Little Black Dress with Bonus Material

by Susan McBride

  Ha!

  Patience was a virtue she could ill afford, not with her schedule. Evie, on the other hand, could endlessly wait without complaint. They were so like the tortoise and the hare, with Toni always sprinting and her mother a firm believer that “slow and steady wins the race.”

  As Toni sat quietly at the worn oak table, sipping her tea, she wondered then as she’d wondered so many times before when she’d thought about herself and her mother: how was it possible that they were so different? Shouldn’t they have more in common than their love for Jonathan Ashton and Earl Grey?

  She had only the dregs of her tea floating at the bottom of the mug when Bridget popped into the kitchen.

  “I’m off,” the housekeeper announced as she zipped up her down coat and pulled on her knit hat. “I can drop by after church tomorrow if you’d like,” she added while shoving her fingers into gloves. “I’ll make you some lunch, or go to the hospital with you, if you want some company. Will they let me in if I’m not family?”

  “You’re pretty much the only family I’ve got at the moment,” Toni responded, thinking how true that actually was. Although she didn’t want Bridget to feel obligated to tend to either her or Evie on a Sunday. “Seriously, I’ll be fine, and you need a day off after the craziness around here. You’re a godsend, Bridge, but even saints need a break now and then.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that, now would I?” The housekeeper grunted as she wound a cabled scarf around her neck. “But I do believe in miracles so that’s something.”

  “Good,” Toni said. “Because we might need one or two.”

  “Oh, I believe we got one already,” Bridget said, her face pinching like she’d swallowed a lemon. “Strangest thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty.” She shook her head. “Go on upstairs and take another look at that dress of Miss Evie’s, and you’ll see what I mean. I’ve hung it up in her room if it hasn’t sprouted wings and flown away.”

  Toni didn’t ask what that was supposed to mean. Instead, she homed in on the most important question: “So duct tape did the trick? Or did you resort to superglue?”

  “Neither,” Bridget replied, shaking her head. “Sometimes you just have to accept the magic that comes into your life and leave it be. So let’s both of us be grateful. Now good night. You sleep tight, child.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Bridget waved before heading out.

  Once Toni had the door shut and locked, she detected the muffled strains of “Ode to Joy” and realized her phone was ringing. She grabbed her purse from the foyer floor and retrieved her cell in time to answer before it went to voice mail.

  “Engagements by Antonia,” she said in a rush and heard Greg’s voice on the other end.

  “Avoiding me, are you?”

  “What? No, of course I’m not,” she said, unnerved by how close to home he’d hit. “I’ve just been busy—”

  “At the hospital, I know, and helping sort through the clutter at your mom’s house,” he replied before she could finish. “That’s precisely why I decided to do something helpful.”

  “Helpful how?” Toni wasn’t sure she liked where this was going. Had he begun packing and moving her things into his apartment in the past twenty-four hours because he couldn’t bear waiting for her to make up her mind?

  “I know I’m not always the most sympathetic guy on the planet, but I don’t think it’s fair to let you go through this completely alone. Besides”—he paused and cleared his throat—“I miss you. No one’s around to bug me about picking up my dirty socks or to talk through all my TV shows, which makes it hard to focus.”

  “Aw, how sweet,” she dryly replied and paused at the bottom of the stairwell, setting her hand on the banister. Normally, she enjoyed a little sarcastic banter; but at the moment, all she could think of was taking a bath and hitting the sack. She was beat. “Greg, I appreciate that you’re worried about me, but I’m rarely alone. Bridget’s been here all day,” she said and started to climb the steps, “and the rest of the time I was at the hospital with Mother.”

  “So you could use a breather.” Toni heard some noises on the line and wondered if he were calling from his car. “Maybe my surprise will take your mind off things for a while.”

  “What surprise?” Toni stopped midway up the stairs. “You know I’m not big on spontaneity,” she reminded him. “Whatever it is, can you save it till I get home? I’ll be in a much better moo—”

  “Gotta go!” he interrupted.

