Little Black Dress with Bonus Material (12 page)

“I love you, Evie,” he said when he gently set me down. “I think I have since I first laid eyes on you.”

“Looking like a drowned rat,” I remarked.

He smiled and brushed the hair from my face. “You looked like an angel to me.”

“Oh, Jon, I love you beyond reason,” I whispered as he bent to kiss me and took my breath away with his urgency. I gave in as well, catching my fingers in the curls of hair at his nape, responding hungrily now that no one else was watching. It was just the two of us.

Soon enough, the hat came off my head and the pins along with it. My white suit slid off my shoulders and hips. Satin shoes and nylons, garters, slip, and brassiere, all fell away until we were naked, my skin so pale against his sun-browned arms and chest. We lay side by side, and his hand traced a path from my shoulder to the curve of my waist, coming to rest on my thigh, and I realized I wasn't afraid, not a bit, because I'd been anticipating this moment—waiting patiently for it—since the dress had shown me exactly what would transpire on that chilly spring morning when he'd pulled me from the river.

T
oni didn't pay much attention to where they were going. It might have been her neck of the woods once, but she hardly knew all of Blue Hills like the back of her hand, not anymore and certainly not after dark.

Which is why Greg kept the radio off so he could listen to the female voice from the GPS—“Diane,” as Toni had dubbed her, since she sounded so much like Diane Sawyer—guiding them toward their destination. “Turn right in one hundred feet,” Diane would enunciate, and Greg would obediently follow suit, his hands perfectly situated at ten and two on the steering wheel.

Toni wondered how often those articulate GPS voices led people off cliffs or onto dead-end streets. She'd read once of a couple who'd ended up hopelessly lost in a forest, thanks to less than up-to-date satellite images. She only hoped Diane wouldn't lure them away from the sparsely lit rural route and onto an abandoned road with a drop-off into the Mississippi River.

“Turn left in seventy-five feet . . . in fifty feet . . . twenty-five feet,” Diane was saying as Toni stared out the window into the night, barely able to make out the white of the snow that topped the brush and trees.

“We're almost there, babe,” Greg assured her, his eyes glued to the gray of asphalt visible in the high beams.

Toni muttered, “I can't wait.”

She huddled in her coat, cold despite the Volvo's heated seat that warmed her backside. A weird tingling kept running up and down her spine and dancing across her skin. Either it was chills signaling the onset of a flu bug or she was having some kind of allergic reaction to Evie's dress. Because she'd been fine until she'd changed into it after rolling on an ancient pair of black pantyhose (unearthed from amidst the packs of Peds in her bureau and sealed in the plastic wrapper with a smiley-face Walmart price sticker).

What if the invisible superglue that Bridget must've used to seal the gaping front of the dress had left a dangerous residue? Or perhaps it was a build-up of dry-cleaning fluid that was poisoning her system. The dress did have that lingering scent of lily of the valley. Was that from an eco-unfriendly detergent? Toni had gotten rashes from Tide when she was growing up, and her St. Louis dermatologist had agreed she had very sensitive skin. Why in the world she'd worn the thing in the first place was the biggest mystery of all when everything about it made her uneasy.

“You're so quiet. You okay?” Greg asked, sounding worried.

“I'm fine,” she said, even if she wasn't, not really.

Toni considered herself only mildly superstitious and mostly ambivalent on the issue of ghosts and spirits and all things other-worldly. Yet she felt in her gut that the dress was
different
. Not only had it been resurrected from the dead but it fit Toni as surely as if she'd bought it for herself. She and Evie had never been the same size. The only “clothing” they'd ever shared were the communal windbreakers hanging in the front-hall closet, which had also fit her father. And that made no sense, especially since the dress was constructed of a delicate silk—not stretchy jersey or Lycra.

“Turn right, fifteen feet . . . ten feet . . . five feet,” Diane enumerated, invading her thoughts, and Greg gave the wheel a hard turn.

“Shit!” Toni let fly as the tires bumped onto a graveled road, and she flung a hand against the dash to steady herself.

“Sorry about that,” Greg said, reaching over to pat her thigh, as they meandered down a long and winding drive defined by sporadic ground-level lights and announced by a spot-lit billboard proclaiming:

HISTORICAL ROLLING HILLS WINERY

NEWLY RENOVATED RESTAURANT AND B&B

STRAIGHT AHEAD!

