Storms and Dreams (Becoming Jane Book 3)

by Adare, Alexis

  Wait, that’s not right.

  I opened my eyes, and saw Tom’s face, lips pursed, blowing over the edge of the largest mug of cappuccino I think I’ve ever seen. I stilled, drinking him in, long dark lashes fluttering over his cheeks. He looked up, caught me staring at him, and beamed.

  “There she is. Wake up, sleepy head, we’ve got a full day ahead of us.”

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  “It wants to be a cinnamon cappuccino. Whether or not it is, is debatable. The fancy coffee machine and I had a few words earlier in the kitchen. So I can’t vouch for this concoction, other than to say I’m almost certain it has caffeine.”

  "Is it for me?"

  "Oh, definitely."

  "Then hand it over, handsome." I sat up in the bed, pulling the sheet up with me, and took the mug from him, sipping gingerly.

  “How is it?” he asked, his expression dubious.

  “Cinnamon jet fuel,” I replied, licking my lips. “It may not be a cappuccino, but it is the best quadruple espresso I’ve ever had.”

  “Damn,” he groaned, raking his fingers through his hair. I couldn’t help but notice how extra adorable he was when annoyed.

  “You’ve invented a new drink,” I said. “We can call it the crackuccino. We’ll make a fortune.”

  “You’re being kind,” he said, bending over to kiss me on the nose before turning to head into the bathroom. I could hear him in there, dragging suitcases from the closet and shuffling toiletries. “Best not drink all of it,” he called. “We can’t have your heart exploding on the drive into town. Bloody machine.”

  “Pretty sure that happened already. Like, twenty times in the last two days, in fact,” I muttered.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing!” I called back as he emerged from the bathroom, dragging the suitcases behind him.

  “I don’t want to rush you—” he said.

  “But?”

  “We’ve got a noon appointment at a boutique in Skysdale, which I’m told is on our return route home.”

  “It is, sort of, if we take Route 1,” I said. “The coastal highway. Very scenic.”

  “Oh good,” he said, digging his phone out of his trouser pocket to look at the screen. “Yes, that’s the route Max has laid for us.”

  “Who’s Max?” I took another sip of coffee. It was actually pretty tasty.

  “My mother’s concierge friend I mentioned. I emailed him last night, asked him to find us the best shopping on short notice. He said there’s a rather nice dress shop in Skysdale, but it’s appointment only during the holidays so we’ll have to hurry if we want to make it.”

  “What’s the name of the shop?” I asked, excitement ping-ponging in my chest.

  “Something to do with sky,” he said, dragging his suitcase to the bedroom door.

  “A Piece of Sky?” I asked.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Oh my god!” I squealed. “Charlie will die when I tell her!”

  “Why’s that?”

  “That shop is famous. It’s full of vintage couture and one-off pieces. It’s like half museum, half dress shop, and I’ve heard it’s amazing. Celebrities shop there.”

  “Celebrities fly to a little town in Maine to shop for dresses?”

  “Well, actually I bet it’s their stylists that do that. But yeah I heard they loan dresses for movies, and somebody I know swore they saw Karl Lagerfeld in there.”

  “Well, Max is pretty connected,” he said, shrugging.

  “Tell him thank you for me. Charlotte and I have always wanted to go, but we never have. Oh, she’s going to just die.”

  “I’m glad I could help facilitate your sister’s death by envy.” He laughed and threw my robe at me. “Get ready, we leave in an hour.”

  I caught the robe and hugged it to my chest, setting the mug down on the bedside table, my gaze flitting from the lamp, to the bed, to the curtains that framed the four posters, the wall of windows at the end of the room. The water looked so pretty today, sparkling in the morning light. I sighed. I couldn’t wait to spend more time with him, but I also regretted leaving this place. This beautiful, magical house where I fell in love. Would things be the same between us when we left here? Would we still have this passion, this easy way with each other, this feeling?

  Tom crossed to me and sat on the edge of the bed, dragging my hand into his. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “I just hate to leave the dream.”

