Little Black Dress with Bonus Material

by Susan McBride

  There was also a folded sheet of stationery, worn thin as though it had been perused a thousand times. As she carefully opened it, Toni got a whiff of lily of the valley—the very scent she’d detected on the black dress—and her pulse leaped when she saw the monogrammed “A” and realized the note was to her mother from Anna:

  I had to do it, Evie. I wasn’t meant to marry Davis. The dress showed me everything so clearly. How could I ignore my destiny?

  The dress again!

  Toni’s gaze darted across the room to where it lay across the chair. Then she read the note again and once more after that, her breaths coming faster as she realized the dress had given her aunt a vision, too, one that obviously kept her from marrying Hunter’s father.

  Had the dress affected Evie as well? Were all the women in her family susceptible to it or just plain nuts?

  “Good God, Mother, what else is there that you never told me?” she wondered aloud, placing the letter and the postcards back in the glove box before turning her attention to the hatbox again.

  All that remained at the bottom was a tortoiseshell comb, along with a sterling silver hairbrush and mirror, each monogrammed with a curlicued “A.”

  More evidence that Anna had truly existed.

  So why had Evie hidden it?

  If her mother hadn’t stroked out, if Toni hadn’t come back to Blue Hills, if Bridget hadn’t nagged her about cleaning up the clutter, she never would have run across these precious bits of Evie’s history. Her history.

  Impatiently, she peeled rubber bands from the photos until she’d made a thick pile. Would she even know who was in them?

  She quickly thumbed through the lot of them, finding a number of them labeled on the back.

  Anna’s 7th birthday

  Me and A at Christmas

  Me and A picking grapes

  Smoothing the quilt beneath her, Toni spread them out like a deck of cards, eager to take them all in at once rather than little by little.

  Whether in color or black-and-white, as a child or a young woman, Evie’s countenance was unmistakable: her longish face often solemn, her eyes focused, her blond hair hanging straight or primly tucked behind her ears. Only in the photo marked Me and Jon, Wedding Day did she wear the most exuberant smile. It crinkled her eyes and stretched from ear to ear. She sparkled like a woman in love, and it both moved and pained Toni to see, knowing what her mother had lost when Jon Ashton had died; more certain than ever that what she felt for Greg couldn’t begin to compare.

  There was a rather large photo of her maternal grandparents—Evie’s mother and father, Beatrice and Franklin Evans—but many more smaller ones of the sisters, often with a notation on the back referring to a holiday. One labeled Christmas, 1950 was faded to sepia and showed two girls standing in front of an evergreen decorated with way too much tinsel. Both had bows in their hair and long sleeves beneath embroidered pinafores. The tall and lanky Evie appeared uneasy, her arms stiff at her sides, a bored stare on her face. Tiny, dark-haired Anna beamed and held out the sides of her skirt, one foot set behind the other as if about to curtsy.

  “Did you adore her or want to kill her?” Toni asked, even though her mother wasn’t there to answer.

  As an only child, she’d only dreamed of having a sibling. In reality, she knew from her friends with brothers and sisters that it wasn’t always fun and games, not unless being put into strangleholds, tickled mercilessly, or being called names like “fart face” were considered sports.

  “Maybe a little of each,” she decided, nodding to herself.

  Then she began to painstakingly arrange the pictures in chronological order, or as close as she could get. She used the ones with dates as touchstones, guessing on others, until she could sit back and view the chapters of her mother’s life, strung together like pages of a storybook. They started with Evie as a baby and went through childhood to her high school graduation and teacher’s college commencement in cap and gown, all the way to her marriage to Jonathan Ashton.

  “There,” she said with a sigh when she was done, feeling like she’d accomplished something monumental.

  It was the closest Toni had ever come to understanding Evie and who she was before she’d become a mother; when she was just a girl, the elder of two sisters, coming of age in a small river town.

