Authors: Suzanne Stengl
After Daphne had left the office, Jessibelle rushed over to Gabe. “How come she could see you?”
And, worse, how come Jessibelle felt jealous about it? Where had this unexpected feeling come from?
“Everybody can see me,” he said, speaking calmly. “I told you, I’m grounded.”
“I thought that was just for a day?”
“For twenty-four hours.” He lifted her wrist to look at her watch.
Jessibelle felt the solid grip of his hand on her wrist, felt the warmth of his skin soothe into hers.
“I can see him,” Bobbi said, as she neared the door on her way out. “He looks great to me. I’d keep him.”
What? Confusion flickered through Jessibelle’s senses and she felt her jaw drop. How could Bobbi see him?
“Yes, you should keep me,” Gabe said, still holding her wrist. His lips quirked into that smile of his. “You were jealous.” He let go of her.
She felt the break in physical contact . . . felt like she’d been set adrift. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she answered. “That’s impossible.”
“Why? Because you think I’m not real?” That same smile again. “Or because you’re still in love with Rodney?”
Rodney? Jessibelle blinked. She’d forgotten about Rodney.
“You’ve already forgotten about him. That’s good. We’re making progress.” He bent quickly, kissed her cheek, and left, letting in a blast of the fresh spring air and leaving her alone in the office.
And wondering.
Had any of this really happened? Had Daphne and Bobbi really been here? And seen Gabe?
Not possible, she decided.
Then she stopped, and listened to her heart, and realized something had changed inside her. Her intense feelings for Rodney had gone away.
Jessibelle was smiling, and it felt odd. The Rodney melancholy had lifted. She felt strange, like she had peeled off a heavy coat and she felt light.
She started her work, and as the day progressed, she changed her mind half a dozen times. Would she really go to the
Jolie Femme
? And then suddenly it was four-thirty and Bobbi arrived to take over for the evening shift.
“I like your new boyfriend,” she said.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
Jessibelle still wasn’t sure if she’d go to the
Jolie Femme
. And maybe, at this point, she needed to decide if she should even be going to the wedding?
Now that she was feeling happy again, maybe she wouldn’t have any more hallucinations?
A deep sigh escaped her. She didn’t need to get a special dress to cope with this wedding. Not anymore.
But, before she quite knew what she was doing, she was on the bus, heading toward the little boutique at the end of Seventh Street.
· · · · ·
Jessibelle opened the door to the
Jolie Femme
, hearing the strand of bells announce her arrival. In the far corner, two women, probably in their forties, chatted and browsed, pulling out outfits and holding them up for inspection.
“Can I help you?”
Jessibelle turned to find a slightly plump saleslady with frizzy orange hair who beamed goodwill and helpfulness.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all.
“I need a dress for a wedding,” Jessibelle told her.
“Are you looking for anything in particular? Formal? Street length? Something you can wear again?”
“I’m not sure.” Jessibelle had no idea what she wanted.
“Then let’s try on a few things, shall we? Shopping is so much fun. Size six?”
“Maybe,” Jessibelle answered, meaning maybe shopping could be fun, and maybe she was a size six. Mostly her clothes were baggy so sizing didn’t matter a lot.
The saleslady collected three dresses: one long in navy, and two short ones. One of the short ones sported sequins on white silk, the other billowed with peach chiffon. “This will give us an idea,” the saleslady said, as she ushered Jessibelle into a large well-lit dressing room with a huge three-panel mirror edged in a wide frame of antiqued silver. Large ornate hooks in the same antiqued silver bordered the room and a high-backed blue velour chair sat in one corner. Jessibelle deposited her purse on it.
The saleslady arranged the dresses on the hooks, displaying them side by side. “Take your time,” she advised. “I’ll be just outside.”
Jessibelle studied the dresses. They glowed with radiance, suggesting beauty and grace and elegance. But would any of them look good on her?
She picked up the first dress, a navy silk gown with a high collar. She held it in front of herself, testing it in the mirror.
“Not you,” Gabe said.
Jessibelle spun around, clutching the dress to her chest, feeling a mixture of delight and exasperation. Gabe sat on the high-backed chair, wearing a black dress shirt and black dress pants, and holding her purse in his lap.
She’d hoped he’d be here, but she hadn’t expected him to be inside the dressing room with her. “What are you doing here?”
“Would you like me to leave, dear?” the saleslady asked from outside the dressing room door.
“She can hear you,” Gabe said, setting Jessibelle’s purse on the floor.
“But not you?”
“Not me?” the saleslady answered, sounding slightly confused.
“It’s all right,” Jessibelle spoke to the door. “I was just talking to myself.”
Gabe crossed the small room and inspected the peach colored chiffon. “Not your color,” he said.
He handed her the short, white, sequin-shimmering dress. “Try this one.”
Jessibelle accepted the dress, hung it on the hook behind her, and slipped off her shoes. Then she looked up at Gabe, who stood there, watching her.
“I have to undress,” she whispered.
“Go ahead,” he said, waiting.
She stared at him. Did he really think she would undress in front of him?
He lifted his eyebrows in question. “You want my help?” He reached for the top button of her blouse.
She stepped back, bumping into the wall. “Turn around.”
He didn’t, so she reached for the chair and turned it to face the wall. “Sit,” she whispered. He shrugged, and then sat.
Watching his back she quickly removed her blouse and pants and slipped into the sparkling dress. As she felt behind her back for the zipper, she faced the mirror again, and noticed the skimpiness of the dress which didn’t completely cover her bra. And since the lacy bra didn’t completely cover her breasts either—
Suddenly Gabe was behind her, zipping the dress firmly over her body.
