The Last Honest Seamstress

by Gina Robinson

  Fayth watched Lou swallow a lump, and her anger vanished. If she could forgive Coral, she could forgive Lou.

  "Well, I must get back to the girls. Wish Con well in his new venture."

  Fayth froze, her mouth went suddenly dry. "What new venture?"

  Lou looked surprised.

  "Lou?"

  Lou stared at her a minute as if weighing her thoughts. "I thought you knew. He's selling the Aurnia and his interest in the wharf. He's been losing too much money to salvage it. I assumed that's why he paid me off, so he could sell free and clear, though frankly, I was surprised that he came up with the money."

  Fayth felt the color drain away from her face. "What?"

  "Fayth, you really have no clue, do you?" Lou looked surprised. "Con told me awhile back that the owner of a large line offered him the position of captain on a long voyage, international vessel based out of San Francisco. I can only assume that he has a wish to return to the sea."

  "He's leaving?"

  Lou smiled tiredly, almost sympathetically. "You think you can stop him with a single tumble around the sheets?"

  Fayth gasped.

  Lou laughed. "Fayth! Don't deny it, I know my business well enough to recognize afterglow. You haven't wanted him around, not since your old beau came back. Con has enough pride not to want to stick around and watch his wife make a fool of him. He's giving you a respectable out, not that you particularly deserve it. You're throwing out a good man."

  Fayth's mind clicked away too quickly to be slowed by Lou's insults and insinuations. "Did he say when he has to respond to the offer?"

  Lou must have noticed Fayth's genuine expression of concern. Her expression was momentarily sympathetic. "I assumed as soon as possible. I guessed that's why Con was in such a hurry to get this note. The same line that wishes to hire him has made him an offer on the Aurnia. It's all part of the package."

  "No!" Fayth made no attempt to stifle her cry or hide her agony. "That must be where he's gone—to the telegraph office." She looked down at her nightclothes. "I have to get dressed. I've got to stop him."

  She knew he loved her. Even Lou could not dispel the confirmation of last night. But with Tetch running off with the money, and the business floundering, what choice did he have but to sell? She wouldn't let him do it. She'd sell the shop, go to work for someone else, whatever it took to make sure he hung onto something so important to him. She ran to the bedroom to change, leaving Lou standing in the doorway.

  "Good-bye, Fayth," she heard Lou call, followed by the closing of the door.

  Fayth hurried around her room, throwing on clothes. As usual, haste made her clumsy. Little things went wrong. She couldn't find her boots, tossed who knows where in the passion of the night before. She tossed shoes out from the closet searching. She couldn't be hampered with dainty slippers or heels, she needed boots for running if she was to have a chance of catching him.

  Her furious mind worked over the details. How long had he been gone? She simply had no idea. She dug her way to a pair of boots at the back of the closet and slipped them on. Minutes later she was out the door and riding off toward town in the carriage.

  Fayth parked the carriage at the wharf, checked for Con in his office and, not finding him, headed immediately for the telegraph offices. She ran down the street, oblivious to the stares of pedestrians she passed. Fortunately, she'd dressed in too much haste to lace her corset tightly, leaving her with enough breath to run. Her dress gapped in the back, but was covered by the small waist length, matching jacket. She ran uphill into the city, panting, her skirts held above her ankles, ruing that the wharf should be downhill from everything. She ran up the sidewalk, veering into the street only to avoid those traveling too slowly for her immediate haste. Up ahead she spotted the back of an auburn head and square shoulders. "Con!"

  He didn't hear her. She ran faster, debating whether she'd gain any time by heading into the underground. Con went into the entrance. She had another half block to go before she could duck in to follow him. She shot little arrow prayers heavenward, praying that God would slow Con's progress, that she wouldn't lose him.

  She ran over the sidewalk skylights, peering through them as she ran, hoping for a glimpse of him below. Fayth was halfway across the second one when she spotted Con beneath her. She stopped and backed off the skylight, screaming his name into the glass. He didn't look up. She walked onto the skylight and stomped with all her might. She couldn't see past her skirts to tell whether he looked up. If he did, he'd recognize her.