  “Oh, well,” he rose, lifting my hands to his lips for a kiss. “There’s nothing to fret about. I’ve decided. We’re bringing the dream with us.”

  I grinned at him as he bent to kiss me, his warm, strong hand cradling my cheek, threading through my hair and easing all the worry from my mind. He released me, stepped back from the bed and checked his phone again. “Fifty minutes,” he said. Walking to the bedroom door, he stopped for his suitcase and stood in the doorway. “The dream continues.” He winked at me, then exited, closing the door behind him.

  * * *

  We drove up the coastline, enjoying the view and each other’s company. The heater blew softly as classical music played, a comforting drone, occasionally punctuated by our conversation, or the polite interruption of the navigation matron, informing us “in five hundred yards, turn left.” Something had been needling me, though, probing the back of my mind since the previous evening, one of those mental notes you make and promptly forget. As I stared at his gloved hands, the leather stretching with his fingers as he held the wheel, I remembered: inamorata. What exactly did it mean? I knew what he’d said it meant. But I wanted to find out for myself. I fished my phone out of my coat pocket and tapped the screen.

  “Did someone ring?” he asked, glancing at my phone.

  “No, just checking my email,” I lied. I didn’t want him to know what I was really doing. I tapped open the dictionary app and typed in the word…I…N…A… The screen hung, three little bars in the upper right straining for a signal. After a moment the screen refreshed.

  inamorata

  /ɪnˌæməˈrɑːtə; ˌɪnæmə-/

  noun (pl) -tas

  1. a woman with whom one is in love; a female lover

  My breath hitched as I stared at the screen. I looked up and shielded my eyes as a shaft of winter light streamed in the driver side window, backlighting Tom’s face, his fine features outlined in a cool, blue glow. I’m in love with you too, I thought. And that scares the shit out of me. Where do we fit in each other’s lives? Where do we go from here?

  “Everything alright?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I murmured. “Just lost in thought.”

  “What about?”

  “Just stuff, everything I guess. This weekend, the party, my graduation, my job, everything.”

  “That’s a lot of stuff,” he said, reaching for my hand. “Easy to get overwhelmed. Might be better to focus on just one thing.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What?”

  “Us.”

  Right…

  “Now.”

  Sure…

  “Shopping.”

  Wait, what?

  “We’re here,” he said, letting go of my hand and shoving the car into park. “Time to spend some money.”

  * * *

  If my life were a movie, the afternoon we spent shopping together would be the upbeat montage in the middle of a romantic comedy, complete with peppy musical accompaniment. The town was decorated for the holidays, great tinsel-covered snowflakes swayed from the top of every lamp post, fairy lights blinked from potted trees that lined the sidewalks, and tinny holiday music played from a public P.A. system. It was cheesy and quaint, and absolutely perfect. We had lunch from a street vendor—carnitas tacos washed down with ice cold Cokes from the bottle. Tom rescued my scarf for me when an unusually strong gust of wind whipped it down the street like a paper dragon in a Chinese parade. And we ran each other ragged, dodging back and forth across the main shop
ping street of Skysdale, to look at window displays that had caught our eye.

  “Holy crap.” I stopped short in front of the window of a jewelry shop.

  “What?” he asked, settling his chin on my shoulder.

  “What stone is that? I’ve never seen that color in a gemstone. It’s like grayish, lavender-blue. It’s gorgeous.”

  Bells tinkled and I looked up to see Tom holding open the shop door. He gestured inside. “Let’s find out.”

  The saleswoman was on top of things with a capital T. No doubt she’d taken one look at Tom, and smelled money. I didn’t blame her. She had the necklace out of the display case and on a velvet pad in front of us before we said a word. I wondered what kind of commission scale she was on.

  “Would you like to try it on?” she asked.

  “Oh no,” I said as I felt Tom drawing my coat off my shoulders, and taking my purse from my hand.

  “Yes, she would,” he said. “Thank you.”

