The Right Wedding Gown

by Shirley Hailstock

  “Only Deanna and Micah live in Maryland. Austin lives in Chicago.”

  “And you live here. How did you happen to move to D.C.?”

  “I went to a job fair while I was still in college. They were recruiting there and I interviewed and got a job.”

  “I know that’s a simplistic answer. People don’t work where you do and interview for the job.”

  “I started in State and moved to other positions.”

  They stopped for the light at the end of the park. The rush-hour traffic crowded the thoroughfares playing a unique cacophony of sound that happened twice a day. Justin crossed with Samara as the light changed.

  Justin didn’t want to talk about his job. It wasn’t something that he could discuss. He worked for OEO and never knew what he’d be doing from one minute to the next. When word came that Deanna was hospitalized, he had to clear it with his superiors as to whether he would be able to leave. Thankfully, only regular emergencies were the order of the day, nothing dire.

  But he was here today and he had to go in, even at this late hour when everyone else was rushing home. It was good he could get off sometimes during regular hours. Like next week when he had plans that involved Samara. And not even world crisis was going to keep him from going through with them.

  The second postcard was sticking out from under the door of her apartment when Samara arrived home. She’d just left Justin, but she knew the card was from him. How he got in the building was a mystery to her, but with his charm he could no doubt talk his way past a simple security guard. After all, he’d charmed his way into her life, despite her objections. She didn’t take time to examine those objections. Everyone liked attention and how could a woman resist a man who pursued her with a novel approach.

  Inside the screen door was a crystal bud vase with a single white rose in it and a ribbon around the neck. Attached to the ribbon was an envelope. The same block lettering identified her as the intended recipient. Inside she found a single ticket and gasped when she realized what it was for.

  Samara picked everything up and went inside. I apologize for dinner. Let’s try it again, the card read. Again it was a vintage postcard with a photo of the Kennedy Center as it would have looked in the nineteenth century, if it had existed at that time. Samara again experienced that warm feeling that accompanied Justin’s gifts. He was having the cards made. She surrendered to emotions that prickled her skin, making her feel good knowing he’d taken the trouble to do something so unique just to go out with her. What other guy would take the time? Justin was different.

  Looking at the postcard again, she wondered where he’d had it made. The Kennedy Center had been built to honor President John F. Kennedy. It opened in 1971. The picture postcard was the same era as the Carriage House restaurant photo had been. Justin had found the right button. The card made her feel so special.

  Thank heaven her friends didn’t know anything about it. They would tease her to no end. But right now, she didn’t care. She was going on a date with Justin Beckett. That shouldn’t make her so happy, but it did. It had been a while since a man had paid attention to her. She was a bookish person, someone who liked deciphering old documents. But Justin liked her.

  The feeling of joy that warmed her face when she saw the ticket to an August Wilson play stayed with her all the way to the Terrace Theater in the famed Kennedy Center. These tickets were virtually unattainable. This was the play to see and as such, many tickets went to political heavies. Samara had no idea how Justin had garnered them, and she wasn’t about to question her good luck.

  “Hi,” he said, coming up behind her.

  Samara whirled around and looked at him. She had to force her mouth from dropping open at the sight of him in a tuxedo. Mainly he wore suits as most of Washington’s government executives did, but tonight he was dressed in a tuxedo.

  He was gorgeous.

  The suit fit him perfectly, from the cut of his broad shoulders to the tapered waist and his long legs. His smile was bright and his dark eyes gleamed as he stared at her. His dark chestnut coloring was emphasized by the whiteness of his shirt.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Samara nodded, unable to speak over the lump that lodged in her throat. She hadn’t reacted to a man this way in…in never, she thought. She wanted to touch him, feel the fabric of his jacket and the strength of his arms beneath it. In fact, she wanted to run her hands all over him.

  Justin took her arm and led her to their seats. Samara took hers and opened her program.

  “I hope you haven’t already seen this.”

  “I haven’t,” she confirmed. “I don’t know how you got tickets, but I’m glad you did.”

  His smile warmed her. Samara had to damp down her internal furnace. She wasn’t used to this kind of reaction. If she wasn’t careful, Justin would think she was beginning to like him.

  And she was.

  The lights dimmed and they instinctively looked up, then smiled and gave their attention to the stage. A moment later Justin reached inside his pocket and pulled out an electronic device.

  “No,” he whispered.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I hate to do this to you,” he said. “But I have to go.”

  “Go? Why?”

  “I can’t say but I cannot ignore this message.” He leaned over and kissed her quickly. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

  In a second he was gone, his taste still on her tingling lips.

  “I hate men,” Samara announced the next night.

  “So what’s new about that?” Geri asked as she walked along the runway that now stood in the middle of the room where she planned to open the bridal shop.

  The place had changed since the group assembled there a couple weeks ago. Instead of a blank room with no fixtures and whitewashed windows, the place now looked like a dress shop. Vinyl dress bags covering wedding gowns hung along one wall. A glass case with white gloves, satin bags and tiaras provided a natural barrier between the entryway and main salon. A dressing room had been meticulously appointed in the back. A dais stood before a wall of mirrors that would give the bride a panoramic view of herself.

