The Right Wedding Gown

by Shirley Hailstock

  Her eyes opened and she smiled as they focused on him.

  “Hi,” she said, her voice sleepy and sexy.

  “Hi,” he answered. “I’m glad you stayed.”

  “Someone had to show you how to set the alarm.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “What else could there be?” The sound of her voice implied the opposite of her words.

  He smiled and leaned forward and kissed her.

  “Did everything go all right? At work?” she asked.

  He nodded with a sigh. “Another world crisis averted.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  He looked at her and realized she was frightened. Was that why she’d stayed, more than to show him the operation of the security system?

  “What happens if there is a world crisis?” she asked.

  He glanced away, knowing there was no way to answer that question. It depended on what the crisis was. There were scenarios written and updated every day for any possibility that they could think of, but he was duty-bound to keep what he knew to himself.

  He gathered her close, hugging her to him. “I can’t answer that.”

  “If there was a crisis, would you be in any danger?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  He wouldn’t be in the line of fire, but he’d be a major advisor. And in today’s world, even the advisors could be targets.

  “Did everything go all right here?” He changed the subject.

  She leaned back and looked in his eyes. Justin knew she was assessing whether he was being truthful with her.

  “I’ll be fine,” he assured her. “Now, tell me about the alarm system.”

  She got up and walked him through the various codes and zones the control panel affected.

  “So the painting is safe now?”

  “Not only the painting. You’re safer, too.”

  He wondered if the system had been more about protecting him than protecting a painting. Was there a crack in her armor? Was he getting through the casing she had around her and finding a place in her heart? He hoped so.

  “And speaking of the painting. I spoke to one of the restoration experts at work about the painting. She recommended someone who might be available to clean and restore it.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “I had him come by and look at the painting. He thinks it only needs a little cleaning and that it can be done in a short period of time.”

  Justin smiled. “More good news.”

  “He can only work a couple of nights a week and on weekends, but he doesn’t think it will take very long. He wants to come Monday night.”

  “I’m not going to be here until late. I’ll have to give you a key.”

  “What?” She stepped away from him, standing up straighter than she already was. “I don’t want a key.”

  “Relax,” he said. “It’s just for the painting. You can give it back to me when the job is done.”

  “Justin, I know we moved a little fast, but it’s not time for keys yet. You don’t really know me.”

  “Are you a serial killer?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Are you a thief?”

  “Only to lonely hearts.”

  Justin winked at her. “Are you a lobbyist?” He grinned, lowering his voice on the last word and making an awful face.

  “No.” Samara laughed, too.

  “What about a forger, specifically of art, not documents?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then I would say it’s all right if you oversee this project. Of course, I could hire you as project manager. Then it would all be legitimate.” His smile was teasing. “But how would that look when we spend the night together?”

  “I think I’d better go,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re losing your mind and I don’t want to be here for it.”

  He walked to where she stood. She didn’t move. He watched her head come up as his taller physique moved closer.

  “I am losing my mind,” he said. “Over you.”

  His arms circled her waist. Pulling her into contact with his body opened a heat duct within him. He was falling for her and falling hard. He kissed her tenderly, his mouth brushing over hers. He wanted to crush her to him, but he forced himself to hold off, to keep his embrace affectionate.

  When the kiss ended, he held her for a long time. His arms banded across her back. He wanted to go on holding her forever, but knew that wasn’t possible. At least not yet. There were things she needed to learn and understand. He knew she didn’t believe in happily ever after. And there was no way he could guarantee her that.

  All he could do was show her how things could be. And he vowed that he would do just that. Lifting her feet from the floor, her head rested on his shoulder, her arms around his neck. He turned toward the stairs and the bedroom.

  Restoring a painting was hard work and took special equipment. It couldn’t be done at Justin’s house. They had to move it to a facility that was set up for this kind of work. Harry Candlewick was the man that had been recommended to her. He worked with an independent team of conservators and had made arrangements for Samara to assist him in working on the painting at his offices in Maryland.

  He arrived Monday night with a truck equipped to secure and move the canvas. As they angled the huge frame through the door, a car pulled in and parked behind Harry’s truck. A man got out.

  “Excuse me,” he shouted. “What are you doing?”

  Samara recognized him from the picture she’d seen in Justin’s great room.

  “You’re one of Justin’s brothers,” she said. “I’ve met Christian. I’m Samara Scott, a friend of Justin’s.”

  “Austin Beckett,” he said.

  Austin was about the same height as his brother, but there the resemblance ended. While Justin was tall and lanky, Austin was solid muscle. Justin’s hair was short and neat, while Austin’s was longer and braided. Two-inch-long plaits covered his scalp in a neat pattern. He was dressed in a business suit.

  “Chicago.” She remembered. “He told me you live in Chicago.”