  He stepped back as the saleswoman came around the counter, lifting the necklace over my head and fastening it around my neck. She positioned me in front of a mirror, and I could see Tom standing just behind me, his eyes on mine. The necklace was the perfect length. It was a beautiful piece that hovered between vintage and contemporary design.

  “It’s lovely,” I said, my fingers caressing the stone.

  “It’s white gold and diamonds,” she said. “The large center stone is iolite. That’s Greek for ‘violet’. It has natural polarizing qualities so the Viking’s used to use it for navigation. Although there are legends that they used it for more spiritual things as well.”

  “Like what?” Tom asked, stepping forward to stand beside me.

  “They called iolite the dream stone. It was supposed to make dreams come true, to facilitate a journey into the dream realm. Silly stuff, but very romantic.”

  “Interesting,” Tom said, and I saw him smile out of the corner of my eye.

  Shit. I had a feeling he was about to buy this necklace for me, and as much as I loved the idea, it was just too much. He’d already taken me away for the weekend and spent an ungodly amount of money on wine. I couldn’t think of accepting another thing from him.

  “It’s really beautiful,” I said, unclasping the necklace and handing it back to the saleswoman. “Thank you for letting me look at it.” I turned to Tom and took back my coat and purse. “It’s nearly noon, we should head out,” I said, jerking my head towards the door.

  “Killjoy.” He narrowed his eyes at me.

  “Come along, Prince Charming,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Time to prepare for the ball.”

  * * *

  The saleswoman at the jewelry store might have been able to smell money, but she was no match for the retail talents of Cordelia, the owner of A Piece of Sky.

  Five-foot-nothing of Southern charm so sugary she could sweeten a gallon of tea just by dipping her finger in it, Cordelia met us at the door like we were family that was late for dinner.

  “Dr. Grayson,” she whispered loudly, waving at us. “Quick, you two, c’mon!” She ushered us inside and shut the door quickly. The store was dark, the skeletons of clothing racks and shoe displays hulking in the dim light. “Let me just lock this door before the rabble find out we’re open, and start pounding at the windows like a horde of zombies.”

  I thought she was kidding, till I glanced out the windows and saw a group of women whip their heads in our direction, point, and nearly cause a three-car pile-up trying to cross the road towards us.

  “Oh damn it, they’ve seen us. Better batten down the hatches.” Cordelia trotted to the far wall, flipped open a panel and mashed her bejeweled fingers at the buttons inside. A sheet of metal descended from the ceiling, a cautionary beep sounding as it glided, rolling over the window, slowly blocking us from the view of the gathering crowd. Cordelia tilted her head as it lowered, watching the descent, inch by inch, giggling and waving at the crowd while they complained.

  “Why don’t they just make an appointment?” I asked.

  “Oh I don’t take appointments, honey. They can come back when we’re open again. January 15th.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Honey, I’ve been doing this for thirty years. Year five I decided I’d rather have the Christmas season off. I can afford it. I want to see my family. I don’t care about the last minute Christmas sales and all that rush and hustle. It gives me indigestion. So I’m closed from December 15th to January 15th. Been that way for the last twenty-five years and everyone in this town knows it, too. Bless their hearts.”

  She said the last bit in a tone that sounded more like “die in a fire” than it did an actual blessing. Cordelia’s brand of sweet tea had a healthy splash of lemon.

  “But you took our appointment,” I said, stunned.

  “I’m so sorry,” Tom said, coming up behind me. “I had no idea we were imposing. Max gave me the impression—”

  “Oh no, don’t you two worry about a thing. I’m not talking about you. Max and I go way back, I’d do anything for him. Me cassa, sue cassa. Isn’t that what they say?” She strode away from us, her voice trailing off as she disappeared down a hallway at the back of the store. “Well, come on!” she said, her head popping out from behind a door. “In here. I’ve got everything ready.”

  The room I walked into looked like backstage of a designer’s showroom at New York’s Fashion Week. High ceilings and bright lights, racks and racks of clothes and accessories, and a makeup table complete with two tragically bored teenage girls. But I didn’t think the girls were models. They wore black aprons, and sat on the edge of the makeup counter. One was smacking her gum while putting on lip gloss in the mirror, the other was filing her nails. When they turned towards us, I could see they were twins.

