“She must be trying to get her Christmas shopping done early,” Mary Dell commented.
Antoinette moved her head slowly from side to side. “No, ma’am. She bought a cornflower blue dress. And earrings, high heels, and a tube of lipstick—powderpuff pink. For herself.”
The sisters stared at her with open mouths.
“Earrings?” Lydia Dale said after a moment’s pause. “And high heels?”
“Powderpuff pink lipstick? Are you sure you’re talking about Aunt Velvet?” Mary Dell questioned. “Our aunt Velvet?”
Antoinette nodded and smiled, practically beaming with pride. She took as much pleasure in making a formerly dowdy woman look pretty as Mary Dell did in teaching a woman who had never learned to thread a needle to make a beautiful quilt.
“Impossible! Aunt Velvet doesn’t wear store bought clothes.”
“That’s right,” Lydia Dale confirmed. “And she’d never wear cornflower blue. Even in high summer at a hundred and ten degrees, I’ve never seen Aunt Velvet dressed in anything brighter than dove gray.”
“Well, at ten minutes after ten o’clock this morning, all that changed,” Antoinette reported smugly. “She bought a whole new outfit. She even bought a pair of pantyhose. I told her she is forbidden to pull another pair of support hose on those lovely legs of hers.”
“Lovely legs? Now I know you can’t be talking about Aunt Velvet,” Mary Dell said. “Maybe you’re hallucinating. Did you fall and hit your head or something?”
“You don’t believe me? Fine,” Antoinette said with a self-satisfied shrug. “Take a peek out your front window. Here comes Miss Velvet right now.”
Mary Dell and Lydia Dale simultaneously turned toward the street-side window. Sure enough, Velvet was walking past—actually, as she had not yet become accustomed to heels, her gait could more accurately be labeled a totter than a walk—wearing a bright blue dress with a narrow black belt cinched around her waist and a hem that fell just above her knees.
As if drawn by some magnetic force, the twins walked slowly to the front of the shop until their faces were practically pressed against the window glass. They stood still as statues, eyes glued to the foreign but strangely familiar figure in blue.
“I never knew Aunt Velvet had such a little waist,” Lydia Dale said with amazement. “Or such a cute figure.”
“I never knew she had knees,” Mary Dell said.
Had such a remarkable transformation occurred to anyone but their dear maiden aunt, a stalwart woman who had spent a lifetime not only ignoring the trends of fashion but actively eschewing even the most minor attempts at enhancing her appearance, the sisters would have immediately identified the cause. But as it was, it took a few seconds for Mary Dell and Lydia Dale to recall the events of the last few days, sort out and add up clues, and find the solution to the equation. When the answer came, it hit them like a flash and at exactly the same moment.
“Oh my gosh!” Lydia Dale cried. “Do you think there really could be . . .”
Mary Dell bobbed her head vigorously, simultaneously finishing and answering her sister’s question.
“. . . a Secret Admirer!”
As if still unable to trust their own conclusion, they ran to the front door and stuck their heads outside, eyes following the figure in cornflower blue until she rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.
The Templeton twins were not the only people in Too Much who stood witness to this spectacle. Three doors down, several male patrons of Hilda’s House of Pie, some in cowboy hats, some in feed caps, one with a full head of handsome white hair, rose from their counter stools and stood at the window staring as Miss Velvet tottered past.
Chapter Six
Throughout the remainder of November and first ten days of December, Velvet daily received a single yellow rose from the Secret Admirer but no further notes. Sometimes the rose was found sitting in a vase on the porch of the cottage. One Sunday morning, as they were heading to church, she even discovered a blossom lying on the seat of Silky’s LeSabre. But usually, the Secret Admirer tied his offering to the door of the historical society.
Though she refused to discuss the possible identity of her admirer with anyone, not even Silky, Velvet felt certain that the flowers were coming from Mr. Delacorte. It just stood to reason, didn’t it?
