Nothing interested her. Maybe a walk would clear her head.
Thirty minutes later, Vena stood in the Liberty County Museum. She gazed at a display case of early twentieth century household items and breathed out a sigh. This was familiar ground. On her walk, she soaked up the feel of the old-style buildings close together on the downtown streets. Details she’d need for her presentations edged out thoughts of Finn and the longings he stirred.
“Aren’t the combs exquisite?” asked a gentle voice.
With a start, Vena straightened and gazed into the bright eyes of an elderly woman wearing a volunteer’s badge. “Yes, they are. I especially like the ornate hand mirrors.”
The woman beamed as if her grandchild had just been praised. Vena recognized that sense of pride and ownership. The feeling was one she had each time she created a new exhibit and unveiled another artifact for the public’s enjoyment.
“Can I answer any questions?”
“I haven’t seen any clothing.” Vena glanced around. “Where is that section?”
“You love period clothing, too?” The woman’s eyes lit up and she stepped closer. “I’m a bit of a collector. Got most of my grandmother’s trousseau and part of my motherin-law’s as well. Saving a piece of Montana history for my grandkids.”
Vena cleared her throat. “And the clothes?”
“The museum owns several trunks of clothing. But the budget’s too tight to properly clean and catalog them.”
Maybe if she revealed her professional abilities, she’d be allowed a courtesy review. “My name’s Vena Fenton, and I am trying—”
“Fenton?” the woman interrupted. “Are you Gwen’s Vena?”
Surprise stole her breath and she gasped. “You knew my grandmother?”
“Sure did.” The woman stuck out a wrinkled hand. “My name’s Wilma Payton. Gwen was a special lady. Our quilting circle lost a mighty fine stitcher, and we all miss her.”
“Thanks.” Vena never knew how to fill the awkward silence that always followed condolences. After eight years, she still missed the woman who was her rock while her parents traipsed the world on archeological digs. Only in recent years had Vena dealt with her abandonment issues. “I’m a curatorial assistant working on a special project. Actually, I’m hoping this will earn me a promotion.” She briefly described her exhibit idea.
Wilma snapped her fingers. “You can sort through the clothes I have. May not be the exact styles you’re looking for but they’re from the right era.”
“Your personal collection?” Vena’s hopes rose. “That’s really generous, but are you sure? You don’t even know me.”
“You’re a hometown girl, honey.” Wilma squeezed her hand. “Won’t take no for an answer, so don’t try and argue.” She glanced at the dark wood grandfather clock next to the entrance. “An hour until closing time. I’ll call Henry and tell him to pull the trunks out of the closet. He’ll be expecting you, and I’ll be there shortly to help.”
Moments later, Vena gripped the chipped metal railing of the converted Methodist church and walked down the cracked museum steps. Amazed at her good fortune, she set out on a treasure-hunting adventure.
Two hours later and back at The Shamrocks, Vena clasped her hands on her chest, barely containing the excitement evoked by the antique clothing spread across her bed. A devoted reader of historical romance, Wilma was thrilled her clothing might provide inspiration for a living exhibit.
Armed with the items she’d brought from California, Vena’s hopes for her project’s success rose. Her friend Anita wrote historical novels and swore she got into her characters’ personalities by wearing clothing of the era as she wrote.
Next came Anita’s sure-fire method. The exact situation that had sounded crazy in California a couple days ago now seemed reasonable hundreds of miles away in Montana. Desperation worked wonders for the disbelieving. She released the suitcase latches. Her gaze feasted on the splash of vivid colors—red, purple, saffron, and teal detailed with white and black lace, tiny pearl and jet buttons, and whisper-thin ribbons. She caressed the silken fabrics and fingered the garments’ lacy edgings.
Lifting a red satin evening gown, she spread it carefully on the bed. Before losing her nerve, she stripped off her dress and pulled on the old gown. Low cut and fitted at the waist, this dress boosted her bust to new dimensions. Stealing a peek at the mirror, her eyes rounded as she slowly viewed her image from all angles. The whalebone stays in the bodice highlighted her figure but, more importantly, she truly did feel different.