  “These are my granddaughters,” Cordelia said, beaming at us. “Jeanine and Jeanette, good girls, very talented, hard workers, even if they are currently sitting on my makeup counter when I specifically” —she swatted the one closest to her on the butt— “told them not to!”

  “Ow! Sorry, jeez,” said the girl that was swatted. She rubbed her butt dramatically and I bit my lip to keep from laughing, then glanced up at Tom, only to burst out laughing when I saw his expression. It was somewhere between horror and bewilderment.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m not sure if there was a miscommunication, but we thought that—”

  “I know, honey. I told you. Max and I go way back.” She walked to the rack of clothes nearest us, picked up the edge of the long white cloth that was draped over it and dragged it free, revealing a selection of cocktail dresses that took my breath away. “See,” she said, grinning at Tom. “Everything is hunky dory. We’ll find the perfect dress, the perfect shoes, the perfect purse and Jeanine and Jeanette here will do hair and makeup. She’ll be…What’s your name, hon?”

  “Jane.”

  “Jane, I’m Cordelia and I’ll have you pretty as a picture in no time. Don’t you worry, Dr. Grayson.”

  “No,” he said unconvincingly. “Not worried, I just, want to be sure…everyone has everything they need.” He turned to me and widened his eyes, his gaze imploring me for reassurance.

  “I’ll be fine.” I laughed and squeezed his arm.

  “She’ll be fine,” Cordelia echoed cheerily, then walked to a steel door marked exit and pushed it open. “Now, you go out here, and make a right, three doors down, just after the trash dumpster is Carmine’s. He’s waiting for you to fit your tux. Give me three hours with your girl and when you come back, knock like this.” Cordelia rapped on the door, shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits. “That way I’ll know it’s you, and not one of the zombies tryin’ to sneak in.”

  “Why don’t I just text Jane and let her know when I’m on my way?” Tom said, walking to the door.

  “Suit yourself,” Cordelia said, shrugging. “Three hours.” She shoved him through the door and slammed it shut. “Now then,” she said, rubbing her hands together, “l
et’s get started.”

  * * *

  “Do you guys live together?”

  “Is he like, Australian? Like Chris Hemsworth?

  “Is he a movie star?”

  “Are those the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen?”

  “Are you two in love?”

  It was the third round of the twinquisition and I was seriously in danger of getting whiplash.

  “Hold up a minute,” I said, laughing, as I stepped into another dress.

  “Nope, hides your figure,” Cordelia said, snapping her fingers at me. “Take it off.”

  “He is seriously foine.” One of the twins sighed.

  “Seriously,” the other agreed, nodding with all the gravity of a priest giving last rites.

  “Foine means he’s good-looking,” Cordelia told me with authority. “It’s what the young people are saying these days.”

  “Let’s see,” I said, laughing as I wiggled out of the dress and handed it to Cordelia. “No, we don’t live together. He’s English, not Australian. He’s not a movie star, he’s an English professor. And yes they are the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

  “Are you in love?’ said one of the twins again.

  Looked like they really wanted that one answered.

  “Yeah, you forgot that one,” the other twin agreed helpfully.

  Shit. “Um, I uh…” I stuttered, wondering how I was going to dodge such a personal question, then gasped when Cordelia turned to me holding the most beautiful dress in the world. Saved by the dress.

  “Vintage Dior,” she said. “Mid-fifties. It originally had a pencil skirt that hit just below the knee, but the fabric was damaged so I had to shorten it.”

  “Perfect,” I said. And it was. It was the same elusive lavender as the iolite necklace, a silky shantung with a silvery sheen and a slight nub to the fabric. The collar was off the shoulder, draping over the bust and wrapping around the waist in a sash. Cordelia removed the dress from the hanger and slipped it over my head, zipping me up as I inspected myself in the mirror.