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WINGS LIKE EAGLES
Copyright © 2008 by Tracie Peterson. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Dedication
Author Bio
one
Christy Connors bolted upright in bed. She was drenched in a cold sweat that left her brown hair plastered to her skin as though she’d just stepped from the shower. Panting for breath, she noticed for the first time that it was light outside.
The elegant brocade draperies allowed only the smallest amount of sunlight to filter into the room, but it was enough. Settling her nerves, Christy realized the haunting scene, which had so startled her, was only a nightmare.
Candy! Her little sister, dubbed so because the name Camille seemed much too dramatic for the little squirt of a kid, was in trouble. At least she had been in Christy’s dream. She started to reach for the telephone to call Candy and assure herself that it had been nothing more than her wild imagination, but a quick glance at the clock stopped her. Candy needed her sleep now that she was nearly eight months pregnant. The little squirt of a kid was now nineteen, married, and expecting her first child.
Pushing back the covers along with her concern, Christy stretched her legs over the side of the bed. With a yawn that nearly sent her to seeking the comfort of her pillows again, she forced herself to get up.
The pink silk nightgown swirled gracefully around her long legs as Christy crossed the room to pull back the drapes and let in the day. At twenty-five, Christy had experienced more than many people twice her age. She’d modeled for several years, but found the constant race between New York, Paris, and a hundred other points of interest exhausting. When she’d announced her retirement at the mere age of twenty-one, the world had mourned the loss, and her agent still continued to harangue her to return to the spotlight. Christy satisfied her own interests, how-ever, and using the large sums of money she’d made modeling, she re-entered the public eye in an entirely different way.
For nearly four years, Christy Connors had been the proud owner and sole operator of Designs by Christy. Her business was one that catered to the very rich, and Christy was quite choosey about her clientele. Now that she had international recognition and fame for her one-of-a-kind, handcrafted wedding gowns, Christy Connors was rapidly becoming a wealthy woman.
After momentary consideration of the Rocky Mountains in the distant west, Christy’s next point of business was to seat herself at an eighteenth-century desk and study her appointment book. The entire world clamored to be part of her agenda. At least it felt that way at times.
Of course, it hadn’t always been so. When she was still a senior in high school, a man had spotted Christy in a local shopping mall and asked her if she’d ever thought of modeling. Christy thought the whole thing one of those put-on farces by men who were seeking to lure innocent young women into the dark confines of their vans. She told the man emphatically that she had no interest whatsoever in his proposition. Two days later he showed up with the governor of the state, and her mother had nearly fainted. Within an hour, Christy had an appointment for an interview and photo shoot in New York City.
Boarding a plane and leaving the Mile High City, Christy had been sure that she’d never return. She wasn’t leaving with any regrets. In fact, she was more or less running away from home. Only this kind of running had everyone’s blessing.
Modeling hadn’t been a dream job, however. Anyone who thought it a life of glamor had another thing coming. Glamor was the end result, but it certainly wasn’t the life that one led getting there. Christy hadn’t even graduated from college. There’d never been time to take more than a few classes in fashion design and marketing before some assignment sent her halfway around the world, disrupting her whole life.
She was up early each morning, working with a professional trainer who saw her through exercise routines and runway moves. Christy worked harder to learn the trade than anything she’d ever put herself into be-fore. It didn’t take long for the world to recognize her talent and de-mand the long-legged beauty grace the covers of their magazines. In one year alone, she had seventeen covers and over a dozen feature stories.
When she finally decided to put modeling behind her and go to school full-time, her agent had been livid. What did she need with an education, when she had a body that brought the world to a standstill? But Christy wasn’t naïve enough to believe it would last forever. A woman who depended on her looks to make a living raced against a clock that never slowed down. Wrinkles, weight gains or losses, sagging skin, and blemishes—it was all too much to pay attention to, and Christy tired of worshiping at the altar of her own face.
College was a new and exciting world and, while some people recognized her for her modeling work, most just thought she was a struggling student like everyone else. Christy was honestly happy. Happy, that is, until she made the mistake of falling in love. He was older and wiser, or at least that’s what Christy had thought. He was gentle and loving and everything she was looking for. Instead, she got another example of shallowness and infidelity. So Christy left school in order to isolate herself as far as she could from the man who’d broken her heart.
Since he was a professor with tenure at the university, she couldn’t very well expect him to leave.
Shaking her head to clear the past, Christy tried to focus her attention on the day’s appointments. She had two. One was set for 9:00 and would be the first fitting for Mariah DuBane, a wealthy debutante from Dallas. The second appointment was a first interview scheduled at lunchtime and would require that Christy serve more than her routine refreshments.
