“Bailey, do you need help with the zipper?” Sheila Mason asked from the hallway, before the sound of pacing resumed on the hardwood floor.
“Um...no, I’ve got it.” Barely. Bailey opened the door and bit her lip, waiting for Sheila’s assessment.
A look of relief spread across the woman’s face as she clasped her hands together. “You look beautiful,” she said, advancing toward her and turning her around to check the back. “How does it feel?”
“A little tight....” Bailey’s voice was strained.
“Just don’t eat the day of the wedding and it will be fine,” Sheila said, then quickly shook her head at Bailey’s wide-eyed expression. “Sorry dear, I didn’t mean that. If you need me to let it out a little, I can.” She picked up chalk to mark the fabric, then reached for her glasses where they hung around her neck, placing them over her tired-looking eyes.
Bailey empathized with her. Wedding preparations could be stressful for everyone involved. All she had to do was wear a dress and walk up an aisle, pose for some photos, sit at the head table during dinner.... Oh, God, she hoped she wouldn’t have to make a speech or anything. Anxiety crept into her chest and she forced a calming breath. Remember, she told herself, as mother of the bride, Sheila had it much worse.
“No, you know, I think it will be fine, really.” She’d rather buy one of those awful corsets that claimed to reduce a body by a dress size than give Sheila more to worry about.
“You’re sure? It’s no problem.”
“I’m sure. Should I take it off now?” Please.
“Yes, thank you. That’s one dress I can check off my list. Now, if only I could get that daughter of mine to commit to a pattern.”
“I heard Vic was having a tough time deciding.”
“It’s so unlike her. My daughter spent twelve years in New York, climbing the corporate ladder, making business deals and important decisions....” She shook her head. “I’m just worried this is a sign of cold feet again.”
“No, I’m sure that’s not it. She loves Luke. Victoria’s not going anywhere—she just wants to look perfect for him.”
“After all this time and everything they’ve been through, she ought to know by now that Luke would marry her in anything. But she’d better decide soon, otherwise she’ll be wearing your mother’s wedding gown. That one is already made.”
Bailey’s eyes widened. “What? You have my mom’s wedding dress?” She’d always wondered what had happened to the simple floor-length antique-white gown that had been uniquely her mom’s style. Sheila had designed and made the dress years before and Bailey had just assumed her aunt Caroline had taken it for safekeeping after her mom’s funeral.
“Yes. You mean your dad didn’t tell you?”
“No.” Sheila Mason had her mother’s dress—a dress she’d hoped to wear herself one day.
Sheila opened the closet doors. Moving aside various sewing projects, she pulled out a clear plastic garment bag.
That was it. Bailey recognized the lace overlay on the off-white gown. The last time she’d seen the dress was when her mother had shown it to her several months before she’d passed.
Sheila unzipped the bag and gently removed the dress. She handed it to Bailey. “This dress has always been my favorite creation. Your mother knew exactly what she wanted when she came here that day. The artist she was, she’d drafted the design herself. All I had to do was help with the fabric selection and put the pieces together. She looked beautiful in it on her wedding day.”
Bailey allowed the lengths of the soft material to cascade toward the floor. She quickly gathered the ends before they hit the hardwood.
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s been stored away so long now, it will need to be professionally cleaned before you can wear it,” Sheila said.
Bailey’s head whipped toward her. “Before I can wear it?”
“Yes, sweet girl. That’s why I have it here, safe and properly stored. Your dad had no idea how to care for it, and he knew when the day came, I would be doing the alterations on it. Or else I’d use the fabric to turn it into a completely different style—modern, whatever you chose.”
A lump formed in the back of Bailey’s throat. Her dad had kept the dress safe for her knowing she would want to wear it someday. Not trusting her voice, she just nodded, touching the delicate lace.
Sheila reached forward and, taking the dress, she held it in front of Bailey. Standing behind her, she pressed the fabric closer. “Although the style is still modern, its simplicity and elegance are timeless, and it really would suit your tiny frame.”
“It’s perfect,” Bailey agreed. Turning, she hugged Sheila, always a dear family friend. Suddenly the idea of being in the Mason-Dawson wedding party didn’t seem like such a chore. Brookhollow was like an extended family. “Thank you, Mrs. Mason.”
“You’re welcome. Why don’t you take it with you?” she suggested.
After the night before, holding this piece of her mom gave her comfort. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
“Mom!” They heard Victoria’s voice call up the stairs.
“Up here in the sewing room.”
“Good news! I’ve decided on a...” Victoria’s voice trailed off as her gaze fell to the gown in Bailey’s hands. “Oh, my, that’s beautiful. Your mother’s?” she guessed, moving closer to examine the dress.
“Yes.” Bailey nodded.
“You’ve decided on a design?” Sheila said, an eager note in her voice as she took the wedding-planning book from Victoria. She picked up the picture sitting on top. “Is this it?” she asked, her tone hopeful.