She stiffened, watching in the mirror as the dress molded over her skin, squeezing her breasts together, and making her appear voluptuous.
“I can’t wear this!”
“Would you like a different size?” the saleslady asked from outside the door.
Jessibelle spun around, facing Gabe. “It’s too . . . revealing,” she said, out loud.
“It looks great,” he said, approvingly, “but you need to lose the bra.” He slipped one finger under a bra strap. “Want me to get rid of this?”
She slapped his hand away.
“What do you think of the peach chiffon,” the saleslady asked.
“Tell her it’s the wrong color,” Gabe said.
“It’s the wrong color,” Jessibelle repeated for him. “And the white one with the sequins is too . . .”
“Sensual?” he suggested.
“Tight,” she said. “And the navy is too . . .”
“Drab,” Gabe said. He handed both the navy and the peach to Jessibelle. “Give these back to her.”
“These aren’t quite right,” Jessibelle said, as she opened the door a crack and passed the dresses to the saleslady, who peaked inside to get a look.
“It is a little tight,” she agreed, nodding her frizzy orange head. “But think about that one. You’ve got the perfect figure for it.”
“I’m not sure about—”
“Don’t worry,” Gabe said. “I’ll send her an idea.”
Jessibelle watched as the saleslady’s eyes lit up. “I know just the thing,” she announced, and she left with the two dresses, humming to herself.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Send her ideas.”
“It’s basic training.”
He put his hand on her shoulder and turned her around, facing the mirror again. The dress fit her like a second skin and would have been perfect if she were the sort of person who could wear it. Even with her bra showing it looked provocative.
She tore her gaze away from her own image and looked at Gabe’s reflection. These black clothes—the dress shirt and dress pants—looked even more stunning than his usual casualness. Stunning, and intoxicating, and masculine.
He lifted an eyebrow as he caught her studying him, and then he unzipped her dress.
A shiver of excitement shot through her, followed by the realization that, with the dress unzipped, she could breathe again.
And then he unhooked her bra.
“Hey! You can’t—”
“Yes, I can,” he said, as he whisked the dress and bra off her shoulders. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide her breasts. He pulled the dress and bra all the way down to her ankles. “Step out.”
Since she couldn’t grab the dress, not without moving her arms, she stepped out.
He tossed the dress and her bra on the chair, then he gripped her shoulders and faced her to the mirror again.
An odd feeling came over her, like she was watching herself from a distance, detached from her emotions. She suspected it was something he was doing, but she didn’t think about it too much.
At any rate, she didn’t feel embarrassed, standing there, facing the mirror and watching the image in front of her. The image of a beautiful woman with long dark hair, her arms crossed over her chest, wearing white lace panties, and nothing else.
From somewhere at the back of her mind, she knew she should feel embarrassed, or frightened or some negative emotion, but even as she searched for one, they disappeared and she found herself feeling strangely powerful.
“You’re doing this,” she said, trying to put some indignation into her words, and failing.
“Yes, I am, and I’d better not get grounded for it.” Standing behind her, he put his hands on her hips, resting them on top of the white lace panties.
“These are nice.” He skimmed his hands over the silk. “You have great underwear. You should dress like your underwear. It would drive Rodney crazy.”
“I have just the thing,” the saleslady announced, as she bustled inside the dressing room. She had three more dresses, in various shades of pink, and she hung each on a hook. Then she hung up the white sequin dress and Jessibelle’s bra and she didn’t seem to notice that Jessibelle was practically naked.
Gabe stood out of the way, beside the mirror and watched, amusement showing in his expression.
The saleslady unzipped the first of the three pink dresses.
Jessibelle looked into Gabe’s eyes, and then inclined her head toward the high-backed chair that still faced the wall.
His gaze swept her from head to toe and back to her eyes. Then he inhaled a deep breath and returned to the chair. He stayed facing the wall while the saleslady helped her.
“Almost,” the saleslady said, after Jessibelle had tried on the third dress, “but . . .”
“Yes,” Gabe said, speaking to the wall in front of him. “That’s it. Bring that one.”
“I know!” the saleslady said, full of enthusiasm. “I’ll be right back.”
Gabe stood and turned toward her.
Jessibelle touched the skirt of the dress she wore. “How come these ideas didn’t work?”
“I’m still getting used to this.”
“Used to what?”
“To being an angel. I’m not full-fledged.”
“You’re new at this?”
“Yes.”
“How did you get to be an angel?”
“I died first.” A short pause. “Well, not quite.”
“What do you mean, not quite?” Jessibelle heard the saleslady tap on the dressing room door, and then it opened and the frizzy head appeared with a rose red chiffon dress billowing in her arms.
“Coma,” Gabe said. “They gave me a choice of going back and spending a few years in a coma, or enlisting in the Angel Core. I didn’t feel like lying around, so I signed on for Basic Training.” Then he added, “You’re my first assignment.”
Somehow, she felt privileged, hearing that. “You’re my first angel,” Jessibelle told him.
“Oh, thank you, dear. We love helping women find the perfect dress to express their inner goddess.”
Chapter Five
The perfect dress turned out to be knee length, rose red chiffon over silk, V-neck, with little rosettes detailing the empire waist. The delicate fabric gathered over each breast, creating a deep V of skin. Chiffon and silk twisted at her shoulders and plunged down her back, leaving most of it bare. Below her breasts, layers of chiffon fell to her knees in petals, giving an impression of whimsical romance.