Feeling a
trifle more confident, she moved on to her costume.
Never particularly concerned with what she
wore beyond pleasing her own likes and moods, now she considered what
he
might be expecting.
Not knowing if he
knew anything about her at all made that approach impossible, so she tried to
focus on making the kind of statement that best conveyed what she wanted him to
know.
She hoped to give the impression
of quiet competence, a woman well-pleased with her life, and most of all a
woman who was strong and self-sufficient.
How to do that with the clothes in her closet was another matter
entirely.
As she held up various items,
and then cast them aside, a theme began to emerge.
Too short, too informal, too revealing, too
summery, too wintery, and most often too old.
Nothing she owned met the desired criteria.
The closest thing was the relatively new
black dress she'd worn to the concert the week before; but after a second
consideration, she knew it was both too formal
and
too revealing.
The only
choice—other than to opt for jeans, which she had already ruled out as not
serious enough for the occasion—was to go into town and buy something new.
She hadn't done any shopping recently, trying
to watch her budget until she had more work.
But maybe a new fall dress wasn't too extravagant.
She was certain of one thing, if she went to
Martha Jean's she was assured of coming home with something new.
She never managed to leave there empty
handed.
After lunch,
she set off for town with a grocery list and some books to return to the church
library.
Maybe a few hours out of the
house would help offset her anxiety, too.
But she would avoid Jack if possible.
She hadn't told him about the communication with Stani, and withholding
that kind of news would be impossible if she ran into him today.
He would see the circles under her eyes from
lost sleep and detect the jumpiness of her nerves the moment he laid eyes on
her.
Even Martha Jean was likely to
question her impromptu shopping expedition, but she'd come up with some excuse.
Hormones always worked for Martha Jean, she
recalled.
She'd just blame it on
hormones.
To her relief,
the church office was empty, with the little “Be right back” sign on Mike's
desk. She dropped off her books and headed for the boutique.
In luck again, she told herself, as she was
greeted by the high-school girl who worked afternoons.
Martha Jean was at the post office the girl
said.
Emily told her she was just
browsing and stooped to greet Marjorie, who was napping in a chair near the
door.
Going to the racks of fall
fashions, she considered her options.
Woolens in rich golds and greens, dark brown plaid and navy blue
corduroy caught her attention.
But all
seemed too fashionable, too frivolous, somehow lacking the simple, unassuming
yet mature quality she was seeking.
And
then she spotted a dress, heather blue flannel with a plaid collar and little
red buttons on the bodice.
Taking it to
a dressing room, she slipped it on, and knew right away it was her choice.
Going to the three-way mirror to check the
hem line—it wouldn't do if it were too short—she was greeted by Martha Jean,
who was instantly, and vocally, disapproving.
“Emily, you
don't want that.
It's too old for you.”
“I like
it.
I don't think it's old at all.”
Turning to catch herself at all angles, she
decided the length would do.
The dress
wasn’t too short; her legs were just too long.
In a stage
whisper, Martha Jean went on with her protest.
“I just sold that dress, in a fourteen, mind you, to Tom Jeffers'
wife.”
She gave Emily a knowing glare.
Helen Jeffers, a sweet lady with a huge
heart, was singularly unattractive, with a horse face and thinning gray hair.
“Oh.”
Lost for words, Emily again studied the
dress.
It fit high under the bodice, and
the skirt barely skimmed her waist, flaring to the knee with a graceful
sweep.
She liked it.
“Still, I think it's what I want.
You know how I love blue.”
Fingering the plaid collar, at a neckline
neither too high nor too low, she chewed her lip and stared at herself in the
mirror.
Behind her, an
elderly gentleman sat in the provided armchair, waiting for his wife, who
occupied the second dressing room.
With
a twinkle in his eyes, he spoke up.
“Miss Clark, I beg to disagree with you.
She looks fine in that little frock, just fine.
A right highland lassie, I'd say.”
Morrisett MacIntyre, the now-retired head of
the local lumber company, was descended from a family who had settled in the
valley just after the Revolutionary War.
But he held proudly to his heritage and even invoked a hearty brogue on
occasion.
“That touch of tartan is just
the thing, brings out the color in your cheeks, Emily.”
“Why thank you,
Mr. Mac.
How are you today?”
She turned and bent to lay a hand on the
man's stooping shoulders.
A staunch
Presbyterian, Mr. Mac, as he was known to everyone, had been a long-time church
elder, and his wife had taught Emily in grade school.
“Doing well,
but the missus is not quite up to par.
I
thought maybe a little shopping and dinner at the cafe might cheer her
up.”
From the dressing room, a muffled
voice raised a halfhearted objection and the old man chuckled.
“Bribery,” he whispered, patting Emily's
hand.
Turning back to
the mirror, she caught Martha Jean's still doubtful gaze.
“I suppose it would do for church.
Maybe with the right shoes.
It needs red shoes, Em.”
In a flash, ignoring Emily's protest, she
retrieved a pair of shoes from the window.
