Bridget chuckled. “No skeletons and no blindfolds. I trust you.” She gunned the high-horsepower engine. “All right, then. Rest your eyes a while. We’ll be there in about an hour. Dependin’ on traffic.”
Athena turned her head toward the window, but she couldn’t close her eyes. Now that she was on her way to the family’s top-secret fallout shelter, built beneath a farmer’s field during the Cold War, which currently housed many of their treasures, including Bertha’s priceless gowns, excitement made her feel warm all over, like it had her entire life. Like she’d felt when word came that the Clayworth family had agreed to the museum’s request to examine the dresses for possible inclusion in the exhibit.
Why had they agreed? Guilt? For old times’ sake?
Their tangled friendships were such old, old news. Yet since her dad’s firing, the Clayworths and everything they’d meant to her filled her mind nearly every waking moment. She shoved them away again, determined to focus on her goal of doing provenance on the department store’s impressive, never-before-seen collection of vintage couture clothing.
Warm and eager, she watched the city fade away into flat prairie. Travel on I90 appeared lighter than normal. Thirty minutes later, Bridget exited onto a two-lane highway. She seemed to know the road by heart, anticipating the bad patches and the sharp twists. Prairie gave way to slightly rolling cornfields. Bridget slowed and turned onto a one-lane black-tar road. She sped up, a clear, smooth stretch of road before them. All at once the tar turned to gravel and Bridget made a sharp right onto a bumpy dirt track leading into a soybean field.
She braked to a halt, and Athena, getting more eager by the second, sat up straighter. They were plop in the middle of Midwest farmland, surrounded by low soybean sprouts and rustling stalks of short young corn.
Athena pressed her nose to the window. “There’s nothing here.”
Bridget laughed. “They built it so it couldn’t be seen from the air. Look again.”
When she’d been a child whiling away the long, hot summer afternoons, lying on the grass in their back yard in Lincoln Park, Athena’s family would play the cloud game. She squinted her eyes looking for the secret. Once she’d been the best at spotting everything from her cat, Drusilla, to the Field Museum in the clouds, and once, absolutely, she still swore to this day, she saw Abraham Lincoln in his top hat.
In this case, at first she thought she must be simply gazing at good black Illinois dirt, but no.
I’ve found it!
A steel door big enough to back a semi trailer into. The rolling field of soybeans directly in front of her had to be the roof.
“I see it!” Athena quickly stepped out and followed Bridget to the enormous black wall. She paused to read the sign engraved into the steel: “When the alarm sounds, a blast has occurred. You have three minutes to get inside.”
“Gives you the willies, doesn’t it?” Bridget shuddered. “Wait until you see the rest.” She punched a code into the panel on a smaller door, barely visible, and led Athena into silent blackness.
Athena blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim, vast cavern looming in front of her. She pulled off her glasses to get a better look.
The cooler air sent goose bumps crawling along her arms, and she rubbed them away. “This constant underground temperature is the best storage.”
Beside her, Bridget chuckled. “You don’t need to whisper. Let me turn on more lights so you can see the place. It’s a real time capsule.”
The harsh glare of fluorescent lights made Athena blink again. Now she could see they were standing in a small entrance to the huge cave that stretched out before her. To her right loomed an oven big enough to roast an ox.
“This is the decontamination chamber.” Bridget moved briskly forward. “That oven is the incinerator where we would have burned our clothes.” She glanced back, her wide smile splitting her pale face. “I guess they would have been naked as the day they were born until they got to the bedroom.”
Athena burst out laughing. “The Clayworth men running around naked. Now, there’s a sight half the women in Chicago have dreamed about seeing.”
Bridget shook her head. “Those boys are too good-lookin’ for their own good. I fear half of those ladies have had their dreams come true.”
And I’m one of them.
She felt herself getting warmer.
Bridget shot her a sharp, inquisitive look. “Are you all right?”
“Great! Love it. What’s next?”
“The bedrooms.”