  Evie had so rarely spoken of her growing-up years, although she had recounted plenty of stories about Herman Morgan’s founding of the winery and Joseph Morgan’s sale of eighty acres to Archibald Cummings during the years of Prohibition and the Great Depression. But that had been more like a history lesson than learning about people who really existed.

  “You even hated having your picture taken when you were a baby, didn’t you?” Toni said as she fingered an old-fashioned portrait of Bea Evans with a swaddled infant in her arms that surely was Evie. The child’s face looked pinched and grumpy. Beatrice had dark hair crimped in the style of 1940s movie stars, and wore a dress with padded shoulders. She propped the baby up with both arms, proudly turning her toward the camera.

  “She did her best,” Evie would remark of her own mother, though it hadn’t exactly sounded like a compliment, “and she left us too soon, God knows. If she’d only had more feisty McGillis in her veins, she might’ve had the strength to hold on and see her only granddaughter.”

  Toni wasn’t sure how much McGillis or Morgan she had flowing through her own blood. She had been separated from her roots too long to know.

  “I wish I’d had the chance to meet you,” Toni whispered to Beatrice and put the picture away.

  She moved on to another photograph, this one color, of a child’s birthday celebration. There was dark-haired Annabelle with her dimpled smile posed behind a cake. Half a dozen children gathered around her, Evie so far to the right that only half of her was visible. One of the little girls closest to Anna had a gap-toothed grin and curly hair as bright as copper. Toni turned the photo over but found no date. Just the words Anna’s 7th birthday.

  Toni spotted that same orange-red hair on a woman in a photograph a row above that one. Beside a grown-up Evie, who posed before the stone grill that sat in the backyard of the Victorian, stood a young woman with a head of wild copper hair. The redhead mugged for the camera, a pitcher of lemonade in her hands. Me and B, July 4 BBQ, Evie’s spidery handwriting had penned on the back.

  Toni moved the two pictures until they were side by side: Anna’s seventh birthday and the barbecue on the Fourth of July.

  It didn’t take much effort to figure out that the carrot-topped child and the grown woman pouring lemonade were one and the same.

  “B is for Bridget,” Toni said aloud.

  A knot formed in the pit of her stomach as she thought of the woman who’d been a permanent fixture in their lives since Grandpa Franklin had died.

  Did you know my aunt Annabelle? she had pointedly asked Bridget only to get the most generic answer: 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.

  Toni figured that lying by omission was the same thing as lying.

  So Bridget had lied to her.

  The housekeeper had known the family going back at least as far as Anna’s seventh birthday—long before Anna ran out on her wedding to Davis Cummings—and, for some reason, neither she nor Evie had felt it was a fact worth mentioning.

  It made Toni wonder what else they hadn’t told her.

  Chapter 21

  Evie

  I was going to have a daughter, and her name would be Antonia.

  As hard as it was to believe—and as unbelievable as it seemed even an instant before Anna placed my hand on her belly—my sister’s lack of desire for motherhood was the answer to my prayers.

  Though I worried she would come to regret her choice, Anna made it perfectly clear that she had no intention of staying in Blue Hills to raise the baby, nor did she plan to raise the baby herself somewhere else. Altho
ugh she didn’t state it outright, I sensed she was eager to resume being footloose and fancy-free, unencumbered by an infant.

  By Antonia.

  So what could I do but agree that Jon and I would be her parents? No other thought even entered my mind. For, if we turned her away, where would Anna go to deliver? Somewhere far from us again, I was sure, likely out of the country. And what would she do with Antonia after that? Continue on her merry way and leave the child to be raised by people who were strangers to us?

  Unthinkable.

  Once I had regained my senses and accepted that my prodigal sister had returned and was offering me the most precious of gifts, it was far too easy to squash any internal moral conflict. Nor did I dwell on her motive because the truth seemed very simple: Jon and I desperately wanted a child and could not have one; Anna was having a child and did not want one. Would we be able to love her and raise her as our own?

  Yes, yes, yes.