She made a note to call the caterer and finalize the delivery time for the luncheon. When Christy Connors chose clients, she did it in style. No one could ever complain that they weren’t addressed with the utmost respect and genteel refinement.
She scanned the appointment book for notes on the new couple: Curt Kyle and Debbie Bradford, June 28 wedding. Formal, after six. Bride desires an elaborate gown with imported Belgian lace. That was the end of her information, and Christy snapped the book shut.
&n
bsp; Dropping her slip-styled nightgown from her shoulders, Christy walked into her white marble bathroom and turned on the shower. Another day, just like all the others, was about to begin.
An hour later, Christy descended the oak staircase, looking a masterpiece of perfection. Her shoulder-length, chocolate brown hair had been swept off her face and gathered with two gold clasps on either side. Her heart-shaped face had been carefully accentuated with a delicate blend of powders and shadows that made the most of Christy’s natural beauty. She knew she was a beautiful woman, but inside she felt empty and uncertain. Why, she wondered, was it never enough?
An older woman in a black-and-white uniform appeared at the foot of the stairs. “Good morning, Miss Connors.”
Christy nodded. “Morning, Aggie. Breakfast ready?”
Aggie laughed. “The same as usual. Your orange juice is on the table, and the coffee will follow as soon as you give the word.”
Christy moved through the front room and opened French doors onto a small, glassed-in balcony. “Oh, would you call the overnight people and check on the location of my delivery from France?”
“I’ll get to it after I serve your coffee,” the older woman replied and took her leave.
Christy smiled to herself. There was a refined, yet friendly relationship between the two women, and Christy knew she’d be lost without the helpful insight of Aggie. More than once Christy had sought the older woman’s advice, and more than once Aggie had offered it on her own. It was an amicable companionship.
The balcony resembled a small garden. The entire room had been designed to use year-round, with removable glass over screens. A magnificent view of the snowcapped peaks of the Rocky Mountains glistening against the sun greeted Christy. White wicker furniture graced the retreat and stood out in sharp contrast to the deep greens of house plants in their various colorful pots. It was Christy’s favorite room in the house.
After fussing over each plant as though it were a beloved child, Christy finally took a seat at the table and began to read the Denver Post. There was comfort for Christy in her routine. It seldom varied and always managed to give her a positive outlook on the day. Checking her watch, she downed the rest of the juice and finished the first section of the paper just as Aggie appeared and poured coffee.
The two women didn’t exchange a single word as Aggie went to make the required phone calls, and Christy turned her attention back to the newspaper. Twenty minutes later, Mariah DuBane arrived, and the fragile peace of the day was broken.
“Don’t tell me I’m a size six,” the bleach-blond screeched at Christy. “I’ve always worn a four, and I’ll always wear a four. I’m certainly not going to be swimming down the aisle to my wedding in a size six gown!”
Christy was used to debutante fits and merely crossed her arms against her cream-colored cashmere suit. “Ms. DuBane, perhaps you would like to go elsewhere to have your gown created. I’m a very busy woman, and I take my designs very seriously. I would not threaten my reputation with an ill-fitting gown. That goes for one which would be too tight, as well as one in which you might swim.”
The blond started to speak, then tightened her lips. “I suppose it’s just nerves,” Mariah finally offered, and the fitting continued.
After Mariah blew out of the house, Christy barely had enough time to receive the caterers and double-check the table. Casting a quick glance around, Christy found everything in order. The entire house was devoted to the charm and elegance of another era, and here was no exception. The dining room table was a delicate Queen Anne, with matching chairs upholstered in a dusty rose fabric. The walls were papered with a floral print of the same shade, with fine gold ribbons running the length of the print to set it off as though a hundred little borders lined the room. Original oak woodwork added the most dramatic touch, framing the room with its elaborate curlicues and scrolling.
Smoothing a slight wrinkle in the cream-colored, Irish linen tablecloth, Christy inspected the place settings of ruby red dinnerware before turning her attention to the food.
The door chime sounded, and Christy glanced down at her watch. At least they’re punctual, she thought, and grabbed her appointment book on the way to open the door.
“I’m Deborah Bradford,” an exotic-looking woman said. She put out her hand and flashed dark eyes in greeting.
Christy extended her hand. “I’m Christy Connors. Won’t you come in?” She stepped back to allow the young woman entry.
Christy could tell just by the way the woman moved that it would be a pleasure to work with her. She was exquisite, and Christy stole a mo-ment just to study her. Long black hair fell straight to the middle of Deborah’s back, and large dark eyes were framed by the blackest of lashes.