Sleek, gleaming red leather pumps, with delicate t-straps and three-inch
heels, they were elegant and alluring.
But in the back of her mind, Emily suddenly heard Joey Salvatore's
voice, saying “Not even very tall” and withdrew the hand that had reached
reverently toward the shoes.
“Flats, I
think.
I don't like walking in heels,
you know.”
Striding across to the shoe
display, she picked up a pair.
“These.”
Red flats, with a little tassel on the
tongue, and no heel whatsoever.
The last
thing she wanted to do was gaze down into the eyes of Stani Moss.
When she stood
again in front of the mirror, beneath the admiring appraisal of both Mr. and
Mrs. MacIntyre, the shoes on her feet, she knew she had found her costume.
The outfit said clearly that she was a
simple, well-bred country girl with few pretensions.
No one terribly special, but not a shrinking
violet either.
“Well, I guess
it does suit you, Em.
I just like to see
you show off that figure of yours more.
Still, you'd look like a million dollars in last year's gunny sack.
I'll wrap it up for you.
Oh, and by the way, Jack's over in
Charlottesville today.
He'll be sorry he
missed you.”
She left the
shop with a lighter step, satisfied that at least she would have more
confidence in the impression she made.
A
little voice reminded her that she didn't care what he thought of her, but she
knew that wasn't quite true.
If this
were to be their only meeting, he should leave knowing the woman who had
dragged him out of the snow was a person of taste and breeding, not some
country bumpkin in patched overalls.
With a little smile, she reminded herself that on certain days she could
pass for just that, but not this Saturday morning.
When she opened her front door to him for the
first time, she wanted Stani Moss to see her as much more than that.
Chapter Thirty-two
John thought
Stani looked as if he hadn't slept at all.
He was pale and tense as he stared out the window at the passing
scenery.
John had questioned to himself
the wisdom of visiting the site of the accident, especially after so much time
had passed; but Stani was determined to follow through with his quest in hopes
of allaying whatever demon had been driving him these past months.
Somewhere along the way he had decided his
survival was unjust.
He couldn't
understand, he said, why he had been spared when the other two had died.
He drove himself as if he had to prove
himself worthy of the life he'd been given.
For the first time, Milo had been forced to slow Stani's pace,
discourage him from making too many commitments.
Wisely, Stani had decided to seek the help of
a professional, and he seemed to find some peace once he began to follow the
steps laid out for him.
John himself had
provided the information he'd gathered for Milo after the accident, but Stani
insisted on visiting each place he had been during those lost hours.
Now he wanted to see the actual spot where
the car had gone off the road.
And he
had contacted the girl, after John had run down her address, and he planned to
meet her today.
As always, John was
watching him closely, ready to intervene if he sensed Stani had gone too far.
When he pulled
the car off the highway and stopped at the barricade, John hoped that would be
close enough for Stani.
But he opened
his door and stepped out onto the gravel, looking around in silence.
He began to walk deliberately down the road,
toward a tall pine tree that still bore the scars of that night.
Almost ten feet above the ground were broken
branches, marking the place where the car had ended its flight.
John walked beside him, waiting for him to
speak.
But Stani seemed lost in the
effort of envisioning what had transpired here.
Staring up at the tree, he appeared to be listening, his head tilted to
one side, his face grim.
Finally, he
turned away and walked slowly to the bottom of the hill, where the land rose
sharply above the roadway, and stood for a time gazing up into the sparse
woods.
“I must have
been here.
I must have started walking
from here.
It's up there, isn't it?
The house is there at the top?
I walked up there.
Why would I do that, go in that direction,
when I could have just gone back to the highway?”
John strained to catch his words, recognizing
the emotion in the hushed tone.
With
Stani, the more distressed, the softer his voice became.
“You were in
shock.
You had struck your head.
You must have been confused and just wandered
blindly from here.
Is it so important,
lad?”
“No, I suppose
not.
Pretty amazing, wouldn't you say,
that I would take the most difficult way out?
Not at all like me.”
He flashed
an ironic grin.
“You know me, John,
always the easy way.
What time was the
accident?”
“Sometime
before dawn.”
“And I wasn't
up there until afternoon, right?”
“One.”
“What do you
suppose I was doing all that time?”
Stani turned and walked back to the car, taking one last look at the
damaged tree.
“Searching for something,
I imagine.”
John drove back
to the highway; and following the directions he'd been given by a local gas
station attendant, he headed the car toward a road that cut up the side of a
sharp rise.
He glanced at Stani, but he
was staring straight ahead, a telltale muscle in his jaw the only indication of
his thoughts.
“You're sure
you want to do this?
What can she tell
you about the accident?
She wasn't
there, you know.”
“I don't want
her to tell me anything, at least not at first.
I want to try to remember.
So
far, it hasn't worked.
But I think I do
remember something here, something about her.
I won't know until I see her, will I?”
He turned away with an eloquent shrug of his shoulders.