Aching for Always (13 page)

They both giggled. The martini was starting to hit Joss hard.

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Joss said in mock irritation.

“I texted you! You didn't respond! How was I to know I'd be walking into an episode of
The Real World
?”

“No, I mean it. Thank you. I wanted to wait until our wedding night. Rogan had me against the ropes.”

“I don't know. It didn't look like you were putting up a particularly aggressive defense to me.”

“Ha. You know how I feel, and it's just a few more days.”

“Honestly, Joss. No one should end up with the first
guy she's slept with. They're like the first pancake off the griddle when you're making Sunday breakfast. You know what those are like. What about this Murray stand-in with the English accent?”

“I hope you're not suggesting I sleep with him.”

“No, I am definitely not suggesting that. But a kiss . . . A little light petting . . .” She lifted her palms and shrugged her shoulders as if she were Murray. “Please. Everyone needs a Mr. Mistake. That's how you know the guy you're with is the right one. Honestly, if I hadn't slept with Glenn, how would I have known David was going to be such a good father?”

“I'm not following.”

“Glenn was huge, if you know what I mean.” She grabbed the base of her glass and gave Joss a significant look. Joss thought of that pillar candle. “Would a man like that have made a good father?”

“Good point.”

Sam reappeared and nodded toward the club soda. “Ya want another?”

“No. Thank you,” Di said. “I found it to be large but unfulfilling.” Then she added under her breath to Joss, “And the moral is, how would I have known that without playing the field a little?”

“That's the moral, is it? Okay, that explains Glenn. What about Brad, Andy and that Brazilian with the recumbent bike?”

“You're missing the point. David is perfect. He mops up vomit. He's happy to watch the kids because it means he can put on the Three Stooges. And he's generous enough not to have a penis that could double as a garden gnome.”

Several patrons turned their heads.

“Gee, and you said this wasn't going to be a good bachelorette party.” Joss swirled the olive in her martini, thinking back on the morning visit. “He told me I looked like a goddess. Nike.”

“Really?”

“And he made me a chiton.”

“A
kite
-en?”

“I know, I'd never heard of one either. It's a goddess's dress. He wants me to wear it for the wedding. Or, rather, he wants to make me a real one to wear for the wedding.”

Di shook her head. “That's got to be a one-of-a-kind pickup line.”

“Oh, you should have seen it. All he did was cut out a piece of fabric, drape it over me—”

“He was
dressing
you?” Di squeaked the barstool so hard, Luke dropped his fist and started to cry.

“Well, I mean, just some fabric. Then he tied a piece of gold rope across my chest—”

“Now we're talking.”

“—and I was totally transformed. I've never seen anything like it before. I looked elegant and confident. It was . . . really nice.”

“You were in his shop, and he was dressing you. How did this amazing event transpire?”

Joss's face turned hot. “Well, that's the funny thing.”

“Oh,
that's
the funny thing?” Di pulled an ice cube from her glass and ran it over Luke's gums.

“Yeah, I was there to get my skirt hemmed. And he found out it was going to be my wedding skirt and said he saw me in something entirely different.”

“God, please tell me this means we can get you out of that funeral home greeter outfit?”

“He took me in the fitting room and started making this toga thing on me—but it's not a toga because they're only for men—and he said I looked like a goddess.” Joss pretended she needed another napkin so that Di didn't see the sparkle in her eyes. “And the amazing part is, I did. Like Athena or Britannia or something.”

“Britannia,” Di said significantly, “has a breast bared.” Luke sucked the cube, spit up a little and went back to his fist.

“Yeah, that topic came up.”

The arch of Di's brow went higher than St. Louis's.

“Stop,”
Joss said. “Nothing happened.”

“Except for the dress!”

“No. I told him I couldn't do it.”

“Why?”

“You know . . . There's not enough time.”

“So, don't wear it next week. You can still let him fit you.” Di put a finger on her lip. “Hmm. I wonder how well
he
would fit you?”

“Di!”