Victoria’s attention was still glued to the dress Bailey held. “I thought it was, but now I’m not so sure....”
* * *
“I HAD A feeling I’d find you here.”
Her uncle Doug turned as Bailey stepped through the open bay door on the side of the shop an hour later. The older man quickly wiped his cheek and sniffed, then shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “Even seeing it with my own eyes, I can’t believe it.”
“I know what you mean.” Bailey looked around them. Nothing had yet been touched, though she hoped to have a cleanup crew on-site within the week. Leaving the place in such a mess was disheartening. The faster she could have the debris taken away, the faster they could start a rebuild...if the insurance claim came through.
“I’m sorry,” they said in unison.
Bailey frowned. “You’re sorry? For what? This was entirely my fault. I should never have towed that car.... Ethan told me not to. I should have listened.”
Doug removed his New York Giants baseball hat, the one he didn’t leave home without, and ran a hand over his balding head. “Nonsense. You did the right thing,” he argued.
Bailey motioned to what was left of the garage around them. “The evidence begs to differ,” she said.
Doug pointed to the painted words on the concrete wall above the charred bay doors. The black soot clouded some of the letters, making the words difficult to read, but Bailey knew the phrase by heart. No car left behind. Driver...maybe. The motto had been painted there on Doug’s first day almost forty-six years before, and the John-Deere-green paint had prevailed. “You did the right thing,” he repeated. Then, picking up an undamaged can of gear oil, he set it along the edge of the remaining wall in the back.
Funny, that can didn’t seem so insignificant now. It was one of the only things to survive the disaster.
“Start with this and rebuild,” Doug said. “Essentially, it was all I started with a million years ago.”
“Thanks, Uncle Doug.” His words and actions were somehow just what she needed to regain her confidence. Of course they would rebuild. With or without the insurance money. She’d find a way.
“I really should have installed that sprinkler system...
.”
“Don’t,” Bailey said. “We both thought it was unnecessary. Over forty years accident-free in this place.... We believed we were indestructible, I guess.” She kicked the base of the vending machine. Its glass had exploded in the intense heat. Two cans of soda fell to the tray, and opening them, she handed one to her uncle. “Let’s make a toast.” She held up her can.
The older man looked at her as though she was crazy. “A toast? In the middle of all this?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. To what?”
“To starting over...and making Doug’s Motors even better than before,” she said.
“You got one thing wrong,” her uncle insisted. “It’s not Doug’s Motors anymore—it’s Bailey’s Place.”
* * *
ETHAN KNOCKED ONCE on the front door of Bailey’s bungalow-style home on Royal Oak Avenue, then reached for the door handle, knowing the door would be unlocked. In a town the size of Brookhollow, people rarely locked anything.
“Ethan?” she called from the bedroom. A few feet away at the end of the hall, the door was slightly ajar.
Her old gray cat, Harley, came sauntering out toward him and he bent to pet the animal. “What if I said no?” he chided, scanning the small two-bedroom home with its antique furniture. The place had been sold to Bailey fully furnished two years before when the previous owner had moved to Newark to live with her daughter. Mrs. Duncan had spent her entire life in Brookhollow, but rarely ventured far from the garden she’d planted on the acres of land behind the house. Ethan could understand the appeal of the “steal of a deal” that Bailey had gotten on the house and all the land. However, the old wood-burning fireplace in the corner of the main room was a troubling thought. He didn’t trust the old thing. Bending, he peered through the chimney to make sure the ventilation system looked clear. He’d ask Chief Clarke to do an inspection on it before the fall, when he knew Bailey would use it to heat the house.
“Um...what are you doing here?” Her voice sounded strange—tired, strained and a little annoyed.
She was still upset with him about the report. Well, he hoped what he’d come to show her might change that. “I have some information that could help with your claim.”
“Can you come back later...or tomorrow?”
“What are you doing? Can you come out, please?”
He heard her sigh loudly. “Just a minute.”
As he passed the smoke detector in the hallway, he pressed the button to check the battery. It beeped twice. Battery low. “Bailey, I told you to change this battery two weeks ago,” he said, going into the kitchen and opening the utility drawer near the fridge.
“You know I don’t cook,” she mumbled.
“That doesn’t matter, a fire can start from other things....” He dug around until he found two double-A batteries and proceeded to change them himself. After the fire at the garage, it annoyed him that she would still be so nonchalant about these things.
Going back into the living room, he set the papers he’d gathered from the archives onto her coffee table and sat on her plush sofa. On the television screen While You Were Sleeping, the old Sandra Bullock movie from the nineties, was paused. It was her favorite, but she normally watched it every Thanksgiving, not in the middle of August. “What’s with the movie?” he called, turning as he heard her bare feet on the hardwood floor in the hallway. His eyes widened and he gaped. “Is there something you forgot to mention?” he asked, recovering slightly, but unable to remove his gaze from the long antique-white lace wedding dress she wore.
Her shoulders slumped and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “It was my mother’s.”
