THE BACHELOR PARTY

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  Jessie gurgled something indistinct and started playing with Sophie's watch. "Yes, I know you like him a lot. I do, too, but we have to be very careful not to let ourselves become too fond of him."

  She bounced Jessie's foot in her hand, remembering Ford's gentleness with Jessie. And with her, though she knew full well that there was another side to that good-natured, slow-walkin', slow-talkin' way he had.

  "If he knew the truth, he'd arrest me, Jessie," she murmured with a sigh. "Maybe he wouldn't like doing it, and maybe he'd do it as privately as he could, but he'd still arrest me. And he'd turn me over to the Portland police because that's what he's sworn to do."

  Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard. "See, the thing is, Jess. I think I might be falling in love with him, and—"

  A knock at the door kept her from finishing the sentence—and the thought. "It's Fanny, dear."

  "Come on in, Miss Fanny," she called, curving her lips into a welcoming smile.

  "I just came in to see if you'd like some hot milk," Fanny said as she entered and closed the door behind her. "Oh, dear, you're not leaving, are you?"

  Sophie drew a blank. "Sorry?"

  "The clothes," Fanny explained, gesturing to the outfits strewn over the bed and chair. "You're not packin' to leave us, are you?"

  "Oh, no," Sophie exclaimed, smiling. "I was just trying to decide what to wear to a New Year's Eve party."

  Fanny's pale eyes brightened. "Ah, I see. You have a social engagement with a young man."

  "Well, no, not really," Sophie hastened to explain. "Ford was invited to a party by one of his deputies, and he asked me to go along. That's all."

  Fanny offered her a genteel smile. "I do believe things must have changed more than I thought over the years, because that surely does sound like a social engagement to me."

  "We're just friends." She gave Jessie a quick kiss, then set her on the floor before rising to hastily gather the discarded outfits.

  "I confess I'm sorry to hear that. You see, I was so sure I noticed a certain chemistry between you and Ford during Christmas dinner and, well, I was so hoping you two might find the happiness denied Johnny Ray and me."

  Sophie's heart went out to the old woman. How sad to be so alone with only memories for such a very long time. "Not everyone is as lucky to find that special person the way you were," she murmured around the lump in her throat.

  Miss Fanny picked up a cotton turtleneck and began folding it carefully with her gnarled hands. "I hear a terrible sadness in your voice, Sophie. I don't mean to pry, but if there's anything I can do to help, I hope you'll let me at least try."

  Sophie felt tears sting her eyes, but she managed to will them from falling. "Thank you, Miss Fanny. I wish you could help, but you can't. I have to solve my own problems."

  "And bear your own burdens?" Fanny asked gently.

  Sophie smiled. "Something like that, yes."

  "Like Ford," the old lady murmured on a heavy sigh before brightening. "There is one thing I can do, however, and that's to lend you the perfect dress for tomorrow night."

  Sophie felt alarm stiffen her face. "Oh, I couldn't—"

  "Don't worry, dear. It's not one of these old-lady frocks I wear these days," she declared, lifting her skirt with her hand. "It belonged to my mother, and I've kept it all these years because it was just too lovely to part with."

  Sophie hung the last of her clothes in the closet, then turned to accept the folded turtleneck from Fanny. "I'd love for you to show it to me, Miss Fanny, but I couldn't wear your mother's dress."

  Miss Fanny simply smiled. "It's in the trunk in my room. Why don't you bring Jessamine with you, and we'll all three take a look at it."

  "Did you hear that, Jessie Bear?" Sophie said, stowing the folded shirt in a drawer before lifting her daughter into her arms. "Miss Fanny is asking us to a fashion show."

  Jessie blinked her feathery lashes, then yawned. Sophie shared a smile with Miss Fanny as they left the room.

  On the way, Fanny paused to knock on Rose Ruth's door, but there was no answer. "Rose Ruth is certainly proving the adage about there bein' no fool like an old fool," she said peevishly as she opened her own door. "Told me she was goin' to the library tonight, but I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts she's with Hammond Gossely at his place right this minute."

  Sophie stared at her. "I … you mean they're, um, dating?"

  Fanny sniffed. "At the very least."