Athena followed Bridget into a room lined with rows of bunk beds and one appropriately green-tiled 1950s-style bathroom. Beyond she saw a kitchen with appliances in the same color and a Formica dinette set, straight out of a vintage television sitcom.
“What kind of clothes did you find here when they decided to turn it into their Secret Closet?” Athena asked. The curator in her was already planning an exhibit of what would have been worn in a fallout shelter like this one during the Cold War.
“Don’t know. Back in the day they must have planned to have somethin’ to wear while they were here.” She pointed to a chain-link fence holding back small boulders stretching out for six yards beyond the kitchen. “The idea was to stay down here for two years. Then tear apart this fence holdin’ back rocks. Dig their way out into what was left of the world.” Bridget shook her head so hard the gold clip holding up her white-streaked strawberry curls came loose. With a yank she shoved it firmly back in place. “Whole thing was crazy. But the vault was the craziest of all.”
Totally entranced, Athena followed her deeper into the cavernous underground shelter. They passed row after row of the store’s famous glass-window wagons and a fleet of electric broughams, all with the famous John Clayworth and Company logo brazened in gold letters on the side.
They stopped in front of the largest safe door she’d ever seen, even in pictures of the U.S. Mint.
Using both hands, Bridget turned the giant tumbler. “They built this to keep the credit records of all the store’s customers.” She snorted. “Like anyone would care about their bills when the world’s comin’ to an end.” She swung the door wide open. “Now all that foolishness is behind us, they store Bertha’s gowns in here.”
A golden glow fell out into the gloom. Light glistened off rhinestones, silver cord, and gold beads.
The four Bertha Palmer dresses beckoned Athena into their world, the way mythology had, when her father made it come alive. Her senses dazzled by the dresses worn by one of her mother’s idols, dresses that when used properly could make her dreams come true, Athena rushed past Bridget into the vault.
Struck by a blast of warm air, she gasped. “The temperature in here should be better controlled. And these dresses shouldn’t be on mannequins. They should be in their own specially built archival boxes.”
“Good golly, you almost sound like your old self.” Bridget laughed. “That’s the spirit. You and your sisters used to give those boys hell when you were youngsters. They need to be put in their place once in a while.”
Part of her would like nothing better than to tell the Clayworths what she thought of them for casting her father aside so cavalierly, but she had to put the past behind her to get what she needed.
Maybe I’m wrong again.
She slowly shook her head. “Maybe it’s just me. It’s probably cool enough. I’m just so thrilled to be here, I’m feverish with anticipation. It’s an honor for the museum to have the opportunity to establish the provenance on these dresses.”
Bridget cocked her head, slanting a long glance into Athena’s deliberately blank face. “Sure you’re all right with all of this?”
“Sure. Can’t wait to get my fingers on these dresses.” She tried to beam good cheer but felt naked not being able to hide behind the glasses she’d rammed into the lab coat pocket. She turned away to slip on the coat and rubber gloves. “I’ll get to work. I don’t want to keep you here all day.”
“I’d best leave yo
u to it, then.” Bridget sighed. “If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen doin’ paperwork.”
Athena nodded without looking around. She sensed Bridget wanted to say more, but Athena couldn’t discuss her dad now. It still felt too raw.
Determined to push away every thought except these dresses, she stepped in front of the first mannequin. Her breath caught in a tremble of excitement before she spoke into her tiny handheld tape recorder.
“I’m here in the Clayworth family Secret Closet to establish provenance on four Bertha Palmer gowns. I am starting with a dress of black corded grenadine with green and pink stripes over green taffeta. Trimmed with loops of narrow pink satin and green grosgrain ribbons.”
Unable to resist, she delicately traced the bodice with her fingertips. “The bodice is made to look like a corselette of black satin with jet passementerie interlaced with narrow pink satin ribbon outlined with one-and-one-fourth-inch double-faced satin ribbon.”
She dropped to her knees to peer up into the sleeves, again reverently touching the exquisite, delicate fabric. “The small leg-of-mutton sleeves are lined to the elbow with green taffeta.”