From the nightstand, she grabbed a barrette and pinned her hair away from her face. Better—more like a hairstyle from the period. Walking the length of the room, she discovered the surprising weight of the layered clothing and marveled that women had moved with any kind of grace. Unable to resist, Vena twirled and listened with satisfaction to the swishing sound as the full skirt twisted one way then the other.
Continuing with her game of pretend, she fluttered her hand before her face and made a deep curtsy. She glanced in the mirror, gasped and straightened, tugging at the bodice neckline. “Wow, this gown shows too much. How did the ladies keep their dignity intact?”
Intent on capturing specifics, Vena snapped open her tablet, flicked it on, and waited, sitting stiffly on the edge of a chair. Her fingers moved slowly on the keys, then sped up as the images came:
Miss Lola Danforth stood on the weather-beaten step of the rundown hotel. She squared her shoulders, dusted and smoothed the front of her two-piece woolen traveling suit—short cut, buttoned jacket over full overskirt with ruffled petticoat peeking from side drapes at the hemline—and placed a calfskin-gloved hand on the worn door knob.
Inside waited the man whose ad she had answered, the man who represented her future. Lola swung open the door, stepped inside, and asked…
Vena’s fingers stilled. What? These clothes only worked for setting and mood, not for dialogue? She stood and paced, irritated at how the skirts caught on the furniture and pushed her off balance. After only a few steps, her breathing labored from the confines of the tight dress. Before she passed out from lack of oxygen, she eased onto the bed and threw an arm over her eyes.
What would a woman like Lola say in response to a mail-order bride advertisement? This might be Lola’s last chance at marriage, but she’d never beg, not Lola…
****
As he fit a new disc on his power sander, Finn grumbled about bad timing, disappearing women, and life in general. That morning, he’d been surprised how much he enjoyed discovering the new Vena. Ever since she’d mentioned her butterfly tattoo, he’d driven himself mad imagining where it was on her pint-sized body.
Enough. He had work to do. Bending over the chair railing, he flipped the switch and vowed to push all thoughts of Vena from his mind.
More immediate problems needed consideration.
An hour later, he slowly straightened, one hand pressed on his lower back. The other hand ran along the clean surface, touching smooth maple. Tomorrow, he’d hand sand the curves.
Thinking of curves brought the hint he’d seen of Elfie’s soft, feminine curves to mind. Why was she getting to him? A week ago, if someone had mentioned her name, he would have said she was only his kid sister’s friend.
Since seeing her again, he’d been remembering a sweet girl who’d hovered around the edges of their family activities. Her parents were always off in some hot country digging for foreign relics. Sure, he’d treated her like a little sister when she’d come to the swimming hole or joined them on camping trips. Maybe her presence just reminded him of those times.
He wrapped the cord around the sander and set it on the toolbox. Maybe Ma was right. Could be he wasn’t contemplating a change in his professional life, but had reached the age of wanting to settle down. But with Elfie? No, she was definitely not his type. His ideal wife would be a more traditional woman, one who accented his plans for a political future.
Glancing at his watch, he could
n’t help wondering where she was. Hours had passed since she’d fled upstairs. His stomach rumbled, and he figured they could do more catching up over a quick meal.
He approached her room. They had a conversation to finish. Besides, he might learn more about that tattoo. He knocked on her door, but got no response. He knocked harder. “Hey, Vena. You in there?”
The door partially opened and Vena appeared, her hand covering a yawn. Her hair was tousled and her eyelids heavy. “I’m here.”
His gaze dropped and spotted her figure clothed in an old-fashioned ball gown that accented every delectable curve he hadn’t known she had.
What the hell was she doing dressed in a fancy dress at five-thirty in the afternoon?
