Little Black Dress with Bonus Material

by Susan McBride

  “Don’t say it,” Greg whispered in her ear as the couple passed. “You’ve got that look on your face, like you want to draw blood.”

  “What do you think I’m going to do,” she hissed back, “yell ‘mink killer’ at her?”

  “That would be chinchilla killer,” Greg corrected and let go of her arm so he could open the door for her. “My grandmother had a chinchilla coat that’s very similar. It’s a better fur than mink, which is why you pay more for it.”

  “So you’re okay with people wearing dead animals?” Toni asked, as she stomped past him into the restaurant. She had the strongest urge to pick a fight.

  “Please don’t get all holier-than-thou on me,” he scoffed, letting the door slap closed behind him. “What’s the difference between owning a fur coat and leather boots like yours? A cow had to die for those, you know, and I’ve seen you eat hamburger.”

  “These boots are vinyl,” she told him, “and I’m no longer a carnivore.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since now,” she decided.

  “Oh, boy,” he breathed and rolled his eyes. He walked over to the cloak rack and shrugged out of his tailored wool coat. He shook it out before hanging it up. Then he grabbed an empty wooden hanger and handed it to Toni. “Your turn.”

  “I’m good, thanks,” she told him, hardly in the mood to be agreeable. Besides, she felt safer having a shield over the black dress, which she didn’t trust. She still had that odd tingling over her skin, stronger now that they were inside the restaurant. Maybe the dress wasn’t only self-healing but radioactive. Whatever it was, it disconcerted her, making her even more agitated.

  Greg took her arm again and leaned in to say quietly, “How about we call a truce and leave the drama outside so we can just enjoy our dinner?”

  Um, excuse me! Had she asked him to drive down and surprise her, to drag her out in the cold, when all she wanted was to soak in the claw-foot tub and curl up in bed?

  But she was beginning to recognize that being with Greg meant giving in, doing things on his terms. Like on her last birthday, when he’d taken her to a rubber chicken dinner and lecture by some pompous old coot from the Internal Revenue Service talking about new tax codes, which was even less exciting than listening to an inane bride and her dictatorial mother argue over the precise shade of pink for the reception dinner napkins. What was she supposed to do?

  “Truce,” she told him.

  “That’s my girl.” He smiled, pacified. “Come on then,” he said, nudging her toward an elaborately carved podium accented by a brass lamp, behind which a black-clad maître d’ stood.

  “Good evening, do you have a reservation with us?” the man asked, and Greg stepped in front while Toni stood silently aside, admiring the host’s goatee and the gleam off his bald pate in the lamplight.

  “It’s under McCallum,” Greg said, and the fellow promptly checked an opened book in front of him and smiled.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. McCallum, party of two. Your table is ready.” Deftly, he plucked two menus from behind the fancy stand before gesturing toward the dining room. “This way, please.”

  As Toni hurried behind him, out of the foyer and through an arched hallway into the main dining area, she had to bite her cheek to keep her mouth from hanging wide-open. The décor was truly lovely, from the sleek modern chairs with their clean lines and tall backs to the crisp white trim against the sand-colored walls. Elegant art-glass fixtures descended from a deep tray ceiling, highlighting a wall of windows that overlooked the vineyards. Fairy lights outdoors illuminated rows of dormant vines dusted with snow. She imagined in the daylight it was an even more beautiful scene with the eponymous rolling hills in the backdrop.

  At least Greg wouldn’t have to eat his words about the inside being better than the outside. She was far more impressed by the interior than she was by the naked Roman god frozen in the fountain.

  “Madame,” the maître d’ said and drew her attention to the chair he’d pulled out for her.

  “Merci,” Toni replied and settled in.

  The room was warm despite the big windows, and she finally unbuttoned her coat and slipped it off her shoulders. The black dress shimmered in the glow cast down by the chandeliers, and she smoothed the bodice, letting the skirt flow around her legs like water. As her hands brushed the silk, she felt a hum beneath her palms and heard a faint crackle. It almost sounded like the dress was trying to speak.