  My faith in the black dress had been restored. Not only had it forecast Anna’s and my reunion—just as it had forecast my life with Jon Ashton—but it had realized my vision of the baby as well. The only obstacle that remained was convincing Jon that it was his fate, too.

  When he came home from the winery, Anna and I were waiting. At first, it was enough to introduce them and make chitchat while Jon stared at Anna with narrowed eyes, as though she were our enemy. I couldn’t blame him for being suspicious. He had seen firsthand how devastating her disappearance had been to my parents and me. While he had the luxury of distrusting her, I did not. I had no choice but to embrace her.

  “Where do you live now?” he asked her, once he’d washed his hands for dinner and settled into his favorite wing chair in front of the sprawling stone fireplace. All the windows were open, letting in a soft breeze. Even still, the air felt tense, and it wasn’t merely the heat.

  Anna perched on the sofa, her sandals kicked off and bare feet tucked beneath the wide skirt of her sundress. “I’m guessing by that you mean a street address,” she said, and Jon nodded. “Hmm, that may be a problem since there’s no street where I’m staying.”

  No street? I thought, alarmed, and realized she hadn’t told me where she was living in Blue Hills. Perhaps at the Southern Hotel in Ste. Gen under an alias?

  Jon tried another tack. “Where was your home before you turned up here?” he asked, and I had to give him points for persistence. “Did you ever put down stakes?”

  “Put down stakes,” Anna repeated and eyed him curiously. “Are you asking if I ever worked in a circus or lived in a tent? Because I did that once or twice.”

  Which, the circus or the tent? I thought but kept my mouth closed. It was like watching a tennis match, as I kept tabs on them by the pass-through to the kitchen. While they conversed, I pulled apart a head of lettuce to make a salad.

  “I meant something more permanent, like a building with four walls and a roof where you received mail.”

  “Ah, I see,” Anna said and tapped a finger to her chin. “That’s a tricky one to answer, really. The truth is I’ve been here, there, and everywhere. I made friends wherever I went who weren’t afraid to free themselves of all the things that tie us down.”

  “Like a family, a job, and a home?” my husband said, disdain in his voice.

  “Yes, those things precisely.” Anna seemed amused rather than offended.

  “Jonathan,” I sighed his name and looked up from the tomato I chopped, so nervous that my hands shook and I narrowly missed cutting off the tip of my thumb.

  “It’s okay, Evie,” Anna told me. “I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

  Jon leaned forward, shoving elbows on his knees. “So how did you get yourself into this situation?” he asked, jerking his chin at her. “Having a child when you’re unmarried.”

  “Dear God.” I pricked my thumb with the knife, drawing blood.

  Anna’s expression turned positively impish. “Oh, my, you can’t really be ignorant as to how that works? Should I have a chat with him about the birds and the bees, Evie?”

  This time, I chided her. “Annabelle, please.”

  She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “I know that it’s déclassé to get in my situation unless you’ve got a ring on your finger, but there are plenty of women who find themselves knocked up regardless. And somehow the world keeps spinning, and Hell never seems to freeze over.”

  Jon frowned, growing quiet.

  For goodness’ sake.

  I cleared my throat and jumped in. “Were you in Europe during your travels?” I asked my sister, finding much safer footing. “Did you see Rome and London? Or any of the spots on Daddy’s globe that you used to point at and sigh?”

  “I saw as much as I could take in,” she replied, and her face lit up exactly the way I remembered. “I always figured there was a lot beyond this dinky town, but it was more than I imagined. When I tired of England and France, I went to Africa and South America after that. I felt like an explorer, Evie, going places I’d never envisioned. The hardest part was figuring out where to head next. The choices are endless!”

  Jon shook his head as he listened.

  “You never could sit still,” I remarked, because it was clear that hadn’t changed.