She raised her hands and unsnapped a hair clip, her uplifted arms pulling the fabric tight and plumping her breasts higher, revealing the promise of—
His gut tightened and his shaft pressed against the fly of his jeans. He gulped hard and quickly glanced at her face. Something wasn’t right. Her expression looked calm, as if everything was normal. Her nervousness around him earlier and that crazy comment about waves and beaches in Montana crossed his mind.
Oh God, he thought, maybe Tootie and Ruth were right. Vena was having a relapse. “Are you hungry? I thought we’d continue our talk over some casserole.” Leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, he fought from staring at her figure. The sight of lace hugging generous breasts, straining at the low neckline, sent his thoughts careening off into dangerous directions. His pulse beat in his ears.
Should he mention the clothes? Maybe a mental breakdown was similar to a person sleepwalking. Would he send her over the edge if he confronted this strange situation?
Vena’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “I’m not really hungry right now.” Her brows drew low before she closed the door.
Clenching his jaw, he turned and stomped down the stairs. Of course the woman seems confused—she’s mental.
Chapter Six
OUTSIDE THE SHAMROCKS, THE rumble of distant thunder interrupted songbirds greeting the morning. The sandpaper in Finn’s hand rasped across the chair molding, smoothing the curved edges. He glanced through the dining room window and noticed dark, billowing thunderclouds swarming the sky above. A fitting companion to his own mood. For the life of him, he hadn’t figured out a reason—other than a nervous breakdown—for Vena to dress in a ball gown and act as if it were normal.
He cursed the uneasiness her wacky behavior caused. Dreaded memories returned of his “eccentric” Great-Aunt Siobhan who’d lived with the Quaid family for several years. His biggest humiliation happened during a sixth grade performance while playing Miles Standish. She’d tried to climb the stage to pull up his droopy socks, yelling, “Appearances you know, wee lad.”
Vena’s actions created the same uneasy feelings in the pit of his stomach. As soon as he saw her this morning, he intended to find out about yesterday’s incident. But this morning, she’d slept late. He remembered the sight of her curves accented by that sexy red dress and how the low-cut neckline hinted—
The doorbell rang.
Please, not more of Mrs. Sampson’s vegetables. He wiped both hands on the seat of his jeans, walked to the front door, and yanked it open.
Framed against a darkening sky stood James Burtell and Marc Demming, two of the businessmen urging him to run for state senator. He forced a welcoming note into his voice. “Gentlemen, what a surprise.”
James held open the screen door. “Is this a bad time?”
“Not at all.” Finn motioned them toward the living room. “Step in and have a seat.” He pulled the screen door shut against an increasing breeze. These men stressed the importance of appearances, and he hated greeting them in dirty work clothes. “What’s on your minds?”
“Wanted to update you on the campaign fund in person.” James, a tall, angular man in his fifties, rested both elbows on his knees and laced his fingers. “We’ve accumulated the funds needed to launch your campaign. Unexpected contributions put us months ahead of our projections. You’ve forged valuable alliances during your years in Helena.”
“Oh?” Curious at his lack of emotion, Finn forced a smile. “That’s great, isn’t it? I’m surprised at the timing.”
“So are we.” Marc, an athlete past his prime, slapped a hand on his thigh. “Bill Edwards didn’t think we’d be in this position until July. Now, we’ve got a three-month head start on getting your name in front of the public.”
“I can see how this will help…if I decide to run.” Finn hated the expectation of sharing their enthusiasm. At month’s end he was to give his answer, when and if he felt certain his future was in politics.
More was at stake—his leave of absence would become permanent and he’d have to establish residency here in Liberty County. Since Montana’s Congress held legislative sessions only in odd years, he’d also need a means of support the rest of the time.
Blue-white light flashed, followed by a thunderous crash. For several moments, the rumble of the storm drowned out their conversation.
James glanced at the window, a frown darkening his expression. “That was close. The lights went out.”
Finn ran a hand over his face and wondered if he’d left any tools or equipment outside. “Yeah, Montana’s famous big sky weather.” From above, he heard footsteps thudding down the stairs—fast.