Toni almost forgot about the prickling of her skin for a moment as she ran the name through her head.

Rolling Hills, Rolling Hills, Rolling Hills.

It sounded so generic, so anywhere. Once, she'd recognized every vineyard in the area and its owners. But she'd been gone for twenty-five years, barely popping in for holidays or funerals, and so much had changed in between; kept changing even now.

“Do you recognize the place?” Greg asked, and she wondered if she'd accidentally spoken out loud.

“No,” she admitted.

“There was just a big spread in the
Post-Dispatch
this weekend about it. Some brothers spent years updating everything.”

She sighed, telling him exactly what she'd been thinking, “So much has changed since I left.”

“They apparently brought in a world-class chef to reconfigure their menu,” her boyfriend went on, and Toni tried to act interested.

“Then I hope the food's good.”

“You'll find something way better than grilled cheese, I'm sure.”

“We'll see about that.”

And she finally did see
something:
lights ahead, enough to illuminate the snowy landscape surrounding a building that looked like a French château, or at least what some architect had imagined a château would look like with a mansard roof, lots of windows, arches, and stone. A man-made reflecting pool stretched out in front with the graveled drive on either side. Toni leaned forward in her seat, squinting at the statue of Neptune or Zeus or some such god who stood in the midst of the stone-rimmed basin. She imagined there would be fountains spitting up lighted plumes around said god's well-chiseled form if the water hadn't frozen over.

“Pretty slick, huh?” Greg remarked in his “I'm impressed” voice, driving slowly, the tires crunching as they turned over the pea-sized gray rocks.

“Too slick for Blue Hills,” Toni said, not mincing words.

For God's sake, this was Missouri, not Provence! If extravagant faux châteaus and fountains were what the wineries in Ste. Genevieve were doing these days, it was no wonder the Morgan family's vineyard was in bad enough shape that Evie would cry for help. How could their tiny family business keep up with the Joneses, if the Joneses were building enormous palaces with fancy restaurants and bed-and-breakfasts to attract business?

“It's way too over the top,” she continued to grouse as Greg pulled the car into an empty parking spot between a silver Lexus SUV and a shiny black Mercedes roadster. “I feel like I'm at a theme park.”

“C'mon, sweetie, don't judge a book by its cover. Maybe the inside will impress you,” he replied with surprising diplomacy.

He got out and hopped around the car before she'd unbuckled her seat belt. Graciously, he opened her door and extended a hand to help her out.

Toni stared at him, wondering what was up with the Southern gentleman routine. Was he regretting that he'd given her his key instead of a ring? Was that why he'd come all the way from the city to take her to some showy winery for dinner?

Greg tucked her arm into his as they walked toward the restaurant. He drew her out of the way as an older couple emerged, smiling and laughing, the man's arm wrapped around the woman snuggled inside an impossibly fuzzy fur coat.

“Don't say it,” Greg whispered in her ear as the couple passed. “You've got that look on your face, like you want to draw blood.”

“What do you think I'm going to do,” she hissed back, “yell ‘mink killer' at her?”

“That would be
chinchilla
killer,” Greg corrected and let go of her arm so he could open the door for her. “My grandmother had a chinchilla coat that's very similar. It's a better fur than mink, which is why you pay more for it.”

“So you're okay with people wearing dead animals?” Toni asked, as she stomped past him into the restaurant. She had the strongest urge to pick a fight.

“Please don't get all holier-than-thou on me,” he scoffed, letting the door slap closed behind him. “What's the difference between owning a fur coat and leather boots like yours? A cow had to die for those, you know, and I've seen you eat hamburger.”

“These boots are vinyl,” she told him, “and I'm no longer a carnivore.”

“Since when?”

“Since now,” she decided.

“Oh, boy,” he breathed and rolled his eyes. He walked over to the cloak rack and shrugged out of his tailored wool coat. He shook it out before hanging it up. Then he grabbed an empty wooden hanger and handed it to Toni. “Your turn.”

“I'm good, thanks,” she told him, hardly in the mood to be agreeable. Besides, she felt safer having a shield over the black dress, which she didn't trust. She still had that odd tingling over her skin, stronger now that they were inside the restaurant. Maybe the dress wasn't only self-healing but radioactive. Whatever it was, it disconcerted her, making her even more agitated.

Greg took her arm again and leaned in to say quietly, “How about we call a truce and leave the drama outside so we can just enjoy our dinner?”

