Moonlight in the Morning

by Jude Deveraux

  “I thought your only friend in that little nowhere town was Kim. Is it her playhouse?”

  “No, but it belongs to her cousin.”

  “So charge her money. Don’t give your talent away.”

  “Him. A him owns the playhouse.”

  “Oh,” Joe said. “So now we’re getting to the bottom of this. It’s a him. And he’s got kids?”

  Jecca put her head back and closed her eyes for a moment. She didn’t know how he’d done it, but her father had yet again found out what she didn’t want him to know. “Dad . . .” she said, then shook her head.

  “What? A father can’t ask questions? Who is this man? He’s married with kids and he’s asking you to run around in a pair of shorts in the woods and paint his playhouse? Sounds fishy to me.”

  Once again her father was making her defend her actions. “He’s the town doctor, he’s thirty-four years old, never been married, and the child is his niece. Happy now?”

  “Better,” Joe said. “So what’s he doing giving a job like that to a girl?”

  “Because I’m qualified!” she said in exasperation. “That’s why. Dad, you’re making me crazy.”

  “Just taking care of you, that’s all. You’re turning down a paying job for Kim to work for free on some guy’s playhouse, so I worry, that’s all.”

  Jecca silently shook her head. It was better to change the subject. “Want to hear about my roommates? They’re teaching me to pole dance.”

  “What?! Do they know you’re working for some guy that’s never been married?”

  Jecca threw up her hand. How could her father make never having been married sound bad? “Dad, so help me . . .”

  “Okay, so tell me how you’re going to start a new career of stripping for men who own playhouses.”

  It was a while before she could get off the phone to him and she promised to send him photos and copies of her sketches. “Get Sheila to show you how to retrieve an e-mail,” Jecca said.

  “I know all about e-mails,” he said. “I guess this playhouse means you won’t be coming home any time soon.”

  “Not for a while, but Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you too,” she said, smiling.

  “Yeah,” he said in a gruff voice, then hung up.

  As she clicked off, she frowned. He really did sound miserable. She heard Lucy calling from downstairs, and she went down to dinner.

  Eleven

  For the next few days, Jecca didn’t stop working. She wanted to have a proper presentation for Tris and Nell when they returned on Sunday.

  She spent hours in the playhouse, sketching every inch of it, and trying to imagine what different colors would look like. She’d never done any interior decorating before. The two apartments she’d had in New York had been little more than places for her to sleep. Between waitressing and trying to sell her work, and later working in the gallery, she’d never had the time—or the money—to think about her own apartment.

  She painted one playhouse sketch in Easter colors, so authentic that she expected bunnies to jump out of the windows. But then she also experimented with other colors, using Victorian “painted ladies” houses as her models.

  When she had six designs that she was pleased with, she showed them to Lucy.

  Lucy took her time looking at them and paused at the Easter house. “I saw some Beatrix Potter toile that would be perfect for the curtains for this one.”

  “What color?” Jecca asked.

  “Baby blue on winter white.”

  Jecca smiled at the answer. Lucy’s precise naming showed her artistic nature. “That would mean we’d have to have blue slipcovers with yellow piping.”

  “And dark blue piping on the curtains. What color should the walls be?”

  The two women looked at each other and said, “Yellow,” in unison.

  Smiling, Lucy said, “Go wash the paint off your face. We need to go shopping.”

  “But what about your sewing?” Jecca asked. “Don’t you have orders to fill?”

  “Lots of them. How about if tonight I show you how to use the ruffler? And you can cut about twenty yards of bias strips for me for French piping.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Jecca said as she hurried to her bathroom.

  After Lucy called Mrs. Wingate to say there wouldn’t be a 3 P.M. workout, they went to Hancock Fabrics in Williamsburg. Lucy had a wealth of knowledge about sewing. Anything Jecca could imagine, Lucy knew how to make.

  They talked nonstop as they looked at ribbons and trims, patterns and buttons, thread and equipment. They got samples of several fabrics. Jecca laughed at Lucy’s snobbery over m ~roideave to havachines. “There’s Bernina and there’s Baby Lock and that’s it,” she said. “There isn’t anything those two companies don’t do, and they do it the best.” Smiling, Jecca trailed after her.