  “—d,” she finished only to realize how quiet it was on the other end. “Greg? Are you there?”

  If he was, he didn’t answer.

  “Hello?”

  Damn it.

  Had he hung up on her? And after professing to miss her so terribly. Honestly, she had too much on her plate at the moment to play games, particularly when her feelings about him, about Evie—hell, about everything!—were so confused.

  Screw it.

  She stuck the cell in her back pocket, made it to the second-floor landing, and meandered up the hallway toward the light that still glowed from Evie’s room. The papered walls were lined with framed photographs of her growing up: standing in the vineyards two-fistedly clutching bunches of grapes, eating corn dogs and funnel cakes at July Fourth picnics and the county fair, in cap and gown at her high school graduation, almost always with her father’s arm around her; her mother unseen, hidden behind the camera.

  “Mom, let me get one of you and Daddy,” Toni would insist.

  Evie would shake her head. “I’m not the one who matters,” she’d say.

  Toni had figured her mother just didn’t like getting her picture taken; but now she wondered if there wasn’t more to it than that.

  You broke her heart when you left.

  But if she’d mattered so much, why had Evie been so afraid to fully embrace her? How could a mother not want to have her child believe that she meant everything, especially when they had only each other?

  Toni ended up in the doorway to Evie’s bedroom. She paused for a moment, her gaze sweeping across the old-fashioned floral wallpaper, the carved walnut dresser with its marble top, and the large four-poster bed, freshly made. Then she saw an object across the room and did a double-take.

  Hanging from her dad’s old wooden clothes-butler was her mother’s black dress. It gently swayed as if touched by a breeze, and the dark silk glowed like waves beneath moonbeams. Weirder still, it appeared whole and perfect, without a jagged edge in sight.

  Which was impossible.

  She walked toward it, and a sense of unease traveled through her. Warily, she circled the frock. The silk hung so smoothly, not a crease in evidence. The fabric shimmered, begging her to touch it. When she reached out, skimming the cloth with her fingertips, a tingle of electricity shot through her skin.

  It’s just static, she told herself as she lifted the skirt and looked on the inside, sure there must be evidence that Bridget had made stealth repairs. But she could detect nothing unusual, no pins or staples or adhesives.

  She picked up the hanger and twirled the plastic shoulders around 360 degrees. Where was the tear? There had to be some sign of its existence. She’d viewed the damage herself not half an hour before. It had been there. How could it be gone? Had Bridget switched the black dress with another of Evie’s, just to make her feel better?

  Her gut told her that wasn’t the case.

  “You are the same dress, aren’t you?” she said aloud, as if it could answer.

  Holding it against her, she turned and met her reflection in the bureau mirror.

  As she stared, she cocked her head this way and that. Something niggled at her. She knew this dress. She’d even seen it on Evie sometime ago, hadn’t she?

  Think, think, think.

  Toni closed her eyes tightly, digging back into her memories, and a fragment from the past resurfaced. She saw the black silk against her mother’s fair skin, more black surrounding them, and a heaviness des
cended in her chest.

  “Daddy’s funeral,” she said, as sure of it as she’d ever been of anything.

  Evie had worn the dress the day they’d buried Jon Ashton, although it had looked different then. The silk had been without any glimmer, the fabric lifeless. It had seemed sad, if that was the right word for it, or maybe that was just a reflection of her own despair that awful day.

  She drew the dress toward her face and sniffed, catching a light floral scent coming from it. Sweet pea, she guessed at first, a flower so many brides liked in their bouquets. Then she realized that wasn’t it at all. What she smelled was lily of the valley.

  “When did you start wearing that one, Evie?” she asked, speaking to the room itself and to the essence of her mother that lingered.

  She took a step toward the dresser, where a few bottles of cologne had been arranged atop an antique brass tray. Besides the Aqua Velva and Old Spice that had belonged to Jon Ashton—which her mother had steadfastly refused to throw away—there was a single bottle of rosewater, the only “perfume” Evie had ever worn that Toni was aware of.