Wanting to better view the workmanship, she stretched out on the concrete floor. The cold seeped through her lab coat, thin cashmere sweater, and cotton skirt.
Shivering, she carefully lifted the hem of the gown and peered up inside. “The skirt is gored with gathers at the back. Blind pocket of white taffeta lined with soft green fine rep silk taffeta. The construction is exquisite. There are twelve bones in the bodice. Each is sewn with stitches so tiny and fine I can barely see them.”
Something kept irritating the back of her throat, and she stifled a cough. “Bertha Palmer wore this gown in the summer months, and it is reported to have been one of her favorites.”
Her voice hoarse from holding back the cough, she slid out from beneath the gown to clear her throat. She brushed at her cheeks, trying to get rid of whatever tickled her skin.
The second mannequin, the one on her right, began to shimmer, giving it the sudden, odd appearance of movement.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. Instead the world spun slowly around and a rush of euphoria made her giddy. Happier than she’d felt in months. She didn’t understand what was happening to her, but right now, here, she didn’t care.
She giggled, doing a little dance to the gown. Her body tingled with recklessness, daring her to do something forbidden. Like the time she dared Drew to go skinny dipping with her in the pond at the far end of the Clayworth estate in Lake Forest.
She shook her head to clear her thoughts. Away with you! she commanded. But the memory wouldn’t obey. She just kept swelling and swelling with the same excitement and fear she’d felt then, knowing if her parents found out she’d be sent to boarding school. She ripped off her gloves to stroke the heavy champagne silk satin gown with her bare fingers.
She’d seen countless pictures of this famous Worth gown when Mrs. Potter Palmer wore it at the Court of Saint James’s in London, but the photos didn’t do it justice. It mesmerized her. Totally irresistible.
Athena slid her fingertips down the elegant, heavy white velvet train and lifted it around her shoulders, wrapping herself in its beauty. Again and again she traced the white satin iris design, each flower done by hand, which made the dress so unique, so special. She turned the train over in her arms so the lining of silver tissue and rhinestone edging glistened back at her.
Seeing and touching this gown made her feel connected to her mom’s passion for vintage haute couture fashion. She had been the epitome of beauty and had taught Athena to appreciate the grace of this lost world.
She ached to slide her body up and through the princess-style dress the way Bertha would have done. She ran the old, soft silk tulle along her neck and arms, loving the feel of it.
Drawn by the exquisite detail of the double white net ruffle around the hem, she sank down upon her knees and then lay on her back. She scooted beneath the skirt to look up at the white taffeta lining. She brushed her hot cheek against the cool fabric and sighed.
It felt so cool, so comforting she didn’t want to move. The dress fell around her like a wedding veil, beautiful yet protective. She felt content to merely lie beneath the gown, breathing in its history. She wanted to stay here forever, safe in Bertha’s kinder, gentler world. She heard a string quartet playing a waltz like they would have done that afternoon in London for Bertha. Athena closed her eyes, lost in the music, lost in a world she adored. Far away from the reality of the last few months.
She floated in peace until the musicians started repeating the same stanza, over and over and over again. She opened her eyes, angry at this rude, discordant interruption of her bliss.
“Athena! Athena! Athena! Can you hear me? Athena! Athena!” Bridget called excessively. “Come out from under that skirt. You’ve been lyin’ there for an hour!”
Athena tried to shake off Bridget’s strong hands tugging at her ankle, but she couldn’t. “No, I don’t want to come out. I like it here,” she shouted back.
“Athena, if you don’t come out, I’m comin’ in after you,” Bridget called and gave another hard tug at Athena’s foot.
Not wanting to be rude, Athena sighed and crawled out. After all, she loved Bridget—at this moment she loved everyone.
Blinking, she looked up.
It isn’t Bridget!
Bertha Palmer, Chicago’s proud social queen of the late 1800s and early 1900s, stood smiling down at her.
Athena screamed, scrambling to her feet. “This isn’t a time capsule, it’s a time warp! Bertha, you’re really here!”