  “And why should I, when the world is full of such color and noise? It’s like Christmas every day.” Anna pressed her fingers beneath her chin. “There is life outside of Blue Hills, you know. People celebrating and dying, fighting wars, making love. Every city is bursting with streetcars and autos and voices, and a heartbeat that feels alive.” She planted palms on her belly, glancing down, her smile dissipating. “Coming back feels a little like dying. I’m still not used to the quiet.”

  “And sometimes I believe it’s never quiet enough,” I said and roughly cut an onion, the pungent scent enough to draw tears. How odd it was to realize that my sister and I had grown up in the same house wanting such different things. What I craved was a family of my own and peace, not crowds and noise and wars.

  “So what do you do for a living?” Jonathan spoke up again, still trying to figure out Anna, as if that could ever be done. “I can’t imagine what type of work lets you move around like a hobo.”

  Anna shifted position, dropping her feet to the floor so she faced Jonathan head-on. “Do I have to be something?”

  “Everyone is something,” he replied and glanced at me with an expression of complete puzzlement.

  Anna snorted. “It’s no wonder you fit together so well, Evie. He’s very pragmatic, isn’t he?” She crossed her legs, not bothering to tug down her dress, its hem well above her knees. Even from across the room, I could see the challenge in her eyes.

  The egg timer dinged, and I slipped on a padded mitt to remove my sausage rice casserole from the oven.

  “Anna, would you help set the table?” I asked, hoping to avoid an argument between them. We had more important things to discuss beyond what Anna did or didn’t do for a living. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to know besides.

  She uncurled herself from the sofa and rose to her feet. She slipped on her shoes before joining me. “Do you remember how Grandmother Charlotte used to hover over us as we set the table? She’d bark if we put the napkins on the wrong side of the plate or the water goblet where the bread dish was supposed to be. I was terrified of mixing up the dessert and salad forks.”

  “How could I forget?” I said, laughing. “She scared the living daylights out of me, too. But don’t worry. Jon and I aren’t so formal here. You may eat your salad with a spoon for all I care.”

  “And I figured you liked formality,” she quipped with a sideways glance.

  Maybe neither of us knows the other as well as she thinks, I nearly remarked but kept the thought to myself.

  As I pointed out the cutlery drawer and the cabinet where I kept place mats and napkins, she brushed against me and leaned in to whisper, “I don’t think your husband likes me much.”

  “He’s only just met you,” I whispered back. “I
’ve known you most of your life, and these past four years I didn’t much care for you myself.”

  “Evie!” Her face fell, and she clutched the place mats to her chest. “You don’t mean that, do you? I thought you understood better than anyone. The dress—”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” She’d had a vision, and it was her destiny. I didn’t doubt either. But I still couldn’t grasp why she’d stayed out of touch. It seemed particularly callous and careless, and I didn’t want to believe that was who Anna was. Which is why I made myself tell her, “No matter what, I’ll always love you. You’re my sister. That can’t be undone.”

  “Good,” she said and sighed deeply. “It would hurt the most to lose you. I could deal with everything else.”

  I rubbed her arm, not trusting myself to add to the conversation.

  “You’ve made this place so pretty,” she said, and I was relieved that she didn’t press me further about my feelings. “It’s even nicer than I remember. Mother and Daddy never did much to it when we were kids and then it got so run-down after we moved into the Victorian.”

  “You’re right, the cottage was positively rotting by the time we married and decided it’s where we wanted to live. We’ve worked hard on it, haven’t we, Jon?”

  My husband grunted an affirmative.

  “Well, it’s very sweet,” Anna said and strolled toward the hand-hewn table made by our great-great-grandfather. She set down three place mats and napkins, one after the other. I put out the plates and glasses while Anna laid out the knives, forks, and spoons.

  As we brought the food to the table, Jonathan settled down beside me and Anna across from us. We bowed our heads, and I said a quick grace, before I reached for Jon’s plate to begin serving him and then Anna. I served myself last, as my mother had done with our family her whole life. “I’ve rarely eaten a hot meal,” she had told me once, and I sympathized.