  Seconds later Con emerged from the staircase to the underground. He came at her in a full run, sweeping her off onto solid sidewalk before releasing her.

  "Fayth! What in heaven's name are you doing?"

  "Walking across skylights for you."

  "Advertising for me on the bottom of your shoe?" His eyes danced, his voice teased.

  "You alone. God bless Coral." Tears welled in her eyes. It seemed like yesterday, and eons ago, that Coral had inscribed those boots. If not for them, Con surely would have continued on with his errand, wondering about the boldness of whores these days.

  "You missed me so quickly?"

  "Yes." She let her love for him shine in her eyes.

  "I can remedy that. Let's go home."

  She grabbed his arm, wondering at his glib tone. "Con, you left without a word, I was afraid."

  "I'm not leaving you, darling."

  "Con, listen to me, you can't sell her. I'd rather we sold the shop. We'll make it work somehow."

  He frowned. "What are you talking about, Fayth?"

  "I'm trying to tell you that I love you, Con O'Neill. I don't want you to go. I can't imagine life without you. And I won't, under any circumstance, allow you to sell the wharf and the Aurnia."

  The nearest she could describe the look that came over him was an idiot grin, much like the one he wore on their wedding day, only finer. "You mean that, Fayth O'Neill?"

  "Tell me I'm not too late."

  "Tell me you love me again."

  "I love you, Con."

  He swept her into his arms. "You could never be too late, Mrs. O'Neill. I love you." His lips came down on hers.

  Epilogue

  Fayth sat on the grass of the hillside with her skirts tucked beneath her, a spyglass held to her eye as she scanned the sparkling waters of Puget Sound. Below, in the near distance, the city was emerald again. Strong spring rains following a mild winter had worked together to create lush foliage and a brilliant early summer flowering. Seattle was once again a colorful phoenix. On the far horizon the Olympic Mountains, still white-capped, reflected the sun with radiant white. She caught a glimpse of a small vessel on the waters. She leaned forward for some minutes until it was near enough to spot its flag. She broke into a smile and lowered the spyglass.

  "Look, baby." She held the glass to the eye of the auburn-haired toddler who played beside her. "See Papa's ship coming? Your father is a very fine captain. Look at the way he guides her in."

  The toddler pulled the glass down and mouthed it.

  Fayth laughed and pulled it away. "We'll make a sailor of you yet." She stood and scooped the child up. "If we hurry we can make it to the dock before Papa does."

  What would Con be without his ship and what would she be without him? The child cuddled against her neck and wound a stray lock of her hair around his chubby finger as he sucked his thumb. She paused at the road to catch her breath. In that moment she turned back around for a final glimpse of the water.

  "Yes, if we hurry, we'll just make it."

  About the Author

  Gina Robinson lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and family. She's the bestselling, award-winning author of The Spy Who Left Me. Gina is a longtime member of Romance Writers of America and a former Golden Heart finalist. She also belongs to International Thriller Writers. She writes humorous contemporary romantic suspense—what she likes to call spy romance, historical romance, and fun, lighthearted women's fiction. Rom
antic Times has praised her novels, saying "Robinson delivers."

  Connect with Gina Online:

  My Website: http://www.ginarobinson.com/

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/ginamrobinson

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/GinaRobinsonAuthor

  Amazon Author Page

  Also by Gina Robinson sold at Amazon.com

  The Agent Ex Series

  The Spy Who Left Me

  Diamonds Are Truly Forever

  Live and Let Love

  And more spylicious romance

  Spy Candy

  Spy Games

  Lipstick Spy School

  Fun, flirty contemporary women's fiction

  Pink Slipper

  SHE'S BEEN PINK-SLIPPED . . .

  Now Leesa Winsome just has to fend off all unsuitable offers until the dream job she's been promised actually comes through. Which should be anytime now. Really. Unfortunately, the mind-numbed bureaucrats at the Employment Security Office insist she make her required three job applications a week and settle for any "reasonable" offer. Or they're cutting off her unemployment. The thing is–their definition of reasonable is completely unreasonable. It's time to get creative with her applications. . .