  “I’m here for the day and thought I’d see if Justin was home. He didn’t answer his cell, but then it’s catch-as-catch-can when he does. Where are you taking the painting? It belongs to my parents.”

  “This is Harry Candlewick. He’s a conservator. We’re going to clean and restore the painting for your parents. Justin tells me it’s their fortieth anniversary.” Justin hadn’t said he wanted the painting done for that, but Samara thought he probably did.

  “If you know that much, I guess you’re legitimate.” He shook hands with Harry.

  “Let us load this and I’ll give you a card,” Harry said. They put the painting in the truck and secured it. Then Harry and Samara jumped out of the back and Harry produced a card. “This is where we’re taking the painting.”

  “I take it he’s not inside?”

  “Work,” Samara answered. If Austin knew his brother well enough, he’d know that work took up most of his time.

  “Do you know when he’ll be home?”

  Samara shook her head. “His hours are irregular. He said he’d be late tonight. I have no idea what time.”

  “I have a key, I’ll wait for him. Nice meeting you both.”

  He walked toward the front door. Samara suddenly remembered the alarm.

  “Austin,” she called and ran toward him. “There’s an alarm system. I’ll have to let you in.”

  Producing the key Justin had given her, she opened the door and disabled the alarm.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I guess you mean a lot to Justin.”

  The television droned on with some program Samara wasn’t really listening to. Next to her sat a glass of soda and bowl of popcorn. In her hand were the keys Justin had given her, trusted her with.

  Austin’s words had rung in her ears for the rest of the day and night. What was her role with Justi
n? What had she allowed? She and Justin certainly made beautiful music together. And she was more than his restorer, but where did it end? Usually relationships progressed to the next level, meeting, dating, intimacy, marriage…She stopped. She’d made it clear that she was not interested in going that far.

  And Justin had accepted that.

  Or did he?

  Did she?

  Somewhere along the way, it seemed the lines had blurred. She couldn’t remember a line at all when he was in her presence. When his arms were around her, there was not only an absence of lines, but an absence of everything else except the all-consuming nature of their joining.

  Samara was unsure what was happening to her. Each time he held her in his arms, she forgot her convictions, forgot the statistics she so often spouted. She needed to be consistent, to push back, stand by her thoughts and let Justin know that there wasn’t anything more between them.

  Snapping her hand closed around the keys, she picked up the phone and called him. As usual, she got his machine. She snapped the receiver back in place and got up. The keys would let her into the house and she already had the alarm code. She would leave the keys and that would be enough of a message for him.

  Arriving a few minutes later, the lights were on inside. She rang the bell and waited. Justin came to the door.

  “What a surprise,” he said, a broad smile covering his dark brown face. “I wasn’t expecting you.” The smile disappeared when he saw the look on hers. “What’s wrong?”

  “I brought your keys.” She stretched her open hand toward him.

  Justin looked at the keys as if she were holding a serpent toward him. Finally he reached out and took them. In the same action, he took her hand. Pulling her across the threshold, he led her into the great room and pushed her into a chair. He took the one opposite her. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you angry?”

  “I’m not angry.” But she was. She was angry with herself. Angry that she’d given herself a set of standards and she was not living by them. She’d allowed her convictions to be smudged, rubbed out, almost forgotten. But she would no longer do that. Their relationship had gone as far as it could go. It was time for them to part.

  “My brother told me he met you.”

  She nodded.

  “Did he say anything that caused this anger?”

  “I am not angry,” she shouted.

  Justin waited a moment. She could see he was controlling his frustration. He’d probably had a hard day at work, if he’d gone there. And her being less-than-forth-coming was probably driving him crazy. Samara didn’t know how to say it. On the drive here she’d rehearsed what she was going to say if she found him home, but the moment he opened the door her resolve deserted her.

  “Austin and I had dinner together,” he began. “He said nice things about you, called you beautiful. Most of our other conversation centered around family. Then he had to catch a plane and return to Chicago. He told me you were moving the painting when he arrived.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Apparently, you didn’t need the alarm system, at least not for the painting. Once Harry determined what had to be done, we needed more equipment than could be brought in. Austin thought we were stealing it.”

  “I know. He’s lived in Chicago too long. He suspects everyone.”

  “He was right to be suspicious,” she smiled, tentatively. “Does your family often drop in like that?”

  He shook his head. “They know my hours are erratic. Austin called, but I couldn’t answer the phone.”

  “It was good you got to spend time with him.”

  “We enjoy each other’s company.”

  “I’m glad,” she said. “Families should be close.”

  “We are. As are you and your sister. Now please tell me what this is about? The day has been long.”

  Samara stood up. Justin did the same. “I won’t keep you,” she told him. “I came to return the keys. I won’t be needing them.”

  “Samara, what happened?” He put his hands out to touch her, stop her from leaving, but he dropped them to his sides. Samara communicated that touching her wasn’t the right course of action.

