Cal wasn’t sure how Horace would react if he told him he’d pretty much worn his costume to work that morning. He hoped Wonder hadn’t jerked him around on the whole costume thing. If he had, Cal would have to mutilate him.
“Oh, get out of here,” Horace harrumphed. “Go wash your beard or something.”
Cal hiked home—he’d left the truck at the barn rather than fight his way through the tourists—and changed his shirt to his favorite denim one that was so worn it was almost transparent. He figured he could always claim to be dressed as a penniless nineteenth-century farmer rather than a penniless twenty-first-century vet.
On the way back to Docia’s he swung by Sweet Thing, having worked through lunch. Allie and her counter staff were selling chocolate chip cookies and sticky buns at a great rate. Allie waved hello and gave him a spinach kolache to go.
Munching happily, Cal ambled up Main, treating the tourists as a kind of human obstacle course—giving himself points for avoiding the kid with the taffy apple and for not tripping over little old ladies. One little old lady impediment in a turquoise running suit was bending over in front of Margaret Hastings’ shop window, admiring a set of crystal angels in graduated sizes.
Margaret.
For a moment, Cal considered stepping into Angels Unaware, if only to show that he was capable of being civil. Then he checked his watch and decided getting to Docia’s was more important than being Midwestern. Let somebody else be a nice guy today.
Docia stood in her bedroom taking deep breaths and telling herself to calm down. She wasn’t a complete nervous wreck, but she was close.
She couldn’t decide about the boots. She kept putting them on and taking them off, looking at herself in the mirror with boots and without. They were great boots. She’d picked them up at an Austin vintage clothing store. Black with sharp, pointed toes and stacked heels. Yellow roses embroidered across the front.
She loved them but suspected her feet would give out halfway through the dance. And a street dance during the Liddy Brenner festival was no time to be running around barefoot.
She considered her alternatives: sandals wouldn’t work with her outfit. Heels wouldn’t be any better on her feet than the boots. And her skirt wasn’t long enough to hide running shoes. Blowing a lock of hair out of her eyes, she headed downstairs.
She walked into the storeroom and stuck her head through the door into the shop.
Janie stood at the front counter, closing out the register. Docia held up the boots in one hand. “What do you think? Should I wear them?”
Janie squinted critically, moving her head to try to see the rest of Docia’s body. “Depends. What does the whole outfit look like?”
Docia stepped away from the door, raising her chin.
Janie’s eyes widened. “Oh, good gravy, Docia!”
Docia frowned, biting her lip. Janie was the first one who’d seen the whole ensemble. What if the whole thing didn’t work? “Too much?”
Janie shook her head slowly. “For anyone else on earth, yes. For you, it works. That’s not your impression of Liddy Brenner, is it?”
Docia humphed. “Not likely. You know how I feel about that whole Liddy Brenner legend, or Margaret’s version of it, anyway. This is my own idea.”
“Well, as long as you’re not challenging the local icon, you should be fine.” Janie’s lips spread into a wide grin.
A slight twinge somewhere south of her conscience pricked at Docia. It would be just her luck to piss off the citizens the day before the wine and cheese party. “Will this outfit upset people? I don’t want them to think I’m making fun of them.”
Janie’s grin actually widened. “Docia, trust me, nobody will care. It’s all dress-up anyway. They’ll love it. You’ll certainly be memorable.”
“And the boots?”
Janie shrugged. “Wear ’em. Icing on the cake.”
Cal rounded the corner and saw Janie locking the door of the bookshop. “Is Docia in there?”
Janie glanced up. “In the apartment.” She gave him a suspiciously wide smile. “She’s all dressed and ready to go. Have fun, Doc!”
Her smile had a sort of anticipatory flavor. Cal had the distinct feeling he was walking into an ambush. He ambled warily around to the apartment door, rang the bell, and stuck his head inside. “Docia?”
“Cal?” Her voice floated down the stairs. “Come on up. I’m just about ready.”