Joy exploded through her hot, throbbing body. She gripped Bertha’s small, cool hands. “My mother loved you and what you did for Chicago. She loved powerful women of the past who blazed a trail for the rest of us.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a blur of movement, like someone else had come. She looked around but couldn’t focus her eyes. She shook her head, trying to stop the slowly spinning world. “Is someone else here, too?” She looked toward the last shimmering mannequin and blinked. Jackie Kennedy, wearing her famous blue pillbox hat and coatdress, stood watching her.
“Jackie, you’re here, too!” Athena called to her. “Mom said you were just like Bertha and knew the power of dress.”
The world spun faster and faster, making Bertha blur and Jackie vanish. Fearful she’d lost both of them, Athena gripped Bertha’s hand tighter. “Where did Jackie go?”
“Come with me, Athena. I saw Jackie go this way, toward the front.”
She laughed in relief and joy, twining her fingers through Bertha’s and running with her toward the harsh fluorescent lights in the decontamination chamber.
Outside, the sky looked so penetratingly blue its brightness hurt her eyes. She squeezed her lids closed. “I can’t see Jackie anymore. Which way did she go?”
“I see her, Athena. This way. Climb into the back seat of the car and we’ll follow her.”
Athena opened her aching eyes the tiniest bit to glance up at Bertha. For a brief instant a vivid gold encircled Bertha’s curls like a halo. Athena sighed. “You look just as beautiful as I knew you were. You were Mom’s absolute favorite. She called you Chicago’s angel.”
“That’s nice. In you go, Athena.”
The back seat smelled like new leather. Athena’s lids felt too heavy to leave open. She closed them just as she heard the loud, powerful car motor roar to life.
“Can you still see Jackie?” Athena whispered, so tired she couldn’t lift her head.
“Yes. Don’t you worry. Everythin’ will be fine. You rest now. I’m turnin’ on some nice, soothin’ music for you.”
Athena floated in a strange twilight contentment more profound than she’d experienced beneath Bertha’s exquisite gown. This time when the music came, it had words. “God Bless the Child.”
“I love this song.” The words vibrated through her head, and she began to hum the
tune to herself. A burst of energy and joy exploded through her blood. Her voice sounded so pure and true and golden, she let the words pour from her throat.
Holding the last note, she lost track of her breathing. The twilight world behind her eyes swirled crazily around, blue, purple, orange, and, at last, a cool blackness. She rested again, floating contentedly in silent bliss.
CHAPTER
2
On any other perfect spring day like this in Chicago, Drew Clayworth would be sailing on Lake Michigan.
Today he kept his old Morgan 46 securely docked.
The wind called him like it always did, flowing around the mast, cool against his skin, bringing the taste of adventure and freedom. Irresistible. Drew took a deep breath, holding the flavor in his lungs, before he deliberately let it go, refusing to be lured today by sailing’s siren call. Instead he patiently listened to the complaints of the three teenage boys who were struggling into their orange life jackets and not happy about it.
Washington Thomas sneered up at him. “Hey, man, thought you were teachin’ us how to sail this tub.”
Drew grinned, meeting the eyes of Jefferson Adams, his first mate. Jeff had given him this same line of bravado three years ago, the first kid from the Youth Center Drew taught to sail.
“Yeah, I’m teaching you to sail this tub,” Drew drawled back. “First lesson is safety.”
“I ain’t afraid of shit.” Bruce Madison laughed. “I can sure as hell swim good.”
“Shut up, dog. I can’t so good,” Calvin Tremont, the smallest of the three, shouted to his friend.
Drew reached out and tightened Calvin’s life jacket, shifting it into place before meeting the eyes of all the boys. “Your goal is to stay out of the water. When sailing, the biggest threat to your life is hypothermia. Today the water temperature in Lake Michigan is fifty degrees. That means if you went overboard for fifty minutes, you’d have a fifty percent better chance of surviving wearing a life jacket.”
A Black Tie Affair Page 2