  After they left the fabric store, they treated themselves to afternoon tea at the Williamsburg Inn. While sitting in the beautiful restaurant, looking out over the gorgeous golf course, Lucy got Jecca to talk about her life. When Jecca said that her mother died when she was a child, Lucy reached across the table and took her hand.

  “It was just me and my dad,” Jecca said.

  “And your brother,” Lucy added.

  Jecca gave a half smile as she ate a tiny cake with three layers of chocolate. “I guess so. But Joey’s always been self-sufficient. He’s more like a shadow of Dad than his own person. And now that Sheila’s in the picture, everything’s changed.”

  “Is Sheila your father’s girlfriend?”

  “Worse. She’s Joey’s wife.” Jecca waved her hand. “All this is boring, just the regular family problems. Nothing different and certainly not interesting.”

  “Jecca, I spend all day sitting at my machines with only a TV for company. The love life of a snail is interesting to me.”

  Jecca laughed. “Okay,” she began, “I call Sheila a confronter because—”

  “She can’t wait to tell people that only her opinion is right and the only one that matters.”

  “You’ve met her!” Jecca said.

  “Someone like her. So what has she done?”

  “She wants my father out of the family business,” Jecca said. “She wants Joey to stop being the shadow and become the man in charge.”

  Jecca went on talking, telling in detail all that had changed in their family since Sheila had entered it. Sometimes Lucy made comments, but mostly she did that thing that is so overlooked in modern society: She listened. She didn’t just listen politely, but gave Jecca her full attention. Lucy listened with her mind and her heart.

  “Your poor father,” Lucy said. “He must feel like his son and daughter-in-law want him to die.”

  Jecca caught her breath because Lucy had put into words what she’d felt but hadn’t wanted to say out loud. “I think you’re right.” Her voice lowered. “I don’t think Sheila hates him, but if Dad died tomorrow I believe she’d feel as though their lives could go forward.”

  Again Lucy put her hand over Jecca’s. “Don’t be so hard on her. She’s a mother looking out for her children and she’s making a place for them in the future. When you have your own children, you’ll understand. You’ll do anything for them.”

  “Like Tristan does for his niece?”

  “It’s even stronger than that,” Lucy said. “Would you like to walk around Colonial Williamsburg for a while?”

  “Sure,” Jecca said.

  As they walked, they talked more. But again it was Jecca talking and Lucy listening. Several times Jecca tried to get Lucy to tell some about herself, but she wouldn’t. Lucy wouldn’t so much as say whether she was married, had been married, or if she had children. Absolutely nothing.

  In other circumstances, Jecca would have been annoyed, even angry, that someone was so secretive, but Lucy had a way of making it seem like she was just being modest.

  As they sauntered down Duke of Gloucester Street, through the perfectly restored ei
ghteenth-century village, Jecca told Lucy about Tristan—and asked questions about him.

  “I’ve known him for about four years now,” Lucy said, “and I’ve never met a man who cared more about people than he does. He doesn’t charge about half his patients. You know what he does on weekends?”

  “What?” Jecca asked.

  “House calls. That’s why his house needs paint and the playhouse is so awful. Livie and I worry that he’s going to fall asleep at the wheel some night when he’s driving home. When we heard his arm was broken we were almost glad. At last the poor boy would get some rest.”

  “Is that why his father won’t let him see any patients?”

  “Oh yes. Livie went to Dr. Aldredge and told him that his son was exhausted. Between patients and girls who want to be taken out for a ‘good time’”—she said the words with a sneer—“Tristan was about to collapse.”

  “Maybe Reede will stay here and help.”

  “I’ve never met that young man,” Lucy said, “but from what I hear, all young Reede wants to do is get himself in the news.”

  Jecca gave Lucy a look to let her know how unfair that was.

  “You’re right,” Lucy said. “It’s just that I’ve come to love Tristan as though he were my own son. What other young man would spend movie night with two lonely ladies?”