Vena stomped into the room and straight toward him. Hands on hips, she glared. “Finnian, there’s no power. Is it out all over or do I need to find some fuses? I was in the middle of…” She paused and waved a hand in the air, her frown deepening. “Of something and poof, everything just shut off.”
What the hell is she wearing today? Nerves drawing into a knot in his chest, he glanced at his visitors and then watched her gaze move in that direction.
The flush staining her cheeks deepened and her stance softened.
From the minute she’d walked into the room, all conversation stopped. As if hypnotized, the men could only stare at the petite woman dressed in black buttonhook boots, dark fishnet stockings, and a low-cut, purple satin dress reminiscent of an eighteen eighties’ Dodge City saloon girl.
Slowly, the men stood and turned to Finn, their dropped jaws demanding an answer.
How could he explain her behavior when he had no idea what she was up to? He knew how incriminating this must look to these conservative businessmen. Now was not the time to claim her as his fiancée. Finn stepped forward and touched her elbow, his mind grasping for a rational response. “I’m sorry, Vena. Did I forget our rehearsal?” He narrowed his eyes and stared hard into hers, hoping she would play along.
Her gaze darted to the men and back, and her boots shuffled against the carpet.
“You know, practicing the play.” He winked, willing her to take the hint. Turning back toward the men, he extended a hand in her direction. “This is Vena, a friend of my sister’s. She’s involved with community theater, and I promised to help her run lines. Vena, these men are James and Marc, business associates.”
Vena’s lips pressed tight. Then she smiled and stepped forward to greet each man. “I apologize for interrupting your meeting. I can really get wrapped up in what I’m doing.”
Both men blinked and mumbled, their gazes flicking between her shapely legs and rounded cleavage.
“Pleasure to see, uh, I mean, meet you,” Marc gushed.
“Any friend of…nice to meet you.” James stumbled over his words.
From where Finn stood, neither man sounded like his normal, coherent self. With hands on her shoulders, he steered her from their gazes and toward the stairs. “We shouldn’t be much longer here. Then I’ll come work on those lines.” He released her with a small push.
Vena’s expression relaxed. “Goodbye, gentlemen. Sorry for barging in. I’ll just go back to my room.” She spun and walked away.
Finn noticed she pulled at the hem of her skirt as she disappeared up the staircase. He treated himself to a brief appreciati
on of her shapely legs before he braced for the impending barrage of comments.
Marc stared at the stairway. “She’s got a room here?” He chuckled and winked. “Quaid, you old son of a gun.”
James’ head snapped around, and he cleared his throat. “Is that true? She’s staying here?”
Finn nodded. Their background stories weren’t developed enough to withstand the barrage of questions he knew these men would ask. “A mix-up in her cancellation. It was the middle of the night.” When neither man changed his expression, he added, “Dry Creek’s such a small town, there’s nowhere else to stay.”
“A beautiful woman, here with you, alone?” James shook his head. “I don’t like how this looks.”
“Who cares when she arrived?” Marc’s voice rose. “No red-blooded male would turn away a peach like that—day or night.”
“Vena’s an old friend, practically one of the family. I’m just doing her a favor.” Finn wondered if his excuse sounded as transparent aloud as it did in his head. “Besides, she’s engaged.” Might as well ease into this. He watched their faces for a change in expression.
“Well, that helps a little.” James’s lips tightened. “Finnian, you must concern yourself with appearances. How will this appear to your voters? Keep that question uppermost in your mind at all times. Well, once you decide to run for office. An incident like this has blackened many a political career.” His frown lines deepened.
Finn massaged his tense neck. “By the time I decide about running, I guarantee she’ll be long gone.” That statement was one hundred percent true.
James stepped closer and placed a hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Remember what I said, and be careful. Marc, we’ve taken enough of Mr. Quaid’s time.”
As Marc shook Finn’s hand, he flashed a thumbs-up signal with his other hand. “We’ll check back later in the week. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Chuckling, he exited.
Rekindled Dreams Page 7