  Amazed and amused, Sophie deposited Jessie in the corner where Fanny kept some of the baby's toys for the times when she watched Jessie during the day.

  "Can I help?" she asked as Miss Fanny lifted the lid of the old metal steamer trunk at the foot of her bed.

  "If you'll just lift out that top tray for me, please," Miss Fanny said, hovering eagerly. "That's it, put it on the bed. It won't hurt that old quilt any."

  Sophie did as she was told, then watched, bemused, as Miss Fanny lifted an amazing collection of old letters, rumpled clothing and other odds and ends from the stuffed trunk.

  "Ah, here it is," she murmured, lifting out a dressmaker's box with reverent care. "It's been years since I packed this away, but, thank the good Lord, silk is practically indestructible."

  The box was tied with a pink satin ribbon. Inside, the contents were swathed in tissue paper and smelled of lavender. Sophie found herself leaning closer as Miss Fanny drew back the last layer.

  "I'd forgotten how heavy this was," the old lady murmured as she lifted out a bead-encrusted chemise of shimmering champagne silk.

  "Oh, Miss Fanny, it's exquisite!" Sophie murmured with an excitement she couldn't quite keep inside. "It is, isn't it?"

  Miss Fanny lovingly stroked the low-cut silk bodice with gnarled fingers. Row after row of beaded fringe caught the light, sparkling like bubbles in wine. Sophie drew a shaky breath. The longing to slip into the sleek sheath was close to irresistible. But the delicate silk seemed too fragile to risk.

  "Did you ever wear it yourself?" she asked, unable to tear her gaze away from the beautiful gown.

  "Yes, once. It was the night Johnny Ray asked me to marry him." Miss Fanny's smile was ethereal, contrasting with the very real tears suddenly filling her faded violet eyes. "It would give me great pleasure to see you wearin' it tomorrow night."

  "Oh, but I couldn't," Sophie murmured, regret and longing fighting for dominance. "What if I spilled something on it? Or … or got the fringe caught in the car door?"

  "We both know that's unlikely, my dear," the old lady chided gently, pressing the gossamer chemise into Sophie's hands. "And I won't take no for an answer, so let's hear no more nonsense."

  Before Sophie could utter another word, Miss Fanny was on her feet and heading for the ornate highboy in the corner. From the top drawer she drew a flat jewelry case covered in faded maroon velvet.

  "Something very simple would be best, I think," she muttered, opening the case. She hesitated, then from the satin interior she drew a single teardrop pearl on a thin gold chain and held it up to the light. Like a delicate pink prism, it splintered the light into a muted pastel rainbow that had Sophie's breath catching.

  "It would be perfect," she admitted softly, "but truly, I can't—"

  "Of course you can," Miss Fanny declared, her expression turning beatific. "I can hardly wait to see Ford Maguire's face when you come floatin' down the front stairs in that dress. Likely he'll need help rememberin' his own name."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  Getting Jessie ready for bed, and then herself ready for an evening out, had been an exercise in patience, not to mention stamina. First Jessie had decided to practice her flutter kick during her bath, drenching both the bathroom and Sophie, which meant Sophie had to wipe down the floor and several of the walls before she herself could bathe.

  With Jessie's interested help, it had taken her half a dozen tries to get her eye makeup on straight and her hair fixed just so. Then Katie had come in to offer the use
of her pearl earrings, followed almost immediately by Miss Rose Ruth, who'd spent a good twenty minutes debating aloud which comb would look best with Sophie's brown hair—the one studded with eye-catching rhinestones or the more sedate mother-of-pearl. By the time Katie had kidnapped Jessie, and the two misses had retired to the parlor for several bracing sips of medicinal wine, it was nearly eight o'clock, and Sophie was wracked with nerves.

  Holding her breath, she carefully lifted the dress over her head and let it slither down her upraised arms. The silk was skimming soft and hugged her hips with not even a fraction of an inch to spare. In spite of the flapper flavor, it was the most sophisticated dress she'd ever worn—and the most provocative.

  "I might as well wear a sign," she muttered as she zipped up the low cut back. "Lonely widow seeks a strong, honest and infinitely gentle man to love her just as she is, without asking questions she can't answer."