Cal wandered up the stairs and into Docia’s living room. The Persian rug glowed warmly in the afternoon sunlight. A jelly jar full of red and yellow zinnias on the coffee table echoed the colors.
“Hey,” Docia said from the doorway.
Cal turned and felt his breath whoosh out of his body.
Docia’s skirt swirled with a deep flounce edged in lace around her ankles. More strips of champagne-colored lace held together gauzy white panels, providing tantalizing glimpses of Docia’s legs when she moved. It looked like a petticoat designed for a frontier lady with adventurous appetites.
The black satin top covered Docia’s upper body like a coat of paint. Silver roses were embroidered across her bosom, and silver lace rimmed the top edge of the bodice along the sumptuous swell of her breasts.
A great deal of sumptuous swell.
Another piece of silver lace circled her throat. She wore her hair in a topknot that looked like a cross between a Gibson girl and a can-can dancer.
She was a lonely cowboy’s dream girl. A dancehall queen with money, style and a creative imagination. She was also the hottest thing he’d seen since he’d discovered sex at age fifteen.
Cal reminded himself to breathe. Breathing was important.
Also well-nigh impossible.
“Cal?” Docia’s voice sounded anxious. She moved toward him tentatively. “Are you okay?”
He managed to drag his gaze from her bosom to her face. Her forehead was furrowed.
“Is the outfit too much? It’s the boots, isn’t it? They take it over the top.”
Cal stared at her feet. She had on black cowboy boots. He hadn’t noticed them before. He was pretty sure nobody else would notice the boots either. “The boots are great,” he croaked.
“What’s the problem then?” Her brow was still furrowed. “Should I put a blouse on over the bustier? Or should I just change the whole thing? I mean, I could always wear jeans and a camisole or something.”
“Don’t. Change. Anything.” Cal wiped his palms on his thighs. The motion kept him from grabbing her, which was what he really wanted to do.
Docia’s mouth spread in a slow grin. “You really like it?”
“Oh, yeah.” He swallowed hard.
“Good.” She grabbed a black lace shawl from the back of the couch. “Let’s go dance, Doc.”
The streets were still full of people as they started walking toward the park, but Docia was like a rock in a stream—the crowds parted in front of her and then closed behind. Cal remembered Wonder saying the two of them would be a center of attention.
Little did he know.
Thanks to the boots, Docia was almost eye-level with him again. Cal raised a quizzical eyebrow. “So if you aren’t supposed to be Liddy Brenner, who are you supposed to be?”
She smiled, kicking a pebble out of her way. Three teenage boys stood frozen in her wake, looking at her as if Docia came from another galaxy. A galaxy where they’d clearly like to make an extended visit.
“I am portraying my personal frontier heroine,” Docia trilled. “Sweet Betsy from Pike.”
“Sweet Betsy?” Cal frowned. “You mean ‘who crossed the wide prairie…’”
“‘…with her lover Ike.’” Docia finished in a rich contralto. “Yeah, that’s the one. Notice—not husband, not brother, not father—lover. An independent female. She’s the one who ran that outfit.”
Cal grinned. “The outfit didn’t run too well, as I recall. Didn’t their cattle die and their rooster run off?”
“Patriarchal propaganda!” Docia danced along the street in front of him. Cal thought he heard a moan from a guy in a cowboy hat who stood transfixed on the sidewalk.
“Betsy fights off an Indian attack, she resists advances from Brigham Young, she crosses deserts and climbs mountains and tells Ike to get a move on.” Docia grinned happily. “She’s one tough babe.”
She looked anything but tough herself at that particular moment. In fact, she looked tasty as hell. What would happen if he nibbled on her neck a little? He took another in a series of deep breaths.
Behave yourself.
“Of course—” Docia’s smile drooped slightly, “—they get married in the last verse. Then Ike gets jealous and divorces her. She tells him to get lost in the final line.”
“Love doesn’t conquer all?” Cal said gently. He didn’t like the suddenly wistful look in her eyes.