  NOW SHE'S DESPERATELY SEEKING GREATNESS . . .

  Convinced Leesa is failing to get a new job, her family sends her to a motivational workshop at the Northwest Institute, "where greatness begins," to get some inspiration. And she finds it in the charismatic speaker, handsome, eligible Ryne Garrett. At the workshop, she joins a wacky group of fellow jobseekers–the Job Camp Group. But just when everything is falling into place, things go horribly wrong. It will take a lot more than greatness and inspiration to get her through it.

  pink’ slip’, (pingk’ slip’) n., notice of dismissal from one’s job (1910-1915) In reality, a slip of paper that’s never pink, an announcement that one’s career is on a downward slide.

  A license to look for work. A stab in the back by a company to which one’s been loyal, devoted hours of conscientious work, and plotted a climb up the ladder.

  pink’-slip’, (pingk’ slip’) v.t.,-slipped, -slip-ping to dismiss from a job: Leesa’s ex-best friend Cara pink-slipped her on Friday after buying her lunch. (1950-1955, example from the present)

  pink’ slip’ per, (pingk’ slip’ er) n., 1. A light, low shoe, worn mainly indoors, that may be slipped on or off easily, in the color of pink. 2. A person who has been pink-slipped.

  –Standard dictionary definitions available online and elsewhere (updated, revised, and expanded upon by Leesa Winsome)

  Chapter 1

  July Unemployment Log

  (Required by Washington State to continue to receive the weekly pittance. Generally only kept by rule-followers like me. The state never checks these things, so why not have fun with it?)

  Job-free days: 32, but who’s counting?

  Applications to date: 6 monster.com, 8 dice.com, 3 workaholic.com, 5 jobfox.com, 2 want ads.

  Number of online résumés posted: 12

  Number of interviews to date: 3 No new ones scheduled.

  Number of rejections: (Excuse me, responses. I must remember to keep a positive attitude.) 4 auto e-rejects

  Tasks for the day:

  1. Check e-mail for the perpetually perky message–we found a job that matches your specifications! (Exclamation point supplied by workaholic.com.) Do the ritual "apply" thing.

  2. Haggle with insurance company about beloved bungalow kitchen and bedroom reduced to ashes and sooty puddles during the great remodeling adventure.

  Bank account level: I feel an overdraft coming on. Depending on Employment Security to automatic deposit on time.

  Self esteem: nonexistent

  Optimism level: Optimism, must look up meaning in the dictionary. If "optimism" has obscure usage as depressed, have plenty, no need for more.

  Thought for the day:

  Pink has gotten a bum rap over the years. Like most girls, I like pink. It’s a feminine color, my personal favorite. A classic for lipstick, blush, eye shadow, and nail polish. Hot pink, soft pink, fuchsia–I look great in any shade, most blondes do.

  So how did such a fabulous color cuddle up to an association with a layoff notice? Pink felt a desperate need for notoriety, maybe? The slut! Preferring infamy to obscurity!

  How’s this? Let’s rename termination notices after a color no one likes, like puce. Puce slip kind of sounds like how you feel about the time you get the slip, that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. And deep red to brownish purple? Come on, what’s to love about a color like that?

  Three pink slips in five years qualify me as a pink slipper. In my dreams I’d be the vavavoom fifties glamour girl slipper with the killer heels and feathers at the toes. But it’s hard to vavavoom anyone while wearing a salvaged wardrobe speckled with ember holes. I’d settle for reliable bunny slipper.

  In troubled times, many people run to the bosom of their family for comfort. I generally just run–in the opposite direction. The bosom of my family is as soft, natural, and nurturing as an old silicone implant. But losing my job and coming home to a toasted bungalow had driven me back to my father’s house and his kitchen table, which is where I found myself the morning my sister Julie dropped the bomb.

  "Daddy has a surprise for you." Julie could look very catlike when she chose. With her dark-brown hair swept up and clipped behind her head, loose ends escaping, she even had the appearance of feline ears, perked up and ready to delight in the damage she wreaked.