  Love? Who was she kidding here? Ford didn't love her. Nor did she want him to. But he does want to make love to you, a voice at the fringes of her mind reminded her. And you want to make love to him.

  The silent admission gave rise to another, stronger flutter of nerves. She was making a terrible mistake, she realized, on a wave of pure panic. Agreeing to go anywhere with Ford had to be utter lunacy. Greeting him at the door in the sexiest dress she'd ever laid eyes on was an invitation to disaster. Every time she moved, the beads swayed and shimmered like steamy August heat, and the silk caressed her skin like the hand of an adoring lover. Simply walking across the room made her think of rippling male muscles and a strong man's lonely eyes.

  "Oh, Lord," she moaned as she nervously affixed Katie's pearl studs to each ear. Her hair had been tousled into a casual bob, caught above one ear with the mother-of-pearl comb Miss Rose Ruth had decided would be the crowning touch. Before she had a chance to settle her suddenly sizzling nerves, she heard the distant chiming of the doorbell. The clock on the dresser said 7:59.

  Of course he would be on time. He'd said eight o'clock, so he'd meant eight o'clock—not a fashionably late eight-fifteen, followed by an excuse subtly crafted to impress her with his busy schedule and infinite importance, a power game Wells and his friends had played to perfection.

  Ford didn't play power games. He didn't have to, she reminded herself grimly as she snatched up Katie's wrap and Miss Fanny's black satin evening bag.

  By the time she made the turn at the second-floor landing, her pulse was roaring in her ears. She hadn't been this nervous at her first senior prom, or even, she realized with a bittersweet pang, at her wedding to Wells.

  Ford was waiting for her in the foyer, along with the two elderly fairy godmothers and Katie. Jessie was there, too, held high in Ford's arms, her head resting against his shoulder. Even though this time she was prepared to see him in civilian clothes, she hadn't expected him to look so sophisticated. He was wearing a tweed jacket in shades of brown and a creamy hand-knit sweater that did marvelous things for his tanned skin. Her lips twitched when she noticed the snug jeans and boots, both obviously clean and, in the case of the boots, polished to a high gloss.

  "Happy New Year," she murmured when his gaze came to hers and held. She was two steps from the bottom, which put them eye to eye. Perhaps that was why she was able to see eyes darken to the color of smoke.

  "Evenin'." His voice had that same slightly raspy quality to it she'd noticed right before he'd kissed her the last time. Taking a tight grip on her composure she descended the two steps to the tiled foyer floor. "Uh, I'll just take Jessie upstairs and put her to bed, and then we can go."

  "You'll do no such silly thing," Rose Ruth chided. "Fanny and I will tuck Jessie in good and tight—"

  "After her bedtime story, of course," Fanny chimed in, beaming at Jessie, who seemed perfectly content to snuggle against Ford's big chest and suck her thumb.

  "Don't worry about a thing, dear," Rose Ruth admonished cheerfully. "Run along and have a good time with your friends."

  Sophie smiled her surrender. When the ladies ganged up against her, it was usually more prudent to give in than fight. "I'll just kiss Jessie good-night, then."

  While the two misses argued about whose turn it was to tell the bedtime story, Katie plucked Jessie from Ford's arms and gestured toward the door. "Have a great time," she ordered, her smile brilliant and only a little strained.

  "Count on it," Ford grated, propelling Sophie toward the door with the firm pressure of his hand against her spine. Before opening the door, however, he surprised her by taking the shawl from her arm and wrapping its soft folds around her shoulders.

  "Ford Maguire, y'all drive careful now," Catfish Williams called from the parlor door where he and Roy Dean were hovering like overprotective fathers.

  "Yes, sir," Ford muttered, jerking open the front door.

  "Night-night, Jessie Bear," Sophie called over her shoulder as she went with Ford into the cool night air.

  The moon was on the wane, but still bright enough to light the way to the driveway. There was an unfamiliar vehicle parked there. When she got closer, she realized that it was an older, powerful-looking midnight blue Camaro, riding low and gleaming as though recently waxed.

  "I'd rather wrangle with a whole passel of skunk-mean moonshiners than face a woman's family on a first date," Ford muttered.