For sixty-four years, no male inhabitant of Too Much had shown her even a hint of romantic interest. But suddenly, just weeks after Thaddeus Delacorte, an undeniably good-looking man of exactly the right age who shared her passion for history, moved to town, she was being showered with roses! And the sort of attention she’d never known before. Everyone in Too Much was talking about Velvet and the roses.
A part of her, especially at first, found the whole situation a little embarrassing but another part of her liked being such an object of interest. And much to her surprise, as she had discovered when she strolled past the window of the pie shop in her blue dress on that Friday after Thanksgiving, she liked feeling pretty. So much so that she’d purchased two more dresses from Antoinette’s shop—one in a rich shade of royal blue and one in a bright pink. Also, and again to her surprise, she discovered she liked receiving admiring glances from men, Thaddeus Delacorte in particular.
Out of the corner of her eye, she’d caught a glimpse of him at Hilda’s window that day, had seen the expression of longing in his eyes, had wished she could stop right there and speak to him, saying, “I know it’s you. I know you’re the one, the only man who ever bothered to look close enough to realize that my eyes are the color of cornflowers, the only man who ever sent me a gift. I know. And this is my gift back to you, the time and trouble I took to buy a new dress and put on lipstick and stockings, not because I want others to think I’m pretty, or because I think so myself, but because you do. Because you are a good and kind man, and I would like to be the woman whom you have imagined I am. Because I want to give you back a little bit of the gift you have given me, the gift of your regard and sincere admiration . . .”
But she couldn’t bring herself to say any such thing.
She couldn’t bring herself to speak to him at all, or acknowledge that she knew it was he who left her the roses. Of course, knowing he was a teacher, historian, and very intelligent, she found it a little curious that the one and only note she’d received from him was so poorly written. That was a puzzle. But after a day or two, she concluded that he was shy and that the terrible spelling and cramped handwriting were just attempts to disguise his identity. How silly. How sweet. As if she would have been fooled. She was sure that Mr. Delacorte was her admirer. Who else could it be?
The roses were lovely, such a thoughtful gesture. Never in her wildest dreams could she have supposed that something so remarkable and . . . well . . . romantic might happen to her! But, after a few flower-filled days, it was hard not to wish that he would reveal himself. Or at least send her another note. She longed for a word from him and to know with absolute certainty that her secret Romeo was truly who she supposed him to be.
She tried going to work earlier, hoping to catch him in the act of tying a yellow blossom to the doorknob but without success. Every day, the rose was either already in place or, if not present, would show up in some unexpected spot—the porch, the LeSabre, the newspaper box—at some other time in the day. Just the rose. No note. Not until a full two-and-a-half weeks after she’d received the first.
Doubtless realizing what an inappropriate and unromantic messenger Wanda Joy Cleary made—after all, Mr. Delacorte had witnessed that embarrassing spectacle firsthand—the Admirer chose a much more charming and discrete individual to deliver his second missive. Arriving home from work one evening she was greeted, as usual, by Mr. Bowie, who had a piece of paper rolled up like a scroll tied to his neck with a yellow ribbon.
When she looked down at the big old tomcat, winding around her legs and meowing for his dinner, Velvet couldn’t help but smile at the Admirer’s ingenuity. What a clever way to get the message to her.
But she was glad that Silky had gone out to the F-Bar-T to help Taffy with some holiday baking that day. If her sister had come upon the cat before she had, untied the note from the ribbon, and read the contents, it would have been just too awful. And too embarrassing!
She scooped the cat up in her arms, went into her room, sat on the edge of her bed with the door closed and locked in case Silky returned unexpectedly, and read the letter. The handwriting was just as hideous as before, the spelling just as inept but if those rightward sloping sentences had been lines of sonnet penned by Shakespeare himself, the contents could not have thrilled her more, or caused her heart to beat any faster.
He still thought she was “beutiful,” even more than he’d known before since he’d seen her in the gown of “cornflour” blue. He’d even written a little poem about it.
Roses are yellow,
Cornflours are blue,
That fancy new dress,
Sure looks fine on you . . .
