“Impressive,” James said in an indulgent tone.
Margaret commanded, “Here, now. Step up on the platform in front of the mirrors, and let’s take a look at that hem.”
Still laughing, Julie twirled her way over to the three-way mirror—and Mary remembered that she was supposed to be serving up that glass of cold tea.
Mary scurried to the refreshment table situated in the front corner of Margaret McKenzie’s store. There was ice in the bucket and cold tea in one of the two silver urns.
Mary picked up the silver tongs and transferred ice from the bucket to a tall glass. Next, she poured the tea.
And then she couldn’t help wondering, what about lemon? Would he want lemon? The bright yellow slices looked so inviting….
But no. He’d said just the tea. Better to simply give him what he’d said he wanted. She certainly wasn’t about to trot back over there and ask him about it—to risk squeaking at him or finding herself speechless before him.
After all, so far, so good. He didn’t even know she was there. And wasn’t that just what she wanted?
Mary took the cold glass firmly in one hand, grabbed one of the small pink napkins with the other, sucked in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. Then she turned, pointed herself in James Campbell’s direction and launched herself toward his side of the room.
He was still sitting in the wing chair, watching Margaret pin up that endless froth of organza and crinoline. When Mary got to him, she dared to cough—very discreetly, of course.
He glanced her way with an easy smile. “Great.” He held out one incredible, large, finely shaped hand, a hand with shiny brown hairs dusting the back of it.
Mary gulped and passed him the tea. His fingers brushed hers—the lightest breath of a touch—and he had the glass. She gave him the napkin, too.
“Thanks,” he said.
Her skin seemed to burn where it had made contact with his. Her heart felt as if it had stopped dead in her chest.
And James Campbell had already turned away.
That evening, after locking up the shop, Mary and Margaret rode home together, as they often did, in Margaret’s van. Their two-story wood frame houses sat, side-by-side, on tree-lined Rose Street right in the heart of the South Texas town of Mission Creek, not all that far from the shop, which was on Main. Margaret lived in the house she’d once shared with her dear, departed husband, Kyle. Mary’s house had become hers when her parents died.
Mary helped Margaret carry in the gowns they’d brought along to work on that evening. Then Margaret invited her to stay and share the evening meal.
Mary happily said yes. Sometimes it did get a little lonely, all on her own in the house where she’d grown up. Her mother, Anne, had died of cancer two years ago. Her poor daddy had followed shortly after—technically of a particularly virulent respiratory infection. But Mary knew better. Justin Clark simply didn’t want to go on without his beloved Anne. Mary’s mother and father had been like two sides of the same coin, utterly in love and completely devoted to each other. Mary had grieved to lose them, but somewhere in her heart she’d always known that when one went, the other wouldn’t be long in following.
After the meal, the two women sat in Margaret’s comfy living room with its big, soft floral-patterned sofa and matching easy chairs, turning hems and sewing beadwork, adding the little hand-stitched touches that made a Mission Creek Creations gown so special and so prized.
Mary had worked for Margaret since she was barely sixteen, when she would put in a few hours at the shop in the afternoons and on weekends. Margaret had had a difficult time, at first, talking the tongue-tied Mary into taking a job where she had to deal with the public. And convincing Mary’s overprotective mother to let her precious homeschooled daughter work in a shop—now that was a feat. Mary’s father knew how to manage money. He’d seen to it that there would always be enough. If Mary lived modestly, she’d never actually have to work.
But short, round, sweet-faced Margaret could be very determined when she set her mind on a goal.
And Mary had always loved being with Margaret. Around Margaret, somehow, she never got tongue-tied. She never burned with embarrassment, never felt awkward or the least shy. Margaret understood the Clark Curse, as Mary’s mother used to call it, that curse of never quite feeling as if you can cope in a social situation, never quite feeling good enough, somehow. The curse of sweaty palms and a constricted throat. Mary’s father had been burdened with that curse and so had her mother, though her mother wasn’t even a Clark by birth. They both considered it a miracle that they had found each other, two agonizingly shy individuals—he, an accountant, she a brilliant, extremely introverted poet. And they always said it was no surprise that their only child turned out every bit as timid and retiring as her mama and her dad.
As they worked, Margaret talked of the day just past. Was it Mary’s imagination, or did her friend seem to dwell on the subject of James?
“I do admire that young James Campbell.” Margaret took three tiny, perfect stitches in a satin bodice, glanced across at Mary, then bent her graying head to the satin again. “Not only tall and handsome and so intelligent with a great sense of humor, but also a truly good person. Did you know he’s taken complete responsibility for Julie in the past year, since that awful accident?”
Mary did know. The majority of Mission Creek’s well-to-do mamas took their darling daughters to Margaret’s shop. Those mothers did like to talk. They loved to discuss the local eligible males—of which James Campbell was definitely one. Mary had heard all about how James’s parents had been killed in a pileup on I-35 during a weekend trip to the Dallas area thirteen months ago.
Margaret clucked her tongue. “There he was, fresh out of law school, just getting ready to start up his own practice, and he loses his parents—and ends up his sister’s sole guardian.”