  "It was a bit overwhelming," she admitted, risking a glance in his direction. "And this isn't a date," she added belatedly. For a few minutes, she'd forgotten all about caution and self-preservation and prudence.

  "Thanks for remindin' me," he drawled, looking her way.

  As he stepped past her to open the car door she caught a whiff of sandalwood. It wasn't a scent she would expect a small-town sheriff to favor, and yet she was beginning to realize that no matter how provincial his rearing, Ford had the instincts of an aristocratic gentleman. He would have made a superb air force officer, she thought as he slipped behind the wheel.

  "Do you ever regret not going to the air force academy?" she asked, giving in to impulse as he was backing the Camaro onto Clover Street

  .

  "Why regret what you can't change?" His answer came so readily she suspected he'd said the same thing to himself more than once.

  "True enough," she said, shifting position.

  "Something wrong?" he asked, shooting her a quick look. He drove with the relaxed skill of someone comfortable with his own ability, but she sensed a tension in his big body that had nothing to do with driving.

  "Let's say I've just made an important discovery," she replied, shifting again.

  "Which is?"

  "Sitting on beaded fringe is definitely uncomfortable."

  His laugh was as startling as an unexpected caress. Offering an answering smile, she realized that she wanted more of both. She was still trying to tell herself otherwise when Ford turned onto a quiet street in a modest residential area where the homes were small but clearly well-kept.

  Lights blazed from the third house on the right, and the sound of music drifted on the winter-crisp air. Cars lined the street on both sides for a good block on either side of the house, and Sophie groaned inwardly.

  "Hope you're up for a hike, 'cause this is as close as we get," Ford said, maneuvering deftly into a space only a few feet longer than the car.

  "I like to walk," she fudged. She hadn't worn high heels in months, and she had a feeling her legs would be sore when she woke up in the morning.

  "You said this was just a small gathering of friends," she chided as he helped her from the car.

  "What can I say? Eli and Ellie have a lot of friends."

  "Eli and Ellie?" She slanted him a disbelieving look. "You can't be serious."

  "Dead serious. This is the South, remember?" His grin was fleeting, but powerfully male nonetheless. And she felt its impact, even as it faded.

  "Mind the steps," he said, taking her arm. The tiny house was clearly in the process of remodeling, and most of the porch railing was missing. The party was in
full swing, requiring Ford to ring the bell twice before the door swung open to reveal a slightly built young man in a bright red shirt and tight jeans. He was clean-cut and handsome, with slanting brown eyes suggesting Oriental blood, and a cleft in his square chin. It was the same deputy who had admitted her to the sheriff's department a few days before Christmas. Somehow he had seemed older in his uniform.

  His face lighted up when he glimpsed Ford standing there. When he smiled, he seemed even more boy than man, but the hint of authority riding his shoulders reminded her of Ford.

  "Sheriff! Good to see you, sir." He hesitated, then reached out to shake Ford's hand. Sophie found the deputy's awkwardness endearing and wondered if Ford realized that Eli was afflicted by a bad case of hero worship.

  "Evenin', Eli. I reckon you already know Sophie Reynolds."

  "Ma'am. Good to see you again."

  "You, too, Eli," she said, shaking his hand. He had a strong grip and a direct gaze. His eyes were filled with a lot of questions she suspected he wouldn't ask. She decided she liked him very much.

  "Come on in and make yourselves to home," he urged, ushering them in eagerly before closing the door. "The booze is in the kitchen yonder and lots of it, so pour heavy if that's your pleasure, and Ellie made enough food to feed half the county. Oh, and the bedroom's at the end of the hall."

  Sophie stiffened, her gaze instinctively meshing with Ford's. "For the coats," he confided in a low tone. "Or in your case, that shawl you've been huggin' to you like armor."

  "Don't exaggerate," she murmured, feeling the heat searing her cheeks as she slipped free of the shawl.

  "Here, let me, Ms. Reynolds," Eli offered, taking the wrap from her. "Y'all just make yourselves at home, okay?"

  "I can see why he's so popular," she said, watching Eli exchanging friendly banter with the other guests on the way to the bedroom. "He's got a generous heart."