  “Ahem.”

  She sensed eyes upon her and looked up to find the maître d’ hovering.

  “May I take your coat?” he asked, to which Greg piped up, “I tried that already, she’s not giving it up.”

  “Of course, Mr. McCallum, I understand.” With a bob of his bald head, the maître d’ placed menus before them. “Your server will be along any moment to take your drink orders and describe tonight’s specials.”

  “Great, because I think I need a beer,” Greg said, although the Man in Black had turned his back by then and was striding away.

  “You want a beer? Seriously? We’re at a restaurant in the middle of a vineyard in the heart of wine country,” Toni said because she couldn’t stop herself. “You really should drink the wine.”

  “Missouri wine?” Greg laughed and nudged at his glasses. “No offense intended, but I’d rather have a Stella.”

  “How very snobbish of you,” she remarked, and he laughed again.

  “That’s hilarious, coming from you,” he said, leaning forearms on the table. “Who took a day off work just to spend the afternoon at Neiman Marcus trying on her first brand-new pair of Jimmy Choos?”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  It was a reward to herself, a treat to celebrate an accomplishment. If he couldn’t see the difference between that and turning up his nose at Missouri wines, she had no desire to explain it to him.

  “It just is,” she said instead.

  “It’s always different for you women, isn’t it?” he quipped with a grin.

  Toni bristled, annoyed beyond reason. Twenty-four hours ago, she’d been hoping Greg would propose, and now she wasn’t even sure she wanted to have dinner with him. What was wrong with her? Why did she feel so out of sorts? Was it all about Evie or was there something more to it?

  She picked up her menu and studied it intently but the words only blurred, despite her blinking her eyes to clear them.

  “Antonia?” she heard someone say from behind her, the voice earthy and warm and already entirely too familiar. “What a nice surprise, seeing you here.”

  Without warning, a frisson of energy dashed up her spine, and the noises around her intensified: the buzz of voices, the soaring notes of a violin, the clink of glasses and silverware. It was no wonder she jumped at the touch on her arm; fingers gently brushing the sleeve of the dress.

  She glanced up to find Hunter Cummings—smartly dressed in a pinstriped shirt and navy blazer—gazing down at her, a relaxed expression on his rugged face.

  “So does this mean you understand about my relationship with Evie?” he asked and, when she didn’t answer, added quickly, “Well, whatever the reason, I’m glad you decided to try out the place even though I think Eldon went a bit overboard on the exterior. I’m more into crisp and understated while he leans toward overblown and gaudy. So? What do you think?”

  As his hand came to rest on her shoulder, Toni opened her mouth to say, “Believe me, this wasn’t my idea,” only nothing emerged. Not a peep.

  Instead, she felt frozen in place as the odd hum beneath her skin increased a hundredfold and blood rushed to her head, dizzying, until everything around her—the people, the piped-in music, the art-glass fixtures, and the giant wall of windows—dissolved to black.

  Just as she began to panic and think, I’ve gone blind, a flash of light filled the dark and she watched a scene swiftly unfold in her mind; a moment, not a memory. She saw herself drinking wine on a fuzzy rug in front of a crackling fire in a big stone fireplac
e. A man sat in the shadows beside her. No words passed between them, just a look, and then he took her glass from her fingers and put it aside. Wrapping her in his arms, he gently lay her down on the rug beneath them. He kissed her, held her so passionately that Toni began to shiver. It was Hunter Cummings, she realized, the vision real enough to start a gentle throbbing between her thighs.

  Oh, Lord, what’s happening to me?

  “Antonia, are you all right?”

  With a gasp, she jerked back to the present as the scene swiftly faded, the room coming into focus around her. Before she could find her tongue to speak, her mind cleared enough to wonder, What the hell was that?

  “So you know this guy?” she heard Greg saying. “Is he dating your mother?”

  Hunter ignored him, flagging down a passing waiter and asking, “Could you get Ms. Ashton some water, please?” The server nodded before scurrying away.

  “Babe, are you okay?” Greg’s brow creased above his spectacled stare. “What’s going on? Is this man bothering you?”