Not long after the accident that claimed the lives of his parents, James had hung out a shingle around the corner from Margaret’s shop. He walked by the shop all the time, going to and from his office—which was how Mary had noticed him in the first place. She had found herself staring at him as he strode by the wide shop windows, thinking how handsome he was, how self-possessed, how calm and self-assured. Everything she wasn’t.
Mary knew the first time she saw him that he was a “catch,” the kind of man all the mamas in the shop would be talking about. And of course, she had been right.
Margaret had more to say. “I think it’s so sweet and admirable, the way he’s stepped in to sponsor his sister for the debutante ball, the way he was so thoughtful and came in today, for her final fitting. Julie said he’s even volunteered to play chaperone this year.
“And he’s such a considerate man, too. He insisted on paying in full today, though the dress won’t be ready to pick up until Thursday.” Margaret paused, took a few more stitches, then looked at Mary again. “And he’s so very handsome too, don’t you think? More than one local beauty has set her sights on him, from what I hear.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Mary mildly, determined to give no clue of what was really in her heart. What she felt for James Campbell was her own special secret. She would share that secret with no one, not even her dearest friend in the world. “He seems to be a very nice man.”
Margaret said nothing, just kept looking at Mary—a very strange look, Mary thought, a much-too-knowing look.
Mary frowned. “What? Is something wrong?”
Margaret set down her sewing. “Can you believe it? This year’s ball is Saturday. Only five days away.”
“Well, I know that, Margaret.”
Margaret stood. “Come with me.”
Mary’s glasses had slid down her nose. She pushed them back into place and peered suspiciously up at her friend. “Why?”
“I have something to show you.”
“Well, now, this is some pretty tricky beadwork I’m doing here and I’d like to get it finished before I—”
Margaret took the dress right out of Mary’s hands. “No excuses. Come on.” Margaret tossed the dress across the sofa. “I mean it. Now.”
When Margaret got that tone, there was no arguing with her. With a sigh, Mary got up. “Where to?”
“To my workroom.”
When they reached the door to the big room at the back of the house, Mary’s friend said, “Close your eyes.”
“Oh, Margaret. Is this really necessary? I really don’t think we need to—”
“Don’t argue.”
“But—”
“Close your eyes.”
“Oh, all right.”
She felt Margaret’s hands on her shoulders, guiding her. “Stand right here.”
Mary grumbled out another grudging agreement. She heard the door swing open and the click of a light switch.
“Okay,” said Margaret. “Go ahead. Look.”
Mary opened her eyes and found herself staring at a dressmaker’s dummy in the center of Margaret’s workroom. The dummy wore the most incredible dress Mary had ever seen—and working for Margaret, Mary Clark had seen any number of beautiful gowns. It was a curve-hugging floor-length slip dress, the fabric unbelievably supple, like something poured rather than woven, of an impossible, truly marvelous color: white and silver and opalescent simultaneously. Margaret had flipped on a small spotlight above the gown and it shimmered and gleamed, so perfect it seemed it could not be real.
“Margaret.” Mary breathed her friend’s name in pure admiration. “You have surpassed yourself.”
“You like it, then?”
“Like it? It’s a dream, a wish, a prayer of a gown.”
Margaret laughed. “Oh, Mary. You sound like your mother, like a poet, I swear.”
“Who, Margaret? Who’s the lucky deb?”
Margaret only said, “Try it on.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do—” Right then, halfway through her sentence, Mary understood her friend’s intention. She gulped, pressed her hand against her throat, and backed up a step. “You’re not serious.”
“I am. I made this dress for you. It’s perfect for you. It is you, Mary. It’s the you no one ever gets to see.”
Mary was shaking her head. “But I don’t understand. Why? I have nowhere to wear it.”
“Oh, yes, you do.”
Mary backed up another step. All at once, her heart was racing and a thousand little butterflies had gotten loose inside her stomach. “Oh, Margaret. No. That’s crazy. I couldn’t. Never in a million years…”
Her friend only smiled.
“Margaret. Listen. A girl needs a sponsor. And an escort. And besides, I’m too old.”
Margaret pursed up her mouth. “Oh, of course. Twenty-one. Positively ancient.”
“You know what I mean. All the girls do the deb thing when they’re eighteen or nineteen. It’s a whole process. I can’t just…crash the deb ball.”
“Tell you what. Just try on the dress.”
“Oh, Margaret…”
The problem was, Mary couldn’t seem to stop looking at that dress. Every time she glanced away, she just had to look back. Astonishing. The way it shimmered—like something alive—in the light from above. It seemed, somehow, to beckon her.
Margaret stood at her shoulder and spoke softly, coaxingly. “Just try it on. You know you want to.”
“Oh, Margaret…”
“Just try it on.”
That night, at home in her bed alone, Mary couldn’t seem to keep her mind on the novel that had held her spellbound the night before. The pages kept blurring, fading away. Without even realizing she was doing it, she let her eyelids drift down and relaxed into the pillows.
And there, on the dark screen of her own eyelids, she saw herself. And not just her everyday, ordinary boring self. No. She saw herself as she had looked in Margaret’s workroom that night, wearing that fabulous, silver-white dress.