Christy concluded she was nearly the same height and size as Deborah, but there was something almost intimidating about the look of this woman.
Christy was so taken aback by Deborah’s beauty that she didn’t hear the man who had followed them into the house until he leaned down and whispered in her ear.
“I’m Curt Kyle, just in case you wondered.”
Christy’s head snapped up in surprise and met the most incredible blue eyes she had ever seen. If Deborah’s beauty had stunned Christy, then the strange attraction she instantly felt for Curt was more than a little troubling.
“Christy Connors,” she managed to reply and extended her slender hand.
Curt Kyle reached out and took Christy’s slender fingers into his warm grip. It’s almost a caress, Christy thought, wishing she could find the strength to pull away.
“Glad to meet you. I guess you know why we’re here,” he said in such a nonchalant way that Christy was certain he was in no way affected as she had been.
Christy nodded. “I’ve arranged lunch for us,” she said, trying to steady her nerves. It is ridiculous, she thought, to act so childish. “If you’ll both come this way, we’ll eat and discuss your plans.”
“You have a beautiful home, Ms. Connors,” Deborah said as they made their way to the dining room. “I love the Victorian age, and I see you have decorated with many lovely pieces from that time.”
“Thank you,” Christy replied. “Miss Bradford, if you’ll sit here—”
“Please call me Debbie,” the woman interrupted. “I’d be much more at ease if you would.”
Christy smiled. “Certainly.” She waited for Curt to seat his fiancée before leading him to the seat opposite Debbie. She started to seat herself, only to suddenly find Curt assisting her into her chair. “Thank you, Mr. Kyle.”
“Curt,” he said with a grin.
Christy felt a tremor run through her as she stared deep into the man’s eyes. “Curt,” she whispered, almost afraid to use the name. Then, needing to break the spell, she glanced back to Debbie. “And you must both call me Christy.”
Chicken salad with grape and almond slices oozed out from be-tween fluffy croissants, forcing each person to slice their sandwich in half. Added to this were bowls of fruit salad and glasses of flavored mineral water and, of course, coffee. Christy wasn’t certain, but for herself, she deeply suspected that functioning without coffee would have been impossible.
Setting aside her fork, Christy opened her book to take a few notes. “I understand you have a passion for Belgian lace,” she began.
“Yes,” Debbie replied. “My family was stationed overseas when my father was in the air force. We visited Brugge and saw several old women hand-making the lace right on the walkways in front of the shops. That’s when I fell in love with it. It was incredible the way they took thread and bobbins and created masterpieces. I can’t imagine having a gown made with anything else.”
Christy nodded. “It will be extremely expensive to import.”
“Money’s no object,” Curt answered before Debbie could.
“I want her to have the best.”
Christy made the mistake of meeting his eyes. For a moment she was helpless to look away. Curt recognized the attraction, and
though his lips remained noncommittal, his eyes lit with amusement. Finally composing herself, Christy nodded and made note of the Belgian lace even though she’d already noted it once before.
I can’t look at his eyes, she told herself. When I speak to him, I’ll look elsewhere, but not into his eyes. Feeling more composed, Christy continued the interview.
“I accept very few clients, as I’m sure you are aware. I hand-make only six gowns a year, and all of my gowns start at five thousand dollars. That amount is for the label and the quality that the name represents.
“I am quite choosey about whom I work with. There must be a bond of sorts, which may sound extremely ridiculous in this day and age of making a buck, but I’m not in this business for the money alone,” Christy stated firmly.
“What are you in the business for?” Curt asked.
Christy refused to look at him. “I want to create beautiful things. I want to give brides a glimpse of the fairy tale,” she replied. Then turning to Debbie, she asked. “What is your idea of the fairy tale?”
Debbie looked thoughtful for a moment. “I want an incredibly beautiful wedding. Like Curt said, money is not one of our limitations. I intend to have over twelve thousand dollars’ worth of flowers and six attendants. The reception alone will be catered to the tune of twenty thousand, and we’re inviting more than four hundred people.”
Christy nodded. The amounts were not that shocking. Most of the people she dealt with could afford weddings like that, or they certainly would not have come to her for the gown. Most of her gowns ended up costing close to fifteen thousand dollars, so only the very affluent could afford to seek her out.
“What about the gown itself? Have you a particular style in mind?” Christy asked.
Debbie smiled at Curt. “I want one of those romantic ballroom gowns.”
“Full skirt, basque waist, that sort of thing?” Christy questioned while writing.
“Yes,” Debbie said with a sigh in her voice. “I want it made of silk and Belgian lace. And I want lots of seed pearls and sequins. I want it to stand out as the most beautiful gown ever created.”
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