  Toni finally found her voice, although it cracked like a thirteen-year-old boy in the throes of puberty. “No, I’m not okay,” she said, “and yes, I know this guy, and no, he’s not dating Evie.” She finally dared to look up at Hunter before shifting her eyes away. “Greg McCallum, this is Hunter Cummings. He owns this place.”

  The men acknowledged each other with grunts and nods, although a still-puzzled Greg asked, “So how’d you say you two met?”

  “The truth is that Antonia and I grew up together in Blue Hills,” Hunter explained before Toni interrupted.

  “His grandfather stole eighty acres of our land, my aunt smashed his dad’s heart, and apparently he’s turning my mother green,” she said, watching Greg squint and Hunter grin.

  Toni still felt woozy and strange, and not at all in the mood for a verbal pas de trois. She turned to Greg. “I’m seriously not feeling well. Can we go?”

  “Now?” He frowned.

  “Yes, now. I’d like to leave.” She grabbed her coat, tugging on the sleeves with trembling fingers.

  “But we haven’t even ordered yet—”

  “We can eat at home.”

  “Déjà vu. Haven’t we done this before?” Greg grumbled as he reached for his wallet to drop some cash on the table. “This is starting to become a habit,” he added unhappily.

  “Antonia, please, don’t leave,” Hunter pleaded and reached for her arm, but Toni pushed her chair back before he could touch her again. “Did I say something wrong? And I hoped you’d forgiven me.”

  “No, it’s not you,” she tried to explain. “It’s just that I’m having”—hallucinations, she was about to say but grabbed for other words instead—“a really horrendous headache.”

  “A migraine?” Hunter asked, concern dark on his face before it brightened at the sight of the waiter with a goblet of water. “Ah, here we are.” He set the glass down in front of her. “Take a sip, and I’ll go find some aspirin, if you’d like.”

  Toni gazed at the lean fingers wrapped around the stem and blushed, feeling eerily as if they’d so recently touched her in such intimate places. What the hell was going on? Was she having some kind of nervous breakdown?

  “No aspirin,” she finally responded, adding, “I’m sorry, but I have to go.” Toni scrambled to her feet and snatched up her purse. “It’s not your fault,” she reiterated, her cheeks hot as she met Hunter’s eyes, so afraid he’d see something in her face that she didn’t want him to see. “I’m just not myself tonight.”

  “Please, stay,” he asked softly.

  But that would have been impossible.

  “Good-bye,” she said and was halfway to the door when Greg caught up with her, grumbling, “I have to get my coat, for goodness’ sake!”

  It wasn’t until she’d settled into the car and fumbled with her seat belt that she realized she’d done up her coat buttons wrong. She noticed something else as well: the strange humming beneath her skin was gone.

  “What the heck is happening to you? You’re acting weird,” Greg grilled her the second he got behind the wheel and shut the door. “Do you want to discuss it? Like who’s this Hunter Cummings? An old boyfriend?”

  “He’s nobody.”

  “Is that your final answer?”

  “Yes, that’s my final answer,” she snapped at him.

  “Well, all right then.”

  They drove home in silence—except for Diane the talking GPS incessantly giving Greg directions back from whence they’d come—and Toni closed her eyes, hearing her heart pound, her thoughts so confused she couldn’t begin to sort them out.

  When they finally arrived at the Victorian, after Greg had parked and they had scrambled through the cold and into the warmth of the foyer, Toni did the only thing she could do, the only way that she might possibly forget what she had seen when Hunter’s hand had touched her arm.

  “C’mon,” she told Greg, jerking her head toward the stairs. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “Right now?” He looked baffled. “But I’m hungry. Can’t we get something to eat first?”

  Toni narrowed her eyes. “Do you want to have sex with me or not?”

  “Yes, please.”

  So without another word, she took her boyfriend upstairs and tried her damnedest to wipe her mind clean of the disconcerting vision of herself getting busy with another guy. Maybe if she’d been a better woman, it would have worked.