Docia shrugged. “It’s sort of a modern song. I guess it’s just the ending you’d expect these days. I mean, love doesn’t really conquer all, does it? Love usually doesn’t even get a chance.” She moved on ahead of him before he could catch her expression.
Love doesn’t even get a chance
? Cal cocked an eyebrow. Definitely something to explore at a later date.
The streets around the city park were closed off, and a bluegrass band had set up in the park bandstand. Cal put his arm around Docia’s waist and skirted around the crowd toward the grassy edge. He saw Wonder and Allie cut across one of the paths. True to his word, Wonder wore jeans and a denim shirt, along with the gaudiest gold nugget bolo tie Cal had ever seen. Allie wore an off-the-shoulder white peasant blouse embroidered with pink flowers and a bright purple skirt. White flowers circled her hair.
Allie saw them first. “Oh my, Docia.” And then she grinned widely. “Oh my, my, my. This will be a memorable night.”
Cal certainly hoped so. “Sweet Betsy From Pike,” he explained, hoping that explanation made things clear.
Wonder stood staring for a moment and then swallowed hard. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Pike. That Ike was one lucky man.”
Docia curtseyed gracefully, keeping her spine straight and her black satin top in place.
Cleveland Banning, who, as Cal recalled, owned the insurance agency on Spicewood, exhaled noisily as he watched and wiped his brow. A woman in a high-necked dress with a cameo broach, whom Cal assumed to be Mrs. Banning, cast a narrow-eyed scowl in Docia’s direction.
A gray-haired man hurried toward them.
“Hi Arthur.” Docia smiled. “How are we doing?”
Arthur Craven, the president of the Konigsburg Merchants Association, was one of the few men dressed in what passed for authentic period clothing—an old-fashioned shirt with a high collar worn with a striped vest and wool trousers. He slid a finger between the collar and his neck, his mouth pinched in discomfort. “Fine, Docia. Looks like the biggest crowd yet. We’re doing better this year than last.”
Behind them, the bandleader stepped up to the microphone and began to play the opening strains of “Buffalo Gals”.
“C’mon y’all,” Allie called. “Let’s dance.”
Margaret kept the store open late, partly because of the number of tourists who kept wandering through but mostly because she wanted to put off going to the dance with Ham Linklatter.
She
liked
Ham. She truly did. She just didn’t necessarily want to be seen in public with him.
Eventually, however, she had to close up to give herself enough time to get into her costume. Margaret always gave a great deal of thought to her Liddy Brenner costume. She liked Liddy Brenner, or rather she liked the
idea
of Liddy Brenner. That is, the version of Liddy Brenner she’d invented when she’d been president of the Merchants Association. Margaret had created a heroine who’d gotten her status by doing the right thing and then promptly died before she could do anything stupid.
Liddy’s death was a wonderful marketing strategy, one that Margaret was happy to work with. Of course, Margaret had helped things along a bit. None of the local versions of Liddy’s legend had her dying, but Margaret figured her death was only logical. The chief’s son must have had some awful disease to need all that nursing. Besides, Margaret recognized an effective public relations ploy when she saw it. Liddy dead was much more useful than Liddy alive.
Now Margaret walked back to her house to put on her festival outfit. She’d had it made up by a seamstress in Kerrville so that no one in Konigsburg would know about it in advance. The dress was based on a picture Margaret had found in a reproduction from
Godey’s Lady’s Book
—wide skirt, puffed sleeves at her shoulders, a neckline that dipped just enough to be slightly dangerous without really getting her into trouble. She’d considered having the seamstress put in a hoop, but then she’d thought about possible disasters if some lummox bumped into her and flipped it up. Authenticity only went so far, after all. The bronze color brought out the dark gold highlights she’d had Rhonda put in her hair last week.
Margaret stepped back to study herself in the mirror. A small plastic cameo on a black velvet ribbon hung in the hollow of her throat. Her pearl drop earrings weren’t really old, but they looked antique enough to get by.