Um, excuse me!
Had she asked him to drive down and surprise her, to drag her out in the cold, when all she wanted was to soak in the claw-foot tub and curl up in bed?

But she was beginning to recognize that being with Greg meant giving in, doing things on his terms. Like on her last birthday, when he'd taken her to a rubber chicken dinner and lecture by some pompous old coot from the Internal Revenue Service talking about new tax codes, which was even less exciting than listening to an inane bride and her dictatorial mother argue over the precise shade of pink for the reception dinner napkins. What was she supposed to do?

“Truce,” she told him.

“That's my girl.” He smiled, pacified. “Come on then,” he said, nudging her toward an elaborately carved podium accented by a brass lamp, behind which a black-clad maître d' stood.

“Good evening, do you have a reservation with us?” the man asked, and Greg stepped in front while Toni stood silently aside, admiring the host's goatee and the gleam off his bald pate in the lamplight.

“It's under McCallum,” Greg said, and the fellow promptly checked an opened book in front of him and smiled.

“Ah, yes, Mr. McCallum, party of two. Your table is ready.” Deftly, he plucked two menus from behind the fancy stand before gesturing toward the dining room. “This way, please.”

As Toni hurried behind him, out of the foyer and through an arched hallway into the main dining area, she had to bite her cheek to keep her mouth from hanging wide-open. The décor was truly lovely, from the sleek modern chairs with their clean lines and tall backs to the crisp white trim against the sand-colored walls. Elegant art-glass fixtures descended from a deep tray ceiling, highlighting a wall of windows that overlooked the vineyards. Fairy lights outdoors illuminated rows of dormant vines dusted with snow. She imagined in the daylight it was an even more beautiful scene with the eponymous rolling hills in the backdrop.

At least Greg wouldn't have to eat his words about the inside being better than the outside. She was far more impressed by the interior than she was by the naked Roman god frozen in the fountain.

“Madame,”
the maître d' said and drew her attention to the chair he'd pulled out for her.

“Merci,”
Toni replied and settled in.

The room was warm despite the big windows, and she finally unbuttoned her coat and slipped it off her shoulders. The black dress shimmered in the glow cast down by the chandeliers, and she smoothed the bodice, letting the skirt flow around her legs like water. As her hands brushed the silk, she felt a hum beneath her palms and heard a faint crackle. It almost sounded like the dress was trying to speak.

“Ahem.”

She sensed eyes upon her and looked up to find the maître d' hovering.

“May I take your coat?” he asked, to which Greg piped up, “I tried that already, she's not giving it up.”

“Of course, Mr. McCallum, I understand.” With a bob of his bald head, the maître d' placed menus before them. “Your server will be along any moment to take your drink orders and describe tonight's specials.”

“Great, because I think I need a beer,” Greg said, although the Man in Black had turned his back by then and was striding away.

“You want a beer? Seriously? We're at a restaurant in the middle of a vineyard in the heart of wine country,” Toni said because she couldn't stop herself. “You really should drink the wine.”

“Missouri wine?” Greg laughed and nudged at his glasses. “No offense intended, but I'd rather have a Stella.”

“How very snobbish of you,” she remarked, and he laughed again.

“That's hilarious, coming from you,” he said, leaning forearms on the table. “Who took a day off work just to spend the afternoon at Neiman Marcus trying on her first brand-new pair of Jimmy Choos?”

“That's different.”

“How?”

It was a reward to herself, a treat to celebrate an accomplishment. If he couldn't see the difference between that and turning up his nose at Missouri wines, she had no desire to explain it to him.

“It just is,” she said instead.

“It's always different for you women, isn't it?” he quipped with a grin.

Toni bristled, annoyed beyond reason. Twenty-four hours ago, she'd been hoping Greg would propose, and now she wasn't even sure she wanted to have dinner with him. What was wrong with her? Why did she feel so out of sorts? Was it all about Evie or was there something more to it?

She picked up her menu and studied it intently but the words only blurred, despite her blinking her eyes to clear them.

“Antonia?” she heard someone say from behind her, the voice earthy and warm and already entirely too familiar. “What a nice surprise, seeing you here.”

Without warning, a frisson of energy dashed up her spine, and the noises around her intensified: the buzz of voices, the soaring notes of a violin, the clink of glasses and silverware. It was no wonder she jumped at the touch on her arm; fingers gently brushing the sleeve of the dress.