  So the scent on the dress wasn’t Evie’s, and it definitely wasn’t Bridget’s. If anything, the housekeeper smelled of laundry soap and lemon oil.

  Even holding on to the dress by its hanger gave her the oddest feeling, and Toni didn’t need to feel any more out of sorts than she already did. If the black dress was possessed or haunted, perhaps she’d do better to put it away. So, to be safe, she told it, “Let’s get you in the closet, okay?”

  She twisted the crystal doorknob, ready to shove the dress inside, and a whiff of air, like a sigh, touched the back of her neck, causing the tiny hairs at her nape to bristle.

  Quickly, she looked around as her heart raced and assured herself there was no one behind her, only her shadow on the wall and her wide-eyed image in the mirror.

  “Antonia Ashton,” she whispered, “are you seeing ghosts?”

  Ding dong ding dong!

  The doorbell chime so startled her that she dropped the dress to the floor, the hanger clattering. She bent to pick it up and, without thinking, took it with her from the room.

  Ding dong ding dong ding dong!

  Her anxiety fast turned to annoyance, and she frowned as she scrambled down the stairs, wondering who the hell would decide to stop by at half past eight on a Saturday night. If it was Hunter Cummings, dropping by again to catch her at a weak moment, she might have to smack him upside his head and kick-start their family feud all over again.

  When she got to the door, she flipped the switch to the porch light and pushed back the sheers on the paned glass to peer outside.

  What the hell?

  She blinked, sure she was imagining things. Then she threw back the locks and opened the door to the man standing on the porch, rubbing leather-gloved hands together and stomping on the outside mat, trying to dislodge snow from his polished black loafers.

  “Surprise!” Greg said when she just stared at him, her mouth hanging open.

  “What are you doing here?” Toni blurted out, too stunned to register the bitter cold, despite the clouds that puffed from her nose and mouth.

  “I’m taking you to dinner,” he declared and brushed past her into the foyer. “I’ve made reservations at a place nearby that’s supposed to be good for something so out of the way.”

  Toni closed the door behind them, figuring she’d heard him wrong. “Reservations for dinner tonight?” she repeated.

  “Look, I feel awful, all right?” he admitted as he tugged off his leather gloves and shoved them into his coat pockets. “I ask you to move in with me then you run off to be with your mom, and I don’t know”—he smiled nervously—“I started feeling sorry for myself and then disgusted at how selfish I was acting. It seemed wrong to be in the city without you.” He reached for her hand. “So I figured I’d give you a break and take you out of this prison.”

  Toni didn’t know what to think. “Wow, that’s so unexpected, and I appreciate the thought but I’m totally pooped and just want to crash.”

  He let go of her hand and pushed up his left sleeve to check his watch. “Sorry, babe, but I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  So she had no say in the matter. Would he order her entrée again for her, too?

  “Go put on something nice,” he urged, and his bespectacled gaze looked over her cable-knit sweater and faded blue jeans, clearly not approving.

  “I didn’t exactly pack for a cruise.” Toni didn’t even try to mask her irritation. “I don’t have anything nice to wear except one of my old prom dresses, unless you happened to bring some of my clothes.”

  “I didn’t, no.” He paused then pointed at her chest. “So how about that?”

  Toni glanced down, having forgotten entirely that she still clutched the hanger with Evie’s black dress. The silk gleamed, pearlescent beneath the warm glow of the chandelier. “This? You can’t be serious.”

  “I am,” he replied and fingered the fabric. “It’s very pretty, Antonia. Is it new?”

  “No, in fact, it’s very old, and—” it’s what Evie had on when she was taken to the hospital, and it should have been sliced in two, only it miraculously healed itself, which pretty much creeps me out, she wanted to tell him; but that wasn’t exactly an easy thing to explain without sounding like a lunatic.

