.
“We are from the House of Duvalier.” The woman wiped her hands on the smock she wore over a pair of dark wool slacks. She fished a piece of paper from her pocket. The man snatched it from her fingers.
His gaze drifted over Judy’s head to Abby, who stood as instructed, phone in hand.
“We’re looking for Ms. Abby Horton.”
“I’m sorry, there’s no one—”
“I’m Abby Horton.” She walked around the counter and toward them. “Are you here to pick up an order?”
“Actually, we’re here for your fitting,” the woman answered. “I am Jacqueline and this is Gerard.” She pronounced their names with a distinct French accent, Jacque-lene and Zhur-ard.
“A fitting?” Judy demanded. “For whom?”
“Madame Duvalier has designed a dress for Ms. Horton,” Gerard answered. “Our client was quite specific about the design. Madame needs proper measurements before she supervises the cut.”
Judy stepped in front of Abby. “I’m sorry, that’s not convenient,” she said. “Please remind Madame that this is a flower shop, not a department store. We don’t have fitting rooms, and we won’t allow her to disrupt our business on a whim.”
“I can assure you, miss, Madame has no intention of disrupting anything.” Jacqueline gestured toward the street. “She’s waiting in the coach. If Ms. Horton will step outside with us, we can complete her fitting in no time at all.”
Abby stepped around Judy again. This was like playing musical chairs. “How kind of Madame to come to me.” She glanced back at Judy. “I’m sure you can manage without me for a few minutes.” She smiled at Jacqueline and Gerard. “Lead the way.”
*
Madame Duvalier, petite, slender, blue-eyed and silver-haired, sat like a queen on her throne throughout most of the fitting. Abby ducked behind a screen and stripped down to her panties, only to be sent back to strip down to nothing.
Gerard tossed a length of fabric over the screen, and when she emerged again, she wore what looked like a cleaner’s bag made of soft muslin. It hung from her shoulders to her ankles.
Jacqueline went to work with a measuring tape while Gerard flounced about with straight pins, nipping and tucking according to Madame’s instruction. She nodded approval or hissed her objections in a steady stream of French spoken too quickly for Abby to understand much of it.
Suddenly Madame leapt from her chair, grabbed a pair of shears and sliced a slit in the muslin that rose from Abby’s right ankle to just millimeters below her crotch.
With a satisfied cluck of her tongue, Madame roughly spun Abby a half-turn and went to work on the back. From the coolness of the air conditioning against her warm skin, Abby guessed the older woman had just eliminated most of the back of the dress.
Next came the décolletage.
Madame placed her hands, fingers splayed, against Abby’s breasts. Through the muslin, she encircled them in her palm
s, jiggling them a bit as if weighing them, and said, “A tiny hint of these.”
She never spoke directly to Abby, only to her minions. With shears that looked nearly three feet long when pointed at Abby’s chest, Madame carved a slash almost to Abby’s waist down the front of the garment. Madame’s touch didn’t bother her nearly so much as the feel of metal against her skin. She shivered. A fraction of an inch deeper into the fabric and the couturier would have drawn blood.
Finally Madame smiled her approval. She walked in a slow circle around Abby, who felt like prime stock about to be put on the auction block.
Is this what runway models put up with day after day?
“Raise your arms.”
Abby complied.
“Jacqueline, raise the hem.”
Jacqueline complied.
“Higher.”
Higher! She was naked under this, for god’s sake. Instinctively, Abby dropped her hands in front of her to shield herself.
“Ms. Horton, we must measure for your undergarments as well. One does not wear ordinary under something extraordinary.”
“Of course not.”
A tug here, a pull there. A sigh, several grunts, and at last, “Voila! Now I shall go to work.”
Both Jacqueline and Gerard helped Abby out of the muslin. She heard no pins fall, felt no pin pricks. These two were far better at this than Abby had been during her sewing classes at summer camp.
She pulled on her work clothes and stepped out from behind the screen, right into the path Madame and her cohorts had cut for her.
“We must hurry now,” Madame said, not exactly pushing Abby toward the exit but definitely urging her along. “Monsieur Kincade gave very specific instructions. You shall have everything you need for a perfect evening—et juste ā temps.” She raised her fingertips to her lips, rolled her eyes heavenward and blew a kiss. “Vous etes magnifique.”
Abby searched her memory of Beginning French for the translation. She thought—hoped—Madame was reassuring her that the dress would be done on time and would look…well, everyone knew the meaning of magnifique whether they understood French or not.