Di looked at her watch. “Do you suppose this mysterious British-Jewish tailor-goddess maker has evening hours?”

“No, no, no.”

“Come on!” Di grabbed Luke's car seat handle and swung him off the bar. “This is a bachelorette party. I don't want Luke to be the only one getting breast action tonight.”

*  *  *

They padded down the alleyway, giggling, with Joss shooshing Di and Di tugging Joss's arm to pull her along.

“I feel like I'm in ninth grade.”

“Good,” Di said, “because I'm sure you spent ninth grade acting like an old lady.”

A light was on in the tailor shop.

“He's there!” Di cried.

“Oh, let's not do this. I feel embarrassed.”

“It looks like a house. Do you think he sleeps up there? Do you think he takes women up there?”

“There's this woman who works with him,” Joss said. “Blond.”

“Ugh. But he's definitely not sleeping with her.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Sex with your coworker in a tailor shop? Lacks imagination. I think it's the clients he beds, when this blond chick is gone for the night. I see him!” she cried. “Patrick Dempsey is definitely in the building. He
is
cute.”

James was seated at a desk, arranging items in front of him, and Joss felt an instant wave of disabling shyness. “Let's just look.”

“C'mon. Your whole life has been about just looking. Time for a test drive.”

“Di, please.”

“I'll tell you what: let's sneak around the back and see what kind of car he has.”

“Maybe this isn't such a good idea.”

But Di had already started jogging down the side of the building, jostling young Luke nearly out of his Moo Cow cap. Joss followed her as far as the corner, casting
nervous glances over her shoulder to ensure James hadn't moved from his seat.

“Sports car or SUV, do you think?” Di called. “God, it had better not be a Prius. Nothing says ‘I'm hung like a Greenpeace organizer' like a Prius.”

Joss wrung her hands nervously. The martinis must have been doubles. She hadn't felt this weavy in ages.

“I'm taking bets!”

“For heaven's sake, keep your voice down.” Joss stole a glance at the upstairs windows.
Would he really take women up there?
She wondered if having sex inside the dome would be different from having it anywhere else. She had a vision of white silk sheets, gold rope and a slow, careful rhythm.

Her eyes traveled to the downstairs window and the desk was empty.

“Nothing,” Di called, a voice in the darkness. “No car at all.”

Joss jumped a foot. James was standing beside her.

“Di,” Joss called, panicked.

“Damn,” Di continued. “I was hoping for a big red sports car, you know, maybe with a license plate that read
I LENGTHEN
or
SEW BIG
.”

“Di!”

“Good evening,” James said with a bemused look. “Would you like to come in?”

“I couldn't believe it when Joss told me you'd made her such a beautiful dress,” Di said.

She was sitting on a chair in the fitting room, with
Luke sleeping at her feet, while James stood, slouched against the doorframe, and watched Joss try not to pace. Joss could feel his smile and was working hard to hide hers. She prayed she hadn't made herself into the biggest idiot this side of Ashdown Forest.

“Joss, is it?” he said. “I hadn't remembered to ask your name.”

“Joss O'Malley, yes.” She extended her hand. “And yours?”

“Hugh,” he said, shaking it. “Hugh Hawksmoor.”

His hand was twice the size of hers. It felt warm and steady, and a flash of her earlier fantasy returned to her hard enough to make her toes tingle. The front door opened, and in a moment the blonde entered the fitting room. Di looked her over, caught Joss's eye and shook her head confidently. The blonde smiled but the emotion did not reach her eyes. “You've returned,” she said to Joss.

“Yes, we were walking and, um, sort of ended up in this direction.” The smile was off-putting in itself but even more so after the reception the woman had given her this morning. Joss noted she was all in black now, and Hugh, who had retained his charcoal trousers, now wore a loose-fitting black shirt over them. She found herself gazing wistfully at the shirttails.

“Is your fiancé here?” The blonde looked around curiously. “Hugh mentioned you are engaged to be married.” The final words had been delivered with an unmistakable emphasis.

Hugh cleared his throat. “Fiona, this is Joss and her acquaintance . . .?” He turned to Di.