She simply could not get over how perfectly it fit her. And how totally it transformed her.
Like magic. Yes. Exactly. The dress was magic. It wove a spell so powerful, it could make even Mary Clark into someone beautiful.
Margaret had whispered that she could fix Mary’s hair for her, and do her makeup, as well. And now she thought about it, why couldn’t she just go without her glasses? She could see without them—more or less, anyway.
She really did look so different in that dress. Like someone else altogether. With the right hairstyle and makeup, no one would recognize her. It might be her chance for…
What?
She wasn’t sure. To be a new woman, maybe. Someone lovely and special—if only for one night.
And James would be there, playing chaperone, Margaret had said so.
Mary’s eyes popped open. Her glasses had slid down to the end of her nose. She shoved them back in place with her index finger and sat straight up in bed.
What was she thinking? It was impossible. She could never crash the Lone Star County Debutante Ball…
In the house next door, Margaret sat up late, adding one more special touch to the silvery gown, sewing three white rose petals, symbols of innocence, of secret love, into a hidden pocket in the hem, cleverly tucking them away so that Mary would never even know they were there.
Chapter 2
James smiled fondly down at his baby sister. “Having a good time?”
“The best time of my life.” Jules grinned at him as he whirled her beneath the crystal chandeliers in the upstairs ballroom of the Lone Star Country Club.
“That was some program, I have to say.”
Jules laughed. The carefree sound pleased him. “Mrs. Adair promised us this would be a night that none of us would ever forget.”
“Sounds more like a threat than a promise to me.”
“Well, with Mrs. Adair, sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.” Frances Adair, wife of Donald Adair of the Houston Adairs, had chaired the deb ball that year. And she took the job seriously. This year’s ball was a lot more than just a formal dance. It was, according to Mrs. Adair, a “rite of passage.”
“A debutante ball,” Mrs. Adair had declared at one of the sponsors’ meetings, “is not just an excuse for a girl to dress in a lovely white gown and get lots of attention, as too many, unfortunately, seem to think. A debutante ball is an introduction of a young lady fully into society. A debutante ball tells all and sundry that this girl is now a young woman, a responsible member of her community—and of course, that she will be expected to behave as such.”
The ceremonies had begun with rousing renditions of the national anthem and Texas, Our Texas as performed by all the debs, lined up in their big white dresses on the bunting-draped stage at the upper end of the ballroom. After the anthem and the song came the salute to the flag.
Next up, the welcome address—given by Mrs. Adair herself. Then the introduction of distinguished guests, including the parents and families of the debutantes. After that, a slide show of deb biographies, followed by the presentation of the debs themselves.
And that was just the beginning.
Black-jacketed waiters served a fine steak dinner. Reverend Fallworthy of Mission Creek First Baptist delivered the blessing.
After the meal, they enjoyed a lengthy video presentation of the various good works performed by the debs during the past year. Then came the cake-cutting ceremony. And finally, each deb stepped to the microphone to express her gratitude to everyone who had made her deb year such a wonderful, fulfilling, memorable time.
Now, at last, the band played and everyone was allowed to dance and have a good time.
James whispered in his sister’s ear, “Did I mention I love your dress?”
She whispered back, “Some big brothers always know just the right thing to say.”
He pulled away enough to see her shining face again. “You look beautiful. I mean it.” He watched the sadness darken her eyes. And he knew she was thinking of their mom and dad, gone for more than a year now, thinking of how this night would
have thrilled them. Their mother, Evelyn, would have cried for happiness, and their father, James, Sr. would have shed a tear or two himself—and claimed it was only his allergies kicking up.
“They’re here in spirit,” James said softly. “Watching over you. And they are very proud.”
“Think so?”
“I know so.”
The song ended and Jules’s escort, her high school sweetheart, Toby Bartholomew, appeared to reclaim her. The band started up again—a fast number this time. Jules picked up her skirts and she and Toby danced away into the crowd.
James made his way to the punch table and served himself a glass of something pink with hunks of rainbow sherbet floating in it. One sip and he decided he would head downstairs to one of the club’s bars for a real drink. No one would miss him. Technically, he was a chaperone, but that was merely a formality, a bow to tradition. Mrs. Donald Adair had a real fondness for tradition.
However, this was the twenty-first century, and all the debs had reached the age of consent. And should one of them require the intervention of a chaperone, well, each deb did have at least one adult family member in attendance.
James set down his too-sweet drink and started for the nearest exit. He got about five steps when soft fingers closed over his arm.
“James Campbell, I’ve been wonderin’ if you were ever going to ask me to dance.” Susie Andersen had silky blond hair, a pretty face and curves in all the right places. She was also very grown-up for her eighteen years. The predatory gleam in those china-blues of hers said it all: if he would only pursue her, she’d find a way to get herself caught.
“Hello, Susie.” He took the small hand that had grasped his sleeve, wrapped it snugly around his arm and led her out onto the crowded dance floor. She moved into his embrace as if taking up residence there.
Lone Star Country Club: The Debutantes Page 11
