by Lynn LaFleur
When she looked up Carlton handed the box to her.
“Thank you.” Rather than open the package, 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 décol
letage.
Madame placed her hands, fingers splayed, against Abby’s breasts. Through the muslin, she encircled them in her palms, 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.
Madame laid her hand on Abby’s forearm. “Do not worry, cherie. Jacqueline, with our dressers and cosmetologists, will meet you at four. If final alterations are needed, Jacqueline will complete them at that time. The others will do the rest. Monsieur will find a delicious goddess awaiting him.”
Abby Granger Horton, a delicious goddess. She wasn’t sure even her fairy godmother could pull off that one. “Thank you so much. Merci.”
“Enchante, Mademoiselle, au revoir.”
Chapter Six
The morning sped by in a blur. The phone never stopped ringing, and customers poured in. At one point, Abby wondered if a bus had pulled into town and dropped all of its passengers right on Love In Bloom’s doorstep.
Even the little bell above the door sounded tired and tinny.
By one o’clock, Abby’s hand ached from writing orders. She hadn’t had a spare minute to think about the dancing slippers she’d shoved to the back of the shelf below the cash register or the dress that would turn her into a delicious goddess. Instead, her hands, still sore from the thorns of last night, now bore paper cuts and more broken nails. Some goddess she’d make.
She was heading back to the workroom with a fistful of new orders when she heard the bell jangle for the umpteenth time in the last hour. “Be right there,” she called over her shoulder, dropped the orders into the in-box next to Judy’s worktable, and dashed back to the showroom.
Instead of a customer, Carlton stood waiting, another box in hand—a much smaller box—and another card.
Abby clapped her hands and laughed. “Carlton, we have to stop meeting like this.”
He smiled at her tired joke and handed her the card. She opened the flap. The message, written in Brett’s bold hand, jumped out at her.
Bling to add sparkle to a magical evening! Until tonight, B
Abby’s pulse raced, along with the heat rising on more than her cheeks and throat. The delicate place between her legs, already thrumming with anticipation, confirmed she was ready for all of the magic of Brett.
She slid the card back inside the envelope and took the box Carlton held out to her.
“Mr. Kincade will be by to fetch you at six o’clock.”
She nodded, although her fingers itched to rip the paper off the box. “Six it is.”
As soon as the door closed behind Carlton, Abby heard two sets of footsteps galloping up the hallway.
“Okay, what is it this time?” Ronn came to a sliding stop beside her, Judy at his side. He rubbed his hands and nearly drooled the words, “Oh, this is too, too—”
“Open it, open it,” Judy urged. “I can’t wait to see what that man’s done now.”
Abby shook her head. “You two ever heard the word privacy?” She tried to sound stern, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“This isn’t a privacy issue,” Judy declared. “It’s sharing information we need to know.”
“I won’t bother to ask why.” Abby tossed the bow aside. The paper followed.
“Whoa, look at that!” Judy exclaimed at the sight of a jewel case made of silver and crystal. Inside, a circle of pearls, square cut beads of onyx, and what surely had to be faux diamonds lay fastened to a bed of white velvet. Inside the circle, the jeweler had attached matching drop earrings.
Abby had seen a necklace and earring set like this before, on one of the web sites featuring Erté’s wearable art. “These can’t be real.”
“Why not?” Ronn took the case from her, walked to the window and studied it. He lacked only a jeweler’s loupe to complete the picture.
“Because there’d be a five-figure price tag attached, that’s why.” And heaven only knows the emotional price tag that includes.
Judy joined Ronn at the window. While he held the box securely, she fingered each pearl, each square of onyx and the diamonds.
“If you haven’t guessed by now,” Judy said, “Brett’s not exactly poverty-stricken.”
“And I’m not for sale.” An unsettled feeling churned in the pit of Abby’s stomach. She scrunched the wrapping paper into a ball. “If that’s genuine Erté, and not a department store knockoff, it’s going back. Shoes are one thing, even the dress is too much.” She took the case from Ronn and snapped the lid shut. “This is way over the top.”
“I wouldn’t worry that he spent his fortune on the dress, hon.” Ronn headed back toward the workroom. “Madame’s good, but Seaside ain’t exactly Paris.”
Judy snorted. “And Madame ain’t exactly French.”
“What does that mean?”
“According to your aunt, Madame’s real name is Clara-Jean Fletcher, and the only Paris she’s ever lived in is in Texas.”
“You mean she’s not a real dress designer? That I’ll be wearing that muslin sack tonight?”
She put an arm around her shoulders. “Madame or Clara-Jean or whatever she chooses to call herself, is an excellent designer. She’s dressed the wealthy of Seaside for more than twenty years, including your aunt until they had their big falling-out.”
“What was that all about?” Abby still clutched the jewel case.
“Something probably so silly and insignificant neither of them remembers.” Judy took a deep breath. “Their differences aside, Madame does superb work. And no matter how much grief I give him, Brett Kincade is one classy dude.” She pointed to the necklace and earrings. “Are those genuine? I don’t know, but I’d bet all the money this shop took in today once you’re dressed you’ll look exquisite from head to toe. So who cares what’s real or what isn’t, or what’s too much or too little? Don’t think about tomorrow. Think about tonight and have the time of your life.”
Abby had little time to think after that. Between walk-ins and ph
one orders, she found only a minute or two to wolf down the container of yogurt she’d brought for lunch and, later, an apple.
At three, Judy ordered her home. “Duvalier’s gang will be knocking at your door at four. Look at you.”
Abby glanced down at the palms of her hands. They’d turned red from wringing them. Her lower lip stung too, from nipping at it every time things grew too hectic. With the high humidity inside the shop, her hair frizzed into tight little curls.
“Go home now, Abby. Take a nice soak in a warm tub and drink a cup of hot tea. Rose always stocks chamomile. Otherwise you’ll be a wreck by the time Brett shows up.”
“What do you mean, ‘will be’? I’m a wreck right now.”
“All the more reason to get the heck out of here.”
“What about the shop, and the phone? It hasn’t stopped—”
Judy stepped behind the counter and nudged Abby aside. “Do you think I’ve never manned the desk? Here.” She stooped down and retrieved Abby’s shoes and the jewel case.
“But I promised Aunt Rose I’d take care of—”
“Didn’t you promise Brett you’d be a good date? We have enough folks in back to cover the phones. We’ll take turns staffing the showroom.” She rested her hands on Abby’s shoulders. “Listen to me, my friend. With the kids in high school and with college looming, there’s no way Butch and I will ever afford an evening at Whispers. At least not until we’re so damned old we won’t remember what to do when we get there. Go, have an unbelievable time, then let me live it vicariously through you.”
* * * * *
Thoughts of quiet time, chamomile tea and a long soak in a warm tub disappeared when Abby turned onto Rose’s street. Already parked in front of 221 Roxbury Park Road stood Madame Duvalier’s silver RV and a small fleet of SUVs in front and behind the behemoth. Abby had to squeeze Rose’s BMW between them to pull into the garage.
Jacqueline, a dresser and two seamstresses from Duvalier’s, a makeup specialist, a hair stylist, and a de Sade wannabe who, Abby quickly and painfully learned, was there to wax her within a hair of her life. For two-and-a-half hours, they fussed and fumed, argued and cajoled, and never once asked Abby’s opinion. Worse, they insisted on no mirrors.