A Stranger in Wynnedower (19 page)

She re-laid the dress
on the bed and picked up the shoes. The color of the shoes matched the
underdress, and the fabric felt satiny. The bottom was soft leather, darkened
with wear and age, but smooth to the touch. Rachel kicked off her sandals and
held one shoe alongside her foot. The shoe was way too narrow.

How? Who? Why?

Jack? No. May and Brendan
might have been in the house when she found the dress, but how would they know
she’d been digging in the trunk in the attic? She touched the garment. It had
survived the heat and cold of the attic for how long? A long time.

The dress needed to go
back to the trunk now.

She folded the dress
lengthwise and draped it over her forearm. She picked up the slippers and
stepped cautiously out into the hallway. She could only reach the far side of
the attic by going through her own side, so she headed toward the western
stairwell.

“Rachel?”

She froze, not wanting
to turn around. But she did. What choice did she have?

“Jack?”

His gaze fastened upon
the gown as if interested, but not recognizing what she held.

“It’s a dress from the
trunk upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” Understanding
spread across his face.

“I found it, and the
shoes, on my bed.”

He continued staring at
the dress, and she stared at him. His jaw tightened.

“On your bed. Any idea
how it got there?”

Rachel searched for
sarcasm in his words, in the tone of his voice, and found none.

“No, I don’t, but
they’re fragile. I’ll return them to the trunk immediately.”

He moved closer. He
slid his hands between the dress and her arm. His touch tingled clear down to
her toes. Stunned, she released the dress and stepped back.

The garment draped
across his large hands and his forearms. He looked up abruptly and said, “This
is the answer. This is exactly what I need.”

She shook her head. “It
won’t fit you.”

He ignored her wit.

She shrugged. “I don’t
know what you’re talking about.”

His eyes burned dark,
almost possessed. Deftly, he found her hand and pulled her along at top speed,
along the hallway and down the stairs. His excitement unnerved her.

“Hurry. Come along.” He
strode through the open dining room doorway. “Come in, please.”

She entered the
hallowed space. She’d been invited in only once before, only a handful of days
ago. He acted now as though no prohibition had ever existed—as if she’d never
been locked out. She found this annoying and charming. She’d been accepted by
him. She glowed. She didn’t need to see her face to know it.

“Sit, here.” He placed
a stool near one of the windows. “Please?”

She did as instructed.
He placed his fingertips along her jawline and gently tilted her face toward
the light.

She was accepted—as a
mannequin.

“That’s it. Perfect. I
need your help.”

“If you’re asking me to
pose for you, forget it.”

“No, please listen.” He
tugged at her hand. “Come, see.”

The same garden
painting stood on the easel, but the painting had changed.

He had added a woman,
brushed in roughly, seated on a concrete bench. Rachel moved closer for a
better look. Jack had painted life and color into the dead garden. Now it was
in bloom, and he’d added the woman, but she was unformed. She didn’t fit and
the lighting was off.

“You can see there’s a
problem. But that dress. On you. You’ll sit for me? Not long sittings, just
here and there.”

“Impressionistic? Is
that the style?”

“In that vein, but with
more form.”

He waited while she
stared at the colorful canvas.

“It reminds me of
Flowering
Garden at Sainte-Adresse,
but with a female figure added, of course.”

He crossed his arms.
“Monet.”

“The Father of French
Impressionism.” She laughed at his puzzlement. “I read a lot, remember?”

“Are you, I mean, do
you have a photographic memory?”

“No. I have a strong
visual memory. Photographic or eidetic? Not sure I really understand what that
is. I don’t have it.” She shook her head. “I have to think about this, Jack.
I’m not sure why, but the idea of putting on the dress and posing makes me feel
uncomfortable.” Was it posing? Or posing for Jack?

When he spoke, his
voice dropped to a soft low tone. “Think about it until tomorrow morning. The
light is strong in here by mid-morning. Please consider it. I’ll be waiting
here for you at ten a.m.”

“Daisy? You’re not
going to believe this. I’m standing in front of a mirror. I’m wearing a dress
from the turn of the century. The previous century, not the millennium.”

“Hang on, Rachel. Let
me mark my place. I’m entering expenses. Mid-morning is the only time I have
this much quiet here.” Rustling noises came through the receiver. “Okay. Say it
again.”

“I’m wearing an
Edwardian dress. A tea dress, it’s called. It’s lacy, embroidered and so very
fragile. I’m decked out in it. There’s slippers, too, but they don’t fit.”

“Don’t fit? Can you
return them?” Loud hoots of laughter came through.

“Very funny. Seriously,
you should see me. It’s unbelievable. I’m in front of the mirror, and, if I may
say so, I look amazing. The way the dress is made…well, the outer part is lace
and it’s sheer, and the lining is silky and flesh-colored. It’s almost like I’m
naked beneath the lace. I don’t think I can leave the room like this.”

“You lost me. Why are
you wearing the dress if you don’t like it? Why do you need to leave the room?”
Her tone changed. “Oh, this is about Jack, isn’t it?”

“No. Yes. It’s
complicated. He’s waiting for me downstairs. He needs me to model for a
painting.”

“A portrait? Are you
kidding me? He’s painting a portrait of you?”

“No, no. Not like that.
It’s a small figure in a big painting. He needs someone to pose while he works
out that part of the painting.”

“Sure.”

“Really.”

“Then what’s the big
deal? Go sit for him. If you don’t like it, don’t do it again.”

Her friend had the
knack of reducing gnarly problems to the basic issue.

“Thanks, Daisy.”