  “Are you kidding? He wants to come over and join the pole dancing.”

  Lucy’s eyes widened. “You didn’t tell him about that, did you?”

  “In detail,” Jecca said, and the women laughed together.

  They left Colonial Williamsburg to go to a Chinese restaurant where they got carryout to take home to share with Mrs. Wingate.

  On the drive back, Jecca asked Lucy what she’d found out about Bill Welsch.

  “Nothing,” Lucy said, “but Livie must have known him for a long time to react as she did.”

  “I agree. He hasn’t called me yet about the playhouse, but maybe Addy forgot to contact him. I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

  “Me too,” Lucy said.

  That night at dinner Lucy asked Jecca to show Mrs. Wingate tMrsome to lohe drawings she’d made, and they spread out the fabric samples from Hancock’s.

  “Nell will like these,” Mrs. Wingate said as she picked out the ones that could be described as “Easter colors.” It looked like she knew Nell well.

  Jecca and Lucy talked over one another as they told Mrs. Wingate of Nell’s request.

  “What I’ve always thought is that the playhouse should be set in a garden that would enchant children,” Mrs. Wingate said. “It should have Chinese lanterns and funny-faced pansies, and gourds growing over a fence.”

  Jecca pushed one of the photocopies and a pen toward her. “Show me what you mean.”

  Mrs. Wingate revealed a talent for garden design when she sketched a plot for vegetables, flowers along a path, a little fence in front.

  “There’s a big oak tree nearby, and I used to tell Bill that a swing should be put up there,” Mrs. Wingate said. “Addy would have loved it.”

  Jecca and Lucy looked at each other with raised eyebrows. It looked like their guess that Mrs. Wingate and Bill Welsch had a history together was right.

  That night when Tristan called—as he did every evening—Jecca asked him about Bill and Mrs. Wingate.

  “Bill used to be the gardener,” Tris said, “but I don’t know any more than that. I was only about four when he left Edilean. If you’ve been through Miss Livie’s albums, you’ve seen him.”

  “I know. He’s the man with the wheelbarrow,” Jecca said.

  “You’re a clever girl, aren’t you?” he said.

  “Not too much, as I didn’t think of landscaping the playhouse. If this guy Bill Welsch was the gardener he can do that too, can’t he?”

  “Probably. I don’t know the man well. He only returned home last summer. That’s when Mom told me to call him to fix the playhouse, but I never got around to doing it. So are you looking forward to the party?”

  Jecca almost said “What party?” but caught herself. “Very much so. Too bad you won’t be here to see what I’m going to wear.” The truth was that she hadn’t given a thought to the party, much less to what she was going to wear. And it was tomorrow.

  “You’re dressing up for Reede?”

  Jecca couldn’t help smiling at what sounded like jealousy in his voice. “Of course,” she said. “If you were here you could wear your tux. Do you dance?”

  “Better than Reede does,” he said in a way that made Jecca laugh.

  He seemed to want to change the subject. “What did your dad say about how I let the playhouse go to ruin? Is he ready to draw and quarter me?”

  “Oh no!” Jecca said. “I forgot to send him the photos.”

  “You were probably too busy thinking about Reede.”

  “I talked to Roan today,” he said.

  “Did he have to climb a tree to get cell phone reception?”

  “Probably went to the ranger station. He sure did want to talk. I don’t think he’s cut out for the isolated life of a writer.”

  “He couldn’t be doing worse than I am at being an artist. Tomorrow Kim will be back, and I’m going to have to tell her I haven’t done even one painting for her ads.”

  “Can you hang some jewelry off the chimney of the playhouse?”

  “There is no chimney.”

  “I guess Bill will have to add one,” Tris said.

  “Along with a stable for a pony?” Jecca said, and they laughed together.

  She remembered his arm and what Lucy had told her about the hours Tristan worked. “It’s getting late and I think you should go to bed.”

  “Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that?”

  “Since I met you a week ago?”

  “Every minute from the moment I met you,” Tris said.