  “And what? Do you need help dressing?” Greg asked and raised his eyebrows. “I’ll zip you up, but we need to hurry. We should’ve left, like, five minutes ago. So skedaddle.” He took her arms, spun her around, got behind her, and nudged her toward the stairs.

  “Greg, no,” she protested.

  The last thing she wanted to do was get dressed and go out. Besides, even if the black dress looked impossibly presentable, it certainly wouldn’t fit her curves. Evie was half a head taller than she, plus her mother was lean as a fence post. Toni would be lucky to get her big toe wrapped up in it.

  “Can’t we just stay here, and I’ll make grilled cheese?” she suggested.

  “No. Now giddy-up!” He gave her rump a smack.

  She nearly tripped over the top step. Whoa! What am I, Secretariat?

  God help me, Toni thought, but she already had the sinking feeling the evening wasn’t going to end with a spray of roses around her neck.

  Chapter 15

  Evie

  Jon and I didn’t have a big wedding, not like the one Mother and Daddy had so lavishly concocted for Anna. There was no train trip to Chicago to shop for a trousseau, no engraved invitations sent to distant relatives I’d never met, and no dinner the eve before at the Blue Hills Social Club (newly christened the Blue Hills Country Club, with the addition of an eighteen-hole golf course).

  Though it was over a year since the night that changed everything, I never felt right asking my parents to go through the motions for me when they seemed intent on wallowing in their self-pity. I could have felt stiffed, being that I was their firstborn daughter. But I didn’t.

  Jon and I preferred something private over grandiose. Nothing about our marriage had been arranged for show the way that Anna’s had. The day was about us, no one else, and the love we felt for each other.

  So we kept it as simple as possible, arriving at the courthouse in Ste. Genevieve bright and early on a Friday morning, our only witnesses being my parents and, of course, Daddy’s friend Judge Harper, who would serve as justice of the peace. Though Jon had joked that I should don the “cursed black dress” that had brought us together, I kept it tucked away in the hatbox on my closet shelf, hoping against hope that I’d never have cause to bring it out again. I preferred to let life play out naturally rather than see my future dictated by an otherworldly piece of clothing.

  Instead I wore a simple white suit and pillbox hat I’d bought in Cape Girardeau when Jon and I had gone down to visit with his mother, who had developed some kind of palsy and had been moved into a nursing home near one of her cousins. It wasn’t that I was afraid the black dress would reveal anothe
r vision that would change my mind—nothing could have kept me from becoming Jon’s wife—but I knew that it had the power to alter the course of both of our lives, if I let it.

  Besides, I wasn’t about to wear black to my own wedding. My heart swelled with joy, not grief. For the first time since Anna had gone and left such turmoil in her wake, I’d found a happiness all my own, and I treated it like a fragile eggshell that I didn’t dare break.

  “You look radiant, Evelyn,” my mother said when we were safely ensconced in Judge Harper’s chambers.

  Her gloved hand touched my arm fleetingly, setting down and lifting off like a butterfly. I noticed then how gray her wiry brown curls had gone and how ashen her skin appeared despite the rouge used to brighten her face. She kissed my cheek, and her eyes welled as she forced a smile.

  “You have a glow about you that’s very becoming.”

  “It’s got everything to do with Jonathan,” I replied, and I sensed tears of my own threatening, although shows of emotion weren’t my cup of tea. I fiercely fought the urge to cry and won.

  “I mean it, lamb, you make a lovely bride, and you’ll be a dutiful wife. You were always a dutiful daughter.”

  Not beautiful but dutiful.

  “Thank you,” I said politely and reminded myself that she’d also called me “radiant” and “lovely.” Since my mother had rarely ever remarked on my appearance except to say how tidily I dressed or how neatly I pressed my blouses, it was those words I treasured, as I normally didn’t associate them with myself, not as long as Anna had been around to serve as a comparison. My looks had never been a match for hers, something I’d accepted early on, although I can’t deny it hurt, all the attention she got just for being born with more agreeable features. Without Anna standing beside me, perhaps I wouldn’t seem quite so plain anymore.