By The Sea, Book One: Tess (25 page)

*****

Olivia Bennett had small, slender feet—she
was pretty proud of them—but this was ridiculous. There wasn't a
foot on the planet that could comfortably fit into the Victorian
French-heeled shoe she was trying to wear. The handmade shoe was
just one of a vast array of historically accurate reproductions
that made up the evening ensemble she had committed to wear in her
stint as guide on the Candlelight Tour.

"I feel like Cinderella's evil stepsister,"
she growled, jamming her foot into the narrow shoe. Which wasn't a
shoe anyway—it was an instrument of torture, tight and stiff and
with an outrageous tip that surged a good three inches past her big
toe.

She threw up her hands in frustration and
collapsed back on her white slipcovered tub chair. "I can't do
this."

Eileen was standing over her like a
maid-in-waiting who wasn't quite sure of her job description.
"Maybe you'll get used to them. Try standing up."

"It's this
stupid
corset!" Olivia
said suddenly, grabbing at the stiff, steel-boned vise that was
responsible for her current Barbie-doll look. "What was I
thinking?"

"What did you expect? It's French."

"Well, screw the French! I'm not wearing
it!" She began tearing at the half-dozen front hooks with a
viciousness that she normally reserved for pickle jars.

"Hold it right there,
mademoiselle.
You're
the one who talked all the guides into wearing period
getups."

Olivia sighed and tucked one of the
wandering bust enhancers back into place. Her wool drawers itched.
Her chemise was too tight. The petticoats were heavy. But Eileen
was right—dressing for the period had been her idea.

"Bustle, please," she said grimly.

Eileen let out a little sigh of
sympathy.

After some fumbling, they belted the
elaborate wire framework onto Olivia's behind. Feeling like a
bronco saddled for the first time, she resisted the urge to try to
kick the thing off and said through gritted teeth, "Okay—the
gown."

Eileen's response was a radiant smile. "This
will make it all worthwhile." She fished the padded hanger out of
the taffeta gown and slipped the dress over Olivia's upraised arms.
Olivia disappeared in a swishy cloud of scarlet iridescence, then
emerged from a low-cut bodice that was unquestionably more European
than American.

The color scheme was as bold as the plunge
of the neckline: a swath of bright scarlet draped up toward the
outlandish bustle to reveal a purple skirt beneath, with
silver-gray passementerie looped around the cuffs, the bodice, and
the hem. The heavily beaded braid caught and refracted the light
from the recessed spotlight above, rimming Olivia in glittering
highlights.

Eileen stepped back with a startled look.
"My goodness, that's daring."

"Oh, I don't know. The only thing daring
about this outfit is the crotchless drawers," Olivia said,
squirming in annoyance. "It's December, for pity's sake. These damn
things give a whole new meaning to the expression 'freezing your
buns off.' "

Laughing, Eileen said, "Well, think about
it. How on earth would anyone go potty, once she was rigged in that
getup?"

"Trust me, I don't intend to find out. Start
buttoning; I've got to be there in half an hour. Thank God women
from that era didn't go in for makeup. I'd be pummeling herbal
extracts into a pot of rouge about now."

"All right, here we go. Suck it in, Miss
Bennett."

Several painful moments later, Olivia was
tightly skinned in scarlet. She had achieved the desired hourglass
shape at last. The curves she exhibited, though not her own, were
definitely spectacular.

She said in a breathless gasp, "I think I'm
going to pass out."

"The things we do for !ove," Eileen said,
amused. "Honestly, I wish we'd featured you like that on the flyers
we posted around town. The Keepsake Preservation Society would be
rolling in dough after this fund-raiser."

"Shoes! What do I do about shoes? Even
assuming I could take more pain, I'd fall and break my neck if I
went wearing these in the snow." Olivia kicked them off, furious
for ever agreeing to be part of the Candlelight Tour. It would have
been better to write out a check. She had inventory to stock, she
had orders to place—what was she doing pointing out crown moldings
and fruitwood étagères to the hoi polloi?

Volunteering seemed like
such
a
better idea at the time.