  “We weren’t in the seats more than five minutes before he left me.”

  “Whom are we talking about?” Carmen asked, coming through the door from the parking lot. She dropped her jacket and purse on a nearby chair.

  “Samara had a date.”

  “Another almost date,” Samara corrected. “And I’m finished with men who stand me up.”

  “You were stood up?” Carmen put her hands on her hips as if it was a personal affront.

  “Twice.”

  “Twice,” both women said at once.

  “When was the other time?” Diana asked.

  Samara hadn’t intended to tell them about that. She didn’t want to explain everything, but these were her best friends. They would support her in whatever crisis she met.

  “A couple weeks ago. He sent me a postcard-invitation to meet him for dinner. He never showed up.”

  Samara explained that his sister had had a serious accident and she agreed that was a good enough reason to forgive him.

  “But this time, at the Center,” Shane said, “you were already there and he got up and left?”

  “He got a message on one of those electronic umbilical cords that I hate and in seconds it had yanked him out of his seat and was reeling him back to his office.” She demonstrated as if she were a mime pulling on a rope.

  Samara had a cell phone, but she hated the electronic communication devices that never allowed a person to rest. They were always at work, always checking in, never really leaving the job. Shane and Carmen laughed at her description.

  “He does work for OEO,” Geri reminded them.

  “What does that mean?” Shane asked.

  “Do you know what goes on there?”

  “No,” Shane replied. “I don’t think anyone does.”

  “Exactly,” Geri said. “But w
hatever it is, we all agree that it’s critical.”

  “We don’t know what it’s critical to,” Diana said. “We know it’s something to do with the government, but the secret is kept close to the breast.”

  “So anyone working there would have to be in touch at all times. It’s like working at the White House.”

  Which is close enough to be across the street, Samara thought.

  “Still,” Samara said. “I’m through with him.”

  “Don’t be so hasty,” Geri warned.

  “And why shouldn’t I?”

  “Are you kidding?” Geri asked. “In this town where the women outnumber the men a hundred-to-one, you should grab him with both hands.”

  “A hundred-to-one? Is that all?” Carmen asked. “It feels like five-hundred-to-one to me every Saturday night.”

  “Whatever it is, a single man with a job is worth at least a good meal,” Geri said.

  “If you can hold him still long enough to get the salad,” Samara said. “And I’m a little busy right now. I can do without someone having me get all dressed up just so I can sit by myself.”

  “Doing what?” Shane asked. “What are you so busy doing?”

  “I have a job. I want to make it a career.”

  “You want to make yourself so busy that you don’t have time for anything else,” Geri told her.

  “And why you’d want to bury yourself in a vault is beyond me,” Shane added, reaching for a bottle of water.

  “First of all, it’s not a vault,” Samara defended. “It’s a clean room.”

  “Same difference,” Shane muttered.

  “Second, the work is important,” Samara went on ignoring the rudeness of her friend. “I get to see the documents that support the structure of this country. In some cases, I even get to touch them.”

  “Woo-hoo.” Carmen curled her finger in the air, mocking the importance of Samara’s job.

  “Even if you do like making love to all those papers,” Geri said, “don’t discount actually making love to a man.”

  “Whose side are you guys on? I thought I could get some support from you.”

  Geri looked up from fixing the skirt on the runway. “Samara, you do have our support. We just want you to remember that life is for living. And that it’s time you lowered that wall around yourself and let someone inside it.”

  She had, Samara thought. She’d tried to meet Justin for dinner. She’d gone to the Kennedy Center and met him. After spending months telling him she wasn’t interested in getting to know him, she’d finally opened the door and look where it led her—to a lonely table in a crowded restaurant and sitting next to the shadow of a ghost in a dark theater.

  This was not living.

  Chapter 5

  Usually Samara slept without a care, but for some reason she was having difficulty tonight. Pushing the covers back, she’d gotten out of bed to get a drink from the kitchen. On the way back, she stopped and turned on the television. Maybe the noise would lull her to sleep.

  An hour later, she was still awake. With the two hundred television stations available on her satellite, there was nothing that engaged her. Reaching for the remote and switching it off, she got up. The ringing of the telephone startled her and she jumped. It was the house phone.

  The pre-World War II building still operated a twenty-four-hour security desk instead of installing an intercom system. It was the old world style that had appealed to Samara when she’d looked at the place.

  “Ms. Scott,” the night clerk said. “You have a guest asking to come up.”

  She understood the code. A “guest” was male and a “visitor” was female.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Mr. Justin Beckett.”

  “Beckett,” she said out loud, not intending to. His was the last name she expected to hear. At this time of night, if anyone dropped by unannounced it would be one of her best friends.

  “Shall I let him up?” the clerk asked.

  Indecision made her hesitate a moment.

  “Ms. Scott?”

  “Yes,” she said. Then she looked at her nightgown. Rushing to the bedroom, she grabbed the first thing her hand touched, a full-length skirt and pushed her legs into it. She’d zipped it up and pulled a sleeveless shirt over her head. The doorbell was ringing before she had time to pull a brush through her hair or apply lipstick.