  Chapter 17

  Evie

  After three years of marriage to Jon, my faith in the magic of the black dress had been shaken. The last vision it had shown me still hadn’t come to pass. Regardless, every time I closed my eyes, I saw that vision again: Anna with short hair, looking on as I held a baby in my arms, my child. I kept waiting for that moment when my life would be filled with such unimaginable bliss. But, so far, I had only known loss.

  I miscarried just after Christmas when we were still newlyweds, and I wondered if it was my fault for being on my feet too much. Although Dr. Langston, the kindly town doctor who could’ve passed for my grandfather, promised I should have no problem getting pregnant again and carrying to term. He had found nothing wrong with me physically except a tipped uterus, which he insisted did not make bearing a child impossible, and he suggested stress might have played a part in things.

  That wasn’t hard for me to believe, as I had so much more to do than teach my fifth-grade class and care for my new husband.

  My mother had been sinking deeper and deeper into depression, and my father had hired a local woman named Ingrid Dittmer and her daughter, Bridget, to look after Mother when I couldn’t. I knew them both well enough, as Ingrid had cooked and cleaned for our family on and off for years. When I’d first met them—after Grandma Charlotte had passed—I was a child of eight, and Bridget was five, exactly Anna’s age. Ingrid would bring Bridget over and the two girls would play together, making me feel like a third wheel; although I’d occasionally tried to worm my way into their games.

  “You be the princess, and I’ll be the queen,” Anna would instruct the redheaded Bridget, who’d nod, gladly doing anything that Anna requested.

  “I want to play, too,” I’d say, and my sister would sigh and look me over.

  “All right, Evelyn Alice, you can be the wicked witch,” Anna would tell me, and I would scowl because I saw no reason why I couldn’t be a queen or a princess, too.

  “Why do you always want me to be bad?” I’d ask, and she would smile ever so sweetly.

  “Because I should imagine it’s very tiring always being so good, isn’t it?”

  In the end, I would leave the two to play alone until dusk fell and Mother called us for dinner, and Ingrid packed Bridget into the car and drove off.

  I was never sure exactly when Ingrid was widowed. I’d once heard that her husband had died in Korea. Some in town whispered that she’d never been married at all. For as long as I’d known her anyway, she’d raised Bridget single-handedly in their cottag
e on stilts halfway across the river on tiny Mosquito Island, accessible only by boat. They had a wood-paneled station wagon they drove to and from the docks where they tied up their skiff.

  Occasionally, if Ingrid’s arthritis acted up, Bridget came across without her; but typically, they arrived together. Bridget did much of the vigorous housework and the cooking, while Ingrid tended to my mother. She was good with women and children, and knew enough of herbal remedies and midwifery to have a devoted following in Blue Hills, including Helen von Hagen, most of whose brood she’d delivered.

  On Sundays, when Ingrid and Bridget were not there, I stayed with Mother, feeding her, bathing her, and talking to her even when she would sit and stare at the wall, seeing—and probably hearing—nothing in particular. I had wished then as I’d wished so often that Beatrice Evans had more spunk in her, “more McGillis,” like Anna and Grandma Charlotte. Perhaps she would have weathered Anna’s absence better, soldiering on rather than lying down and giving up. If I could have done anything to bring her out of it, I would have. Begging and crying had no effect.

  “Her spirit started slipping away the day that Annabelle left,” I told Jon, and I meant it. I didn’t like to think she loved me any less than she did Anna, but it was hard not to believe it. Else, I figured, she would have tried harder to stick around.

  As ghastly as it might sound, it was almost a relief when Mother died in her sleep in mid-winter. I think my father felt the same, though it was not something we ever talked about. What Daddy didn’t tell anyone but me was that he’d found an empty bottle of sherry and a near-empty bottle of her pain pills at her bedside. “She didn’t want to stay, Evie,” he told me, shadows dark beneath his eyes. “Not even for us. It just hurt too much.”

  When I’d tearfully reached for his hand, holding it tightly as my mother’s casket was lowered into her place in our family plot, he’d uttered dully in my ear, “This is her fault.”