Swishing over to her closet, she yanked open
a white louvred door and pointed to the shoe rack on the floor.
"Take out the black Reeboks for me, would you?"

Eileen was scandalized, but she did as she
was commanded, even tying the laces for her immobilized sister-in-
law.

"All right, let's see what it all looks
like," said Olivia, striding over to the full-length mirror.

"Smaller steps! Smaller steps! Your sneakers
show."

They stood together in front of the mirror,
these two best friends turned relatives: Eileen, tall and thin and
blond and oh-so-Connecticut; and Olivia, shorter, darker, and
somehow, despite the elegance of her wardrobe, just a little bit
gypsy. Olivia was very conscious of the contrast. She wasn't
especially bothered by it—she looked vaguely like her mother, whom
she had always considered truly beautiful—but she was definitely
aware that she did not have "the look."

She shrugged and said, "I guess I'll
do."

"Do? You look fabulous," Eileen insisted.
"That creamy skin, those natural curls, those bedroom eyes—what man
could resist you?"

"Apparently they make the effort," Olivia
said dryly.

"It's your fault. Why do you go everywhere
with Eric on your arm?"

"Eric is very presentable."

"Eric is gay!"

"My mother likes Eric."

"What mother wouldn't? But it's keeping you
from meeting the man of your dreams."

"I don't dream about men, I dream about
fabric." Olivia frowned in the mirror, then grabbed a tube of
lipstick from her dresser and ran it lightly across her lips.

"Okay, I'm ready," she declared. "Point me
to the drawing room."

*****

Hastings House was built in high Victorian
style for a man who, quite simply, loved wood. In 1882, Mr. Latimer
Hastings bought a lumberyard just to have first crack at the
boards, then spent the next two years in close company with an
architect and a construction crew, milling, shaping, and carving
those boards for his house on upper Main. The house became an
obsession, and more: It became his reason to exist. It wrecked his
marriage, it alienated the neighbors, and ultimately it became a
bone of contention between his heirs.

It was a nightmare to maintain, with its
curved piazza and its multi-gabled roofline, but it was something,
really something, to see. Keepsake was nearly as proud of Hastings
House as it was of the Bennett estate, higher up the hill. Most
people knew they'd never get the chance to poke their noses in the
Bennetts' dining room; but this year they could get a fairly good
idea, for a mere four dollars, of how the Bennetts' dinner guests
lived.

So they paid and they poked. Despite the
biting cold and windy weather, the Candlelight Tour was enjoying an
excellent turnout. Keepsake was a historic town with an active
Historical Society backed by a mayor who understood the dollar
value of tourism. Besides, the cause was worthy: The proceeds of
the Candlelight Tour were split between St. Swithin's soup kitchen
and free art courses for Keepsake's children.

Olivia felt at home in the heavily carved,
overly ornate drawing room of Hastings House; when she was growing
up she'd been a guest there several times. Standing straight as a
board (she had no choice) near a crackling fire, she greeted each
new visitor on the tour as graciously as Mrs. Hastings herself
might have done before ultimately dumping her husband for another
man with a simpler house.

It was fun. Olivia hadn't expected to enjoy
playing the part of a Victorian socialite, and yet here she was,
flirting and having a great time.
Playing
at flirting,
anyway. The pain of being laced into a state of dizziness had
ebbed, replaced by the novelty of being the object of men's gapes
and women's furtive looks. It was definitely a first for her.

"Either I've just discovered my true calling
as an actress, or there's something to this corset business," she
said, laughing, after two women she knew well expressed open
amazement at the difference in her demeanor.

The women wandered out and another group
wandered in: Eric and several of his pals, all of them history and
architecture buffs. Olivia knew that one of them was an actor, so
she poured it on, hamming it up outrageously until the men moved
on, still laughing, to the next room.

And then there was a lull.

****

Quinn had heard voices in the room ahead of
him—several men and a woman—who sounded as if they were having a
damn good time. He was jealous; it had been a while since he'd
laughed out loud. But by the time he escaped the clutches of the
Victorian gentleman whose job it was to explain the Victorian
library, the group had left the drawing room, taking their raucous
laughter with them.