  Grabbing a lip gloss from the dresser, she ringed her mouth with the clear gel and pushed the tube into her pocket as she pulled the door open.

  “Are you speaking to me?” Justin asked. His smile was charming, but there was a tired look about his eyes.

  “I shouldn’t be,” she said, stepping back and allowing him access to the apartment.

  Justin looked around and nodded. “I expected antiques.”

  “Carmen likes antiques. I’m strictly contemporary.” Her apartment had calm gray walls that were offset with mahogany crown molding and baseboards. The furniture picked up the color scheme and added various shades of violet and pink. The throw pillows were bold colors and her tables were also of the same mahogany as the woodwork.

  “I saw your light and thought I’d try to explain what happened.”

  “That would be interesting to hear.” Samara led him to the sofa. “Would you like something to drink? Or eat? You look like you haven’t been home in a while.” His suit was disheveled. Samara pictured him as she’d seen him in the lobby of the Kennedy Center. While he still had on a suit and tie, this was Justin the working man. The other one was a lover.

  “I ate something at lunch, but don’t ask me what it was. I’ve been home once since leaving you at the Kennedy Center.”

  “What’s going on?” she asked, going to the kitchen and pouring him a large glass of orange juice. “Drink this. It’s better than coffee.”

  Returning to the kitchen, she checked to see what she could prepare with as little effort as possible. Justin appeared in the doorway. Immediately her senses when into overdrive. What was it? she thought. Why did she react to him this way?

  “How about breakfast?” she asked.

  He checked his watch. “I suppose it is that time.” He saw Samara as she glanced at the clock over the sink. “Can I help with anything?”

  “Apartment kitchens aren’t made for two people. Why don’t you sit down and tell me what’s going on?”

  Samara laid bacon strips on a microwavable plate and set it in the microwave.

  “There isn’t much I can say, but let me start by apologizing again for having to leave the play.”

  “I was angry,” she admitted. “Especially when it was the second time.” Getting eggs, she broke several in a bowl and whisked them into a froth.

  “It’s the job,” Justin said. “When the phone rings, I fly.”

  “And why are you free tonight?”

  “I wasn’t. I just left the office.”

  “At this hour?”

  “There are no clocks in my office. We operate on an emergency basis and everything is an emergency.”

  He sounded tired. Samara’s heart went out to him. She wanted to go to him and put her arms around him, but she continued with the food preparation.

  “I know I shouldn’t ask, but I’m going to,” she told him. “What do you do there?”

  He stared at her, but said nothing. Samara knew she wasn’t going to get an answer.

  “Should I be concerned?” Turning the eggs into an omelet pan, Samara continued her choreograph of making a meal.

  “I’m not sure. We haven’t defined our relationship.”

  “Do you like what you do?” Samara changed the subject immediately. She wasn’t going to discuss a relationship. Dinner and a play didn’t constitute a relationship. She was done with those.

  Taking two plates from the cabinet, she filled them with food and set them on the table. “More juice?” she asked, holding the container. He nodded and she refilled his glass.

  They sat down and he dug into the food. For
a few moments they ate in silence. Samara watched him wondering what had kept him so busy that he hadn’t eaten.

  “Thank you for being so nice,” he said, pushing his empty plate aside.

  She thought he meant the food until he continued.

  “Most women wouldn’t have let me get past the desk clerk.”

  “You can thank Geri for that.”

  “Geri?”

  “My friend. She owns Shadow Walk. She said I should give you another chance.”

  He smiled, the dimple in his left cheek catching her eye. The tiredness left his face for a moment. “I’ll have to thank her when we meet.”

  “You should have gone home and gotten some sleep,” Samara said as if he knew her feelings.

  “And miss spending a few moments with you?” He shook his head from side to side. “No way.”

  Instantly, Samara felt as if she were standing in front of an open flame. One that flash-burned only to ignite an internal furnace. Her throat went dry and she searched for some kind of coherent response, but nothing came to mind. She reached for her own glass of juice. She had to force the liquid down her throat, but it helped to release her tongue from the dry glue that kept it still.

  For a long moment they stared at each other as if suspended in time. Samara wasn’t sure if everything in the universe had ceased moving. Justin held her gaze. Images, unbidden, flew through her mind of the two of them standing in her doorway, of his mouth on hers, of him kissing her quickly before leaving her seated at the Kennedy Center.

  She wanted him to kiss her again, to hold her, make her his. And as if reading her mind, Justin obliged. He stood up and reached for her hand. She stared at his hand for a moment before placing hers in it. With only a tug, he pulled her out of her chair and in one fluid movement she was in his arms.

  Her face was close to his. She breathed in the scent of him. Even long days and nights confined in his work didn’t remove the unique fragrance that attacked her senses and had her reeling toward him.

  “I’ve been thinking about this for days,” he said.

  “About what?” Samara hedged, although she, too, was dreaming of him, angry at the loss of anticipation for just this moment.