  They were silent, with both of them feeling their desire to see each other.

  “Sunday,” Jecca said at last.

  “I’m counting the minutes,” he said. “Good night, Psyche.”

  “Good night, Cupid,” she said, and they hung up.

  Jecca immediately e-mailed her father with the photos she’d taken of the playhouse, and she wrote what she hoped was an entertaining letter about what she was doing. Lucy’s observation that Sheila wanted to push her father-in-law out to make room for her children haunted Jecca.

  She wrote quite a bit about Lucy. “She makes me remember things you’ve told me about Mom,” Jecca wrote. “Lucy is quiet and caring. You should hear her talk about her sewing! She can ‘stitch in the ditch’ so fast I can hardly see what she’s doing. And it is perfect! You’d love her craftsmanship.”

  Jecca sent the e-mail then got ready for bed. Guilt ate at her. Here she was in Edilean enjoying her summer off while her father was dealing with a woman who wanted him to leave the earth.

  Jecca fell asleep before she could come up with a solution.

  Twelve

  “You don’t look happy,” Lucy said at breakfast on Saturday morning.

  “I did a very dumb thing,” Jecca said, then told them of her remark to Tristan about wearing something special to Reede’s party.

  “Do you want to impress Reede?” Mrs. Wingate asked, frowning.

  “Not really. I just don’t want Tristan to think I’m a liar. And . . . and it would be nice if people told him I looked good at the party.”

  Mrs. Wingate’s frown changed to a smile. It was obvious that she was on Team Tristan. “What would you like to wear?”

  “I don’t know,” Jecca said, then grinned. “Something Audrey Hepburn would have worn would be my first choice.” She was making a joke, but the women didn’t laugh.

  “That white strapless gown with the black print,” Lucy said, her voice dreamy.

  “Sabrina,” Jecca said. “I was thinking more Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Minus the sunglasses and the hat, of course.”

  Mrs. Wingate stood up. “I may have a
solution,” she said as she opened a drawer and removed a key from a little metal box. “If you both will follow me.”

  She led them through the house to the back and used the key to unlock a door Jecca hadn’t noticed. Inside was a darkened room that was filled with old toys, a heap of curtains, a few worn-out chairs, and lots of boxes. “Now you see my secret life as a hoarder,” Mrs. Wingate said. “If you can step over those . . .” She pushed some boxes aside. In the back against a wall was a big armoire. Mrs. Wingate opened a door to show that it was packed full of women’s clothes.

  Jecca was puzzled for a moment, then Mrs. Wingate opened a blind and a ray of sunlight exposed what was unmistakably silk. “Ooooh,” Jecca said, her hands out. She looked at Mrs. Wingate, who nodded her permission for Jecca to remove the garments.

  The dresses, suits, and a couple of gowns had labels that took Jecca’s breath away: Chanel, Balenciaga, Vionnet. “Where did they come from?”

  “My late husband insisted that I dress well,” she said in a way that didn’t invite questioning. “Here it is.” She removed a sleeveless sheath dress of black silk. “It’s not exactly like Miss Hepburn’s dress, but—”

  “Close enough,” Jecca said, holding it up to her body. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed to be a perfect fit. “May I . . . ?”

  “Try it on, please,” Mrs. Wingate said.

  “Yes, do,” Lucy echoed.

  Unselfconsciously, Jecca pulled off her jeans and T-shirt to strip to her underwear. Lucy helped pull the dress on over Jecca’s head and zipped it up the back.

  Mrs. Wingate pushed the door of the armoire open wider to reveal a full-length mirror.

  The dress fit Jecca as though it had been made for her, and the silk felt wonderful against her skin. She’d never before had on anything like it. It wasn’t just a couple of pieces of silk sewn together. No, the dress was constructed. Engineered like an expensive car. She could feel the boning in the bodice, the stiffness of the buckram at the waist. The dress made her stand up straighter, lifted her breasts a bit higher, pulled her waist in, and smoothed her hips and thighhipa sls. She had a slim figure to begin with, but the dress sleeked her body into something that belonged on the cover of a magazine.