It was a joke, of course. He was poking fun at himself. A man of letters such as Mr. Delacorte could easily compose far more sophisticated verse if he desired to do so but it was sweet just the same. No one had ever written a poem for her before, not even in jest. She was charmed by his teasing doggerel and read the lines through three times, smiling wider each time. She was touched and a little breathless when he wrote of how he spent whole nights lying awake thinking of her, picturing her in the blue dress, and the pink, and the royal, and imagining how lovely her long hair might look, unwound from the coronet at the back of her head, unloosed from its braid . . .
Oh, my.
Just reading those phrases, though more plainly expressed than Miss Velvet had translated them in her mind, caused her to blush. It was only a discussion of hairstyle but the image of unbound locks seemed to hold deeper and more intimate implications.
Oh, my!
Miss Velvet’s heart pounded like a Congo drum in her chest as she continued reading and her cheeks flamed pink, especially when she got to the last paragraph and the words she had longed most to see, words that spelled out the Admirer’s plan to reveal his identity to Miss Velvet.
The next morning, Saturday, Silky and Velvet got up, ate their breakfast, put on an album of Johnny Cash Christmas carols on the record player, and began decking the halls of their little cottage.
Humming along with “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” they began the task of decorating, as they did every year, by removing the ceramic Nativity figures hand-painted by their dear mother back in the 1920s, from the nest of newspaper and scraps of cotton quilt batting where they had slumbered for so many months, and arranging them carefully on the oak mantel above their seldom used fireplace. Next, they replaced the white wax candles in their collection of brass candlesticks with new tapers, red in color and cinnamon scented, then placed the musical angel, family of snow people, knee-high tall figures stuffed and sewn by Silky when Taffy was a little girl, antique snow globe, and other seasonal ephemera onto tables, floors, shelves, and sideboards, in the exact same spots they’d occupied the year before. After that, they hung a red-ribboned wreath on the front door, wrapped the porch banister with strings of white lights, plugged them in and, though it was a little hard to get the full effect so early in the day, stood at the edge of the yard to admire their work before going back inside to complete the last task on their to-do list.
While Silky made cocoa and put gingersnaps on a plate, Velvet started the record over again and set a skinny but fragrant ranch-grown pine up in the tree stand. Working together, the sisters wrapped the tree with five strings of lights, added some tinsel to fill in the bare spots, and hung the branches with antique glass balls passed down through the generations, as well as a cherished collection of handmade ornaments made by Mary Dell and Lydia Dale when they were little girls.
This annual decorating ritual, performed with little variation for almost as long as they could remember, was something they looked forward to every Christmas. But it seemed to Silky that her sister was enjoying herself even more than usual this year. Velvet positively beamed as she went about her work, not only humming along with the crooning Mr. Cash but actually singing aloud with “Joy to the World.” And when Silky came into the living room carrying the tray of cocoa and cookies, she spied Velvet holding the largest of the stuffed snowmen in her arms, waltzing around the tree to the strains of “Blue Christmas.”
Velvet was Silky’s first and best friend, the person she felt closer to than anyone in the world. It was wonderful to see her sister so happy, so filled with life and love and hope. And yet, this whole business with the roses and Secret Admirer made her feel a little anxious as well.
To the outside world, Velvet appeared confident, intelligent, and self-controlled, and she was all of those things. But Silky alone knew that she was also innocent and tender of heart. She hoped that Mr. Delacorte really was the one who was secretly sending those roses every day and that his intentions were exactly what they appeared to be—a sweetly romantic way for a shy but sensitive bachelor to woo and win the heart of an equally shy and sensitive maiden lady. If her dear sister suffered any embarrassment because of this or had her heart broken by an insincere suitor, Silky’s heart would break as well. But, she told herself, she was probably worrying about nothing. Velvet was so good and kind; who could possibly want to embarrass her? And having lived a whole lifetime in Too Much without exciting the romantic interest of any of the local swains, who besides the new man in town would pursue Velvet? Especially in such an obvious way? Yes, surely it was Mr. Delacorte who sent the roses. It had to be. Velvet was the perfect match for a high school history teacher. And he was perfect for her. Look how happy he made her!