“Diane Daltrey,” she said.

For a moment, the room erupted in the sounds of forced cordiality.

“We're so sorry to interrupt here,” Joss said. “We should be heading out.”

“Not at all,” Hugh said. “I was just looking over the books. 'Tis nothing that can't wait until tomorrow.”

“Do you have anything to drink?” asked Di, who was clearly determined to stay. “I'm parched.”

“I think we have a pot of coffee upstairs.”

“Gosh, wine would be nice. Especially for Joss,” she added in a camouflaging cough.

“Wine, then?” Hugh met Joss's eyes.

She nodded reluctantly, and he excused himself.

“Tell me about the lucky fellow,” Fiona said to Joss. “I believe Hugh said his name was Rogan.”

“Rogan Reynolds, yeah. He's great.”

“It's Joss's bachelorette night,” Di said.

Fiona's interest sharpened. “Oh?”

“The wedding's in a week—right after a benefits meeting. We're hoping to stir up a little fun before then. Joss's idea of fun is a surprise plant visit. I'm trying to kick that up a notch.”

“I see.” Fiona nodded.

“We're sort of in the market for a Mr. Mistake.”

“Di,”
Joss squawked.

“C'mon,” Di said. “Every woman needs one. At least one. One last guy before she takes the plunge. The man who'll remind her how horrible men are in comparison to her husband; you know, the sort with all his best points between here and here.” She gestured to her stomach and thighs.

“For God's sake, Di!”

“So if you know of anyone . . .”

Hugh entered with a tray of cups and a corked bottle under his arm.

Fiona nodded tightly. “I'm afraid I might.”

Snagging a cup and handing it to Joss, Di said to Hugh, “I for one would love to see Joss in that dress. She's told me so much about it.”

Hugh gave Joss an even look. “That would be the bride's call.”

She flushed. Half of her wanted to kill Di, but the other half wanted to keep the adolescent excitement of the crush going. “Sure. I suppose.”

“Oh, look.” Diane nudged the car seat enough to wake Luke. “I'm afraid the baby's hungry. Is there a quiet place I could make myself comfortable?” She gave Fiona a helpless look, and Joss rolled her eyes. Di was the most
non
helpless person she knew and frighteningly unperturbed to nurse Luke anywhere. In fact, she'd nearly caused several cars to veer off the road last time she'd sat outside at Starbucks.

In a moment, the fitting room was empty save Joss and Hugh. He seemed different. A little cooler, a little more direct. A little more, she had to admit, like the man in her daydream.

“Who'd have thought I'd be having wine with you twice today?” she said with a nervous laugh.

“Who indeed?” He unfolded the piece of silk. “This time will you wear it as the goddess herself would?”

She shifted. She knew what he meant. Without the distorting influence of clothes. However, the fitting room
offered no separate changing area. The way she saw it, she had two choices. She could say yes, ask where the ladies' room was and look like an idiot. Or she could say yes, bite the bullet and look like someone who had maybe done it once or twice before.

She drained her glass.

Yes or no?

She thought of the dress, that gorgeous, empowering gown. The woman who wore that dress was the sort of woman who just put it on. Dammit, if she was going to have fun, this was the time.
Game on, dress. I'm doing it.

“Yes, of course.” She took a deep breath and stepped onto the platform.

The room was darkly lit, and the soft lights were pointing at her. The mirrors surrounded her in a half circle. Hugh drew the curtain across the entrance and gave her a long look. Why did this feel like a private strip show?

But that was ridiculous. There was a woman breast-feeding upstairs—or at least pretending to. No, the right metaphor here would be a doctor's office. He was a professional. His assistant would be wandering in and out to see if he needed help. And if Joss had any hope of wearing the dress someday, she would have to have it fitted properly.

Right. Easy as a colonoscopy.

She reached for the tie of her dress.

It would probably be easier if he turned his head, she thought. Actually, it would probably easier if he were supervising this by phone from somewhere in the vicinity of Cleveland, but that was not meant to be.