  “I think we should slow things down a bit,” she said.

  “Slow them or drop them?”

  She stared at him. “Drop them,” she said.

  “Why? I at least deserve to know why.”

  She said nothing.

  “Is it my job? Not being available? Not being reliable?”

  “Justin, I told you at the beginning that you should find someone else. Someone who appreciates your attention.”

  “You don’t? I’d stake my life on that being a lie.”

  “Lie or not, do it.” She started for the door. She expected him to follow her. To call out for her to stop.

  But he didn’t.

  Chapter 9

  Leaving Justin was the easy part. Removing him from her mind was hard. Especially when she returned to her desk after a late afternoon meeting and found an envelope lying on top of it. She knew there was a postcard inside it. The handwriting was Justin’s. She’d have recognized it from across the room.

  Samara refused to open it. She should throw it in the trash. They were slowing things down. Ending things. This was not the way to end things. Turning around, she entered her workroom. The low-lighted room had a large table on which lay a letter from 1879. Usually she felt a rush working on old documents. Stories ran through her head about the people who had written them, what their lives were like. But lately all she thought of was Justin.

  What would the person working in this office think of the postcards a hundred years from now? How would she or he interpret the handwriting on the card? The strong strokes of the pen. The way he formed the bowl of the S that began her name. The long, continuing line that extended from the final A? Would they think they were lovers that met, meshed, married and lived into dotage together? Would they know they were destined to part, that the forces pulling them apart were greater than any that could keep them together?

  Samara turned back, returning to her desk and snatching up the envelope. She tore it open, not taking the time to slit it as she usually did with a letter opener.

  On the cover was the picture of a chest. Unlike the other cards, the antique-look on this one was probably genuine. The chest was made of dark wood and intricately carved. Samara sat down when she saw it. It was beautiful.

  The message read: I don’t know much about hope chests, but I have HOPE. Samara dropped the card. She’d never been pursued like this. A streak of guilt went through her. She didn’t understand it. She’d tried his method. It hadn’t worked. And wouldn’t. Better to end it now, she told herself.

  Justin was unreliable. His job came first and that was both a virtue and a curse. He couldn’t be counted on to sit through a play. What would happen if something really important came up? But he was persistent—and gorgeous—but more than his physical appearance, he was a kind, loving man. She smiled, remembering Justin’s dimple in his left cheek. She’d often wanted to trace it with her finger. Picking up the card, her fingers stroked the paper with the same tenderheartedness she would use if it was Justin’s face.

  Hope, she thought. It was a single word. But one that could hold the world together.

  It would be good if she could make a clean break of it, forget him and never think of him again, but they had shared too much. His kisses tingled against her lips, even though he wasn’t there. She could feel the impression of his body holding hers. And, there was the painting. She still had to work on that. Each time she looked at it, there would be his face imposed over every inch of the paint.

  And it would begin tonight. She was meeting Harry in an hour. Gathering her things, she cleaned up and took the elevator to the lobby floor. Alan Stackhouse was in his usual position by the door as she approached it.

  “Good night, Alan,” she said, opening her briefcase for his inspectio
n.

  He gave the contents a cursory look. “Thank you,” he said. “Did you get your letter?”

  “You put the letter on my desk?”

  “No, ma’am. I saw Mr. Hargraves. I asked him to deliver it.”

  There were security guards all over the building, all with different levels of clearance. Alan wasn’t allowed below this floor.

  “He left it for me,” she said. “Thank you.”

  He nodded. With a smile, he said, “Have a nice evening.”

  Samara went out into the evening air. Justin hadn’t heeded her warning. He’d enlisted Alan as his emissary.

  She tried to put Justin out of her mind, but she kept running into things that reminded her of him. Like the painting. It was the first thing she saw when she got to Harry’s office. He’d removed the frame and the painting sat exposed on a large table. Harry stood, studying it. He wasn’t applying any of the cleaning techniques he’d told her about. He seemed to be in another world.

  “Does it remind you of anything?” Harry asked.

  Samara stared at it, trying to see anything out of the ordinary. She shook her head. “Art is not my strong suit. I can pick out a master, but I’m not good on other painters.”

  “I’ve seen this before,” he said. “Or at least something like it.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t quite pull it into focus, but my mind tells me this is familiar.” He hunched his shoulders and seemed to drop the subject. “Next time you talk to Justin, ask him where he got this.”

  “He said it’s been in his family for decades.”

  “Let’s get to work.”

  They had already photographed and X-rayed the painting to see if there were previous restorations. There appeared to be three distinct layers of protective lining under the original canvas. These were removed leaving the original canvas exposed. When the final layer was removed and the back of the painting exposed, the dried adhesive resembled coarse sandpaper. Samara used a scalpel and a rough brush to laboriously clean it away. The job was tedious and tiring. She and Harry worked slowly to avoid any damage.