“And you’re wearing it because...?”
“I tried it on, and now the zipper is stuck.” She folded her arms across her midsection.
“You tried on your mother’s wedding dress?” The sentimental gesture, the sappy movie—clearly she’d been wallowing in self-pity, which was something he’d never known her to do.
“Are you here for a reason?”
She was still annoyed with him. He could deal with that. Moving toward her, he took her shoulders and turned her around. “Lift your hair.”
“I don’t need your help,” she mumbled, but she did as he asked.
The smell of her cinnamon shampoo reached his nose as her long dark hair almost whipped him in the face. He wiggled the stubborn zipper until it gave way and tugged it halfway down her back. “There, you should be able to get out now.”
“I’ll be back in a minute.” She disappeared back down the hall, and he sat on the sofa. An open photo album caught his attention, sticking out from under the couch. Picking it up, he smiled at the pictures of Bailey as a young girl at the park with her family. Photos of her hanging from the monkey bars or sitting on a swing with her mom. She looked just like her mother, with her long dark hair and bright clear-blue eyes. They had the same full lips and wide smile. Candace Sheppard had been a beautiful woman, much like her daughter. Weird, he’d never paid much attention before.
Bailey reemerged a second later, wearing a pair of tan leggings and an oversize New Jersey Devils hockey jersey, her hair tied at the base of her neck. “So what were you saying about documents that might help?” She sat on the couch next to him.
Ethan picked up the folder of photocopied papers and moved closer to her. “I went to the town archives today and I was able to get photocopies of the original building permits for the garage, which prove that it was up to code. I also have inspection reports that date back five years and show that Doug also ignored our suggestions for improvements.”
Bailey leafed through the documents. “You think these can help? To me, it just looks like we always ignored the warnings.” She didn’t look convinced.
“Exactly. Which proves that you didn’t purposely start ignoring them just recently. See what I mean?”
“Not really.”
“Look, it can’t hurt to try.” He reached into his coat pocket and handed her a folded piece of paper. “I also have this.”
He watched as she read the letter he’d convinced Chief Clarke to write, stating that the garage’s complete demolition was protocol only and that the fire caused by the vehicle had been localized.
She sighed as she refolded it. “Thank you,” she said softly, turning to face him.
“You’re welcome.” He studied her tired eyes, red and puffy, a faded streak of dark mascara slightly visible on her right cheek. It hurt him to see her this stressed. She was usually so in control, so confident, so strong. This vulnerable side of her was new to him. He reached out to touch her cheek and she leaned her face into the palm of his hand. “It’s going to be okay,” he reassured, moving closer and wrapping an arm around her, pulling her back against him on the couch.
She rested her head against his shoulder and he felt her weight sink into him. He moved her hair away from her neck and kissed the top of her head. To his surprise, she pulled back and shifted to face him. Her gaze locked with his and in that moment her expression of sadness changed to something else. Something he couldn’t be sure he was seeing, but it terrified him. She leaned closer, and her gaze fluttered to his lips, then back to his eyes as she lowered her full, pink lips to his.
Stunned, he remained still, unable to return the kiss, yet unwilling to push her away. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she moved closer to him and deepened the kiss. His breath caught as his mind reeled. What was she doing? Clearly she wasn’t thinking straight. The stress of the past twenty-four hours was clouding her judgment. That had to be it.
Slowly, she moved away, searching his gaze.
“Bailey, I...” He what? What did he say to his best friend who had just kissed him? And why did part of him want her to do it again? That was the most disturbing thing of all.
“Look, I know you’re s
till hung up on Emily, but I want to be the one to help you forget about her.”
He blinked. She did? Since when? “Have you been drinking?”
“No. I’m just finally being honest. I realized today how short life can be and how important it is to take a chance.” She ran a hand along his cheek, tracing a trail over his five-o’clock shadow. “Ethan, I’ve loved you for years,” she whispered.
The confession shook him, and without thinking, he leaned forward and kissed her, hard, pulling her back toward him on the couch. Then just as quickly, he stopped. What the hell was he doing? “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.” He stared at her pink, swollen lips, and couldn’t resist sliding a finger along the bottom one. What was happening here? In a matter of seconds, things between them had gone from friendship to her confession of love? From simple to complicated. Who was this woman he was suddenly finding impossible to resist touching?
She closed her eyes and a small sigh escaped her lips, breaking his trance. Abruptly, he stood, letting her fall against the couch. He raked a hand through his hair and paced the living room, desperate to escape, but the hurt and confusion on her face made it impossible to head for the door.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, standing and approaching him.
“Bailey, you have been through enough and I can only assume that this—whatever this is—is coming from a place of stress or desperation...or alcohol.”
“I told you I wasn’t drinking. I’ve been wanting to tell you how I feel for a long time and I guess the fire helped me realize that things can happen so quickly.... You have to go after what you want in life.” She touched his arm gently and a shiver ran down his spine.
What a Girl Wants Page 7