After they finished their work and their cookies, Silky put the empty cups and napkins back onto the tea tray.
“Can you turn the record player off?” she said as she picked up the tray. “We’d better get a move on if we want to make it out to the ranch by lunch.”
Velvet followed her into the kitchen. “Oh. Yes. You know, I was thinking I might skip lunch today.”
“But we always have lunch at the ranch on Saturday,” Silky said as she unloaded the dishes into the sink. “And, anyway, I’ve got to measure Jeb and Cady for their pageant costumes. Mary Dell can’t make the costumes for every child in the church, not now that she’s got the quilt shop to run and a baby to take care of.”
“I know but . . .” Velvet interrupted herself, racked by a sudden and wholly unconvincing fit of coughing. “I’m afraid I might be coming down with something. A cold. I’d hate to give it to the children, especially so close to Christmas. I think it would be better for everyone if I stayed home.”
“Bless your heart,” Silky said, endeavoring to look sincerely concerned over the state of her sister’s health. “You sound just awful. I’m going to call Taffy right now and tell her we can’t make it today. You go back to bed and I’ll make up a pot of hot lemon tea with honey. Poor thing.”
“Oh, no. You don’t have to do that! I mean . . . I’d hate for you to miss lunch on my account. I don’t think it’s serious. Just a little cold . . . that’s all. You go on to the ranch without me. I’m just going to stay here and have a little nap. That should fix me up.”
Silky wasn’t in the least fooled by her sister’s sudden pretense of illness, especially when she noticed Velvet craning her neck and pulling at her dress collar. From the time she was a little girl, Velvet had never been able to tell a fib without feeling short of breath. Silky was amused by her sister’s transparent efforts at untruth but decided not to push too hard.
Maybe Velvet wanted to do a little secret Christmas shopping downtown. Or maybe she and Mr. Delacorte had planned a rendezvous. She hoped it was the latter. The roses were lovely but the sooner the Secret Admirer ended his secrecy and declared his intentions, the better.
“If you’re not feeling well then rest is the best medicine. I don’t mind staying and keeping you company.”
Velve
t lifted her hand. “No, no. I can take care of myself. After my nap, I’ll pull the vaporizer out and sit in the steam.” She lifted her hand to her mouth and coughed again, but not as forcefully as before.
“Well,” Silky said slowly as she put on her coat and slipped her purse over her arm, “if you’re sure you’ll be all right . . .”
Velvet stood watching at the window until the LeSabre pulled out of the driveway and drove slowly to the end of Houston Street before disappearing around the corner. Five minutes later, she changed into her pink dress and, the weather being appropriately chilly for December, put on a cream-colored coat before leaving the house.
Chapter Seven
Miss Velvet had always “done” her own hair, or, more accurately, done nothing to it, and so she was not a regular client at the Primp ’n Perm.
She did come in twice a year to get the calluses pumiced from her feet but she had completed this procedure in October and wasn’t scheduled for another appointment until April. So it was understandable that Hazel Dawn, the owner of Too Much’s only full-service beauty parlor, looked up from the reception desk with a surprised expression when Velvet came through the door.
“Well, hey, Miss Velvet! Cute shoes! What can I do for . . .”
Hazel Dawn’s greeting was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. She gave Velvet an apologetic glance and answered it.
“Merry Christmas from the Primp ’n Perm, your holiday hairdo haven. This is Hazel Dawn. May I help you? Hey, Mrs. Pickens! How are you? Today? Oh, I don’t know . . . Let me look.”
Velvet began looking around the walls of the shop, feigning interest in the posters of elaborately coiffured women. She didn’t want to appear to be eavesdropping on the conversation, though it was hard not to. Hazel Dawn had to practically shout into the phone to make herself heard.
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