They left behind them a woman.

Her back was to Quinn, whose first
impression was of a mountain of scarlet material bunched on top of
a purple skirt. He saw that she wasn't tall, and yet her posture
somehow made her seem so. She had dark hair, tied in a knot at the
nape of her neck—without much success, Quinn could see; ringlets
seemed to be escaping even as he stood unnoticed behind her.

She was standing in front of the fire with
her hands extended to catch its warmth. He couldn't blame her for
feeling cold: Her back and shoulders were as bare as any
red-blooded man could hope for. The sight of her had sent his
genitals lurching beneath his corduroys, and almost immediately he
realized why.

She had the most impossibly beautiful figure
he'd ever seen. He had no idea that in an age of protein and
aerobics, women could still look like that: beautiful back and
shoulders, tiny,
tiny
waist, flared and intriguing hips. It
was an old-fashioned fantasy, a heart-wrecking dream—and it was as
erotic as all hell. He might have stood gazing at that hourglass
shape forever if she hadn't turned around with a start.

"Oh, I'm sorry; I didn't hear anyone
come—Quinn?"

He blinked. He knew the voice, knew the
eyes, he definitely knew the voice... He blinked again in
disbelief. In a moment of complete, humiliating weakness his let
his gaze drop down to her cleavage. Was it possible?

"Liv?"

"Who else?" she said, with a wary smile.
"You look the same."

"You don't," he said, stunned.

A couple walked in just then with questions
poised: Was the price firm? Would the owner take financing? Had he
had any offers? Olivia explained with dazzling grace that she was
not the realtor—Good Lord, did she
look
like a realtor?—and
then the couple left.

Olivia turned her dark-eyed gaze back to
Quinn. "I heard you were back. Somehow I didn't expect to run into
you here, though."

He took it possibly the wrong way. "Yeah,
well, you know how it is when you throw an open house. Riffraff's
bound to get in."

"Oh no! Is
he
here?" she said,
rolling her eyes.

He chuckled. "Okay, I suppose I deserved
that."

She shook her head. "You
haven't
changed, have you? I'm ... I'm sorry about your father," she added.
"I know how close you were."

Sympathy from a Bennett? No thanks; it felt
too much like pity. "We did all right," he said, "once we got out
of Keepsake. We had a good life."

"Yours isn't over."

"His is."

"Yes, but you said .... Well, I'm glad it
worked out. It was an awkward time."

"Awkward?"

"That's the wrong word," she said quickly.
"It was ... horrible, I guess I mean. For everyone."

"So people keep telling me. A girl is
killed, my father is blamed, our lives are upended, and what do I
hear? I'm the Grinch Who Stole Homecoming."

"Well, in all honesty, we haven't come even
close
to a championship since," she said with a bland
look.

He snorted. He remembered that about her
now—her irreverent sense of humor. She was much less straightlaced
than the rest of her clan, and that always had made her an
interesting opponent. He jammed his hands in his parka pockets and
rocked back on his heels. "So. Which of the Ivy League schools
ended up rolling out the thickest red carpet?"

Smiling at the compliment, she said, "I
decided to go with Harvard."

He waved a hand airily at her getup. "And
this would be—what? A part-time job to pay off your student loans?"
he quipped, fighting hard not to resent her.
Harvard.

He watched her flinch and then recover. "As
it turns out, my dad was able to scrape together the tuition. But I
did borrow money to get my MBA. Is that any comfort?"

"Not much," he said through a tight smile.
"So what
do
you do to pay the mortgage?"

"I own a shop in town, Miracourt ... on York
Street? I sell high-end fabrics—interior, and some apparel."

He nodded. "Oh, well sure, a fabric store.
It's logical, with your father owning a textile mill and all."

"My father has nothing to with Miracourt!"
she said sharply. "It's entirely mine, bought and paid for with my
own money."

How wearying, he thought: an heiress who
insisted on making her own way. Not him. If someone had been
willing to hand him a fortune, he'd have been more than willing to
spend it.

In the next breath she confessed, "I do have
another, larger store-—a mill-end outlet—that my father
is
involved with."