“Not a problem.
Everything’s really pretty simple if you break it down and toss out the crap
and the emotionalism.”

“Diner owner and
philosopher extraordinaire, I salute you.”

“As well you should.
Change of subject here. I was going to call you later today. I’m heading in
your direction in a few days, on my way to Myrtle Beach. I thought I’d stop in
and check on you.”

“I can give you a tour
of Wynnedower.”

“Oh, you betcha’. I
want a tour and to meet the master of the house.”

“You aren’t making
kissing noises, are you? Because if that’s what I’m hearing, you can forget the
tour.”

Daisy laughed. “I’ll
give you a call when I’m on my way. If you decide to finish out your vacation
days elsewhere, come along with me to the beach.”

“I’m serious. Don’t get
silly about it. I expect good behavior.”

“Gotta go. Bye.”

She could count on
Daisy. Daisy wouldn’t do anything to embarrass her.

Rachel ran her hands
down the front and sides of the gown, then snatched them away. Natural oils
were destructive. Same with stalactites, right? So she held her hands away from
the fabric and admired her reflection yet again.

Such elegance. On her.

The question remained:
how had the dress gotten to her room? Didn’t she already know the answer?

The shoes dangled from
her fingers as she stepped down the stairs. She paused at the landing, her free
hand resting on the banister. Her fingers rested on the silky smooth wood like
on that first day. And shortly thereafter she was being called a trespasser and
getting kicked off the property.

Enjoy it while it’s
good.
That had never been her motto,
but she was feeling reckless. Perhaps some bit of attitude caught from Daisy?
Maybe from the boldness of wearing this dress.

The dining room doors
were open. Jack stood in front of his easel, brush in hand. The mid-morning
light touched him, stripping the wild man look from his hair, something the
barber hadn’t managed to do. The angular face, bent toward the canvas, was
somber. His face was surprisingly, unexpectedly beautiful.

No, not beautiful. That
was silly.

Daisy might embarrass
them all if she saw him like this
—
in his element. It was as if an angel had cloaked him
with an aura of power and mystique.

He turned to face her.
He laid the paintbrush across the palette and extended his hand.

Her lungs seized and
her knees locked. She couldn’t breathe and didn’t need to. She wanted to
suspend this moment in time. Forever. But Jack awaited.

She held up the shoes.
“They don’t fit.”

“Your feet are perfect
without them.”

Her unpainted toes
tried to curl under.

Jack pointed toward a
stool near the side windows. “Sit there.”

He put his hands on her
arms and positioned her, deftly touching her shoulders, then her thigh. “Pretend
you’re sitting on the bench.”

He stood back and
stared, then moved forward and knelt. “Your feet, just so.”

His fingers on her
calf, her ankles, caused her to shiver. He lifted her hands in his. “Your
hands, like this.” He stepped back again, then nodded. “Hold that pose.”

The pose felt natural
for about thirty seconds.

“Sit straight.” He
looked around the canvas. “Please.”

Instinctively, she
turned toward him.

“No, no. Please don’t
move your head.” He crossed back to where she sat and, with his fingers on her
chin, repositioned her head. “Gaze into the distance.”

She didn’t know about
straighter, but her back got stiffer. This was not her cup of tea
—
posing in an
antique tea gown. Rachel almost laughed at her silent joke, then remembered she
wasn’t supposed to move. This was not only uncomfortable but incredibly boring.

“Jack, I don’t think
this is working out.” She spoke, barely moving her lips, not changing her pose
at all. “I want to help, but I don’t have what it takes to sit silently staring
into nothing.”

“I know what you are.”

It sounded alarming.
“What? What I am?”

“I knew the word but
couldn’t pull it out of my brain yesterday.”

“What are you talking
about?” she asked, barely managing to hold the pose.

“Autodidactic. Someone
who teaches themselves
—
an autodidact.”

“Is that like being
one’s own doctor? Foolish is as foolish does?”

“Don’t deflect.”

She didn’t answer, but
stared into the distance as instructed.

“You see how well I’m
getting to know you?”

He sounded smug. She
ignored him.

He moved away from the
canvas and came over. “I need to arrange your legs.” Jack touched her calf and
gently moved her leg back nearer the other foot. An infinitesimal movement, yet
it seemed to please him. He slid his hand under one of hers and lifted her fingers.

“Take these shoes and
dangle them from your fingertips like you did when you walked in.”

She tried to hide her
reaction. Was her face flushed? She felt hot and trembly. Any words he spoke
during the interaction tumbled in her brain, their meaning lost in the
sensations evoked by his touch.

“Rachel, give me your
hand.” He shaped her fingers, slipping the toe of one slipper over them. “Now,
hold it like that.”

For one tremulous
moment, he lingered, his eyes meeting hers, then went to his canvas.

It was ridiculous for
her to respond this way to a man’s attention. Especially a man who usually
forgot she was even around. It wasn’t as though she’d never dated, even if the
dates weren’t exactly memorable, at least not in a good way. In fact, they were
marginally better than a visit to the dentist. Ed with his ceramic dog
collection. Jimmy with the restored car. He insisted on driving it everywhere
and never exceeded thirty miles per hour. The car was more interesting than
Jimmy. It was just as well. She didn’t have time for a boyfriend. Her life was
busy. She worked hard to take care of Jeremy.

Was he supposed to stop
being her concern now? Because he now belonged to some other woman? As simple
as that?

Well, not so fast.
Jeremy would stop being her concern after she’d had it out with him about his
trip to Rock-somewhere. Once she was sure he was okay, then she’d have only
herself to worry about, to live for. Just her.