  "I do indeed have a surprise for you." Dad sounded too nonchalant. It took a practiced ear to discern malfeasance in his tone, but I’d had thirty-two years of it.

  I feared the infamous surprise. Surprise never boded well for me in the Winsome household. Surprise meant getting a dress on special from JCPenney while Julie got a designer label. Somehow I had the feeling that scenario was about to repeat itself.

  My father shoved a brochure across the table at me. Under his breath he hummed a little ditty I recognized from my youth, the "get a job" song he’d composed when I was fourteen.

  I caught a glimpse of a glossy featuring a high rise building and a skyline suspiciously like Seattle’s. "What’s this?" The question slipped out. Did I really want to know?

  "We’ve decided that you could use a little help." His tone implied professional help.

  Great. My family bosom struck again, smashing me with the steel teat.

  When I gave Dad the I’m-not-happy look, he added, "with the job search."

  "Breakthrough to Greatness Seminar?" I scooped up the brochure. "The Northwest Institute," I read aloud, amazed that I could read at all considering how stunned I felt. "You’re sending me to one of those hokey, pop psychology seminars! You know I don’t believe in that touchy-feely stuff."

  Julie took a coy bite of toast, but I felt her gloat just the same as if she’d sniggered.

  "Think of it as a retreat, Lees. Alice put me onto the idea."

  Of course my godmother was behind the idea. Dad wouldn’t think of my well-being without prodding. I consoled myself that if Alice suggested this seminar, it must have some merit.

  I flipped open the brochure. "Join us for an explosive seminar that will empower you to transform the results you are producing in your life. In our dynamic program you will: learn to take charge of your destiny, consciously navigate the future, release limiting decisions, break through limitations of past personal programming, role model and integrate excellence, and reprogram your mind for total career and life success!

  "Set in beautiful downtown Seattle, Washington against the backdrop of Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains, The Northwest Institute offers the finest in life coaching and counseling services in a comfortable urban environment…"

  Attend some boring seminar! I don’t think so.

  "Thanks, Dad, but no, thanks. I’m not into this motivational boloney."

  Dad reached across the table and patted my hand again, trying i
n his own way to be encouraging. "Successful people teaching you how to achieve greatness. Think about it, Leesa. Everyone wants to be great."

  I crossed my arms, letting my closed body posture speak for itself.

  "Alice assures me that this seminar is innovative and upscale." Dad would play the Alice card on me.

  But I wasn’t budging. "Why don’t I just bag the seminar? You can give me the money you spent on it for something more pressing, like say, a new wardrobe? I don’t need any…help."

  "Nice try." Julie set her napkin on the table. "You’ve been cracking up around here lately. Moping around, sleeping all hours. You need counseling and you know it. You’re adrift. You have been since college and that short-lived engagement you had."

  I flinched.

  "You can’t hang on to a job or catch a man," she continued. "Who knows? Maybe you’ll meet someone at this seminar and kill two birds with one stone. At the very least it’ll give you something to do while Daddy and I are on our vaca."

  This from the relationship queen–one divorce and a series of failed relationships.

  "You mean a jobless, loser man?"

  Something didn’t smell right, and I mean literally. I sniffed the air. "Do I smell… Smoke!"

  The smoke alarm sounded simultaneously with my realization. My mind flashed back to the horrific vision of my bungalow kitchen engulfed in laughing, licking flames. Flames that danced up the walls and roared at the firemen who tried to douse them as I watched from across the street, helpless.

  Ohmygosh, Dad’s kitchen was going down, too! With us in it! My pulse roared into overdrive, pounding in my ears. Flames shot from the toaster.

  I lunged for the fire extinguisher that I made Dad keep in the pantry. Almost instinctively, I pulled the pin from the trusty Kidde XG41, and blasted the base of the flames from slightly more than six feet back, just like the instructions on the unit said. Just the way I’d drilled after my house became toast. I would have made the fire marshal proud, I felt certain, as I stood there shaking.